CHAPTER FIFTEEN

NORTHERN TROUBLES

The outbreak of the “Troubles” in the North of Ireland began in 1969. The students from Queens University in Belfast organised a march to seek Civil Rights. They headed off from Belfast with the intention of meeting the students from the University of Coleraine, in the city of Derry, and holding a joint rally. When they reached the bridge at Burntollet, they were attacked by a mob led by the so-called “Reverend” Ian Paisley. They used homemade cudgels of every description. Some of them were axe handles with nails driven through, and they were designed to do maximum damage. The police (RUC) stood by and let Paisley’s mob do their worst. When the marchers began to defend themselves, the police joined in with Paisley and used their batons on the students. Once the students in Derry got to hear of this, they started a riot so as to take the pressure off their fellow students at Burntollet. The rest, as they say, is History. Very few historians or political commentators I have read or listened to over the years since then have recognised this as the beginning of the turmoil that was to follow over the next thirty years.

It has been said that the “Troubles,” as they became known, actually started in April/May of 1968 in the village of Caledon in County Tyrone. A Catholic family were squatting in a house that had become vacant. They had been on the Council waiting list for so long, that it had gone beyond endurance. The Council evicted them, and allocated the house to a young single Protestant mother, who happened to be secretary to the local Tory MP. Her brother, who was a member of the Royal Ulster Constabulary took part in the eviction. Perhaps the spark was lit then, but the flame took hold at Burntollet, in my view.

The IRA was reformed and eventually split into the “Official IRA,” a left-wing communist-influenced organisation, and the “Provisional IRA,” described by some as a “Green Fascist” group. Whatever the labels, both were intent on getting the British out of Ireland. The Provisionals became the dominant group, and they began to raid homes and shops where they knew that arms were kept. One of my business colleagues was a gun collector, and he became very nervous about keeping the collection, so he sold it to a gun dealer. All except for one revolver, that is. He kept that for me; knowing that I was an officer in the army reserve, he wanted it to go to someone that would appreciate its historical significance. It was, he told me, the personal weapon of Dan Breen the leader of the Old IRA’s Tipperary Brigade. I was delighted to have it. It served me well on a few occasions.

On the day that I picked it up, I visited my sister who lived near to where he had his office. Not wanting to take a chance by leaving the gun in the car, I took it in its brown paper bag into the house with me. My sister opened the hall door and it was obvious that she was upset. She invited me in, excused herself, and went into the kitchen, leaving me in the sitting room with her husband. The atmosphere was taut, to say the least, as I sat down. I put the bag on the floor between my feet. Then for the sake of making conversation, I told him I had something to show him. Picking up the bag, I took out the gun. He went white as a ghost, pleading with me to put it away. Just as I put it back in the bag, my sister re-entered the room. I stood up, taking my parcel with me and excused myself, saying that I’d call back another day.

Next morning I got a call at work from my brother Dick. “What did you do to Paddy?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“He’s in a hell of a state since he got into work this morning. He said that you pulled a gun on him.”

“I never did any such thing. There was obviously a problem with him and May, and I showed him the gun as a way of making conversation. What was going on anyway?”

“He took nearly four hundred pounds out of her purse and drank it. When you arrived, he thought that she had sent for you and when you pulled the gun, he thought he was a gonner. Anyway, I told him that if you pulled a gun on him, he was lucky to be alive. He’s been crying and says he needs help. So I told him that if he went to see the doctor and arranged a cure, I’d talk to you and you might forget about the next visit.”

“Right,” I said, “Let him do that and tell him to be sure he does… or else.”

He did and he never stole from my sister again. It’s an ill wind… as they say.

Matters began to get out of hand in the North and it looked at one stage, as though the Irish Army would cross the border to prevent the Nationalist Population from being wiped out. I happened to be in Belfast on business and for a friend’s Stag Party, when the people on the Falls Road decided to riot, in order to relieve the pressure on the people in Derry. I sold printing plate chemicals and film for the American company mentioned earlier. The firms I called on in Belfast included the Daily Mirror Newspaper Group, McCaw, Stevenson & Orr, and William Finlay, Ltd. These firms were protestant owned and they employed only protestant workers. That meant that the employees were anti-catholic and vehemently anti-republican. Since I came from the Republic and used the Irish version of my name, it would’ve been assumed that I was both Catholic and Republican. Northern Ireland had been set up as a “Protestant State for a Protestant People,” and those in power had sworn to keep it that way. The British Government had approved of and assisted in the formation of this state following the War of Independence that took place in the 1920s. All three of these firms had asked me to call to sort out some technical difficulties that they were having. The Mirror had a problem with film, and I spent an hour in their darkroom sorting out the correct exposures with the camera operator. The guys in the planning department were polite, though I noticed that someone had crossed through the Irish Tricolour on the Flags of the Nations in a print above one of the workbenches. Apart from that, there was nothing to be concerned about. One of the staff asked if I was married.

“Yes,” I replied smiling.

“How long?” he asked.

“Almost seven years,” I answered.

“How many children have you got” he asked looking around the room at his colleagues.

“Two,” I said.

“What does the Pope have to say about that?” he asked.

I knew immediately what he was getting at. The Catholic Church teaching on contraception is emphatic. It simply is not allowed.

“F… the Pope. If he wants a load of kids, then he can have them; because I can’t afford any more than I’ve got.”

“Did you hear what he said, lads?” he called to his colleagues. “You did say f… the Pope, didn’t you?”

“Sure I did, and f… him again if that makes you feel happier.”

This was unheard of and they were astounded to not only hear me said but repeat it. I could see the reaction that it brought all round the room.

“How many of you have visited the Republic?” I asked.

“None,” they replied.

“Well it’s about time you did, fellas. There’s a different generation now that doesn’t take orders from the clergy any more. Why don’t you come and check it out for yourselves.”

They were dumbfounded and sure enough, they promised they would.

That one conversation did more for inter-state relationships than one could imagine. From that day on I was welcomed into their company and got their cooperation.

There was another tale to tell in McCaw’s. Their company printed labels, and one of the machine men in particular, was having great difficulty keeping reverse prints from filling in. The print was quite fine and would be a challenge for any printer. The manager, Billy Madders met me in reception. A pleasant older man who had a ready smile and an honest face, he greeted me warmly and with a firm handshake. “Don’t be alarmed when you enter the pressroom,” he said smiling, “and let me do the talking if you don’t mind.”

I understood his comment immediately on entering the “Works.” There was a Union Jack flag hanging from the back of every machine. This indicated that Republicans weren’t welcome. There’s a strange anomaly regarding the six Northern Counties of Ireland. Despite the fact that the inhabitants are born on the island of Ireland, those of the Protestant Faith regard themselves as British while the Catholics regard themselves as Irish. When the Queen of England refers to her territories she speaks of the Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. So strictly speaking, all those born in Northern Ireland are Irish. But those of the population who are loyal to the Queen refuse to be regarded as such and the vast majority of them are protestant.

“I see the flags are out, Billy,” I said, smiling, “Now where’s the Guard of Honour?”

He had a good laugh at that. He then introduced me to the machine operator who was having the problem. “Could I see a printed sheet,” I asked Billy.

He then asked the operator to show me a sheet.

“Would you ask him to take out the top dampening roller so that I can measure it?” I asked. He did and I checked the circumference with my Vernier Scale. My company manufactured a special type of dampening cover that would sort out his problems, providing the roller was of the correct dimensions to take it. It was, and I ask Billy to get him to drop out the bottom roller and leave it out of contact while I fitted the new sleeve. The sleeve had to be shrunk on with water and when this was done, I asked for it to be reinstated.

He started the press up and dropped the top roller into contact with the plate and tripped in the paper feeder. He pulled a sheet out after ten copies to check it. There was no improvement and he fully expected things to deteriorate rapidly with no bottom roller in contact.

He said as much to Billy, and Billy looked at me.

“Let it run for one hundred,” I said.

He looked at me with the eye of a sceptic, fully expecting to say, “I told you it wouldn’t work.” Things weren’t much better when we checked the hundredth sheet. I was beginning to have doubts myself, at this stage. But something prompted me to ask him to continue. At one hundred and twenty the image was as clear as a bell.

“That’s it,” I smiled, “Now keep it going.” This time he ignored Billy and looked at me in awe.

“How did you do that?” he asked. The other pressmen saw him take my hand to shake it, and they quickly gathered around, as I explained how the sleeve worked. If there had been any hint of racism beforehand, it went out the door very quickly when they saw that I had provided an answer to their problems.

Billy thanked me profusely, as we walked back towards the reception area. I had also cured a headache for him. “I have a feeling that you’ll be welcome here at any time from now on,” he said as we parted.

I made my way up the Ballygomartin Road, to the William Finlay printing works. The plant manager explained that they had recently ordered plates made by my company, and he would like me to demonstrate to his staff the proper way of making them ready for press. It was lunchtime by the time I had finished, and he invited me to have something to eat in the canteen. I gratefully accepted and after collecting our food, we sat at a table where there were two vacant seats. He introduced me to the other two and we continued to talk. Just then, one of the others began a tirade against the Republic.

“Our men answered the colours in two world wars and they would sort out any threat to their security in the future,” he said. He also said what a wonderful man Ian Paisley was. The manager looked quite embarrassed.

Looking the other guy straight in the eye, I said. “Your remarks are obviously addressed at me. Now answer me one question… have you ever worn a uniform in your life?” I knew that he would have to reply in the negative because he had a hunchback.

He answered no, as I expected.

“Let me ask you another one then. Have you studied the history of both wars?”

He again replied in the negative. “I have, and it will surprise you to know that a total of 255,000 Irishmen and women served in the First World War. The vast majority of them were from the Republic. They served with such regiments as the Royal Dublin Fusiliers, the Leinster Fusiliers, the Munster Fusiliers, and the Connaught Rangers, etc. Two of my uncles served, one was killed, and the other lost a leg. In the Second World War, between seventy and one hundred thousand of our men from the Republic served. Many of them were deserters from the Irish Army. Please note that our guys only ever desert going towards the enemy. My father served with the 8th Army in North Africa, Sicily, and Italy. Where did your father serve?”

He was dumbfounded.

“Finally, I am a serving officer with the Irish Army Reserve, so if you are going to address me then make sure you call me Sir.”

The others broke into loud laughter. “You’ve found your match at last,” they said.

When lunch was over, the manager apologised to me as we walked towards the door leading to reception. “That guy has been a pain in the neck since this recent trouble started. Thanks for putting him in his place. He’ll be careful about who he shoots off his mouth to in future.”

“It was my pleasure,” I said. “Look at the troublemakers of the past. He reminds me of Goebbels, the Nazi propaganda Minister. He looks at lot like him. Those that claimed racial or religious purity as a reason for starting a war were either sick in mind, or body, or both.”

That was the last contact I had with any of the three companies, since my company barred me from going to the North of Ireland for safety reasons.

Back in my hotel on the Upper Newtownards Road, I showered and had dinner. The owner of the hotel was a retired British Naval Commander and he came over to my table to ask if I would mind moving my Dublin registered car to the back of the hotel for safety reasons. He advised me not to go out again during the day until things had quietened down in the city. When I told him that I would be going to a stag party later that evening, he was astonished. He calmed down, however, when I told him that my friend was local and that he would be picking me up. As it happened, my friend was a serving Petty Officer in the Royal Naval Reserve, and the commander knew him, so he was relieved that I would be in safe hands. My friend arrived soon afterwards and on our way to the hotel near the city centre, we called to pick up two brothers who lived with their family on the Malone Road. I was ushered into the house, and introduced to their father who sat by the fire in a very expensively decorated lounge. When he and the younger of the two sons heard my name, there was a distinct cooling in their attitude. As if by magic, I found myself sitting in an empty room. It seemed like an hour had passed before my friend and his Best Man-to-be came back and said, “Let’s go.” There was no comment made about their absence, as we made our way to the hotel where the party was to take place. But there was a distinct atmosphere.

When we got to the hotel, we found that the front doors were locked. My friend rang the bell and a porter appeared soon afterwards. He told us that all the bars and hotels within the city limits had been closed under a curfew, imposed by the security forces. Arrangements had been made, however, with a hotel on the outskirts of the city to accommodate us there. The car was parked very close to the Protestant enclave of Sandy Row and as we walked the short distance to get it, we saw the residents erecting a barricade at the end of the street. While they were doing that, there was a rattle of machine-gun fire in the distance.

We were just about to move off when a young man came walking up to us in an excited state. “A guy with a Dublin accent has just asked me how to get to the Falls Road,” (The Falls Road is a Catholic enclave), he said nervously, “and when I asked him why he wanted to go there, he said that their pubs were still open. He must be a raving nut case.”

“Here’s another one,” I said, smiling.

When he heard my accent, he took off running down the road as though his pants were on fire, shouting as he went, “You’re all nuts.” We had a good laugh about that as we got into the car and headed for the hotel in the suburbs.

When we got there, we could barely find a parking space for the number of cars that were in the car park. The porter checked the name on his register and allowed us in. The lounge was absolutely crammed full of people. It seemed as if the whole of the drinking public in Belfast had found their way there. But the atmosphere was relaxed and I found myself sitting on a low stool with my back tight up against two lads from Birmingham. They were very interested to hear that I’d lived there for seven years as we chatted. My friend insisted on buying treble measures of spirits to save us having to go to the bar too often.

After his best man’s brother got enough into him, he stood up, pointing at me, and shouted at the top of his voice, “He’s a Fenian.” (Now I understood why I had been left on my own in the lounge at his house). Nobody was paying any attention to him and he got quite annoyed. “You’re a Fenian, aren’t you?” he roared.

“Yer right,” I laughed, “Now sit down and behave yourself like a good lad.” The two guys from Birmingham were highly amused and thought it was all a joke, and part of the stag celebrations. But he wouldn’t be placated, so we were asked to leave. It was just as well anyway, as we’d all had more than enough to drink. When we got outside there, was a scuffle between himself and his brother. I learned later that he was insisting on going to the Falls Road to teach the “Taigs” some manners. (Taig is a colloquialism for Catholics or Republicans).

My friend went to help after he’d first flagged a taxi and pushed me inside. He told the driver to get me back to my hotel, just as the troublemaker punched him in the face. A police Landrover appeared as if by magic and pulled to check what was going on. But the taxi driver took off and didn’t stop until he reached my hotel. When I saw my friend next day, he was missing his two front teeth. He told me that the three of them had spent the night in the cells. He was more concerned about getting his teeth replaced before his wedding in three days.

“Did you hear what was on the news yesterday evening?” he asked. When I said no, he informed me that the Taoiseach of the Republic had announced on the evening news that he would not stand by and see our people being gunned down in the streets. It was expected by all and sundry in Belfast that the Irish Army was about to cross the border. “What am I to do?” he said.

“What do mean?” I asked.

“Well you’re an Irish Army Officer aren’t you?”

“Oh, I see what you mean,” I said. “Well, don’t worry, if they do cross, you can take me into barracks and hand me over to your commander. I will only surrender to him not the police… right?”

“You won’t mind then?” he said, sounding relieved.

“Not one bit,” I said, remembering that I had a length of pickaxe handle under the driver’s seat of my car. If he had made any attempt to take me in, he would’ve had that across his head and found himself on the Falls Road among Republicans and my prisoner.

I stayed in the hotel for the rest of the week at the commander’s request. On Friday morning, I arrived in the dining room for breakfast. “Where were you last night?” he asked as he took my order.

“In my bed asleep where all good people should be,” I said. “Why do you ask?”

“There was absolute mayhem during the night, with shots being fired and a supermarket across the road was burned out.”

“You’re kidding,” I said.

“You must be a very innocent man if you could sleep through all of what was going on. All of the rest of the guests were down here drinking my whiskey.”

“You should’ve given me a call. I’d have helped,” I said.

“Bugger me,” was all he could say in return as he shook his head and walked away. I stayed in the hotel until Saturday and left early in the morning, hoping to avoid any trouble on my way home. The streets were very quiet as I headed for the border. People were obviously tired after a week of shootings, burning, and looting, and were sleeping it off.

I never felt so relieved as I did when I crossed the line at Carrickcarnan and headed for Dundalk. It’s a strange phenomenon, but there is a distinct difference in the atmosphere between North and South. As soon as that border is crossed into the North, one can feel the tension in the air. I should add that most of the people who live there are honest, hard working, and law abiding. But they have allowed a lunatic fringe to operate among them, and they are hell bent on maintaining the status quo.

I headed straight for the barracks when I reached Dublin, thinking that the army would be on stand-to, at the very least. To my dismay and utter disbelief, I found that there was just the usual weekend guard on duty. “Everyone’s gone for the weekend,” the gate policeman informed me.

I discovered later that when the government met with the army chiefs to discuss the situation, they reported that of the eleven thousand regular troops, fewer than four thousand were in any way fit for combat. Despite the fact that there were thirty thousand reserves, these were never even considered. The reason, I have been told, is that the economy of the country would suffer too much if we were all called up. What a mess it was, and I for one was thoroughly ashamed of the lack of action taken. In more recent times, the regular army have referred to the reserve as “Sandbags.” This is meant to imply that the reserve is only fit to be used as such in the event of a conflict.

It is a sad reflection on the ones who had the opportunity to face the enemy but couldn’t or wouldn’t, because they weren’t up to the job. The Reserve at least was willing to have a go and we were a hell of a sight fitter than our counterparts in the regular army. But one can only expect the same reaction from a force that has done no actual soldiering for so long, as happened with the French Army at the beginning of the First World War. They were fat and stale, with no incentive to fight, and paid dearly for their mistakes in the beginning. The Reserve was called on by the powers that be, to guard vital installations and take part in Border Patrols. I got so involved that some weeks, I would report to barracks after work to take over from the regular orderly officer, stay up all night and report to work next morning. The regular army in the main worked from 09:00 to 16:30 with weekends off, and there was no way they were going to let the Northern thing interfere with that. I thought of the College Solution from the course that I had done and shook my head as I thought of the consequences of people with that attitude going into action. What a disgrace they are, I thought to myself. What the hell use is an army when it isn’t able or willing to defend its citizens in times of trouble.