by Ken Wharton
The march proceeded noisily but peacefully enough until, on reaching the outskirts of the city centre, gangs of aggressive youths began to peel away, despite the best efforts of the stewards to keep them in place. At some stage, the paratroopers came under rock and petrol bomb attack as they manned barricades in Williams Street. Shots were then fired from the direction of the Nationalist Rossville flats, thought to have been an attempt at provocation by two or more of the Provisionals who had not vacated the area. One soldier told the author: ‘I heard the distinctive thump, thump, thump of a Thompson firing off a burst of shots; that sound is unmistakable, and it was a favourite of the IRA.’ With the passage of time and natural bias of Catholic eyewitnesses, it is impossible to state with any certainty what happened next and why. The soldiers began returning fire, hitting John Johnston (59) first, badly wounding him; he died on 16 June. They then shot Jack Duddy (17) as he stood in an alley close to the Rossville, fatally wounding him. The next to be hit was Paddy Doherty (31), shot as he crawled along under the cover of a wall behind the flats. The round entered his buttocks before slamming into his back. Hugh Gilmore (17) was then hit, close to the flats, dying shortly afterwards. The fourth person to be killed at the Rossville was Bernard McGuigan (41); hit in the head, he died instantly.
By now, the Paras were arguably out of control, their tactics tragically demonstrating that they were the wrong regiment to police the NICRA march. Their CO, Derek Wilford, desperately tried to keep his men under control and he was clearly heard shouting repeatedly, ‘Cease fire; cease fire,’ before calling out in a clipped, upper-class accent, ‘Do not fire back for the moment unless you identify a positive target.’ However, it would appear that his men were out of control, clearly stung by the incoming shots from the area of the Rossville flats. The maroon-bereted soldiers continued firing, hitting five more men, this time in the Glenfada Park and Abbey Park areas: James Wray (22), Michael Kelly (17), William McKinney (30), Gerard McKinney (35) (no relation) and Kevin McElhinney (17) were all killed. The firing then continued back at the Rossville flats, with John Young (17), Gerald Donaghy (17), William Nash (19) and Michael McDaid (17) all dying shortly after being shot. Thirteen were now dead, having little chance of survival following hits from 7.62mm high-velocity rounds; a fourteenth would die several months later.
The Widgery Tribunal cleared the soldiers of any wrongdoing, as did the later Saville Inquiry, which though highly critical, concluded that the provocations on the day were severe. While the inquiry stated that the fourteen victims were unlawfully killed, the soldiers had acted in a manner for which they had been trained. The inquiry was also critical of the conduct of Martin McGuinness, the IRA commander in the North. He was in the area and there are credible claims that he was armed and, if this was the case, he too must shoulder some of the responsibility for the events that later followed. If any portion of blame is directed at the Paras’ CO, Wilford, it would be to say that, if he was aware of their mood prior to the march, then he was guilty. Guilty that is of gross naïvety for believing that they were the right people for the day and, at worst, of not listening to the barrack-room murmurings. If it was the British Government’s intention to give the rioters a ‘bloody nose’ and use the Paras as the instrument to do the job, then Heath’s Cabinet is ultimately culpable.
It is this author’s opinion that the blame lies at the door of the only organisation that stood to gain and did indeed gain something from the tragedy of what has come to be known as ‘Bloody Sunday’: the Provisional IRA. They had largely evacuated their Volunteers and ASUs from the area, leaving the ‘policing’ of the community and the actual march to the Official IRA (OIRA). However, several members stayed behind; they took the opportunity to open fire before melting away into the scenery. While it was obvious that the soldiers would bear the brunt of the criticism, the local PIRA men could point out that it was the OIRA who ‘stirred the hornets’ nest’ and practically invited the deadly and tragic response by the Paras. If this was indeed the case, it reduced the OIRA’s credibility and standing in the Nationalist areas. Allied to the later ill-advised and unnecessary killing of Ranger Best (see later in this chapter), the OIRA was finished as a fighting force in the city of Londonderry. Bloody Sunday can be seen to be a landmark boost to PIRA recruitment, but it could also be viewed as the final breaking point between the British Army and the Catholic communities of Northern Ireland. Further, it solidified the IRA’s international reputation as ‘brave urban fighters’ against ‘British Imperialism’, and they could use this to justify a dozen atrocities simply because the moral high ground was surrendered in those moments of insanity at ‘Free Derry Corner’.
A man receiving attention during the shooting incident in Londonderry, which became known as Bloody Sunday.
Another scene from Bloody Sunday.
Father Daly waving a bloody handkerchief as he and several others carry the fatally wounded Jackie Duddy (17) past British soldiers on 30 January 1972.
Over the years since the deaths, a rumour has circulated among former military personnel about the events of that day. Like all rumours, the following cannot be substantiated, but it is worth a look just to put into perspective claims from both OIRA and PIRA that they did not open fire.
There are those who consider this rumour as having some credibility. Once the firing had died down, troops entered the Rossville flats; in one particular flat, they found bloodstained bandages and bloodied clothes as well as furniture. Soldiers involved in the search state that it resembled a medical dressing station. It has been further suggested that more than twenty dead or wounded Republican paramilitaries were ferried across the nearby border with Co. Donegal, in a fleet of bread delivery vans belonging to a local company.
One cannot substantiate this, nor would one wish to state that the above was fact. However, it would well suit the Republican claims that they did not fire first, and nor did they engage in running gun battles with the Army. Provided that there was no evidence of bodies or wounded OIRA/PIRA personnel, it would be next to impossible for the British to show conclusively that Sinn Féin have been economic with the truth since the events of that tragic day.
The final words must be left to the RTÉ journalist who wrote: ‘The march meant blood on the streets as assuredly as December 25 means presents under the tree.’
The month of February saw the thinning of Republican ranks by five volunteers, as they proved to be extraordinarily careless. On the 19th, the Fianna (IRA Youth Wing) lost David McAuley (14) to a negligent discharge at a PIRA training camp in the Republic; forty-eight hours later, the OIRA targeted the Hillfoot bar at Braniel in Loyalist East Belfast. Several men were about to plant a very large device in the bar when they were recognised, which caused them to flee with the already primed bomb. The ASU headed back to their base in the Catholic enclave, the Short Strand. However, their luck ran out as they drove along the Ballygowan Road: the device exploded, obliterating the car and the men’s bodies. Three were killed instantly: Gerard Steel (27), Gerard Bell (20), Joseph Magee (30), with a fourth, Robert Dorrian (29), dying shortly afterwards from his catastrophic wounds. The bomb exploded very close to a primary school, fortunately before the children were let out for the day, although the departing pupils were confronted by the sight of the wrecked car and body parts scattered all over their homewards route.
There was a further blow for the OIRA as the following day they targeted the officers’ mess of the Parachute Regiment in Aldershot in England. They had intended wiping out officers of the men who had shot more than thirty people on 30 January in Londonderry. A car containing two members of the Officials – one of whom was Noel Jenkinson who later died in gaol – drove up to the officers’ mess at Maida Barracks; it stopped, and the men ran off, just seconds before the large device weighing 200lb (91kg) exploded, wrecking the mess and several other surrounding buildings. The massive blast killed an Army chaplain, five female cleaners and a gardener, all innocent and having no connection with
the events of Bloody Sunday. The Officials’ propaganda machine in Dublin was soon crowing that they had wiped out ‘... 12 officers from the Parachute Regiment ...’ and claiming that it was a massive retaliatory blow against the Paras. Once it had transpired that, for all their efforts and claims, they had not killed members of the ‘military fighting machine’ but six people with no military connections whatsoever, their famed ‘excuses brigade’ swung into action. In addition to Father Gerry Weston (38), they killed Jill Mansfield (34), Margaret Grant (32), Thelma Bosley (44), Cherie Munton (20) and Joan Lunn (39), all from the base’s cleaning staff, and in doing so, left eight children without their mothers. Gardener John Haslar (58) was nearest the blast as he was outside the building; he died from massive head injuries.
On 4 March, the Provisionals targeted the Abercorn Restaurant in Castle Lane, Belfast, close to the Cornmarket from where the three young Scottish soldiers had been lured to their deaths the previous year. The Abercorn was especially popular of a Saturday afternoon, as shoppers, weighed down by plastic bags of bargains, were able to sit down for a cup of tea and cake. The Provisionals knew this, and they knew equally that Catholic shoppers from the Ballymurphy, Turf Lodge and Andersonstown would mingle with their Protestant counterparts from the Shankill and Crumlin Road. United by a cup of Earl Grey tea and a tasty slice of Battenberg cake, they were temporarily brought together across the sectarian divide, as they relaxed before catching their respective buses home at Oxford Street station.
Two female PIRA operatives slipped into the restaurant, clutching heavy bags as they sipped their drinks. The only difference was that instead of cheap cardigans from the market, new clothes for their wains* and packs of assorted biscuits, their bags contained deadly explosives. Just before 16.30, they stood up and walked out, leaving their seats and table to a pair of grateful shoppers, glad of the luxury of resting their weary legs. A few moments later, the devices inside the abandoned bags exploded, causing a horrific fireball before sucking in the surrounding air and then spitting it back out faster than the speed of sound. It crunched and burned, ripping tables and chairs into matchwood, pulverising the solid concrete in the floor; it also ripped limbs off and lifted the craniums of helpless people sitting around the epicentre. A young soldier told the author that he was watching the front of the restaurant when it just ‘bulged and then spat everything out, including arms and legs ...’
The explosion of a bomb in the crowded central Belfast restaurant, the Abercorn, on 4 March 1972.
Female victim of the Abercorn Restaurant explosion.
Two young women – friends who had gone into the Abercorn together – were blasted apart: Ann Owens (22) and Janet Bereen (21); both women were Catholics. In all, 120 people were injured, with almost 100 traumatic amputations; two of the injured were sisters who were to be bride and bridesmaid later that year. The bride lost both legs and an arm; her sister lost both her legs. The marriage took place later that year, in defiance of the terrorists, with both sisters being wheeled down the aisle in wheelchairs.
THE ABERCORN RESTAURANT
Soldier ‘W’:
There is one very black cloud which will blight my life and will stay with me until I go to the final reunion with the lads who have gone before me; I will never forget the Abercorn Restaurant. I will never forget the black heart of the Provisional IRA and I will never forget what they did.
It was a Saturday in early March – it was the 4th; I’ll never forget that – and we were in the city centre of Belfast and the first that I got wind of what was happening, was that there were some officers and NCOs and they were shouting at the lads and telling them to get people moving away from the shops and cafés at the bottom end of Castle Lane. The place was packed, and it was mainly women and kids and there weren’t too many men around; just women with shopping bags and those department store carrier bags. It’s funny, but I remember that there was a bit of panic and I suppose all those lads in uniform trying to get people to move might have made them panic a wee bit. I also remember that there was one fat woman with a head scarf on and she had loads of bags and I could see that the strings or the handles on the bags were digging into her fingers and there was red marks and white marks on them as she tried to rush past, no doubt wanting to hang on to her shopping and all.
The next thing I knew, was a strange silence, and things just seemed to slow down to a crawl. Then I saw a huge yellow flash and then a huge boom and I was knocked off my feet and I as I fell, I saw people just being bowled over and falling down. I remember sitting on my arse and feeling as though all the air was being sucked out of my lungs and I couldn’t fathom out what was happening to me and I wanted to laugh and then I was gasping for air. All of a sudden there was a cloud of smoke or dust and I thought that we were all on fire and something flew over my head and I later found out that it was a leg with a sock, but no shoe or any other clothes; just a leg and a sock. I found the leg later where it had hit a wall or a shop doorway across from the restaurant. Looking back, it might have been a burned ankle and not a sock.
I couldn’t hear a sound, but I could see some of the lads and they seemed to be shouting and the women looked shocked and dusty and their mouths were opening, and they seemed to be screaming but it was as silent as the grave and I thought that I was going to cry as I just didn’t know what was happening. Very quickly all the dust had started to settle although there was a fair bit of cloud around us and I saw a couple of shoes; one black and one brown and both were really dusty, just sitting there and then I noticed that there was sticky, red blood under the dust and it seemed as though it wasn’t real. At that moment, seeing all those screaming women – even though I couldn’t hear them – and seeing all the panic and the shock and abandoned groceries and new clothes and boxes of presents, I still hadn’t realised that it was a bomb! The lads were taking some sheets and blankets into the still smoking Abercorn and covering the bodies and bits of bodies and I was dragged in to help and that’s when I saw all the blood and the injured people and limbs; God, nothing but limbs and I was praying that I wouldn’t have to work out which went where.
Abercorn bomb victim.
Abercorn bomb victim.
The Taoiseach of the Republic, Jack Lynch, was reported as saying: ‘We are filled with horror at the ever-rising toll of deaths and feel deeply for the victims, their families and friends.’ Final condemnation of the Provisionals’ murderous and irresponsible act came from the Roman Catholic Primate of Ireland, Cardinal William Conway, who said, ‘This was a horrible deed, and nothing can justify it.’
Maggie Cairns was 10 when the atrocity took place; she told the author:
Every Saturday, we used to go into Belfast and we always popped into the Abercorn for a coffee on a cake before we caught the bus home. This Saturday was going to be no different, except, my Uncle gave my dad a voucher for a brand-new TV, but it meant going into Lisburn to collect it. The plan had originally been to go into Belfast, have a sandwich late on in the Abercorn, before catching the bus to my Nana’s where I was going to stay for the weekend.
As we walked up the three wee steps at the back of our house, mum said: ‘Do you fancy getting a TV?’ Well, my brother and I jumped up and down, squealing with pleasure and excitement, and off we went to catch the train for Lisburn. That dreadful explosion at the Abercorn happened during the afternoon, but we had no way of knowing. Well, my poor Nana was watching the News at her home when they announced that a bomb had destroyed the Abercorn restaurant and there were lots of casualties. Poor Nana screamed because she thought that we were dead.
Abercorn Restaurant bomb. Rosaleen McNern (right), who lost both legs, an arm and an eye. Her sister Jennifer (left) lost both legs.
At that moment, we were in the TV shop and suddenly, we were pulled to the hundreds of television screens, all showing the terrible scenes from the centre of Belfast. Mum ran out of the shop to find a telephone so that she could ring her Mum – my Nana – and let her know that her precious f
amily was safe. That day will haunt me until the day that I die!
My best friend was called Becky; she was in the Abercorn with her mother when the bomb went off; she was covered in rubble before being pulled out by a young soldier; she remembers that he was very gentle with her and told her to blow out of her nose to get rid of all the brick dust. I have read your words on the bomb and although you try to be dispassionate, I can read the hurt and pain in your words; I can smell the dust and I can feel the panic which must have been around that day. I can’t thank you enough for writing down the truth and I want say a big ‘thank you’ to all the young soldiers who protected us.
Injured and shocked, a woman lies helpless on the pavement after the Donegall Street bomb blast on 20 March 1972 as people rush to give medical assistance. (David Liddle)
It is no great secret that this author has friends on the Catholic side, although it must be conceded that there are sadly but a few. A regular contributor to these works told me in a telephone call a few years ago of his memories of the day:
We lived in the Cromacs in those days and I would have been about 15 at the time, soon to leave school and start at Mackie’s engineering on the Springfield. I went into the centre with a couple of friends but lost them near the Cornmarket, when they went in a shop without telling me. Anyhow, I heard a dull thump and then there was a silence, before alarms were ringing all over the fucking place and people screaming. I was 15 and the Troubles had been going on for a few years by then and I thought that the RA had set off another bomb. I didn’t know what the word ‘ambivalent’ meant at the time, but I know what it means now, and I was probably ambivalent about the soldiers and the RA; it hadn’t affected me, but when I was drawn towards Castle Lane, that changed a lot. Before I tell you more, my family were Republicans, anti-partitionists and hated the English and they called the soldiers ‘Black and Tans.’