Double Agent: My Secret Life Undercover in the IRA

by Kevin Fulton

  It was 1978 and the IRA had taken to planting bombs randomly in busy streets, slaughtering Catholic and Protestant civilians alike. Loyalist paramilitaries were busy targeting innocent Catholics going about their everyday business. As far as I could see, it was all to get at the British government. To me, only the British army stood in the way of Northern Ireland slipping into the abyss. The misery in the meat factory redoubled my determination to join the British army. After all, they were the good guys and army life seemed exciting, noble and clear-cut.

  The day I travelled to Belfast to sign up, I didn’t tell another soul. As far as my parents were concerned, I was heading to Belfast to check out the availability of another merchant-navy cruise. I didn’t want to worry them. If I needed a reminder of the risk I was taking, it came at the Grand Central Hotel on Royal Avenue where the army was holding its recruitment day. The entire building was caged in; sandbags were piled up as high as the first floor; soldiers were swarming everywhere. While it might have rattled some, it sent a bolt of anticipation through me. Risk, power, combat – this was what I wanted.

  I sat an exam. I signed forms. I was told to go home and wait for security clearance. I gave them my aunt’s address for any correspondence. Days later, the security clearance arrived. I told my family I was off to London for another stint on the merchant-navy boats, and headed back to the recruitment centre in Belfast. Myself and the other eager recruits were driven by minibus to the Palace Barracks in Holywood, just outside Belfast. We ate, we met other soldiers, we swore allegiance to the Queen and we received our ceremonial Queen’s shilling. And that was it. I was in the British army.

  The next day, we headed to Sutton Coldfield, near Birmingham, for a three-day induction. The ferry to Liverpool was full of soldiers in full uniform. Some people dream of a certain type of home or a particular make of car. I dreamed of that uniform. Travelling with me were four other raw recruits, all Protestant and vociferously puzzled by my life choice. Their bafflement didn’t offend me in the slightest. After all, I wasn’t a bigot. Being brought up in Newry, I didn’t know any Protestants to be bigoted against. I explained to them that this was my dream and I was going to pursue it, no matter what. Religion, I pointed out with gusto, meant nothing to me. Little did I know that my religion would mean everything to the army.

  Over the next few days, news of a Catholic within the ranks had obviously spread. Repeatedly, complete strangers enquired as to whether I ‘kicked with the right or left foot’. Assuming I was being sized up for some sort of soccer competition, I stated that I kicked with my right foot, though not terribly well. Such was my dread of sports that I was almost relieved to discover that it was a coded question, aimed at establishing my religious persuasion. A ‘left footer’ is Protestant slang for a Catholic. How was I to know?

  Up until then, I had met one Protestant my own age. I had never met a black or Asian person. The remainder of those three days in Sutton Coldfield were a multi-cultural crash course in which I strove not to be caught out again. I didn’t want to appear too green.

  Conversely, finding myself flung into the prosaic real world made me take stock of my own identity and its inherent contradictions. I’m a British citizen but consider myself Irish. When it came to choosing a regiment, one seemed to fit the bill: the Royal Irish Rangers.

  At that time, the Rangers didn’t serve in the six counties. Regimental Sergeant Major Bobby Orr had impressed me when he insisted, ‘We’re an Irish regiment. There’s no religion, we’re just one big family.’

  I was to discover otherwise.

  Committing to the Rangers had one down side – a twelve-week training stint in Ballymena, County Antrim. Ballymena is as Protestant as Newry is Catholic, and it wasn’t long before my status as a left footer was known to all and sundry. Twice I was called a ‘Fenian bastard’. One senior army officer insisted on writing down my religious persuasion on a recruitment form in pencil, as he was convinced I would soon change my mind. I saw it as deliberate baiting, part of my training. I knew I wasn’t going to beat them, so I decided I might as well join them. I learned the words of a few UVF songs. Whenever someone started taking the piss, I sang them loudly. It worked. They weren’t going to get a rise out of me.

  Besides, I was having too good a time to care. Here I was in army uniform, firing guns and hurling grenades and living the life I’d dreamed of since childhood. My rampant enthusiasm saw me volunteering for everything – I even missed leave to go on exercises. ‘Army Barmy’ – that’s what my fellow soldiers called me, and my passion for the uniform soon seemed to eclipse the apparent handicap of being a Catholic.

  By the end of those twelve weeks, I was convinced that my Catholicism was no longer an issue. Little did I know that my status as a Catholic from Newry was about to become the cornerstone of my entire military career.

  It all started in June 1979. I was training with the Anzio platoon when Sergeant Joe Moore took me to one side. ‘Fulton, get down to the Education Centre at once. There’s someone there to see you,’ he said.

  Shit, I thought.

  Sergeant Moore read my mind. ‘You’re not in any trouble, Fulton,’ he said. ‘These people want to know if you can help them with a small matter. That’s all.’

  I still didn’t like it. I knocked on the door with as much confidence as I could muster. Behind a desk sat a scruffy man and behind him, clearly transfixed by something outside, stood a shorter man in casual clothes.

  ‘Please, sit down,’ said the first man in an English accent.

  He introduced himself as Gerry, the other man as Andy, and that was it as far as introductions went. ‘Don’t worry, Kevin,’ said Gerry firmly, ‘we simply want you to assist us in one small matter.’

  Although I had no inkling of it then, that ‘small matter’ set in motion a sequence of extraordinary events that would cast a long shadow over the rest of my life. Gerry and Andy, as I learned much later, were from the Force Research Unit, a secretive and controversial group within the British military. Set up in 1980, its specific purpose was to recruit people who would spy on terrorist activities.

  He produced an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a photograph. ‘You’re from Newry, Kevin, isn’t that right?’ asked Gerry.

  ‘I am indeed,’ I said, still disobeying his earlier order not to worry.

  He slid the photo across the desk towards me. ‘Do you recognise him?’ he said.

  I inspected it carefully. I really wanted to say yes, but I didn’t know the man from Adam. I did recognise the building behind him though. ‘No,’ I said, not looking up from the image, ‘sorry, I don’t. That’s the Newry dole office behind him though,’ I added, by way of compensation.

  ‘It is indeed,’ said Andy in a gruff Scots accent, still preoccupied by something out the window, ‘and what better place to photograph the young male Catholic population of Newry!’

  ‘Too true,’ I said, as Gerry slid over another photo. Then another. Finally, by snap seven, I was able to recognise someone. An old school friend, an innocent enough fellow. I told them as much and they seemed terribly pleased. For my part, I felt like I’d passed some sort of test.

  ‘We’ve set up a covert observation post there,’ said Andy, who then turned towards me and looked into my eyes for the first time. ‘Can you come back next week and look at some more photos?’

  ‘No problem,’ I said eagerly, ‘only too happy to help.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Gerry. ‘You’ve no idea how important this is to us, Kevin. In fact, even your sergeant isn’t to know what went on here today. Understood?’

  ‘And if anybody asks why you were called out of training,’ said Andy, ‘just say you had to see someone from army welfare. Personal matter.’

  ‘No problem,’ I said, though I was still puzzled. I had managed to identify an out-of-work school-leaver from Newry. Could this really be of such critical importance to the British military? I returned to routine army life somewhat perplexed.
Who were these people? Who did they work for? Was it better that I hadn’t asked?

  It all served to make me more paranoid about being Catholic. ‘You’d think we were fucking aliens!’ I remember complaining to another ‘left footer’ in the Rangers, who hailed from Longford in the Irish Republic.

  But I was eighteen and eager to impress, so a week later I trooped back dutifully to the Education Centre and thumbed through more grainy photographs of Newry’s unemployed. What a sorry lot they were too – surely more a threat to good fashion sense than to national security, I thought. I coughed up what names and personal details I could, though the snippets of information I provided seemed laughably banal to me. Over and over again, I apologised for my failure to provide anything I considered of substance or significance.

  ‘You’re doing absolutely fine,’ Gerry reassured me just as often. ‘These are all vital pieces in the intelligence jigsaw.’ At least now I knew where they were from.

  Over the following weeks and months, I studied endless photographs and told Andy and Gerry everything I knew about IRA sympathisers in Newry, right down to the cars they drove and the pubs they drank in. They in turn freely regaled me with tales from Bessbrook, the British intelligence Force Research Unit’s HQ in South Armagh where they were based. To an eighteen-year-old raw recruit, their stories of high-risk espionage and intrigue sounded better than James Bond. From what I could gather, these men had a licence to do whatever they wanted. I could tell they enjoyed impressing me and, when the opportunity came to show off their powers, they jumped at the chance.

  I told them how my family believed I was sailing around the globe with the merchant navy, not serving with a British army regiment forty miles up the road in Antrim. Trouble was, it had been months since they’d got a postcard. I was worried they would twig.

  ‘Leave it to us,’ said Gerry and, a week later, they arrived with a postcard.

  ‘Write your message,’ said Andy, ‘and we’ll get it posted to them from somewhere exotic. Where d’ya fancy?’

  From that point on, my family received postcards from me regularly, posted in different locations all over the world. I could scarcely believe they were going to all this trouble for me – just a number in the British army. I felt we were becoming good friends. I liked them both. However, I always left the Education Centre feeling as if I had let them down somehow. I sensed they were always a little disappointed with my information. They never said so, but I felt guilty. I mean, two hotshots from military intelligence coming to see me and all I could provide was harmless tittle-tattle.

  It was Gerry who sensed my frustration. After a dozen or so meetings, one week he cut to the chase. ‘Do you know other young lads who might be able to help us?’ he asked. ‘Anyone you could introduce us to?’

  I did have a couple of close friends, but could they be trusted? Clearly, it would involve me telling them I was in the British army.

  ‘Just let us meet some of these friends,’ said Andy, ‘and we’ll do the rest.’

  I felt I had to take the risk. That weekend, I went home to Newry. The family was thrilled to see me. I regurgitated versions of stories I had heard during my original spell with the merchant navy, and nobody seemed to suspect a thing. I went out that night and caught up with people I hadn’t seen in nearly a year. Once again, my merchant-navy story went unchallenged. I found the deception effortless and, in the end, I began to enjoy it. Little did I know that my cover would be blown that night anyhow, in a way I could never have foreseen.

  I got home at three in the morning to find my mother in the kitchen, hunched over. I could tell she had been crying.

  ‘What’s up, Mum?’

  She unfurled her fingers, still clutching a tissue, to reveal something in the palm of her hand. It was my army identification document.

  ‘Ach, I was gonna tell you,’ I started, but the words shrivelled up. Suddenly, my mum looked old and fragile and very tired. I put my hand on her shoulder and told her not to be worrying herself about it.

  ‘Don’t be worrying meself?’ she gasped incredulously, looking up at me sharply. ‘What do you mean don’t be worrying meself about it? If they find out they’ll kill you!’

  ‘Nobody’ll find out. Sure, who’s gonna tell them?’ I said.

  ‘For God’s sakes, Kevin,’ she said, ‘don’t you realise? Of course they’ll find out. Someone always finds out.’

  Of course, I knew she was right. I had just been hiding from the fact that, in Northern Ireland, there’s no hiding place. There is no job or pastime or social function safe from the creeping grapevine of hate and paranoia. Of course they would find out. And then I’d be a ‘legitimate target’. At best, my family would be boycotted and abused. At worst, I’d be whacked coming out of the front door some morning.

  ‘You’ve gone and signed your own death warrant,’ said Mum, breaking down into great heaving sobs, the army identification document tumbling out of her hand on to the kitchen floor. I scooped it up and hurried away. I couldn’t stand seeing her in such pain. In my selfish rush to fulfil a childish dream, I had deluded myself into believing I could keep my entire working life a secret from my own family and my community. What an idiot I had been: I had put my family at risk; I had destroyed my mother’s peace of mind for good; I had committed her to a vocation of pain and worry. For the rest of her days, every time the phone would ring or the doorbell sound, she would be bracing herself for the news. That night was one of the lowest of my life.

  I didn’t sleep much. I knew that two more people were about to find out about my secret life as a soldier in the British army. I arranged to meet two close friends in a pub the next afternoon for a game of pool. Somehow, I had to persuade them to meet Andy and Gerry. In the end, I told them Andy and Gerry were friends from the merchant navy. Would they fancy going to a nice pub in the country that Wednesday to meet them? Maybe have a few jars and a bite to eat? When I told them that my new friends were loaded and offering to pay, there was no hesitation.

  That night, as instructed, I rang Gerry on a special number and told him the news. I felt like I had passed my first major test. Gerry was thrilled. I’ll always remember his words. ‘You know, you’re really cut out for this, Kevin,’ he said.

  The compliment failed to cheer. I felt low. The thought of my mother back home worrying about me made me feel ashamed. Sensing my subdued mood, Gerry told me I should be feeling proud of myself. ‘I suppose so,’ I replied cryptically.

  That Wednesday, I introduced Andy and Gerry to my two friends. The night was purely social – no mention of intelligence or the military – and everyone got on famously. Soon we were a regular social group. I watched Andy and Gerry cultivate the two men as friends: within weeks, Andy was teaching one of them to drive, and Gerry was helping the other lad get a loan to buy a car. They stood us a good many pints and joked about how there was money to be earned just by helping in really simple ways.

  By now, Andy and Gerry were ringing up my friends and asking them to go and check if a certain car was outside a certain house. They would ask who lived at number 42, and whether they were believed to be up to anything dodgy. They were all pieces in the intelligence jigsaw, and now they had two willing and watching sets of eyes and ears in the heart of two housing estates in Newry. Combined with all the latest local gossip, the British military had probably never before had a place so sewn up for intelligence.

  Gerry and Andy were delighted, as they told me at our weekly private get-togethers in the Army Education Centre. They started asking me if I would be interested in working for military intelligence. ‘You know I live for the army,’ I said, suspecting that it was no more than idle flattery. However, the hollowness of the words as they came out surprised me. Now that my mother knew the truth, and was probably worrying herself sick about it, the army no longer seemed the dream life it once did.

  On the other hand, the prospect of working for military intelligence scared me to death. I felt intimidated by the very notion of
intelligence work. It seemed a shadowy otherworld, way beyond my rudimentary political understanding. Looking back, perhaps it was my political naïvety that made me such an attractive catch to the intelligence services.

  They let it be known to me that their superiors were all for giving me a job, as I was considered the perfect recruit. I simply couldn’t see it. How could a squaddie with few qualifications be of such worth to British military intelligence?

  ‘Have you heard of Captain Robert Nairac?’ Gerry asked me one Wednesday.

  ‘Of course I have,’ I said. ‘I used to work in the meat factory, didn’t I?’

  They looked at me quizzically.

  Captain Robert Nairac was the senior British soldier who tried to infiltrate the IRA. He put on a Northern Irish accent, invented an Irish background and learned the words to a few rebel songs. Needless to say, he was rumbled. Northern Ireland is like a village, and it didn’t take long for IRA top brass to realise he was an impostor. A few years earlier, in May 1977, it was widely reported how Captain Nairac had disappeared. Eventually, the IRA admitted interrogating and executing him. However, they had never handed over Nairac’s body. While working in the meat factory in Newry, I found out why. Some short-term contract workers in Newry had been working at the company’s sister factory in Dundalk at the time of Nairac’s disappearance. I told Andy and Gerry what I had heard. ‘They put him through the mincer,’ I said, as sensitively as one can say such a thing.

  They looked stunned. Sickened.

  ‘What?’ said Gerry.

  ‘They scalped him, cut out his innards and turned him into meat and meal.’

  ‘But why?’ said Andy. ‘Why didn’t they dump his body in a ditch?’

  ‘Apparently, he’d been so badly tortured and beaten, he was unrecognisable,’ I said. ‘The IRA didn’t want it known how badly he’d been treated. The meat factory is full of Provos, so they, er, got rid of the body.’