by Paul Bruce
The IRA must have known that the bombings would bring about major retaliation from the Protestant paramilitary organisations who were becoming increasingly restless.
At 4.30 on the afternoon of Saturday, 4 March, two people were killed and 136 wounded when a bomb tore apart the Catholic-owned Abercorn Restaurant in Castle Lane, Belfast, while a cabaret was in progress. Film footage of the scene of destruction, the horrific injuries to the wounded and the screams of those who survived proved too much for TV chiefs and hardly any clips were shown on the nation’s TV screens.
Appalling tit-for-tat bombings, which were to become a mark of sectarian violence, now began in earnest. On Monday, 20 March, one of the worst IRA atrocities shocked the entire community, both Catholic and Protestant. Six people were killed and 146 injured when a bomb exploded at 12 noon in the centre of Belfast, in busy Lower Donegall Street. The callousness of those planting the bomb could not be imagined. Minutes before the blast, telephone calls had been made to newspaper offices, reporting that bombs were about to explode in churches and offices in the area. Warned by police, office workers began pouring out on to the streets in a bid to escape the blasts. Minutes later, the massive bomb exploded. Never before had the IRA deliberately set out to draw hundreds of innocent people, both Catholic and Protestant, to the scene of a bomb they had planted and timed to explode to cause the maximum of casualties. The scenes on the streets were horrendous.
Four days later, the British Government suspended Stormont for twelve months, one of the principal demands the IRA had been making ever since the troubles began. One of Britain’s most senior politicians, William Whitelaw, was appointed Secretary of State for Northern Ireland. He immediately flew to Belfast to take over direct control of all security matters, bringing to an end fifty years of Unionist rule in the Province.
The IRA issued a statement claiming that the suspension of Stormont had brought real hope for peace and, allegedly, debated whether to end their campaign of violence. It was not to be. A few days later, the Provisional IRA’s Chief of Staff, Sean MacStiofain, repudiated the idea of any peace initiatives or even negotiations, issuing a statement which, in part, read: ‘If we become hesitant the fight of this generation is lost. We want freedom. Any other attitude is a betrayal of the internees, the political prisoners and the Derry dead.’
Seven days later, on 7 April 1972, Whitelaw freed 72 internees. Their freedom was celebrated far into the night throughout Catholic areas in Belfast and Londonderry, with bonfires and parties. For the IRA, that wasn’t enough. There were still another 842 men held, 611 internees as well as 161 detained for questioning.
For two weeks, a lull in the bombings and shootings brought a little hope to the traumatised people of the Province but it would not last. On Thursday, 13 April, thirty explosions, directed mainly at civilian targets, reverberated across Belfast, bringing chaos and mayhem.
Two days later, Joe McCann, a well-known and leading member of the Official IRA, had run away when challenged by a Paratrooper on patrol in the Market area of Belfast. The Paratrooper opened fire, killing McCann with one round. IRA chiefs were furious, accusing the British Army of assassinating one of their most senior officers. Within 24 hours, three British soldiers had been shot dead while on patrol, the IRA declared the Turf Lodge area of Belfast a ‘no-go’ area and shootings, stoning and riots broke out afresh in Belfast and Londonderry.
Throughout February, March and April, our thankless task continued. As before, we were given orders to rendezvous at one or another map reference on the border and we would collect another prisoner, another victim to be executed. We noticed, however, that a change had come over the prisoners. They seemed comatose, drugged, barely aware of what was happening and with no fighting spirit about them. Indeed, some seemed so semi-conscious and relaxed that they didn’t even bother to talk, behaving as if totally unaware of what was happening.
This made our task much easier, as not one of them wanted to argue, make a run for it, put up a struggle or even say anything as we drove them on the thirty-minute journey to Blackskull Lane. When we asked them to leave the car, it seemed that they were resigned to their fate, as though not caring if they lived or died, but happy to do as we asked without question.
Their total compliance made me feel far more guilty than before. Killing a man with anger and vengeance in his heart, who showed arrogance and a distaste for our abilities, had, somehow, made the killing more acceptable. Now the executions seemed to be without reason, as though we were shooting innocent, helpless victims.
On one occasion, we drove back to Long Kesh having, once more, carried out our grisly duty, the car silent, all of us feeling that little bit lower than the time before, wondering when it would all stop and we could return home to sanity. As we drove towards our Portakabin inside the camp, we thought we heard the sound of gunfire coming from the grassy area of the disused airfield. We stopped and saw two torches about 100 yards away. Then we heard two more gunshots and we all went for our pistols.
We switched off the car lights and threw ourselves out of the car on to the ground. When we realised that they were not firing directly at us, we crept towards them, in a line about ten yards apart, still with our pistols at the ready, our fingers on the trigger. We had no idea what to expect but we had just come from Blackskull and our minds were on edge.
Then we saw two men, illuminated from behind by the arc lights overlooking Long Kesh. The men were wearing SD caps … they were British officers.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ shouted Don at the two officers.
The officers appeared startled and, as we walked closer, we realised they had been having a few drinks. ‘Sorry, chaps,’ one said. ‘Sorry if we alarmed you but we decided to do a spot of night-time rabbit shooting.’
Don replied, ‘Well, all I can tell you is that you are fucking lucky to be still alive. In another few seconds you could have been dead.’
We walked back to the car, wondering what the hell was happening. We had just been ordered to execute some poor bastard and these two British officers were fooling around, taking potshots at rabbits.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
One rainy morning in early April, Don returned to our Long Kesh Portakabin after a briefing from his senior officers at Lisburn headquarters. He looked downcast. We feared the worst.
‘I’ve got some bad news,’ Don said. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, lads, but it doesn’t look as though we’re going home just yet.’
Only a few days earlier, we had been down to the border to collect another prisoner and, as usual, had driven the man to Blackskull and the grave he would share with his compatriots. The weather had been cold and wet and we were all hoping that we wouldn’t have to continue doing this bloody awful task for very much longer. We felt we had done our share of dirty work and deserved a break.
‘Go on,’ said Benny, ‘let’s hear the worst.’
‘We’ve been given a new location for our customers.’
I looked at him, not wanting to comprehend what he had just told us. Did this mean that we would be in Ireland for another six months, another year perhaps, having to collect and execute more and more total strangers? For some time, I had been growing increasingly concerned about our role but was managing to keep going in the hope that we would soon return to Hereford.
I felt hurt and angry. I felt we were being used in a most terrible way to do the dirty work of others. I could not for a minute believe that the job we were doing was the work the SAS should have been assigned to carry out. I kept wondering who on earth issued these orders, directing soldiers to arrest, abduct and kill young men who were fighting for what they saw as their just cause.
At that moment, I felt anger that we were being used by the authorities in a way in which they did not have the right to use us. In those few minutes, before my anger subsided I could have gone off to Lisburn and shot the rotten bastards giving those orders in the same way I had been called on to execute the poor IRA blokes
coming over the border. But I knew I couldn’t do anything like that. I had signed up for 22 years. I was a soldier and my job in life would always be to obey orders. I knew I could never do anything that would bring disgrace to the SAS.
As I fought to control my fury, I kept repeating, over and over again, that I wasn’t paid to think: I was only paid to obey orders.
I knew that part of SAS training included a course in abduction and assassination techniques. I had never done that course but I expected that, one day, I would be called upon to do so. In my mind, therefore, I kept telling myself that the executions we were carrying out were perhaps a normal part of SAS life.
Confused and seeking assurance about the job we were doing, I asked Don, ‘Is it usual for the SAS to be knocking off people like this?’
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘It’s part of our job but not in these numbers. I’ve never done anything like this before and I’ve never heard of any other SAS units carrying out so many executions. Abductions and assassinations do take place from time to time and we are trained to do that.’
I understood the reasoning behind the abductions and executions of these IRA men. I understood that they were intended to cause alarm and despondency within IRA ranks as well as causing disruption to their operations. The authorities in Lisburn who supported this policy must have believed that the mysterious disappearance of so many of their key men would cause major problems for the IRA, not just logistically, but also for IRA efforts to recruit others prepared to run the gauntlet of the border.
It seemed obvious to all of us, however, that the policy simply wasn’t working. In our original briefing at Lisburn, those in command had informed us that the IRA were down to only sixty or seventy senior men. We had already executed a dozen or more and we knew from our SAS colleagues patrolling the border that eight or nine a week were still coming over. Now, it seemed, Lisburn had decided to step up our work rate by ordering more executions.
‘I know what you’re all thinking,’ Don said, ‘and I feel much the same. But a job’s a job so we had better get on with it. We’ll have a cup of coffee and then get to it.’
We drove north-west out of Belfast towards Londonderry with our new map reference. We climbed past rows of picturesque bungalows nestling in the hills overlooking the city where the ambitious middle classes sought to buy prestigious property, and out into open country. Deliberately, we kept away from the main roads, preferring the anonymity of small country lanes with their drystone walls, low hedgerows and wire fencing.
After about thirty minutes, we saw ahead of us Tardree Forest, mountain slopes dense with pine trees, many of them mature twenty-foot-high trees. It seemed obvious that the forest was being properly managed, with trees at different stages of growth, while, in other parts, they were being chopped down, logged and stacked. Along the lane were numbers of large notices in red, saying ‘Keep Out’.
We turned off the lane up a gravel track and drove for about 200 yards until we came into the forest proper. We continued to drive down a narrow track with mature pines on either side that all but obscured the daylight. After about seventy yards, we turned left into an open clearing perhaps the size of a football field, where all the trees had been chopped down and taken away. Around the edges were some logs waiting for collection. From the road it had been impossible to see the clearing. This was the precise map reference of the new mass grave: 182925.
Stationary on the left, halfway down the clearing, we saw another yellow JCB digger. A man who was sitting in the driving seat clambered down as we drove up and parked.
‘Afternoon,’ he said in a broad Belfast accent. Of average build and about five feet eight inches tall, he was an unshaven, scruffy-looking bloke, probably in his forties. He wore an olive-green woollen hat, jeans and a combat jacket.
‘All right, lads?’ he asked breezily. We only nodded. Trying to start a conversation, he said, ‘I hear you’re doing a good job.’
‘Someone’s got a big mouth,’ I thought to myself. It was the only time during the six months we had been in the Province that anyone had ever suggested to us that they were aware of the operation we were carrying out. I decided to say nothing and let Don do the talking.
Don replied diplomatically, ‘Well, that remains to be seen.’ He went on, ‘I hope you realise the delicacy of what we are doing and you keep all this strictly to yourself.’
The forester replied, ‘Don’t you worry. Of course I’ll keep it to myself. I won’t breathe a word.’After a pause, he went on, ‘I know my head’s on the block with this one, you know. Mum’s the word. Come with me anyway, I’ve got something to show you.’
We walked over towards the end of the clearing where we could see a mound of earth about forty yards long. On the other side of the mound, he showed us a recently excavated trench, also forty yards long, dug to a depth of perhaps seven feet and about three feet across. My heart sank. It would have been possible to dispose of a hundred bodies, or more, in that trench.
‘Don’t worry about a thing,’ the forester went on. ‘I’ll be here early every morning and if there is anything for me to get rid of you can be sure that I’ll cover it so no one could find it. No one will ever be the wiser.’
‘We’ll be off then,’ said Don and the four of us walked back in silence to our car, wondering when we would ever escape from this God-forsaken place.
That night, we had a good meal at the cookhouse and went to the disco. As always, Lizzie was there to brighten the evening but all I wanted to do was have a bloody good drink. So did Don, Benny and JR. We knocked back pints of beer non-stop for four hours, ordering rounds while the last pints were still half-full.
That would be the only night I could remember Lizzie complaining. ‘I may as well go home,’ she whispered in my ear, ‘I don’t think I’m wanted tonight,’ and she squeezed my arm and gave me a kiss.
She had interpreted my feelings correctly and I would have loved to explain everything to her so that she would understand why I needed a bellyful of beer. I knew I couldn’t, and never would, say a word to her about the job we were doing in Northern Ireland. I felt good that she was so innocent of all that was happening. She didn’t deserve to have to shoulder any of the shit we were putting up with; it had nothing to do with her.
Later, after I had managed to leave the pints of beer for a dance, I suggested to Lizzie that she should go home.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked. ‘Is it me? Have I done something to annoy you?’
‘No,’ I told her honestly. ‘It’s not you, I promise. But you have to understand, tonight we all need a drink more than anything else.’ I went on, ‘Why don’t you go home and get an early night. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ I tried to give her a weak smile. I was becoming drunk and I knew it and I was glad. All I wanted to do was to forget.
That night, Benny nearly became involved in a brawl with a couple of REME soldiers who had managed to upset him. Don and I heard the commotion, went over and dragged him back to the bar. ‘He’s had a hard day, give him a break,’we said to the REME blokes.
None of us knew how JR managed to drive the Corona the seven miles from Sydenham Docks to Long Kesh that night, but somehow he did, although he had drunk a skinful and should never have attempted the drive. If we had been more sober, we would have found someone to drive us back but we were too far gone to care a damn.
One day early the following week, Don returned to Long Kesh after his Lisburn briefing with the news that we would be carrying out another job that night and then heading for the new graveyard in the forest.
It rained throughout the evening and, with the windscreen wipers hardly able to cope with the lashing rain, JR drove really slowly along the border lanes. We found our map reference, picked up the prisoner, who appeared lifeless and half-comatose, and drove north to the forest.
We hauled the IRA man out of the car and he walked quite happily in the rain towards the mound of earth behind which we knew the trench stretched for forty yards or
more. As he climbed the mound, oblivious to what was about to happen, I shot him in the back of the head and he fell forwards into the darkness of the trench. I heard a splash as his body hit the water that had gathered in the bottom of the trench but I did not want to see how he had fallen. I bent down, picked up the single case and walked back to the car.
This would become the pattern of our lives during the next few weeks – disposing of a victim on average once every ten days or so, but, on one occasion, being asked to deal with two men in a week. Sometimes we would not be called upon for three weeks.
It had been decided that Don and I would do the actual killings, that JR would stay in the car and Benny would act as guard and back-up. It worked better like this. Everyone knew his job. More important, there were no cock-ups. The whole operation always seemed more fraught when things went wrong; it became easier to cope with what we were doing when nothing went wrong to remind us more starkly of the awful, gruesome task we were being ordered to carry out.
Towards the end of April, I knew that I had to get away. I had tried to carry out the executions without becoming involved; deliberately stopping myself thinking about them; trying to push to the back of my mind the awful memories that seemed to be gathering like a black storm about to envelop me. So, out of the blue, I phoned Maria at the post office in Tidworth.
I don’t know why I felt the need to phone her. Lizzie was wonderful and understanding and she had been kind and generous to me but I had never felt as close to her as I had to Maria. Perhaps my feelings were changing towards her because she was part of the Province, part of my life that I had ended up hating.
‘Hi, it’s Paul.’
It took more than a few seconds for her to realise who was calling her, after a break of nearly a year. ‘Who?’ she had to ask twice.