I skulled three glasses of water and immediately felt sick so I filled the sink with cold water and shoved in my already pounding head, asking myself how I could have been so stupid. (I decided I’d answer that tomorrow if I was still employed.) I grabbed everything I thought I’d possibly need, plus my all-important passport, and headed downstairs. Micky was not in as bad a condition as me but he was not happy, and also questioning our stupidity. We caught up with our producer and reporter and staggered into the melee.
•
Shit, it’s all happening. There is no quicker way to sober up than having petrol bombs, rocks and bullets flying past your head. It was only 2.45 a.m. and already half of Belfast was burning. Word travels fast in this town.
The first targets were the British-owned banks, and by the time we got to them every one was burning out of control. Great shots for us and easy to film with so much light coming from the flames, but move 50 metres from the flames and the night was pitch black. Even though I had a portable battery light, it was pretty useless; it could light about 2 metres, and that was the extent of it, making it really difficult to show the scope of the devastation.
Suddenly people with masks, scarves and balaclavas started running in all directions shouting, ‘Here they come!’
Walking slowly and with intent were twenty British soldiers, guns at the ready. They were lined out across the road from footpath to footpath and heading straight for us. What a shot! I turned on my useless light and started rolling ...
‘Turn that fucking thing off! Now!’
As feeble as my light was, I guess it didn’t help that the soldiers were looking straight into it. I switched it off.
Then as we turned and ran to get out of their way, the soldiers started firing. In all the confusion and darkness we suddenly found ourselves backed up against a wall. I heard a thud an inch from my head and felt something land on my foot. A plastic bullet. I’d read about them but had never seen one. I picked it up, amazed at its size. It was 7 centimetres long, an inch in diameter, and made of rock-hard plastic. These can be lethal if you get hit in the wrong place. I slipped the bullet into my pocket, not knowing there was a jail term if one of these projectiles was found in your possession.
At four in the morning Jimmy the driver took us back to his place for a cup of tea and some R & R. He said he had to make a few phone calls.
I was happy to be out of the action for a while and enjoying my tea when Jimmy’s four-year-old boy, in cute little teddy bear pyjamas, toddled up and said in a heavy Irish accent, ‘The Brits killed Bobby Sands.’ And so on it goes, a new generation to despise the British.
By daylight we could see the full extent of the devastation. Most of the CBD was burnt out. Some buildings were still on fire. There was not a window intact, and if you were unlucky enough to have left your car out on the street, it was now a smouldering wreck.
Jimmy asked if we would like to get some shots of Bobby’s body. Are you kidding? We now knew exactly how influential our driver was.
We headed off to Bobby’s parents’ place and Jimmy went inside, telling us to wait in the car. He needed to discuss a few things. Ten minutes later he was back, very apologetic, saying the parents had asked if it would be all right if we didn’t film their son. He wasn’t really looking very good, they said. Sixty-six days without food, and he’s not looking very good? It’s no surprise, we were thinking, but not saying. We were then told that Bobby’s mum and dad had agreed that only the reporter would go inside and view the body. So a tentative Ian Leslie went in.
Ten minutes later he was back in the car, telling us that if he didn’t know, it would be impossible to believe what lay inside that casket was a young man. The 27-year-old Sands looked more like a 72-year-old man. As it turned out, Ian was the only member of the world’s media to see the corpse.
•
On the day of the funeral, Belfast was on full alert. There were rumours that the IRA would appear and show their support, but no one knew exactly how or when. I started to pack all the gear for a huge day. The usual lenses, film, batteries, changing bag, passport ... Passport! Where’s my passport? I checked everywhere, pockets, suitcase, film-gear cases, under the bed, inside socks. Last time I had any idea where it was, it was in my back pocket during the night of all the action. Shit. Shit. Shit. I knew I could be in big trouble here, and not only here, because when we left Belfast we were off to Beirut, then Tokyo, two destinations that required very expensive and very hard to get filming visas. Both of which I had only recently had stamped into my now missing passport.
It was cold and wet outside, but I was sweating as I headed off to the biggest funeral the world had seen for a long time. I decided not to tell the others about my missing passport—there was no point in adding more angst to their day, I thought, and besides, passports have a habit of turning up ... Don’t they?
We walked through town. Belfast was full of anger. Funerals have a great way of uniting people. The Brits must have been shitting themselves. There was a crowd of more than 50,000, six deep along the 3-mile route, all pushing forward and hoping to get a glimpse of the coffin on its journey to the cemetery. Hovering above us was a swarm of British helicopters watching everybody’s every move, but remarkably, down at our level, there was little evidence of being watched. No local police at all and the British army very conspicuous by its absence.
The rain was getting heavier and the mud thicker. The gear and I were getting wetter and we couldn’t be walking any slower if we tried. Then we were forced to detour an extra quarter of a mile so the mourning procession didn’t pass through a Protestant enclave. And all the while Jimmy was telling Micky and I to stick with the coffin, because at some time in the next 2 miles, the IRA would appear and fire a round of bullets over the coffin. Two miles! The gear weighs a tonne. It had better be a great shot.
As we walked I was thinking what a weird world we live in. From Belfast I was off to Beirut, where the Muslims want to see a lot less of Christians and vice versa. I had just got back from Israel, where the Jews or Zionists or Israelis (take your pick) would prefer fewer Palestinians, while the Palestinians wanted to see Israel wiped off the face of the earth. But right now I wanted to see the IRA start shooting over this coffin so I could get out of this rain, and this country, though that could be a little problematical seeing as I didn’t have a passport. What if I’m trapped here? What if I’m caught with my rubber bullet, and no passport? What if ...
‘Ready! Aim!’
Shit, didn’t see them coming. I whacked the camera to my eye, zoomed back to the wide end of the lens and started rolling ...
‘Fire! Fire! Fire!’
Three rifle shots went over the coffin and the balaclava-wearing IRA members, Bobby Sands’ brothers in arms, deftly dissolved into the weeping crowd. It was a great image, but it would have been nice to have had a little more warning.
•
Back at the hotel, exhausted and soaking wet, I softened up reporter and producer with raves of the award-winning ‘ready, aim, fire’ shot over the coffin, then I fired a shot of my own by casually mentioning the missing passport.
I was hit with all the questions a mother would ask: How could I be so stupid? What about the near-impossible-to-get visas? Had I really looked for it? Where did I think I lost it?
I preferred the word ‘stolen’, but kept that to myself. Still, the loss needed to be reported, so off I went to the cops. Who thought I was hilarious. They couldn’t believe anyone could be so dumb as to carry a passport in their back pocket in Belfast. They told me it would already be in the hands of the IRA with my photograph replaced by someone better looking.
There is a God. Even for atheists. I’m not saying a passport fell from the sky, but Northern Ireland being part of the United Kingdom meant I could fly back to London without one. And more luck, a month before we had done a story on Andrew Peacock, then the minister for foreign affairs, so we made a phone call to his home (so as not to be fobbed off by minde
rs) and told him of my dilemma. He must have loved the story because he told me to be at the Australian embassy in London by ten the next morning and there would be a new passport waiting. Same old story, it’s not what you know ...
I immediately flew to London, arrived at Australia House on the dot of ten and headed straight to ‘Lost Passports’.
‘I’ve come to pick up a passport.’
‘Replacement for lost or stolen?’
‘Yes.’
‘And when was the passport reported missing?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘Yesterday!’ she sneered. ‘I’m sorry. First, you must fill in this form, return it to me, and we will contact you in two weeks. That’s the way it’s done.’
‘But there should be one here for me now. I rang and organised it.’
‘As I’ve said,’ she sniffed, ‘it will take two weeks for your passport to be processed.’
‘No, I rang Andrew Peacock, the minister for foreign affairs last night. He said I could pick up a new passport here today.’
‘One moment ...’
Minutes later, barging down the stairs, came a really not-so-pleased to see me, immaculately dressed gentleman with a huge plum in his mouth. So huge that coupled with his attempt to be diplomatic, he was struggling to speak. His anger was obvious.
‘Mr Lee, there was absolutely no reason to ring Mr Peacock, he is far too busy for this kind of thing. That is why we are here. To help people like you.’
Sure, I thought, as I looked down at the two-week form I was holding.
It was then straight to the Lebanese and Japanese embassies where I handed over hundreds of dollars, hung around for eight hours, then after having been berated by officious embassy staff I got two colourful little stamps in my virginal passport. I was told I should count myself extremely lucky. Normally those stamps can’t be available in one day. Buggered if I know why, but I thanked them, walked out onto the damp streets of London with not a care in the world and got to live another day.
Not so for Bobby Sands, or the nine hunger strikers who died after him.
Bobby Sands the martyr is now a huge part of history. But the other nine? Their families know who they are, and that’s about it. Bernadette Devlin, the outspoken champion of the IRA cause, announced after Sands’ death, ‘Having paid Mrs Thatcher’s blood price, we will not take no for an answer and we call upon all civilised people to isolate Britain for the political leper that she is.’
Thatcher’s answer was to send in 600 more troops, bringing the military presence in Northern Ireland to nearly 12,000.
The IRA continued fighting for recognition, survival and a unified Ireland, possibly pushing their luck with a courageous mortar attack on Number 10 Downing Street while Prime Minister John Major and his entire war cabinet were inside. Two mortars overshot the building and failed to detonate, a third exploded in the rear garden of Number 10. The attack was originally intended for Thatcher, but she had unexpectedly resigned. Why waste a good plan? Then the IRA ‘accidently’ killed two Australian lawyers in Holland who they had mistaken for British soldiers. Both attacks showed a lack of brains. But they weren’t going to give in.
•
After the Bobby Sands story I let the Irish ‘Troubles’ drift from my thoughts. I did recognise that getting rid of occupying foreign troops was a worthy cause and I should show some solidarity with my great-great-grandfather’s people, but I had much grander things occupying my mind, like where to eat in New York, Rome, Paris. So, apart from occasional thoughts of my ‘stolen’ passport, the IRA was no longer in my mind.
Until ten years after the Bobby Sands story and there I was back in Ireland, sitting in the Shelbourne Hotel, Dublin, about to do the definitive story on ‘Inside the IRA’. If we were caught, it was a minimum of five years for being associated with known terrorists.
There was a certain sense of déjà vu because, not unlike the Europa Hotel in Belfast, we’d been sitting stuffing ourselves endlessly with food and grog, waiting for something to happen. Each day consisted of breakfast, morning tea, lunch, afternoon tea, pre-dinner drinks, dinner with mucho vino, supper, and a Drambuie or two before bed.
We had absolutely nothing to film until we knew if and when the story would happen. We were told someone would contact us ... sometime. Then we would be given a password indicating that the story was on.
Relieving the boredom with me was Micky, reporter Mike Munro and producer Andrea Keir. The story had been painstakingly set up back in Sydney by ace producer Stephen Taylor, who spent months making cryptic midnight phone calls to terrorists, all without ever mentioning the IRA for fear of the phones being bugged, and somehow he managed get them to agree to a story. Then, and it happens to all producers at some stage, the timing of the story didn’t fit with Stephen’s next trip. As in life, it’s all to do with timing, so reluctantly he had to hand over the story to Andrea, who just happened to have a trip to the UK ready to go. It was a good fit. Andrea was a take-no-prisoners producer who was scared of no one, including the IRA. She would stop at nothing to get a story, she was tough and very effective, and after four days hanging around our Dublin hotel waiting for something to shoot, she was getting a little edgy.
On the fifth day Andrea scored a meeting with our go-between. She was told to get on and off certain buses until a man would walk behind her and tell her the latest, and at no time could she turn and look at him or talk to him. She did this. And his news was? Nothing. Except that tomorrow he would sit at a nearby coffee shop and update her. Update her. He was one hell of a brave man who didn’t know who he was dealing with. This was Andrea Keir, not some lightweight like John Major or Margaret Thatcher.
On her next clandestine meeting Andrea was told by our go-between that we were being watched by the British Special Branch, and that the IRA were watching the Brits watching us. As long as they were not watching our bar bill. We were also told we were not to leave the hotel or to make any phone calls to anyone, including family in Sydney. We continued to wait for the ‘Moon is Blue’ or whatever password the IRA was going to come up with.
I felt like James Bond with all this intrigue, though he was highly trained, drank very dry martinis and had a licence to kill. Hey, I’ve been trained, love a dry martini, and have a licence to drive in NSW. Close enough. But Bond’s not real and I am and if I’m caught I’ll end up in jail. Being in Dublin might swing a bit of sympathy our way, but if we were in Northern Ireland there’d be absolutely none from the Brits.
And then it was on. At precisely 9.30 the next morning Micky and I must load the car with all the necessary gear, take it a quarter of a mile from the hotel, and wait in the back seat. The contact would walk to the hotel, pick up Mike and Andrea, and all three would walk to our car. There would be no talking, at all, ever, none, nought. Understand?
In the bar, on what might be our last night of freedom, we spent hours discussing the pros and cons of the story, how tomorrow might pan out and what were the chances of us doing five years. At least we’d all be together. Well, Micky, Mike and I would be. Andrea would be on her own. Pity help any female warder who scores her.
I wanted to tell the others that five years is chicken feed, I had faced 30 years in a German cell after accidentally smuggling hash out of Egypt. But then reality set in. I knew there was a much greater chance of being sprung and made an example of with this story. With the laughing and joking increasing as the grog did, deep down we all began to worry, knowing that even Kerry Packer’s influence and millions would get us nowhere with John Major, or the Iron Lady who was still in parliament. Neither of them would tolerate any publicity on these murderers, because both had been IRA targets: Thatcher with a bomb in her Brighton hotel in 1984, and Major with the attempt on Number 10 Downing Street.
Next morning, with the moon well and truly blue, Micky and I, both exhausted from lack of sleep and thoughts of sharing a cell with killers and rapists, packed our gear, drove our quarter mile and waited in the car.
>
Ten-fifteen, and in the rear vision mirror we saw Mike, Andrea and a smallish man in a green sports coat heading towards us. Mike hopped into the driver’s seat with Andrea beside him, and joining Micky and I in the back was the mystery man, who sat behind Andrea as a signal to his comrades that all was going according to plan.
He turned out to be very chatty with heaps of small talk, the weather, etc., but at no time did he say to turn right or left, he just pointed in the direction he wanted Mike to drive, or he’d say, ‘Follow that truck.’ I’m guessing it was in case we were bugged. Every minute or so he turned and looked out the back window.
Half an hour later, we drove slowly into a small village and our passenger said to Mike, ‘Move over and let some of our boys go past,’ and a small red car overtook us, turning off at the next right. We kept going straight ahead. I really wasn’t sure if the red car was part of the charade or not. Maybe he was just having us on, trying to keep us frightened. Which worked. I kept my mouth shut, as did the others. Not long after, we let another car pass then the mystery man said, ‘Stop here, I’m going in to buy a paper.’
We waited in silence, still too scared to speak to each other. Finally he came out of the shop. I couldn’t see a paper, but I did see him looking in all directions as he approached our car. Another ten minutes’ drive, then he said quietly, ‘Pull over here, we’re going into this pub. Follow me.’
Six blokes sitting at the bar didn’t take their eyes off us as we headed for the lounge. We either didn’t look Irish enough or we looked like an Aussie film crew. We followed our contact to an obviously pre-arranged spot at the back of the pub and, surprise, surprise, sat and waited. Micky had a hangover so he lay down on a couch. Our mystery man pulled the Irish Times from under his coat and started reading. After a short read, he put down his paper and told Mike and Andrea that the two cars we’d let pass had followed us out of Dublin to make sure the Special Branch wasn’t watching us.
All This in 60 Minutes Page 9