In Search of the Missing

by Mick McCarthy

  Neil and Pepper searched upwards from the bottom. Dex and I worked downwards from the top. After just a further hundred yards, we would be finished with that particular area and switching to yet another part of the mountain. Suddenly, I heard Pepper indicating far below. Neil contacted me on the radio. At that stage, he was about a quarter of a mile below Pepper. Neil suggested I send Dex down to confirm Pepper’s indication. Dex made his way downhill, turned left, headed towards Pepper and indicated. Both dogs stood together facing a gully about fifteen feet deep and twenty feet wide, with a sheep fence on top. They cleared the fence, went further in, and kept indicating. Daylight was breaking. Neil and I could see various items in front of us: a guitar, pots and a frying pan. We could see no trace of the boy. But the dogs continued to indicate vigorously.

  Then we found him. He had been lying in knee-deep heather, only about three or four feet away from us. We had to walk within a foot of him before he became visible. No wonder we couldn’t see him – he was dressed in camouflage, which blended in with the heather, and he was fully concealed in the foliage. Somebody must have been praying for us. There was no way anyone could have spotted him without literally walking over him. More than likely one of the helicopters had flown above him at some point but had failed to see him because he was so well hidden. The other members of his troupe seemed to have misread their position on their descent and arrived at the wrong side of the valley floor.

  The boy was unconscious and suffering badly from hypothermia. We gave him some of our clothes, a little piece of a Mars bar and a few sips of water. Having notified base that we had found the boy, we began to carry him down the side of the mountain through knee-deep heather and bogland. This was not an easy task. Although the lad was now awake, he was totally helpless, and even though he was only eleven years of age, he was six feet tall. The farmer’s yard, which was the base for the search, was a ninety-minute walk away. Every few hundred yards, we stopped to give the boy a little water. We had almost reached the farmyard when we saw two jeeps full of young, handsome British army personnel approaching. All of them were dressed in dark navy and looked extremely fit. They had not been notified that the boy was found, and had come to help.

  At the farmyard, an ambulance was waiting to take the boy to Letterkenny General Hospital, where he was given a thorough check-up and later enjoyed a good Irish breakfast. Having spoken to the boy, the gardaí said the youngster was unable to tell them very much, possibly due to a combination of his thirty-six-hour ordeal and the fact that he spoke very little English. The lad was lucky to be alive; medical sources were quick to point out that he would not have survived another forty-eight hours on the mountain. But despite his experience, he was said to be in excellent condition.

  The German Boy Scouts had many lessons to learn from the incident, such as the seriousness of not reporting immediately that the boy was missing. The importance of wearing bright clothing on a climb cannot be emphasised enough, but I’ve noticed that even our own Irish Boy Scouts tend to ignore this basic rule for hill climbers and walkers.

  After the rescue, all of those officially involved in the search disappeared, without offering to get us home. Neil and I, along with Pepper and Dex, were left stranded in Donegal without any means of transport back to Cork. Being left at the side of the road to find our own way home was in total contrast to how other countries look after volunteers: when I was placed on the Welsh mountain-rescue list of volunteers, the Royal Air Force offered to fly me over and back in the event of any call-out.

  Being left high and dry in Donegal opened our eyes to the fact that, where possible, it was best to travel to the search area in our own transport; at least we’d be sure of getting back home again. Luckily, a member of a local search team came along and took us back to his house to shower and eat. Then he drove us to Sligo airport. From there, we flew by cargo plane to Dublin, and were then flown free of charge to Cork, courtesy of Aer Lingus. On our return to Cork airport, Ted McCarthy of the Cork Examiner photographed us. Over the coming days, we received much media coverage for the rescue, and, as always, Pepper and Dex took it all in their stride.

  Without doubt, the rescue stands as an example of cross-border co-operation. Yet while it was common for North and South barriers to come down in times of crisis, usually such cross-border activity was kept low-key to avoid antagonising militant groups. Even the locals refrained from mentioning such help in the aftermath, even though this cross-border co-operation worked both ways, with members of An Garda Síochána also crossing the border to help out in similar circumstances. The success of the rescue also shows the importance of calling in search-and-rescue dogs early.

  In many other countries, such as Britain, Germany and France, police and civilian dog handlers train together to the same standard. Ideally, all search-and-rescue dogs, whether civilian or not, should be certified to the same standard. Even though I have offered to supply, train and livestock-proof search dogs free of charge for An Garda Síochána, the offer has not been accepted. That offer was originally made in 1999, and has stood since then and still stands today. In other countries the professionalism of the volunteer is acknowledged. But the Irish psyche tends to view the volunteer as the amateur and the paid person as the professional, regardless of training, qualification or proven record.

  As a society, we need to open our eyes to the fact that when people receive full-time pay for a particular job, this does not necessarily mean that they are more competent and professional than the amateur. When it comes to dogs, the opposite can be true as the amateur tends to be just as passionate about their dogs as the professionals and often even more so.

  Nightmare at Wellington Terrace

  Searchers can only search the areas given to them by those in charge of the search. This restriction presented me with a near-miss situation in one of the most shocking cases of missing persons in Ireland. In the 1990s three men mysteriously vanished from Cork. Detectives believed they were murdered, and the wheels were set in motion for a huge garda manhunt. All three disappearances were linked to a house of flats near the city centre. But where were the remains? Rumour had it that all three bodies had been dismembered and divided out in plastic bags among a group of people so as to implicate them all in the murders, and so silence them.

  The first of the three men – a forty-two-year-old Welshman who had been renting accommodation at 9 Wellington Terrace – disappeared in late April 1994. A few weeks later, a twenty-three-year-old student from Wexford, who worked as a volunteer with the Cork Simon Community, also vanished. It was thought that he had been searching for the missing Welshman. Then, months afterwards, a thirty-four-year-old man disappeared. He had also been living at 9 Wellington Terrace. Later, his sister said that her brother had witnessed the killing of the other two men in the rented house at Wellington Terrace, and that he had been too scared to go to the gardaí and sign a formal statement about the murders. But he had said the murderer was a forty-two-year-old man who had also lived in the same house of flats at Wellington Terrace, and who came originally from Mayfield.

  Rumours about the missing men were gathering pace. One story said that the disappearance of the third man was linked to a row over compensation money he received from a road accident in which he lost an eye. Another said he was killed because he was about to spill the beans on the murderer of the other two men. Other accounts connected the killings to a drugs party of about twenty people that was held in the Mayfield area of the city.

  In 1996 one of the three bodies was reported to have been buried and dug up again in a field between Mayfield and the Vienna Woods Hotel. The search intensified and media reports were rife that special search dogs were about to be brought in. At that time, I had two certified search dogs: my German shepherd, Dex and my retriever-collie-cross, Eiger. When the shout came, I took them along, with the intention of working each one separately.

  Having been briefed at Mayfield garda station, we set off to begin the search in the company
of two gardaí. They took us uphill behind the Vienna Woods Hotel, which is located on the verge of the city, high above the roadway and near the village of Glanmire. They led us into a field covered in stubble, and asked us to begin our search there. I explained to the gardaí that if the dogs came across the scent of a buried body, they would react differently. Dex would go straight into the middle of the scent cone, bark at the ground and start digging. Eiger would rush in, jump suddenly, run away and lie down, just as he had done on the Castleisland call-out when the farmer’s body was found at the top of the mountain.

  We began by searching along the perimeter of the field. Then we combed through the centre. We moved on to a second field, started at the edge again, and worked outwards until we covered every inch. When we entered a third field, one of the gardaí paused, and said to me, ‘Do this field carefully.’ That was odd. Why would he single out this particular field? We had searched thoroughly through the other two. What was so different about this third field? It was clear the garda knew what was about to happen, but he said no more.

  I held Eiger back as Dex started to work from the left to the right of the field, over and back in a zigzag, searching from one ditch to the other. Only minutes later, he began digging in an area just three hundred yards from where we were standing. I told the gardaí he was indicating a dead body. Normally, I’d go up to examine the area of indication. But I refrained, as I wanted Eiger to go instead. I called Dex back. He didn’t want to come. I had to roar at him to make him obey. He returned but was still very anxious.

  I then let Eiger off. Would he confirm Dex’s indication? He ran straight up towards the spot, full of enthusiasm. Once he came within thirty feet of the area, he leaped into the air and dashed back forty yards to lie down. He wasn’t at all happy.

  What was beneath the ground? Was it the body of one of the three missing men? If so, which one? Or had all three bodies been buried there? Would the rumours about dissecting the bodies prove true? Why had the gardaí brought us here if they already knew what to expect? I didn’t know. Questions were still racing through my mind when one of the gardaí turned to me and said, ‘That’s actually where one of the bodies was buried. It was dug up from there last night.’ So the reports were true. Someone had moved one of the bodies. I waited to be told the identity of the body. But the gardaí held tough.

  If I’d had the use of a bloodhound at that time, anyone who had walked back home from the burial spot could have been tracked down by their scent. There would have been no escape. I still couldn’t fathom why the gardaí had brought us up there. Were they merely testing my dogs to see if they were any good? Or were they expecting to find other bodies in the area?

  We walked back downhill towards the hotel. On our way, a big patch of rough ground in another field caught my eye. Even though the field was overgrown with brambles and briars, I could see a path running through it. I was more than familiar with the area, and I knew that the pathway led to the road veering up to the left just after the Silver Springs Hotel. I asked, ‘Could we search up there?’ The gardaí wouldn’t hear of it. They were insistent about where we should search, and I had no say in the matter. It was their call and they decided we should move on to the Slob, an area of sandbanks located at the back of Glanmire village and in front of a grotto. They must have suspected that body parts might be buried there. I feared we might sink on the sandbanks, but they were firm enough to hold us. We combed through there until dark but found nothing. Our part in the search ended and we were not asked to resume it.

  Only two days later, a man out strolling with his dog came across a body in the bushes of a field at Lotabeg, an area between the Silver Springs Hotel and the Vienna Woods Hotel – the same area the gardaí had refused to let me search. The dog had wandered into the bushes. When the owner followed, he actually stepped on top of the body, which was lying on the ground. The dismembered, partially burned remains were identified as those of the third victim. Fragments of clothing and dental records helped to make the identification, together with evidence of skull and eye surgery that he had undergone following his road accident. The acting coroner could not establish the time and place of death.

  The man previously named by the deceased as the murderer of the first two men to disappear was charged with the murder of the third victim. The post-mortem details of the killing matched the descriptions given by a court witness, who said the accused had mutilated the body. But in 1996 the case was thrown out in the Central Criminal Court when Mr Justice Barr ruled that the accused had been deprived of a fair trial because vital case documents had been withheld. Although he was still the sole suspect in all three killings, he was never charged again. According to newspaper reports, the gardaí believed other people may have helped him to dispose of the bodies.

  In May 2003 the suspect committed suicide at his home. The bodies of the first two victims were never found.

  Hungry Hill

  One of my daughters had a boyfriend from Castletownbere. When we were invited to his parents’ house for tea, I decided that we should make the most of being in the beautiful Castletownbere area and climb a local mountain first, just to whet our appetites. Marie, my daughter Michelle and I set off early in the morning, with our sights set on climbing Hungry Hill, the highest hill in the Beara Peninsula and so named, according to the locals, because of its great hunger for bodies. We drove down beyond Bantry to Eyeries, and parked the van close to the mountain, which is well known for the magnificent views it offers of Cork and Kerry, its scattered outcrops, and the fact that many climbers easily go astray there.

  On the day, visibility was poor as a mist hung over the mountain. Even so, I expected that we would finish off the walk in less than four hours, with no bother and in plenty of time for tea. With the help of my map and compass, we climbed nice and sprightly, without any difficulty. Only ten minutes from the top, the sun burst through and the clouds began to disappear. But the mist still shrouded the valleys beneath us. Being almost on top of the mountain with the mist below felt like being on a plane, when only the clouds are visible beneath and look like a sea of candy floss or balls of cotton wool piled one on top of the other.

  Within only a matter of minutes, the temperatures seemed to soar. We became extremely hot – so much so that Michelle took off her sweatshirt to allow some sun to her arms and back. As she was very fair-skinned, I suggested she should cover up to avoid getting sunburnt, but Michelle – being a recently qualified nurse and having the arrogance of youth on her side – replied that she knew exactly what she was doing. That was the end of that conversation.

  By now, my wife – who was always very fit – had forged ahead and was shouting back at us, ‘Hurry up you two.’ I put up a bit of a sprint then, making the gap wider between Michelle and me. Marie and I had almost reached the top when Michelle came running up to us screaming, ‘I’ve been stung by a wasp!’ I tried to calm her down but to no avail. I was the one to blame, she said, because I was the one who insisted on climbing the hill in the first place. It was all Daddy’s fault. Tempers became a little frayed, so I promised we’d be down soon enough, and then we’d be able to deal with the sting at her boyfriend’s house.

  Because I had been sure that the hill climb was going to be a doddle – just like that torturous day when Don and I climbed the Hag’s Glen with the schoolteacher – I never bothered to bring along any food or water. Bad mistake. I’d broken one of the golden rules and I knew it very well. The members of the Kerry Mountain Rescue Team had drilled it into me repeatedly: never venture onto the hills without being properly prepared for any eventuality. I knew all the rules backwards, all the necessary precautions, but had foolishly decided to ignore my training.

  At the top of the mountain, I took a compass reading, then packed away my map and compass. Because of the fiery discussion between the three of us over Michelle’s sting, I lost my bearing – totally. Then, in the heat of the moment, I made the decision to go off in a particular direction, confide
ntly assuring Marie and Michelle that our van was parked below us, just behind the trees.

  I remembered all the times when I was out training on the mountains and stopped climbers who had no supplies or gear to ask, ‘Are you okay? Do you know where you’re going?’ Now, here we were without any supplies and no idea of our location. Marie suggested that I take out my map and compass again to check the bearing. But I was adamant that I knew exactly where we were going, and I told her that we’d be back to the van in less than an hour – words that came back to haunt me later.

  We walked on, with Marie occasionally questioning if in fact I really did know where we were going. After a while, I began to doubt my own judgement, but still I continued with the pretence that I knew we were heading in the right direction – stubborn to the last. Having walked for about six hours, I began to realise that we were hopelessly lost. So I eventually gave in and took out my map and compass. It took me a little while but by using some landmarks I managed to pinpoint where we were. Unfortunately, it most certainly was not where we were supposed to be.

  At the time we didn’t have a mobile phone, and Michelle was becoming increasingly upset that her boyfriend would be worried about why we were so late. We all got into another heated argument then. I reasoned with the two of them that it was easier to keep going than turn back. By now, I had realised that instead of completing a short horseshoe walk, we had, in fact, walked in a straight line right across the mountain. We carried on walking. Eventually, we saw a valley beneath us with some houses and a lake, which I recognised as Glandore Lake. I was familiar with the valley as I had trained there several times with the dogs, and it was a huge relief to find some familiar ground.