I was sad. And lonely. And angry, too.
10
The kids arrived yelling, throwing rocks and smashing their bottles against the walls.
— The peelers are coming! They’re moving into our streets! shouted a wee boy in a football jersey.
He was smeared in soot and sweat. I stopped him. He was shaking.
— Let go of that, quick!
He looked at the brick he was holding in his hand and let it fall.
— And run! Get home to your father!
— My dad’s in the Crum! he shouted as he tore off.
You could hear explosions very close by. The police were throwing tear gas and firing tracer bullets towards the sky. The youths were surging back in greater and greater numbers, hundreds of them, milling chaotically, led by a few out-of-breath Fianna. They had been throwing stones at a police station and several armoured vehicles. They were being pursued. Usually, the police would give up the chase at the enclave threshold, but on that 14 August 1969 they were pushing right through.
— Bogside! Bogside! Bogside!
The crowd was chanting the name of the Derry neighbourhood where nationalists had been clashing with police for four days.
— Go back home! For the love of God, get yourselves under cover!
I was forty-four years old, standing with arms stretched out wide in the middle of the street, telling the children to stop running, to walk, to find shelter.
— And the IRA? Where’s the IRA? Why aren’t they defending our street? asked a woman in a dressing gown standing in her doorway.
— What are you doing standing there like that? Are you playing musical statues? shouted a young guy as he knocked into me.
— They’re coming! The peelers are here!
Residents were running about in every direction to protect their children. Some were carrying pick handles, hurleys, metal pipes. One woman was waving a ladle around in the darkness. In a few minutes Dholpur Lane was blocked off with a cart, mattresses, an armchair, junk dragged from a ruin and a cast-iron cooker carried over by some men. The first barricade of the night, just before the one on Kashmir Road farther up, and others after that in other streets. You could hear the noise of the riot everywhere. That clanging of scrap metal, broken glass, heavy thuds and shouting.
— Tyrone!
Danny Finley arrived at a run, a blanket under his arm, with six guys from C Company. He beckoned me over. He was out of breath. He knelt down.
— We’re taking the street, Tyrone! We’re securing it and taking it!
He wasn’t speaking, he was shouting. He was articulating each word loudly enough to be heard over the din, like a ship’s captain on a deck being pummelled by the wind. He unrolled the tartan blanket on the pavement, just behind the barricade.
A Thompson M1921 submachine gun, two Lee-Enfields, two Webley revolvers, a grenade, and ammunition in a paper bag.
— IRA! The IRA is back! a man shouted.
He was standing on a barrel, he jumped down and embraced me, laughing.
— The IRA! For fuck’s sake! Protect us! Show them who we are!
IRA! The cry travelled up the street. People were no longer pushing back, but turning around to attack with bare fists.
— Go back! Leave the street clear for the combatants! Danny ordered.
— IRA! IRA!
The neighbourhood paid no heed to our orders. Women were emerging from their houses, infants in their arms. Others were banging pots on the ground, frying pans, iron bin lids. A priest was running around between them, his Bible in his hand. The youths were gathering their discarded stones. A girl tossed a flaming bottle over the barricade. We were only six volunteers, but the ghetto was as enthused by our presence as if a liberation army had appeared. A few streets away, the sky was alight. Houses were burning on Bombay Street. When the gas canisters hit the ground, the crowd rushed forward to smother the smoke. Bowlfuls of water passed from hand to hand. Suddenly we found ourselves in broad daylight. The first armoured car had just turned the corner and its white headlight was pointed down our street. The chlorine of grenades and the smoke from the fires formed a thick fog. I was on my knees, my face protected by a tea towel. A young girl was cutting a shirt into strips and handing them out to the rebels to cover their mouths. Springing up behind me, a kid swooped down to grab our grenade. I snatched it away from him. He shrugged his shoulders and left at a run.
— Fianna! Evacuate the civilians! Danny roared.
The scouts formed a scrawny chain. There were a mere fifteen of them, moving back up the road step by step and begging the people to back away.
Then Danny let off two shots towards the sky.
— The IRA orders you to disperse!
The IRA orders you! We’re taking back the street! We’re finally going to fight.
On a grey wall opposite, an old slogan smeared in black mocked: IRA = I RAN AWAY!
For weeks, the Catholic population had been begging us to react. And we were unable to do so. We were more disorganized and isolated than ever. The police and the Loyalists were in control of our streets. Since the beginning of the campaign for civil rights, Catholics were being mistreated. What were we asking for? Decent accommodation, a job, to no longer be second-class citizens. One man, one vote! Equality with Protestants. We were empty-handed and our banners were made of torn-up sheets. For the British, this anger was insurrectional. For the Loyalists, each of our complaints was a war cry. They would never share power. They clamoured for the final confrontation, the great battle. They wanted to chase the papists out once and for all. Throw us over the border one by one. They had cleared out their own neighbourhoods. This time they were attacking our strongholds, our houses, our schools, our churches.
— A Protestant state for the Protestant people!
Their shouts in the night.
Startled by Danny’s shots, the crowd pushed back. The armoured car did the same, screeching into reverse and abruptly leaving us once more in darkness.
And then the first gunshot was fired from the other side. Followed by a second.
— Real bullets! The peelers are using real bullets!
I took up the Thompson and crouched behind the barricade. The bullets were shaking between my fingers, they slipped against the steel of the magazine. I loaded it till the spring nosed up. Twenty bullets. I counted what was left in the bag. Nine. Not even enough to reload up to the hilt.
They were still shooting. Danny sat down heavily beside me.
— It doesn’t add up. Something’s not right.
He was revolving his cylinder, replacing the two spent shells.
— What are they shooting with? Those aren’t their guns! Listen! It sounds like a hunting rifle.
The street was almost deserted, hundreds of residents having headed on foot for Ballymurphy and Andytown to find shelter. Others had hidden in their houses. An IRA óglach ran up to us, bent over double.
— It’s the Loyalists! The cops are chasing people and those bastards are coming along behind them. They’re shooting at us and setting the houses on fire!
Two streets away, a shot was fired. Danny lay down between a cart and a mattress. He fired twice, then turned around. With a flick of his finger he pointed to the corner of the street behind me, and with a few more quick movements he positioned the other fighters.
— Warning shots! Don’t waste them! Danny shouted.
We were crouched beneath a hail of rocks and steel bolts. They had catapults on the other side. Their petrol bombs were hitting the fronts of our houses. I got up. I held the Tommy gun against my hip and returned fire. Nothing. The shock of the steel. I lay down on my back. I had forgotten the safety. I raised the catch to ‘fire’. I was sweating, and shaking, too. I was a block of fear and hatred. They were facing us, I could see them. A small crowd with torches, shouting. The witch-hunters, the devils from the catechism. A shadow seemed to dance in the middle of the street, a rifle in his hand. They were breaking windows, doors. The police were letting them do it. I shot to kill. Four quick shots, almost a burst. Fired into that pile of living shadows. I was surprised by the violent jolt of the gun. It had slipped against my thigh. I moved it back up. From the other side of the street, our men were opening fire with rifles. Danny was on the barricade, aiming at the darkness above our heads.