Authors: Morgan Llywelyn
1972 (36 page)
July 21, 1969
“ONE SMALL STEP FOR A MAN, ONE GIANT LEAP FOR MANKIND”
Neil Armstrong becomes the first man to walk on the moon.
B
ARRY had nicknamed his automobile “Apollo.”
I'm thirty years old, far too old to be so fanciful,
he chided himself. Yet the name stuck.
ARRY had nicknamed his automobile “Apollo.”
I'm thirty years old, far too old to be so fanciful,
he chided himself. Yet the name stuck.
After buying a set of tools and several hours of Paudie Coates's time, he was confident that he could keep Apollo runningâbarring a major breakdown. He had to keep it running. With a fast and reliable car of his own, he could go to most places in the north and be back in Dublin the same night.
He spent much of his time driving back and forth between Dublin and the north. More than once he slept in his car. Parking in a lay-by, pulling his cap down over his eyes, wrapping his coat around his body, continually shifting his legs in an attempt to find a comfortable position. The sports car was little roomier
than a Volkswagen Beetle, but at least it was his. He packed it with everything he might need for a protracted stay, returning to Dublin only to develop his photographs.
than a Volkswagen Beetle, but at least it was his. He packed it with everything he might need for a protracted stay, returning to Dublin only to develop his photographs.
There were plenty of photo labs in Belfast that could have handled the work, but Barry did not trust any of them. Some of his pictures made an obvious political point. He did not want to be informed that his negatives had gone missing.
During July a Catholic taxi driver in Derry died after being beaten by members of the RUC who mistakenly identified him as harbouring juvenile rioters.
1
1
While in the Six Counties, Barry was constantly on guard. Every word, every action had to be weighed in the light of the sectarian response it might evoke.
How can people live like this?
he wondered.
Yet thousands do; for all of their lives.
How can people live like this?
he wondered.
Yet thousands do; for all of their lives.
In the first week of August, running battles between Catholics and Protestants broke out in Belfast. A riot in the Protestant Shankill Road resulted in the burning of an automobile and a van, and a RUC Land Rover was damaged by a petrol bomb. A gang of loyalists swept through the Catholic area around the Crumlin Road, warning families to get out or be burned out.
2
Barry spent several days photographing warfare in the streets while anger on both sides boiled over. The RUC paused only long enough to determine which combatants were Catholic before they began wielding their batons.
2
Barry spent several days photographing warfare in the streets while anger on both sides boiled over. The RUC paused only long enough to determine which combatants were Catholic before they began wielding their batons.
Barry fought against the urge to get involved. The struggle was born of fearâhis fear of the thing within him, the old savage warrior who lurked under the skin, glorying in battle, eager to kill ⦠.
Only by fiercely concentrating on his work was he able to remain objective. Sometimes he simply had to walk away and put his cameras in the car.
On the fifth of August the Ulster Volunteer Force exploded a bomb at the studios of Radio Telefis Ãireann in Dublin. Barry hastily drove back to Dublin to take photographs, but by the time he arrived at RTE the damage had been tidied away. He spent a few days developing film and showing his photographs to editors, then returned to Belfast.
As usual, he met Séamus McCoy at the Felons' Club. They subsequently adjourned to a pub across the way for a couple of pints.
“That bomb in Dublin is small peas compared to what's likely to happen in the north,” McCoy told Barry. “You know the parade the Apprentice Boys of Derry stage on the twelfth of August?”
“I do of course. Another celebration of another Protestant victory hundreds of years ago.”
“Well, this year they're going to meet with organised resistance. When the parade passes the Bogside an army of civilians will be waiting for them. Only civilians, mind you!” McCoy emphasised, looking sour. “Goulding's sent down word that the IRA can't defend the Bogside because we don't have enough men or guns. So it's up to the Bogsiders to organise their own protection as best they can.”
Tight-lipped, Barry said, “I'm on my way to Derry, then.” Seeing the look on the other man's face, he added, “Just to take photographs, Séamus.”
“I hear you. I could come along if you like. Drive that new car for you?”
Barry chuckled. “I wondered how long it would take you to ask. I'd be glad of your company. But I'll drive.”
M
EMBERS of the Derry Citizens' Defence Association went to Dublin, hoping for a meeting with the taoiseach. They wanted to convince him that the south had a role to play in the protection of Irish Catholics in the north. They were met with courtesy by the taoiseach's secretary. Jack Lynch himself was not available. When the DCDA delegation explained the concerns the organisation felt about the upcoming Apprentice Boys' March, they were sent to the Department of Foreign Affairs to meet with two civil servants described as experts on the north.
EMBERS of the Derry Citizens' Defence Association went to Dublin, hoping for a meeting with the taoiseach. They wanted to convince him that the south had a role to play in the protection of Irish Catholics in the north. They were met with courtesy by the taoiseach's secretary. Jack Lynch himself was not available. When the DCDA delegation explained the concerns the organisation felt about the upcoming Apprentice Boys' March, they were sent to the Department of Foreign Affairs to meet with two civil servants described as experts on the north.
Two hours of conversation ensued. By the end of that time the DCDA men were aware that the Fianna Fail government's expression of support for the reunification of the island was no more than lip service. They also had been warned against blowing the matter of potential trouble in Derry out of proportion.
They insisted on pressing the point. “What will happen if there is an attack and people are killed?”
“We'll not let you down,” was the ambiguous reply.
“What does that mean?”
A civil servant said soothingly, “Of course the government will act to protect our people in Northern Ireland.”
“Can we take this message back to the people of Derry?” the DCDA representatives asked.
“Yes.”
3
3
A
FTER lunch on the eleventh of August, Barry Halloran and Séamus McCoy set out for Derry. Barry now had four cameras, an assortment of lenses, filters, and other accessories, two tripods, a reflective shield, and a couple of battery-operated portable lights with folding support poles. “You really need all this stuff?” McCoy had asked as he wedged his rucksack into the boot of the car. He travelled with little more than a spare shirt and his shaving kit.
FTER lunch on the eleventh of August, Barry Halloran and Séamus McCoy set out for Derry. Barry now had four cameras, an assortment of lenses, filters, and other accessories, two tripods, a reflective shield, and a couple of battery-operated portable lights with folding support poles. “You really need all this stuff?” McCoy had asked as he wedged his rucksack into the boot of the car. He travelled with little more than a spare shirt and his shaving kit.
“Be glad I don't work in television, that really involves a lot of gear,” said Barry. “I prefer to travel light, myself.”
“Light.” McCoy sounded bemused.
Barry showed off behind the wheel. Double-clutching with a flourish, accelerating into the curves. The motor, which he tinkered with in every spare moment, purred like a great cat. McCoy looked so envious that at last Barry promised, “You can drive on the way back to Belfast.”
They arrived in Derry while the sun was still high in the sky. Barry parked Apollo in a disused service alley behind Father Aloysius's house, where it was unlikely to attract notice. Fortunately the priest was at home when they arrived. He gave them tea and insisted that they both stay with him while they were in the city. May Coogan was sent to make up the two folding beds he kept for visitors.
“A delegation from the Bogside appealed to the Apprentice Boys to call off their parade in order to avoid confrontation,” Father Aloysius told his guests that evening, “but they were refused. The Apprentice Boys said it was their traditional right to march when they want and where they want, and that's all there was to it. John Hume has advised all Catholics to stay indoors tomorrow. But I don't think they will. I've already seen some of our local lads collecting milk bottles to use for making Molotov cocktails.
“We're on a dreadful downward spiral in this province, I'm afraid. Every violent incident sparks off a worse one. I've tried to persuade my parishioners of the folly of giving in to this sort of behaviour, but they don't seem to listen to me anymore.”
“We're a patient people,” said McCoy, “but our patience has finally run out. And I for one am glad, by God! Uh ⦠begging your pardon, Father.”
The priest nodded. “I'm sure He understands.”
“Ian Paisley thinks God's a unionist.”
With a small, sad smile, the priest replied, “One would wonder what God thinks of Ian Paisley.”
The following day Barry and McCoy went to the Apprentice Boys' Hall to photograph the march forming up. Barry began the afternoon with two cameras slung around his neck, a light meter and several rolls of film stuffed into his pockets. He gave more film to McCoy to carry. Then the two men set out on foot through the Bogsideâa nationalist community readying itself for invasion by unionists. Families with small children who lived nearest the parade route had evacuated their homes. Three barricades were being erected: one at the Little Diamond, one at Marlborough Terrace, and one at Rossville Street, where piles of old furniture and broken timber were stacked shoulder high.
The strongest point of defence would be in William Street, the main entrance to the Bogside.
When Barry and Séamus reached Fahan Street they saw, painted in white letters on the black tarmac of the road, GIVE PEACE A CHANCE.
At the edge of the Bogside stood the great wall enclosing what once had been ancient Derry. The wall's bulk partly muffled the derisive rattle of huge Lambeg drums. Warming up. Sending out their message like an advance guard. When the march began it would proceed along the top of wall, directly overlooking the Bogside. There were already several Apprentice Boys standing on the wall, contemptuously throwing pennies at Catholics in the street below.
The Apprentice Boys' Hall was an imposing granite building in the Scottish baronial style which had been erected on the site of a sixth-century Irish monastery. As he admired the perfect proportions of the turrets and the strength of the battlemented
tower, Barry thought, Architecture is the most lasting symbol of conquest.
tower, Barry thought, Architecture is the most lasting symbol of conquest.
He began taking photographs. The Apprentice Boysâin reality middle-aged men for the most part, with the determinedly set faces which seemed to be traditional on members of the Orange Orderâpretended not to see him. They were wrapped in a cocoon of their own, waiting to burst forth in all their glory. All the trappings were in place. The banners. The drums. The certainty.
As the first of the television crews arrived, Barry gestured to McCoy. “Let's go back to the Bogside. I've seen all I want to here.”
By this time the RUC was out in full force, both in cars and on foot They erected barricades of their own and took up positions along the route of the march. From their placement it was apparent that they meant to protect the Apprentice Boys, not the residents of the Bogside.
In Marlborough Terrace the local bookmaker was offering odds of ten to one on peace. There were no takers.
As the afternoon dragged on, the tension grew.
From the wall overlooking the Bogside, Apprentice Boys and their supporters hurled taunts into the Catholic ghetto.
Within that ghetto Barry Halloran roved from block to block, switching back and forth between his cameras. “This one's for close-ups,” he explained to McCoy. “The other one has a wide-angle lens for showing the whole scene.”
“You really enjoy this picture-taking, don't you?”
“I really do.”
“As much as being in the Army?”
Barry did not answer.
In Rossville Street he noticed a petite woman in a dark blue pullover and blue jeans. She was being trailed by a television crew. “Look, Séamus; there's Bernadette Devlin over there.”
McCoy squinted at her. “Looks like a child in those jeans, don't she? Yet she's brave enough to enter the lion's den. I'd give a year of my life to see her facing down the unionists in Westminster.”
Devlin picked up a megaphone and began addressing the crowd, urging the protesters to stand their ground. When she
put down the megaphone the streets were ominously quiet in spite of the number of people filling them.
put down the megaphone the streets were ominously quiet in spite of the number of people filling them.
The boom of drums was heard again. Rhythmic and constant now, setting the tempo for marching feet.
Marshals appointed by the Citizens' Action Committee took up defensive positions. DCDA stewards moved through the ever-increasing crowd, hoping to keep it under control. Policemen carrying steel shields tensed in expectation.
“I see a few lads I know,” McCoy told Barry. “There's Billy McKee over there, and a couple of others.”
“So the IRA is here?”
“Don't think so. They're the only ones, damn it.”
“Join them if you want to,” Barry said.
He did not have to say it twice. McCoy had vanished into the crowd before Barry remembered to ask him for the rolls of film he carried.
As the parade came into view the nationalists behind the barricades let out a roar. The unionists shouted abuse back at them. Then one threw a stone.
The Battle of the Bogside had begun.
Almost immediately a phalanx of police arrived in armoured vehicles, adding the roar of their engines to the swelling voice of the crowd. They smashed their way through the nationalists' barricades and into the Bogside itself. The defenders who rushed to try to fill the gaps were met with police batons. A baton bash to the head was sufficient to knock a man unconsciousâor worse. Within moments several Bogsiders lay bleeding in the street. Their furious companions began hurling handfuls of nails, and then petrol bombs, at the police. One of the petrol bombs struck a policeman full force, setting his uniform on fire. He screamed and staggered forward, then fell to the ground, still screaming.
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