"Have you heard the one about Finbarr McKenna...?"
Chapter 9
Saturday 2nd May (1987), Finbarr McKenna (PIRA volunteer) dies in a 'grenade' blast outside Springfield Road RUC base.
That's what the BBC news bulletin on Sunday said before it quickly moved on to the weather!
One of the strangest things that 'hit' me about Northern Ireland was the 'normality' of it all. That is to say, there I was sitting on my bed watching the news, flashes of images from the day before popping in and out of my head, and Finbarr only got 15 seconds of air time. As the weather was read out, my last thought for sometime on this was, "well, that's more than poor old Iain got" (Private Iain O'Connor, killed 30 March 1987).
Earlier that Saturday we had just finished another foot patrol. This time we were to be picked up from RUC Springfield Road and wouldn't be 'walking' down the Falls Road back to base. After entering the Police station, we unloaded our weapons and entered a waiting room so as not to be standing around in the courtyard. There was the usual banter and I was looking forward to a mug of tea and a hot meal. (Usually a couple of 'Egg Banjo's')
My thoughts were turning to what I should do back at base. I had about seven hours or so before having to go back 'out' on patrol. I had camera duty in the OPS room in-between but nothing major. I had just decided I would have a shower first (try and get some hot water), then I'd do my washing; when a dull thud stopped all conversation. It wasn't a loud noise but we'd all heard it. Those that had found a seat stood up and grabbed their rifles. A speaker in the room crackled into life and an Irish accent blared out, "Blast bomb outside on Violet Street. One casualty. Immediate cordon. Go"
The 'Brick' Commanders huddled together with the Platoon Commander. Quick orders were given as to where each 'Brick' was to go. We were already moving outside into the courtyard and putting our magazines back on. Ben was still in hospital (see "Contact") but E14C's replacement 'Brick' commander found me.
"Metty", he said "When we move out run straight to Crocus Street. Don't stop for anything. We'll be right behind you. As soon as you get to the
Springfield/Crocus intersection stop and find a place to observe up Springfield Road towards Clonard"
As he paused to let this sink in I could see the main gate opening. "You got all that?", he asked.
"No worries" I replied.
"Right, guys" he said "Make sure you've got a round up the spout and let's go".
I checked the guys were ready, a RUC officer pointed at us and signalled towards the gate. I started running, no idea what I'd see outside. By the time I exited four or five 'Bricks' had already gone through. I made a sharp left turn through the gate and after 7 or 8 meters started to run across Violet Street.
As I was crossing, I looked left down Violet Street. On the left hand side of the street was the RUC Station's 6 meter high wall with its extra chain link fence on top. At intervals down this wall were the stations watch towers. On the other side of the street was just a normal looking row of terraced houses, outside some of which were parked cars.
As I crossed the street a bit more, I saw a few people, mostly middle aged women, standing, on the footpath outside the houses. All were looking at a point near the RUC Stations wall. I remember a few were holding their hands up to their mouths in shock. As I continued to run across the road and scan down Violet Street, I saw a shape on the ground by the RUC Station wall but lying across the footpath into the gutter. One dog was tugging at the shape and another was running down the Street away from me, dragging what I thought looked like a string of sausages, but not quite!
I was then across the road and heading for my destination.
Once there we settled in and awaited further orders. The vision of the dogs kept popping in and out of my head. "What the hell was that dog dragging away", I kept thinking to myself.
Soon my thoughts turned to annoyance. "Bloody hell, there goes the chance of a hot shower and doing my kit before having to go to the Operations Room", I then started to rework what I'd have time to do before having to go back out on patrol. All the while I was doing this 'mental' time management; I was scanning my field of vision. Before I realised it we were heading back into the RUC Station for our lift back to North Howard Street Mill SF base. I guess a couple of hours must have passed since hearing the 'dull thud'.
We'd been in Ireland for just over one month. Already my sense of time passing had changed. Before, looking down a Street for hours on end would have driven me mad with boredom. But at some stage over the first month my brain had managed to find a way to cope. Part of it would be scanning the area around me. Part would be looking at the faces of the people I could see, looking for people of interest to the security forces. Yet another part would be telling myself where I was just like I was looking at the operations map in the briefing room.
Anyway, once we were back in RUC Springfield Road and mounting up in the vehicles that would take us 'home', the chatter was all about the 'home goal'. A 'home goal' was the term used when a terrorist killed themselves or were killed by another 'terrorist'. "Prick was going to throw a grenade over the wall" someone said. "Smart bastards nearly got the timing right. How the hell did they know we were getting driven back", said another person. "Another close call; fuck em all", said yet another.
Some of the guys who'd been stationed on Violet Street described what they'd seen. "Dead straight away by the looks of things", somebody said. "Bits of him all over the road and did you see the dogs picking bits up and carrying them away", he continued. I then worked out what I'd seen while running across the road. They weren't sausages... they were part of his intestines!
"Good job", I heard myself say.
So there I was watching the news with an image of a dog running down the road carrying a chain of sausages like they'd just been stolen from a butchers. I felt nothing. I wondered when the images would stop popping in my head.
A few days and several patrols later we were patrolling through the Springmartin area. As E14C was covering other 'Bricks' crossing 'down' into the Ballymurphy estate, a group of 7 or 8 year olds were hanging around.
"Hey Mister", one kid shouted at me. "Have you heard the one about Finbarr McKenna"?
Thinking he was going to tell me about the guy blowing himself up, but not wanting to explain I was there, I said "No".
"Well", said the kid, "Finbarr McKenna was going to throw a bomb into Springfield Road when he noticed that some wires were hanging out".
The kid paused and looked at me smiling.
"Go on", I said, interested now.
"Well", said the kid, pausing again for effect, "he thought he'd better attach the wires back together so he put the red wire to the red wire. He put the yellow wire to the yellow wire and blue to fuck...". With that, he and his mates went running away laughing.
I chuckled. "Great joke", I thought, "Must tell the others later".
Then it hit me. Here was a kid joking within days about something over which I felt totally 'numb'. For the first time I felt disturbed. Not about Finbarr's death. It was after all a 'home goal' and a case of 'them or us', no, I was disturbed that these little kids were joking about it.
But years later I still remember Finbarr's name through this joke.
Chapter 9
Saturday 2nd May (1987), Finbarr McKenna (PIRA volunteer) dies in a 'grenade' blast outside Springfield Road RUC base.
That's what the BBC news bulletin on Sunday said before it quickly moved on to the weather!
One of the strangest things that 'hit' me about Northern Ireland was the 'normality' of it all. That is to say, there I was sitting on my bed watching the news, flashes of images from the day before popping in and out of my head, and Finbarr only got 15 seconds of air time. As the weather was read out, my last thought for sometime on this was, "well, that's more than poor old Iain got" (Private Iain O'Connor, killed 30 March 1987).
Earlier that Saturday we had just finished another foot patrol. This time we were to be picked up from RUC Springfield Road and wouldn't be 'walking' down the Falls Road back to base. After entering the Police station, we unloaded our weapons and entered a waiting room so as not to be standing around in the courtyard. There was the usual banter and I was looking forward to a mug of tea and a hot meal. (Usually a couple of 'Egg Banjo's')
My thoughts were turning to what I should do back at base. I had about seven hours or so before having to go back 'out' on patrol. I had camera duty in the OPS room in-between but nothing major. I had just decided I would have a shower first (try and get some hot water), then I'd do my washing; when a dull thud stopped all conversation. It wasn't a loud noise but we'd all heard it. Those that had found a seat stood up and grabbed their rifles. A speaker in the room crackled into life and an Irish accent blared out, "Blast bomb outside on Violet Street. One casualty. Immediate cordon. Go"
The 'Brick' Commanders huddled together with the Platoon Commander. Quick orders were given as to where each 'Brick' was to go. We were already moving outside into the courtyard and putting our magazines back on. Ben was still in hospital (see "Contact") but E14C's replacement 'Brick' commander found me.
"Metty", he said "When we move out run straight to Crocus Street. Don't stop for anything. We'll be right behind you. As soon as you get to the
Springfield/Crocus intersection stop and find a place to observe up Springfield Road towards Clonard"
As he paused to let this sink in I could see the main gate opening. "You got all that?", he asked.
"No worries" I replied.
"Right, guys" he said "Make sure you've got a round up the spout and let's go".
I checked the guys were ready, a RUC officer pointed at us and signalled towards the gate. I started running, no idea what I'd see outside. By the time I exited four or five 'Bricks' had already gone through. I made a sharp left turn through the gate and after 7 or 8 meters started to run across Violet Street.
As I was crossing, I looked left down Violet Street. On the left hand side of the street was the RUC Station's 6 meter high wall with its extra chain link fence on top. At intervals down this wall were the stations watch towers. On the other side of the street was just a normal looking row of terraced houses, outside some of which were parked cars.
As I crossed the street a bit more, I saw a few people, mostly middle aged women, standing, on the footpath outside the houses. All were looking at a point near the RUC Stations wall. I remember a few were holding their hands up to their mouths in shock. As I continued to run across the road and scan down Violet Street, I saw a shape on the ground by the RUC Station wall but lying across the footpath into the gutter. One dog was tugging at the shape and another was running down the Street away from me, dragging what I thought looked like a string of sausages, but not quite!
I was then across the road and heading for my destination.
Once there we settled in and awaited further orders. The vision of the dogs kept popping in and out of my head. "What the hell was that dog dragging away", I kept thinking to myself.
Soon my thoughts turned to annoyance. "Bloody hell, there goes the chance of a hot shower and doing my kit before having to go to the Operations Room", I then started to rework what I'd have time to do before having to go back out on patrol. All the while I was doing this 'mental' time management; I was scanning my field of vision. Before I realised it we were heading back into the RUC Station for our lift back to North Howard Street Mill SF base. I guess a couple of hours must have passed since hearing the 'dull thud'.
We'd been in Ireland for just over one month. Already my sense of time passing had changed. Before, looking down a Street for hours on end would have driven me mad with boredom. But at some stage over the first month my brain had managed to find a way to cope. Part of it would be scanning the area around me. Part would be looking at the faces of the people I could see, looking for people of interest to the security forces. Yet another part would be telling myself where I was just like I was looking at the operations map in the briefing room.
Anyway, once we were back in RUC Springfield Road and mounting up in the vehicles that would take us 'home', the chatter was all about the 'home goal'. A 'home goal' was the term used when a terrorist killed themselves or were killed by another 'terrorist'. "Prick was going to throw a grenade over the wall" someone said. "Smart bastards nearly got the timing right. How the hell did they know we were getting driven back", said another person. "Another close call; fuck em all", said yet another.
Some of the guys who'd been stationed on Violet Street described what they'd seen. "Dead straight away by the looks of things", somebody said. "Bits of him all over the road and did you see the dogs picking bits up and carrying them away", he continued. I then worked out what I'd seen while running across the road. They weren't sausages... they were part of his intestines!
"Good job", I heard myself say.
So there I was watching the news with an image of a dog running down the road carrying a chain of sausages like they'd just been stolen from a butchers. I felt nothing. I wondered when the images would stop popping in my head.
A few days and several patrols later we were patrolling through the Springmartin area. As E14C was covering other 'Bricks' crossing 'down' into the Ballymurphy estate, a group of 7 or 8 year olds were hanging around.
"Hey Mister", one kid shouted at me. "Have you heard the one about Finbarr McKenna"?
Thinking he was going to tell me about the guy blowing himself up, but not wanting to explain I was there, I said "No".
"Well", said the kid, "Finbarr McKenna was going to throw a bomb into Springfield Road when he noticed that some wires were hanging out".
The kid paused and looked at me smiling.
"Go on", I said, interested now.
"Well", said the kid, pausing again for effect, "he thought he'd better attach the wires back together so he put the red wire to the red wire. He put the yellow wire to the yellow wire and blue to fuck...". With that, he and his mates went running away laughing.
I chuckled. "Great joke", I thought, "Must tell the others later".
Then it hit me. Here was a kid joking within days about something over which I felt totally 'numb'. For the first time I felt disturbed. Not about Finbarr's death. It was after all a 'home goal' and a case of 'them or us', no, I was disturbed that these little kids were joking about it.
But years later I still remember Finbarr's name through this joke.
While the plaque clearly shows where Finbarr died is different from my recollection I've left my account unchanged as this is how I remember it. It must have been one street further over but after 21 years (when I wrote this down for the first time) I'm not surprised
.
