1972 (19 page)
Authors: Morgan Llywelyn
The banker was used to dealing with students from the university. “I'm afraid we cannot extend overdraft privileges until you've been with us for twelve months, Mr. Halloran,” he said with practiced regret. “But should you find yourself in difficulties in the meantime ⦔ He left the sentence unfinished. This young man might be a person of importance someday.
A
LTHOUGH Barry wanted to enter fully into university life, his habit of reticence was hard to break. At first he stayed in the social background, merely observing.
LTHOUGH Barry wanted to enter fully into university life, his habit of reticence was hard to break. At first he stayed in the social background, merely observing.
Amongst the students at Trinity was a type of person he had never met before. Pompous, self-absorbed, and invariably Ascendancy, they seemed unable to have a normal conversation. Every sentence contained at least one reference to a famous person with whom they claimed a “close connection.” Playing polo with the duke of this and cricket with the earl of that. Dining with the famous author of something else.
Barry's eyes glazed over.
I should hate to be nothing more than a list of celebrities.
I should hate to be nothing more than a list of celebrities.
He quickly learned to recognise the inveterate namedroppers and avoid them. It was better to keep himself to himself. A lone wolf who stood out in the crowd by the fact of his singularity.
One day he happened to pick up a copy of the
Trinity News,
the in-house newsletter staffed by journalism students. The paper was an exuberant mixture of campus gossip, thoughtful editorialising, and crass schoolboy humour, with a leavening of genuine wit. Barry enjoyed it so much that he made a point of meeting the students responsible. He liked every one of them. Arrogant and articulate, they openly discussed the subjects that
interested him most. Politics and power, sports and science. And sex.
Trinity News,
the in-house newsletter staffed by journalism students. The paper was an exuberant mixture of campus gossip, thoughtful editorialising, and crass schoolboy humour, with a leavening of genuine wit. Barry enjoyed it so much that he made a point of meeting the students responsible. He liked every one of them. Arrogant and articulate, they openly discussed the subjects that
interested him most. Politics and power, sports and science. And sex.
Trinity's fledgling journalists paid scant attention to the repressive Archbishop McQuaid.
Soon Barry was sitting with them in the dining hall or buying his share of drinks in the nearest pub. It was not quite the same as the Army, but at least he had people to talk with.
Unfortunately, Barry had no choice in the matter of his roommate. Gilbert Fitzmaurice was not a name-dropper simply because he was interested in no one but himself. He could twist any conversational topic until he was at the centre. No one else inhabited his universe.
Barry learned this the first time he left the room they shared, telling Gilbert, “If anybody's looking for me I'll be in the library.” Someone did come looking for Barry, and was bluntly informed, “I have no idea where he is.”
After that experience Barry was polite to his roommate but otherwise ignored him. Gilbert did not notice. Whenever Barry was within earshot he bombarded him with unsolicited monologues about the life, times, and troubles of Gilbert Fitzmaurice. In self-defence, Barry developed selective deafness to the sound of his roommate's voice.
“It's like living next door to a barking dog,” he said to Dennis Cassidy, one of the journalism students. “After a while you don't hear him anymore.”
B
ARRY was often the first one into a lecture hall and the last to leave. His thirsty mind soaked up information like blotting paper. While studying he was too preoccupied to brood over Claire. Yet when he was hurrying across the New Square he might glimpse a girl who reminded him of her in some way, and the pain would come flooding back.
ARRY was often the first one into a lecture hall and the last to leave. His thirsty mind soaked up information like blotting paper. While studying he was too preoccupied to brood over Claire. Yet when he was hurrying across the New Square he might glimpse a girl who reminded him of her in some way, and the pain would come flooding back.
He continued to search for her as best he could. He sent letters to every sanatorium in the country, but his enquiries were fruitless. Eventually he was forced to conclude that Claire had never shared his feelings. Perhaps their romance had been all in his mind. Otherwise she would have found a way to stay in touch.
Lesson learned. I won't put myself in that position again.
T
HE camera was Barry's constant companion. He took numerous photographs of Trinity, then extended his field to include the surrounding city. Bicycling as far north as Swords and as far south as Dalkey in search of subjects, he discovered an unexpected bonus.
HE camera was Barry's constant companion. He took numerous photographs of Trinity, then extended his field to include the surrounding city. Bicycling as far north as Swords and as far south as Dalkey in search of subjects, he discovered an unexpected bonus.
A tall young man with a camera in his hands was an irresistible magnet to women.
Outside a shop in Santry, Barry engaged in a bit of flirtatious banter with a particularly attractive girl who asked him to take her picture. When she said, “I'll give you my address if you promise to send me a copy,” he wrote her address on the back of his hand.
The following day he bought an address book.
A new element was shoehorned into Barry's already crowded schedule. He was thankful for his inexhaustible energy. There were pretty girls and witty girls whom he arranged to meet under Clery's clock, the traditional Dublin trysting place, before taking them to the cinema or to Barry's Hotel for tea and scones. There were clever girls and studious girlsâthe blond Finn was one of the latterâwhom he escorted to concerts or for walks in the rain.
But there would be no serious romance, no talk of love.
Whenever Gilbert Fitzmaurice saw Barry with a girl, he made the same remark: “I wouldn't use her for practice.” His repertoire of comments was severely limited. Barry could predict what he would say on any occasion because it never varied. Gilbert was, he decided, the most boring person he had ever met.
How can a man who has nothing original to say become a barrister?
The camera was Barry's bridge between disparate worlds. The university, with its hierarchical society and introspective concerns, was one. He enjoyed his time in the library or on the hockey field, where his strength and speed were a great asset. In the golden days of youth, he was, to all appearances, a carefree young man amongst his peers. His letters to Ursula were filled with collegiate anecdotes.
That was the weekday world. Weekends found Barry on his way north with his camera in a rucksack. He did not mention
these journeys to Ursula. Nor did he take Ned's notebooks with him. He took them to his bank to be put in safekeeping while he was away.
these journeys to Ursula. Nor did he take Ned's notebooks with him. He took them to his bank to be put in safekeeping while he was away.
He carried his Swiss passport in case there was a problem at the border, but he was never seriously questioned. His cover story, that he was a graduate student on his way from Trinity to Queen's University in Belfast to do research, was accepted. He wore a suit and tie and was well spoken, a confident young man of obvious good breeding.
Once Barry was across the border his persona changed. GHQ had equipped him with a set of documentsâdriver's licence, hotel bills, library card, personal letters, and so forthâthat identified him as Finbar Lewis, freelance photojournalist. There was even a passport in that name, though he had been warned it might not stand up to close scrutiny.
Dressed in an old tweed jacket and faded blue jeans, with darkened hair and the Leica on a leather strap around his neck, Barry Halloran became someone else.
Photojournalist.
The word suggested a raffish glamour.
The word suggested a raffish glamour.
Members of the fraternity ran the gamut from professional newsmen who studied photography to augment their reportage, to the amateur with a camera who obtained a lucky shot, sprang to public attention, then settled down to learn his craft in earnest. The twentieth century was littered with photographic milestones. The last pictures of the
Titanic
, whose loss marked the end of an era; mud-caked, half-frozen soldiers in the trenches of World War One; the terrible mushroom cloud that ended World War Two. Photojournalism was giving mankind an unprecedented picture of itself.
Titanic
, whose loss marked the end of an era; mud-caked, half-frozen soldiers in the trenches of World War One; the terrible mushroom cloud that ended World War Two. Photojournalism was giving mankind an unprecedented picture of itself.
W
HEN Barry took his first rolls of exposed film back to Dublin he had waited anxiously for the developed prints. They were disappointing. Sharp images, cleverly composed, but just snapshots. He studied them for a long time, trying to decide what was wrong.
HEN Barry took his first rolls of exposed film back to Dublin he had waited anxiously for the developed prints. They were disappointing. Sharp images, cleverly composed, but just snapshots. He studied them for a long time, trying to decide what was wrong.
I'm only pretending to be a photojournalist. A professional would have shown not only the people of the Six Counties, but also found a way to show the unionist mindset that shapes and controls them.
He could not accept failure.
I've been viewing the unionists from the outside, that's the problem. Seeing them only as the enemy makes them one-dimensionalâlike these pictures. I have to get inside them, know what makes them tick. If I can imagine how a man feels when he's blown apart by a bomb, surely I can imagine what it's like to be a northern Protestant.
I've been viewing the unionists from the outside, that's the problem. Seeing them only as the enemy makes them one-dimensionalâlike these pictures. I have to get inside them, know what makes them tick. If I can imagine how a man feels when he's blown apart by a bomb, surely I can imagine what it's like to be a northern Protestant.
Barry wandered down to Stephen's Green to sit on a bench and think. He could always think better in the fresh air. A parade of people passed before him. Courting couples, businessmen cutting across the park to save time between appointments, children running and shouting, women carrying bread to feed the ducks. Barry did not see them. In his mind's eye he was somewhere else, trying to think like a totally different man.
Northern Ireland was born in a crisis,
he reminded himself,
and fear has dominated the province ever since. Sectarianism breeds fear. But Catholics aren't the only ones who're afraid. The Protestants claim they're living in a state of siege themselves.
he reminded himself,
and fear has dominated the province ever since. Sectarianism breeds fear. But Catholics aren't the only ones who're afraid. The Protestants claim they're living in a state of siege themselves.
Are they?
He stared unseeing at the nearby pond, where a pair of swans were competing with the ducks for crusts of bread.
The Roman Catholic Church forbade contraception. Devout Catholics tended to have much larger families than Protestants.
Enshrined in the Anglo-Irish Treaty was a promise that Northern Ireland would remain part of Britain only as long as the majority wanted.
The Protestants are waking up to the fact that within a matter of decades they will become the minority. If there's a united Ireland, they're terrified they will be treated the same way they've treated the Catholics.
T
HE next time Barry was in Belfast he sought out a run-down Catholic church at the edge of a Protestant neighbourhood. A number of residents walked past the church every day. Barry waited until the unconscious expression on the face of a passerby revealed not only loathing but deep-seated fear.
HE next time Barry was in Belfast he sought out a run-down Catholic church at the edge of a Protestant neighbourhood. A number of residents walked past the church every day. Barry waited until the unconscious expression on the face of a passerby revealed not only loathing but deep-seated fear.
Then he had his picture.
November 9, 1960
JOHN F. KENNEDY ELECTED PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES
Defeats Richard Nixon by narrow margin. Will become America's first Roman Catholic president.
C
RACKS were appearing in the monolithic face of Northern Ireland. The industrial economy that brought prosperity to the north had been declining since the end of World War Two. The death blow came in 1960. Harland and Wolf, no longer contracted to build either great battleships or luxury transatlantic liners, laid off thirteen thousand workers, almost all of them Protestant, and warned of still more layoffs in the future. Other heavy industry followed suit, together with countless peripheral support businesses.
RACKS were appearing in the monolithic face of Northern Ireland. The industrial economy that brought prosperity to the north had been declining since the end of World War Two. The death blow came in 1960. Harland and Wolf, no longer contracted to build either great battleships or luxury transatlantic liners, laid off thirteen thousand workers, almost all of them Protestant, and warned of still more layoffs in the future. Other heavy industry followed suit, together with countless peripheral support businesses.
Working-class Protestants in cities and towns all across the north saw their quality of life diminish drastically. Within a few short years Protestants on the Shankill Road in Belfast would be suffering the same poverty as their Catholic neighbours on the Falls Road.
Meanwhile, moderate elements in the government had begun to allow an improvement in the educational system. A new, better-educated Catholic middle class was starting to develop. The possibility of a seismic shift in the social structure of Northern Ireland was disquieting to many.
T
HE Army hoped to take advantage of the situation, but GHQ kept receiving bad news. Resources were declining. There were
too many arrests and too many resignations. November brought a double dose of disaster. On the fourth Seán Garland was arrested in Belfast, and on the night of the tenth a party including Dave O'Connell was intercepted by a laundry van near the village of Arboe. A group of men in civilian clothes jumped out and opened fire on the Volunteers. O'Connell was hit six times: in the chest, shoulder, stomach, groin, and both hands.
HE Army hoped to take advantage of the situation, but GHQ kept receiving bad news. Resources were declining. There were
too many arrests and too many resignations. November brought a double dose of disaster. On the fourth Seán Garland was arrested in Belfast, and on the night of the tenth a party including Dave O'Connell was intercepted by a laundry van near the village of Arboe. A group of men in civilian clothes jumped out and opened fire on the Volunteers. O'Connell was hit six times: in the chest, shoulder, stomach, groin, and both hands.
Miraculously he survived, but he lost a lung and would never be the same.
T
RINITY was almost deserted during the holiday season, its life at low ebb. Barry telephoned Ursula to tell her he had too much studying to do and could not come home for Christmas. The truth was, he wanted to be left alone to do some thinking about himself and the direction his life was taking.
RINITY was almost deserted during the holiday season, its life at low ebb. Barry telephoned Ursula to tell her he had too much studying to do and could not come home for Christmas. The truth was, he wanted to be left alone to do some thinking about himself and the direction his life was taking.
He loved the Army. But taking propaganda photographs was not the same as being on active service. He was planning for a career in architecture, which he also loved. But he was posing as a photojournalist.
On top of the locker beside his bed in the Rubrics he kept the small piece of limestone he had brought from the farm. When he woke in the morning his eyes went to it first, even before he looked at the clock.
The stone was solid. Uncompromising.
I
N the new year rumours of dissension within the ranks of the IRA increased. The old guard was being seriously challenged by younger men. Those who believed that only physical force could restore a united Ireland were opposed by those who thought that playing the political game might yield more positive results in the long run.
N the new year rumours of dissension within the ranks of the IRA increased. The old guard was being seriously challenged by younger men. Those who believed that only physical force could restore a united Ireland were opposed by those who thought that playing the political game might yield more positive results in the long run.
“Exactly what is the relationship between Sinn Féin and the IRA?” Barry asked Ãamonn Thomas when he delivered his latest photographs.
Leaning back in his chair, Thomas laced his fingers behind his head. “That's a good question. They're two separate organisations, but the Army needs Sinn Féin and Sinn Féin needs the Armyâfor now.
“Arthur Griffith founded Sinn Féin as a purely political party, the most nationalist of all the parties, but peaceful. Griffith was totally opposed to using physical force to achieve political goals. But after the Free State came into being, the republicans realised that they needed a political voice to oppose a government that was still dominated by British influence. So the 1949 Army Convention passed a resolution urging Volunteers to enlist in Sinn Féin.
1
Few of the senior IRA figures had any interest in politics, they were men of action, but they saw no contradiction between the two organisations.
1
Few of the senior IRA figures had any interest in politics, they were men of action, but they saw no contradiction between the two organisations.
“Their plan was to take over Sinn Féin and turn it into the civilian wing of the IRA, but,” Thomas gave an unexpected chuckle, “they discovered that Sinn Féin's ideals weren't so easily subsumed. A number of Volunteers had only joined the IRA âfor the
craic.'
x
The party's influence turned them into deeply dedicated men. Sinn Féin's educational programme exposed them to the high-minded principles of Pearse and the pragmatic socialism of Connolly and they absorbed it like blotting paper. Cathal Goulding is a good example.
craic.'
x
The party's influence turned them into deeply dedicated men. Sinn Féin's educational programme exposed them to the high-minded principles of Pearse and the pragmatic socialism of Connolly and they absorbed it like blotting paper. Cathal Goulding is a good example.
“By the time Cathal and I were released from Curragh Camp, younger men with more radical ideas were running the Army. Confrontation was inevitable. There was no real split in the Army, but what you might call a âsplintering' around the edges, with several breakaway groups forming under their own leaders. One or two cooperate with the Army from time to time, though most of the mainstream consider them as heretics to the principles of republicanism. Both sides believe they're right, of course.”
“That's not uncommon on this island,” said Barry.
“Are you interested in politics yourself?”
“Not at all, I'm Army.”
Thomas smiled his merry smile. “It's possible to be both. Many of us are.”
S
OMETIMES Barry went north on the train, being careful to ride in the first-class car. Those passengers were never questioned
at the border. Sometimes he hitchhiked, in which case he made certain that he was on an unapproved road. Border guards on the approved roads were more thorough when it came to examining documents.
OMETIMES Barry went north on the train, being careful to ride in the first-class car. Those passengers were never questioned
at the border. Sometimes he hitchhiked, in which case he made certain that he was on an unapproved road. Border guards on the approved roads were more thorough when it came to examining documents.
With every trip Barry's confidence increased.
As time went by he made less effort to change his appearance. Belfast was becoming familiar territory. Sinn Féin had a presence in the north. Known as “Republican Clubs,” the party provided a focus for republicans and nationalists in towns throughout the Six Counties. Barry had only to make himself known to be directed to safe accommodations.
He slept in Catholic housesâbut he drank in Protestant bars. His face was familiar in corner shops in both neighbourhoods. He read the pro-Unionist
Belfast Telegraph
and the pro-Nationalist
Irish News
. He could, and did, talk knowledgeably about current events to anyone he metâadjusting his point of view to fit the situation. The only way to get the pictures he wanted was to blend in.
Belfast Telegraph
and the pro-Nationalist
Irish News
. He could, and did, talk knowledgeably about current events to anyone he metâadjusting his point of view to fit the situation. The only way to get the pictures he wanted was to blend in.
He had two cameras now. The second was a used Nikon he had bought in a Dublin pawn shop. From the same source he had acquired a folding tripod. The quality of his photographs was improving. Ãamonn Thomas sold half a dozen of the best to a news agency in Chicago.
N
INETEEN sixty-one was the Patrician Year, commemorating Ireland's patron saint. As a guest celebrant in Dublin, Bishop Fulton J. Sheen from America praised “the passionate chastity of the Irish male.”
INETEEN sixty-one was the Patrician Year, commemorating Ireland's patron saint. As a guest celebrant in Dublin, Bishop Fulton J. Sheen from America praised “the passionate chastity of the Irish male.”
B
ARRY took most of his pictures in Belfast's Catholic enclaves such as New Lodge, Short Strand, and the Lower Falls Road. But relying on his size to discourage possible troublemakers, he also ventured into the Shankill Road.
ARRY took most of his pictures in Belfast's Catholic enclaves such as New Lodge, Short Strand, and the Lower Falls Road. But relying on his size to discourage possible troublemakers, he also ventured into the Shankill Road.
Sometimes his size was not enough. One afternoon he rounded a corner and found himself facing four would-be toughs who walked with their legs wide apart as if their balls were too big. “Howya doin', Taig?” their leader asked with a totally insincere grinâthus proving that he knew a Catholic
when he saw one. Or maybe it was a lucky guess. Religion was not really an issue. These four just wanted action and one man alone looked like a soft target.
when he saw one. Or maybe it was a lucky guess. Religion was not really an issue. These four just wanted action and one man alone looked like a soft target.
Barry Halloran surprised them by baring his teeth in a savage grin. In that instant he changed from a photographer going about his business to a warrior going about
his
business. He did not even have to think about it, the skills were simply there. One long stride and his back was against a wall. In the same movement he let his camera bag slide to the ground. As the first man swung at him he waited until the ultimate moment, then ducked so swiftly that his assailant had no time to pull the punch and drove his fist into a brick wall. There was an audible sound of knuckles breaking and a howl of pain.
his
business. He did not even have to think about it, the skills were simply there. One long stride and his back was against a wall. In the same movement he let his camera bag slide to the ground. As the first man swung at him he waited until the ultimate moment, then ducked so swiftly that his assailant had no time to pull the punch and drove his fist into a brick wall. There was an audible sound of knuckles breaking and a howl of pain.
The other three lunged forward with no plan of action other than mindless attack. Barry danced to one side, spun around, and gave one man a blow over the ear that sent him reeling. As an extension of the same movement Barry ducked again and drove his skull into the midsection of another. The man let out a mighty “oooof” as the air rushed out of his lungs, and sat down hard on the pavement.
The third assailant received a kick to his kneecap that made him stagger, then Barry brought a powerful blow up from his hip to the point of the man's jaw. When he felt the head snap backwards he was afraid he had broken the fellow's neck. To Barry's relief, his victim remained upright long enough to reassure him that his neck was still intact, then fell like a timbered tree.
The whole fight lasted less than a minute.
Not even breathing hard, Barry reclaimed his camera bag and walked away. It was a point of pride not to look back to see if they were following him.
They were not.
T
HE Shankill Road, which styled itself the Heartland of Loyalist Ulster, hated Roman Catholics, otherwise known as Fenians, Papists, Taigs. Drummed into the citizenry since birth was the unshakeable conviction that all Catholics were heretics sworn to the destruction of Protestantism. To kill a Catholic was to kill not a fellow human being but a member of a lower species.
HE Shankill Road, which styled itself the Heartland of Loyalist Ulster, hated Roman Catholics, otherwise known as Fenians, Papists, Taigs. Drummed into the citizenry since birth was the unshakeable conviction that all Catholics were heretics sworn to the destruction of Protestantism. To kill a Catholic was to kill not a fellow human being but a member of a lower species.
Yet the poor Protestant neighbourhoods around the Shankill were physically indistinguishable from the poor Catholic neighbourhoods around the Falls Road. The only difference to be seen was the ubiquitous Union Jack. The British flag flew from scores of windows and was painted on numerous walls.
By identifying himself as a photojournalist Barry was able to take pictures of several prominent loyalists. One proudly posed with a rifle cradled in his arms. “Yer gonna put me in the newspapers, right?”
Barry recalled the pride he had felt at the idea of being a sniper. With his grandfather's rifle.
That was a million years ago.
One of Barry's favourite photographs showed a slim youth and a pretty girl gazing into each other's eyes, oblivious to the world around them. The boy's open-necked shirt revealed a Cross on a chain around his neck. She wore a rayon headscarf printed with the Union Jack. In the background a man who might have been the father of either one was striding angrily toward them, waving a clenched fist.
Barry captioned the picture “Romeo and Juliet, Belfast, 1961.”
L
EFT to their own devices, the two communities, Protestant and Catholic, made tentative efforts toward integration. They had almost everything in common but their religions. Yet both religions contained secret societies which worked constantly to discourage any rapport with “the other side.” Catholic and Protestant were kept apart by force if necessary.
2
EFT to their own devices, the two communities, Protestant and Catholic, made tentative efforts toward integration. They had almost everything in common but their religions. Yet both religions contained secret societies which worked constantly to discourage any rapport with “the other side.” Catholic and Protestant were kept apart by force if necessary.
2
Politicians who had built their careers on bigotry were the only beneficiaries.
T
HE more time he spent in the north, the more difficult Barry found it to return to Trinity. The university seemed an artificial world where people lived greenhouse lives. Reality was sometimes brutal but that did not lessen its fascination. Barry was obsessed with the desire to show others what he had discovered: that nothing was as simple as it appeared from the outside.
HE more time he spent in the north, the more difficult Barry found it to return to Trinity. The university seemed an artificial world where people lived greenhouse lives. Reality was sometimes brutal but that did not lessen its fascination. Barry was obsessed with the desire to show others what he had discovered: that nothing was as simple as it appeared from the outside.
Ãamonn Thomas was selling more and more of Barry's photographs. It was being done quietly, attracting no attention in Ireland, but foreign news agencies were increasingly interested in the work of “Finbar Lewis.” “Looks like the republican publicity bureau is up and running again,” Thomas remarked to Goulding.
O
N the twelfth of April, 1961, the Soviet Union put the first man into space. Twenty-seven-year-old Major Yuri Gagarin orbited the earth during a flight lasting 108 minutes, and returned safely. Elements of the American press were scathing in their denunciation of Russia for risking a man's life with what must be inferior technology.
N the twelfth of April, 1961, the Soviet Union put the first man into space. Twenty-seven-year-old Major Yuri Gagarin orbited the earth during a flight lasting 108 minutes, and returned safely. Elements of the American press were scathing in their denunciation of Russia for risking a man's life with what must be inferior technology.
On the fifteenth of May, Alan B. Shepherd, Jr., became the first American in space, with a fifteen-minute sub-orbital flight.
A
s Barry's first year at university ended he was summoned to GHQ. “The campaign in the north doesn't seem to be going anywhere,” Cathal Goulding told him. “But we have a plan to turn that around. We're going to cut a nationalist enclave out of the rest of Northern Ireland by blowing some strategically located bridges in County Fermanagh.
3
Are you up for it?”
s Barry's first year at university ended he was summoned to GHQ. “The campaign in the north doesn't seem to be going anywhere,” Cathal Goulding told him. “But we have a plan to turn that around. We're going to cut a nationalist enclave out of the rest of Northern Ireland by blowing some strategically located bridges in County Fermanagh.
3
Are you up for it?”
When Barry hesitated, Goulding added shrewdly, “You're the best we have. Without you, we don't have a chance.”
Barry flung back his head. Flame leapt in his eyes. “Then I'm up for it.”
A
room in a Dublin safe house was arranged for him while he waited for orders. When they came they were disappointing. The mission was off. “Our scouts report a number of patrols throughout the area.” Goulding told Barry. He sounded bitterly disappointed. “There's been so much RUC activity along the border lately ⦠well, we thought we had a chance, but maybe not. We hardly have enough locals to help us anyway, most of them are in prison. Forget about it for now, Barry. Maybe later.”
room in a Dublin safe house was arranged for him while he waited for orders. When they came they were disappointing. The mission was off. “Our scouts report a number of patrols throughout the area.” Goulding told Barry. He sounded bitterly disappointed. “There's been so much RUC activity along the border lately ⦠well, we thought we had a chance, but maybe not. We hardly have enough locals to help us anyway, most of them are in prison. Forget about it for now, Barry. Maybe later.”
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