1972 (34 page)
Authors: Morgan Llywelyn
The expressions on faces in the crowd changed. Hardened. Even the children seemed to stiffen their spines. Barry turned back to Father Aloysius. There was a dangerous glitter in his eyes. “Looks like we're going anyway,” he said jauntily.
Beads of nervous perspiration began to form on the priest's forehead. “I'll stay with you as best I can, but be careful, this is the north.”
Barry gave a snort. “You think I don't know that?”
When the marchers entered Dungannon they saw people watching them from the windows, but the streets were almost deserted. They walked through the town in a silence broken only by the sound of their feet. As they approached Dungannon
Square, a fully armed phalanx of RUC men in uniform blocked their way.
Square, a fully armed phalanx of RUC men in uniform blocked their way.
Firm faces. Determined faces. The faces of men prepared to do their duty.
I wonder if any of those men were at Brookeborough?
Out of instinct, Barry reached into his pocket for the Mauser. Then he remembered that the pistol was still in Clare. Under the mattress with Ned's rifle.
At that moment a man in the middle of the crowd began to sing the anthem of the American civil rights movement. The other demonstrators linked arms and joined in. A rousing chorus of “We Shall Overcome” rang through the disapproving streets of Dungannon.
A grandmother with thinning white hair and most of her front teeth missing tugged at Barry's elbow. Her face was a road map of hard times. “Will you link with an old woman?”
He turned and smiled down at her. A warm, slow, lover's smile, as if the two of them were all alone and she was the most beautiful girl in the world. “There aren't any old women here,” he said gently. “But I'll be proud to link with you.”
As he tucked her arm through his, the years fell away from her face.
W
ORKING one-handed, Barry took picture after picture, aiming the camera back and forth between the resolute marchers and the angry human wall that opposed them. An RUC officer noticed what he was doing and shouted at him to stop. “I'm with the press!” Barry roared back. “You want the world to know you're afraid of the press?”
ORKING one-handed, Barry took picture after picture, aiming the camera back and forth between the resolute marchers and the angry human wall that opposed them. An RUC officer noticed what he was doing and shouted at him to stop. “I'm with the press!” Barry roared back. “You want the world to know you're afraid of the press?”
The officer gave him a hard stare but did not repeat the order.
Although Barry's leg had begun to ache, he ignored it. He kept on taking pictures until the demonstrators, content that they had made their point, turned and marched back the way they had come. Still singing.
Father Aloysius had parked a hundred yards from the Square. When he saw Barry he opened the car door and beckoned him to get in. Barry shook his head. “I'm going back with them,” he called to the priest. “All the way.”
W
HEN he returned to Dublin to develop his pictures Barry still felt something of the euphoria he had enjoyedâthey all had enjoyedâon the walk back to Coalisland. The sense that anything was possible.
HEN he returned to Dublin to develop his pictures Barry still felt something of the euphoria he had enjoyedâthey all had enjoyedâon the walk back to Coalisland. The sense that anything was possible.
He put together a portfolio of photographs from the demonstration, including dramatic long shots to illustrate the size of the nationalist crowd and close-ups revealing expressions of naked enmity on the faces of the Royal Ulster Constabulary.
To accompany the photographs Barry wrote an explanatory text which concluded: “The civil rights struggle in Northern Ireland is growing out of the anger and frustration of the ordinary people. Its inspiration comes, not from the writings of Pádraic Pearse and James Connolly, but from Terence MacSwiney, the Irish republican lord mayor of Cork who had died on hunger strike in England. In his inaugural speech MacSwiney had said,”This contest of ours is not on our side a rivalry of vengeance, but one of endurance. It is not they who can inflict the most, but they who can suffer the most, who will conquer.”
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B
ARRY sent the Coalisland-Dungannon portfolio to an agency in America that had purchased some of his photos in the past. He was elated when the article was sold in its entirety to a Sunday supplement. Its publication, he felt, vindicated the choices he had made. With his camera he could do more to support the struggle than he had ever done with a gun.
ARRY sent the Coalisland-Dungannon portfolio to an agency in America that had purchased some of his photos in the past. He was elated when the article was sold in its entirety to a Sunday supplement. Its publication, he felt, vindicated the choices he had made. With his camera he could do more to support the struggle than he had ever done with a gun.
The correlation with the martyred Martin Luther King, Jr., was too obvious to ignore. Barry's photo spread helped attract international attention to Northern Ireland. News editors in the Republic also began to take an interest.
In October a group of Derry Catholics joined with local trade
unionists to plan a march through the city, protesting sectarian discrimination in housing and employment. Because they had the support of several liberal politicians, RTE sent a television team to cover the event. Two days before the announced date, the minister for home affairs banned the march. Four hundred demonstrators turned up anyway. This time the RUC did not attempt a passive blocking action. Instead they trapped the marchers between two police cordons and attacked them with batons and water cannon.
1
More than a hundred demonstrators were injured. Pictures of Gerry Fitt, a West Belfast MP, with blood streaming down his face from a head wound were relayed around the world via television.
unionists to plan a march through the city, protesting sectarian discrimination in housing and employment. Because they had the support of several liberal politicians, RTE sent a television team to cover the event. Two days before the announced date, the minister for home affairs banned the march. Four hundred demonstrators turned up anyway. This time the RUC did not attempt a passive blocking action. Instead they trapped the marchers between two police cordons and attacked them with batons and water cannon.
1
More than a hundred demonstrators were injured. Pictures of Gerry Fitt, a West Belfast MP, with blood streaming down his face from a head wound were relayed around the world via television.
That night there was rioting for the first time in the Catholic Bogside area.
“I fear things may get worse,” Father Aloysius wrote to Barry. “I pray there is no more violence, but the mood in the streets is not good. Civil rights groups are being organised throughout the province. Perhaps most alarming is the fact that foreign journalists have begun to arrive. They would not be here if they did not expect trouble. As I do,” the priest added sadly. “God help us all.”
Barry packed up his cameras and headed back to the north.
A modest package of reforms intended to defuse the situation was announced by Terence O'Neill on the twenty-second of November. The
Belfast Telegraph
commented, “In just 48 days since the Derry march, the Catholic community has obtained more political gains than it had in 47 years.” But the announced reforms were not sufficient to undo generations of injustice.
Belfast Telegraph
commented, “In just 48 days since the Derry march, the Catholic community has obtained more political gains than it had in 47 years.” But the announced reforms were not sufficient to undo generations of injustice.
Eight days later Ian Paisley prevented a civil rights march planned for the city of Armagh. Before the demonstration could get under way, Paisley arrived in Armagh together with carloads of his followers armed with stones and cudgels. To avoid violence, the organisers of the march backed down.
Members of the IRA from both sides of the border were now joining civil rights groups in large numbers.
O
N the ninth of December, O'Neill made a speech on television in which he described Ulster as being at the crossroads. The northern premier urged restraint and civility, describing a
unionism armed with justice as preferable to one armed merely with strength.
N the ninth of December, O'Neill made a speech on television in which he described Ulster as being at the crossroads. The northern premier urged restraint and civility, describing a
unionism armed with justice as preferable to one armed merely with strength.
But he said nothing about one man, one vote.
W
HEREVER Barry went into the Six Counties he was aware of building tension. The genie was out of the bottle. Nationalists were beginning to sense their power. Unionism was beginning to feel threatened.
HEREVER Barry went into the Six Counties he was aware of building tension. The genie was out of the bottle. Nationalists were beginning to sense their power. Unionism was beginning to feel threatened.
Confrontations became more frequent.
As a cameraman covering potentially volatile situations, Barry developed a gut feeling for the mood of a crowd. The higher the adrenaline level, the more distance he put between himself and his subjects. A crowd was like a wild animal: familiarity made it more tolerant. When they were used to seeing him he could move closer without causing a reaction. Yet he never let himself forget what he was dealing with. The RUC in particular hated photojournalists and did what they could to make his work harder.
However, he no longer bothered to disguise himself. He was now well-enough known to feel relatively safe from attack, though he almost hoped someone would try.
If they do they
'
ll be sorry, because I'll fight back.
If they do they
'
ll be sorry, because I'll fight back.
Oh yes. I'll fight back.
It was still there, the deeply embedded warrior persona which had been part of him for so long.
A
new organisation had appeared, calling itself the People's Democracy and largely composed of Catholic students from Queen's University, Belfast. They decided to stage their own version of the famous civil rights march from Selma to Montgomery in the United States. The students hoped to force London to become involved in the Northern Ireland situation as the Selma march had drawn Washington into the civil rights struggle.
new organisation had appeared, calling itself the People's Democracy and largely composed of Catholic students from Queen's University, Belfast. They decided to stage their own version of the famous civil rights march from Selma to Montgomery in the United States. The students hoped to force London to become involved in the Northern Ireland situation as the Selma march had drawn Washington into the civil rights struggle.
Their plan was to march from Belfast to Derry, a distance of some seventy-five miles. Austin Currie and a teacher of French called John Hume, who was vice chairman of the newly formed Derry Citizens' Action Committee, tried to discourage the idea.
They feared the march would pass through loyalist areas and thus be highly provocative.
They feared the march would pass through loyalist areas and thus be highly provocative.
When he heard this Barry lost his temper. “What about the hundreds of Orange marches that parade through Catholic areas every year, banging their drums and shouting their triumphalism? I suppose that's not provocative?”
He was glad when the organisers of the march announced that it would go ahead.
Knowing he would never be able to walk seventy-five miles in four days, Barry obtained a map of the route and sought out Séamus McCoy. It was easy enough to find himâall one had to do was make enquiries at the Felons' Club on the Falls Road.
“I need the use of a car for four or five days,” Barry explained to McCoy, “so I can follow the march.”
The older man squinted in thought for a moment. “A pal of mine has a Volkswagen we can borrow, but there's a catch.”
“What's that?”
“My friend doesn't know you, so I suspect I'll have to do the driving.”
“Admit it, Séamus. You're just eager to drive a car.”
“Aye. If I wasn't in the Army I'd have a wee car of my own by now.”
“And a wife too?” Barry asked innocently.
“You can laugh now, Seventeen. But your day will come. I promise you, your day most definitely will come.”
O
N New Year's Day, 1969, between twenty and thirty young people prepared to set off from the City Hall in Belfast.
2
A small police escort had been assigned to them. The event drew little attention from the citizenry, though some well-wishers came forward with sandwiches and packets of soup which they could boil up on the way.
N New Year's Day, 1969, between twenty and thirty young people prepared to set off from the City Hall in Belfast.
2
A small police escort had been assigned to them. The event drew little attention from the citizenry, though some well-wishers came forward with sandwiches and packets of soup which they could boil up on the way.
A crowd of Paisleyites was also present, waving the Union Jack and shouting insults.
The “Long March,” as the event was being called, was not considered a major news item. Barry Halloran was one of the few photographers who were there for the beginning. He had no difficulty mingling with the students, who, edgy with excitement, were talking to anyone who would listen. Their conversation
was revealing. They were not marching on behalf of a united Ireland. All they were seeking was equality with every other citizen of Northern Ireland.
was revealing. They were not marching on behalf of a united Ireland. All they were seeking was equality with every other citizen of Northern Ireland.
Britain insists that this is part of the United Kingdom and the Catholics in it are British subjects,
thought Barry,
so they have a perfect right to expect equal treatment under the law. Something they have never received, any more than the Negroes in America have.
thought Barry,
so they have a perfect right to expect equal treatment under the law. Something they have never received, any more than the Negroes in America have.
His attention was drawn to one girl in particular, a petite redhead who could not have been more than twenty-one. The look in her eyes made him think of Joan of Arc.
As Joan must have looked before she was betrayed. Before she was burned.
As Joan must have looked before she was betrayed. Before she was burned.
A few minutes later McCoy drove up in a borrowed Volkswagen Beetle. He was grinning with proprietary delight. Barry folded his long legs uncomfortably into the small space and prepared to assume the role of navigator. “The route of march is much longer than it need be, Séamus. According to the map, they're taking a lot of detours to avoid loyalist strongholds.”
“The Paisleyites will seek them out anyway,” McCoy predicted. “The poor sods aren't carrying any weapons to defend themselves with. It's damned brave of them, if you ask me.” He slammed through the gears and tromped down on the accelerator.
“If this is how you're going to drive, I think I'm the brave one,” Barry gasped.
“Nonsense. The automobile a man drives reflects his personality, and I'm aggressive.”
“You may be, but this little car isn't. Show it some mercy, will you?”
McCoy ignored the remark. “Every man feels more powerful when he's behind the wheel of a car. Have you no interest in motors at all?”
“I never really thought about it.”
“Sometimes I despair of you, Seventeen.”
The first day passed without serious trouble, though there were frequent bands of hecklers along the way. That night Barry and McCoy stayed in a small country inn and enjoyed a good meal, during which McCoy expounded on the merits of various automobiles between fits of coughing.
“You should give up those cigarettes,” Barry advised him.
“Not me, I love my bad habits. They're the best thing about met.”
The next morning they caught up with the marchers only to find a large crowd surrounding them, shouting obscenities. Some of those in the crowd were no older than the marchers themselves. A score were even younger; a mob of children being trained to hate.
Barry's eyes sought out the red-haired girl. She continued to walk forward with her head up and her eyes straight ahead, refusing to react to the verbal assault. Then someone in the crowd threw a bottle filled with urine.
As if that were the signal, a barrage of bricks and stones was hurled at the students. Barry hardly had time to get his camera focussed before the barrage turned into an even more physical assault. Marchers were kicked and pummelled. Girls' hair was pulled. A couple of male students were seized around the neck and half throttled.
Their police escort watched but made no move to interfere.
Uttering a string of expletives, McCoy started to get out of the car. Barry caught him by the wrist with a grasp of iron. “We can't, Séamus. I'm here as an observer.”
“Meaning you can't fight back?”
“Meaning Iâand you as my driverâcan't get involved. We tell the story in pictures, we can't be part of it.”
Muttering to himself, McCoy settled back into the car. “Goes against nature,” Barry heard him say.
M
EANWHILE, Ian Paisley was addressing a large gathering of his supporters in Derry's Guildhall. A simultaneous protest against Paisley was going on outside. In the City Council Chambers, a number of homeless Catholics had barricaded the door and turned off the lights.
3
EANWHILE, Ian Paisley was addressing a large gathering of his supporters in Derry's Guildhall. A simultaneous protest against Paisley was going on outside. In the City Council Chambers, a number of homeless Catholics had barricaded the door and turned off the lights.
3
Tempers were raw in Derry City.
Throughout the day the marchers were subjected to increasingly violent assaults. The hostilities were well organised; carloads of men armed with cudgels, billhooks, crowbars, and scythe blades were brought to meet the march at predetermined points.
The escalating violence drew the press, whose numbers
swelled hourly. They began to send out bulletins on the progress of the march. As photographs of the marchers, bloodied but unbowed, appeared on television, the courage of the students began to swing public opinion in their favour. Others joined them until there were almost a hundred civil rights demonstrators walking toward Derry. Carrying no placards, inciting no violence. Just walking.
swelled hourly. They began to send out bulletins on the progress of the march. As photographs of the marchers, bloodied but unbowed, appeared on television, the courage of the students began to swing public opinion in their favour. Others joined them until there were almost a hundred civil rights demonstrators walking toward Derry. Carrying no placards, inciting no violence. Just walking.
The ranks of police grew too, totalling more than eighty by the end of the third day. Never did the police give the marchers any assistance or make any effort to protect them from their tormentors.
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4
Barry was painfully reminded of the reaction of southern white politicians in America when the federal administration tried to enlist protection for civil rights marchers.
The climax came on the fourth day. With the collusion of the RUC and B-Specials,
5
a mob of more than three hundred, including a number of off-duty constables,
6
ambushed the marchers at the narrow Burntollet Bridge. They ran out from lanes on either side of the road, screaming invective. Wielding iron bars and bicycle chains, they swarmed into the ranks of marchers. Men and women alike were battered to the ground. A few of the marchers managed to break through and run for their lives, but many were driven into the ditches on either side of the road and beaten unmercifully. Others were forced into the River Fahan and attacked on the bank when they tried to crawl out.
5
a mob of more than three hundred, including a number of off-duty constables,
6
ambushed the marchers at the narrow Burntollet Bridge. They ran out from lanes on either side of the road, screaming invective. Wielding iron bars and bicycle chains, they swarmed into the ranks of marchers. Men and women alike were battered to the ground. A few of the marchers managed to break through and run for their lives, but many were driven into the ditches on either side of the road and beaten unmercifully. Others were forced into the River Fahan and attacked on the bank when they tried to crawl out.
The journalists covering the march were appalled. At last several, including Barry Halloran, abandoned their professional objectivity and ran to try to help. Most met with the same violence as the marchers. But the thugs who meant to attack Barry turned and ran when the tall man let out a roar and charged at them instead. His hair was fire, his eyes were ice. The fury on his face was too much for any bully.
One of Barry's terrified assailants stumbled over an earlier victim and fell flat on his face in the dirt. Before he could stop himself, Barry gave him a vicious kick in the ribs.
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