1972 (43 page)
Authors: Morgan Llywelyn
“So do I,” Barbara said as she took off her apron.
With a sigh, Barry closed the ledger. “A man doesn't stand a chance around here.” But he was smiling.
A few days after Ursula went back to the farm, Barry received a letter from Father Aloysius. “We are going to do it again but this time we are going to do it right,” the priest wrote.
The plural pronoun leapt out at Barry.
What does he mean by “we”?
What does he mean by “we”?
“A big civil rights march is being planned in Derry for the end of the month,” the priest's letter went on. “The purpose of the march is to protest internment and it will be absolutely nonconfrontational. We must demonstrate social responsibility to counter the violence that is taking place. If our people show the way, with God's help others can take heart and follow our example.”
We. Our. He's going to take part in the march.
“I'm going north,” Barry told Séamus McCoy.
“It's about time,
avic
! When do we leave?”
avic
! When do we leave?”
“Not we. Me. I'll be travelling around a lot, you know how it is, eating irregularly, sleeping irregularly ⦠.”
“You're going to join the Provos!” McCoy crowed.
“I am not going to join the Provos, Séamus, I'm heading off to photograph a civil rights march in Derry. A peaceful one this time; that should be newsworthy. Photography is my business, and it's been thin on the ground of late, so I need this opportunity. I'm relying on you to stay here. Look after Barbara and keep everything ticking over until I get back. Can you do that for me?”
“I'd be more use to you in the north, Seventeen. I know everybody, I can help you get pictures you might not get otherwise.”
“I appreciate that, but this is where I need you most. Please,
Séamus.” When the other man still seemed reluctant, Barry said, “When I get back I'll let you drive my car, I promise. We'll go out in the country where you don't have to deal with traffic and you can open'er up.”
Séamus.” When the other man still seemed reluctant, Barry said, “When I get back I'll let you drive my car, I promise. We'll go out in the country where you don't have to deal with traffic and you can open'er up.”
I sound like a parent bribing a child with sweets. When did our positions become reversed?
Barbara was more difficult, as Barry had known she would be. He had to stress over and over again that it was necessary for him to go where the photographic opportunities were. “But you're not going to get involved?” she kept asking. “You're not going to have anything to do with Those People?”
Barry knew exactly whom she meant by Those People.
“I'm not, I swear. I'm just going to take pictures.”
She would not go to the front door with him to say goodbyeâone of her many ways of expressing disapproval. When he was ready to leave he found her in the kitchen washing the breakfast dishes as if they were a matter of the utmost urgency. “I'm leaving now,” Barry said to her back.
“Fine.” She raised one soapy hand in a nonchalant wave but did not look around.
“Is there anything you need before I go?”
“Not a thing. You'd best be on your way.” She still would not look at him.
“Well ⦠good-bye then.”
“Mmm.” Much splashing in the kitchen sink.
Barry carried his camera equipment and a small suitcase out to Apollo. As he raised the lid of the boot to stow his things away he looked back at the house.
The front door remained resolutely shut.
The house itself, his very own house, with smoke curling from the chimney, looked wonderfully warm and inviting in the cold light of the bitter January morning.
With a sigh, Barry closed the lid of the boot and started to go around to the driver's side of the car.
At that moment the front door was flung open and Barbara came running out. She hurled her full weight against him, knocking him off balance. Without saying a word, she wrapped her arms around his neck and drew his face to hers for a passionate kiss that seemed to last forever.
Then she ran back into the house. Leaving the feel of her imprinted
on the length of his body; the taste of her burned into his lips.
on the length of his body; the taste of her burned into his lips.
Shaken to the core, Barry got into the car.
It's like nothing I ever imagined. This woman, this house, the life we're going to have.
Thank you, God! I must have done something right after all.
He put Apollo in gear and drove away. Whistling.
D
ERRY looked much the same as Barry remembered, though considerable rebuilding had taken place in the Bogside. It was still poor, however. Still second class. A place to live for people who did not matter.
ERRY looked much the same as Barry remembered, though considerable rebuilding had taken place in the Bogside. It was still poor, however. Still second class. A place to live for people who did not matter.
Barry parked Apollo in the alley behind the priest's house. Once again he had a sense of déjà vu.
But this time it will be different,
he assured himself.
This time we will set an example for the rest to follow. It has to work; the alternative is too awful to contemplate.
But this time it will be different,
he assured himself.
This time we will set an example for the rest to follow. It has to work; the alternative is too awful to contemplate.
Barry's assumption had been correct. Father Aloysius was planning to take part in the march scheduled for the thirtieth of January. “It's so important that we do this,” he told Barry. “Did you hear about the bomb the IRA exploded in Callender Street in Belfast on the third? Some sixty people were injured, including women and children.
1
This can't go on, Barry. Those of us who still have a conscience must demonstrate, once and for all, that we Catholics are decent human beings who can behave in a civilised fashion and deserve to be treated with dignity.”
1
This can't go on, Barry. Those of us who still have a conscience must demonstrate, once and for all, that we Catholics are decent human beings who can behave in a civilised fashion and deserve to be treated with dignity.”
“You're right,” said Barry. “You're entirely right, Father.”
So
why do I suddenly have this terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach?
“What are the arrangements for the march?”
So
why do I suddenly have this terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach?
“What are the arrangements for the march?”
“You'll be walking with us?”
“Beside you,” Barry replied. “Photographing everything. Have you any idea how the authorities are going to respond to the march?”
“We've given them every assurance of our peaceful intent,” said the priest. “People like Brian Faulkner will take a lot of convincing, though. He's a Unionist through and through.”
“Is there any IRA involvement in the march?”
Father Aloysius looked thoughtful. “I was concerned about that so I've made some enquiries. A little while ago I was speaking with a young fellow called Martin McGuinness, who's second in command of the Derry brigade. He confirmed that orders have come down from the top that no member of the IRA is to take part in the demonstration. No guns of any sort, no bombs, no nail bombs, nothing, in fact, that might even be construed as a weapon, is to be in the vicinity of the march.
2
2
“McGuinness told me he and another Volunteer have collected all the local weapons and taken them to a safe house. Only the two of them know the location of the arms dump, just to be sure there's no maverick action by Volunteers.”
“That's a relief,” said Barry. “At least if anything goes wrong we won't be blamed.”
“We?” This time it was the priest who noticed the pronoun.
S
UNDAY morning dawned full of hope. In Derry the air coming down from the mountains was so sweet and pure one could drink it.
UNDAY morning dawned full of hope. In Derry the air coming down from the mountains was so sweet and pure one could drink it.
As he left for Mass in Dublin, Jack Lynch paused to sign autographs for some young admirers.
When Barry and Father Aloysius emerged from the priest's house they were aware of a strong security-force presence in Derry. A number of barricades had been erected that had not been there the night before.
The Catholic areas seemed calm enough, though hardly quiet. The hum of thousands of voices was clearly audible. As the march began to form up in the Creggan it was obvious that it would be larger than the organisers could have hoped. In addition to the various civil rights groups, identified by signs and banners, tens of thousands of ordinary people had come from all over the north. Many of them were carrying hand-painted signs, too. Demanding the British army leave. Demanding an end to internment.
Men and women, boys and girls. Some of them heavily muffled
against the cold, others wearing only light jackets and jumpers. A number had brought their dogs as if they were out for a Sunday stroll.
against the cold, others wearing only light jackets and jumpers. A number had brought their dogs as if they were out for a Sunday stroll.
Even Barry's wide-angle lens was insufficient to give a true indication of the size of the crowd.
Near the head of the march a flatbed coal truck had been transformed into a speakers' platform. Bernadette Devlin was amongst the activists who addressed the crowd through a microphone that occasionally squawked and squealed. Barry crouched down below the truck to photograph her silhouetted against the sky.
I would rather be here right now than anywhere else in the world,
he told himself.
This is one of those moments I shall remember always.
I would rather be here right now than anywhere else in the world,
he told himself.
This is one of those moments I shall remember always.
Stewards equipped with walkie-talkies and megaphones were working hard to form the mass of humanity into a cohesive body. When the signal came to move off, the march started down the hill from the Creggan toward the Bogside. There was almost a holiday atmosphere. People sang “We Shall Overcome.” Young lads gave one another an elbow in the ribs as if to say, âAin't this fun?'
Coming to a barricade across their route, the leaders signalled for a halt. It took a while for the word to work its way back through the immense crowd. There was a lot of foot shuffling and throat clearing, and not a little complaining, while the organisers negotiated with several men in British army uniform. Barry tried to get close enough to hear what was being said, but a soldier with a rifle waved him back.
He caught sight of Father Aloysius shouldering his way through the crowd, reminding everyone that this was to be a peaceful demonstration.
At last the march got under way again. It had now been rerouted from its original line of march to the Guildhall. A score of youths stayed at the barricade to heckle the soldiers and throw rocks, while the main body of marchers took the new route toward the Free Derry Corner. By going this way they were held within the confines of the Catholic ghetto. Herded through narrow streets walled in by terraced houses and high-rise flats.
“They better not try to stop us today,” one of the demonstrators called to another. “The Brits have rubber bullets, y'know.”
“Rubber bullets don't scare me none,” came the reply.
Barry tried to stay on the fringes of the crowd so that he could pick and choose his images. The faces in the forefront of the march were so very self-confident. The banners they carried were so very bright.
As Barry switched from camera to camera he was too preoccupied to hear the first gunshot.
But he heard the next one. It seemed to come from the direction of William Street,
3
and echoed through the concrete canyons. He stopped in his tracks and looked around. Members of the security forces wearing visored helmets and carrying riot shields had gathered at the next road junction. They were looking around too.
3
and echoed through the concrete canyons. He stopped in his tracks and looked around. Members of the security forces wearing visored helmets and carrying riot shields had gathered at the next road junction. They were looking around too.
Meanwhile, momentum continued to carry the march forward. Most of the noisy crowd were still unaware of the gunfire. They did not realise anything was amiss until a swarm of British paratroopers in camouflage uniforms and berets charged into Rossville Street, followed by armoured personnel carriers.
The paratroopers were sweating; it gleamed on their faces in spite of the fact that many were streaked with camouflage charcoal, as if on a training mission. Barry recognised the nervous darting of their eyes. He had been in battle, he knew how it felt.
The march slowed, stopped. People turned in one direction and then another, trying to decide which way to go. In Rossville Street an old barricade which ran from Glenfada Park to the Rossville Flats had fallen into disrepair, and there was enough of a gap for one person at a time to go through.
4
Reinforcements of barbed wire had been placed in such a way that a frightened crowd could not get past, however. Marchers gathered like sheep huddling before a blizzard, looking for a way out.
4
Reinforcements of barbed wire had been placed in such a way that a frightened crowd could not get past, however. Marchers gathered like sheep huddling before a blizzard, looking for a way out.
There was more gunfire. Louder now. Very close. At first the paratroopers appeared to be firing at random in an attempt to frighten and create confusion. Then Barry saw one take careful aim at an individual and bring him down with a single shot.
Barry froze.
The bastards have been ordered to shoot to kill.
The bastards have been ordered to shoot to kill.
Swinging around, he sought to photograph the soldier who had fired the deliberate shot. The man had already disappeared in the melee.
As they ran through the streets the paratroopers were shouting to one another, encouraging themselves and their comrades to violence. The gunfire escalated into a terrifying barrage. No
one was safe, neither the marchers nor the bystanders: the men, women, and children who had gathered to watch the “parade” go by. People fled into every open doorway and derelict house. A frantic group ran into a concrete courtyard, but it was a cul-de-sac surrounded by buildings. Several paratroopers followed them in.
one was safe, neither the marchers nor the bystanders: the men, women, and children who had gathered to watch the “parade” go by. People fled into every open doorway and derelict house. A frantic group ran into a concrete courtyard, but it was a cul-de-sac surrounded by buildings. Several paratroopers followed them in.
Like butchers pursuing cattle into an abattoir,
Barry thought with horror.
Barry thought with horror.
During the next ten minutes the paratroopers fired 108 live rounds, their own officers later admitted. It sounded like much more.
Seven people were shot at the barricade blocking escape from Rossville Street.
T
HE cameras were no useâ
no damned use!
; Barry had nothing with which to fight back, no way to vent his rage and dismay at what was happening. He was at the heart of panic but he was not panicked. The old cold rage poured through him, filling his veins.
HE cameras were no useâ
no damned use!
; Barry had nothing with which to fight back, no way to vent his rage and dismay at what was happening. He was at the heart of panic but he was not panicked. The old cold rage poured through him, filling his veins.
He was familiar with the sharp, high-pitched sound of highvelocity rifles. Recognised the altered
spang
of bullets ricocheting off pavement and walls. Had heard screams of fear before. But not bursting from so many throats at the same time.
spang
of bullets ricocheting off pavement and walls. Had heard screams of fear before. But not bursting from so many throats at the same time.
He saw four paratroopers chasing people toward the Glenfada Park Flats. After they vanished from sight he heard a fusillade of gunfire.
Gunfire seemed to be coming from every direction. Just like the screams and curses. The leading marchers were trapped in what was fast becoming a killing ground. The damp air of Derry carried the coppery smell of blood; the pungent odour of bowels giving way as people spasmed and died on the pavement.
It was impossible to tell who was injured and who was not, because so many were throwing themselves on the ground.
Playing dead was the only defence they had.
From the other side of the barricades men and boys began hurling stones at the soldiers. They ran into the nearest houses looking for bottles to make petrol bombs. But, though Barry prayed to hear it, there was no sound of retaliatory gunfire being aimed at the paratroopers.
The damned guns were put away. To prevent violence.
Barry thankfully noticed a nervous television crew arriving. For the first time he wished he had entered television himself. There was an immediacy to moving images that the still camera could never convey.
This is real, this is real,
he kept telling himself. Yet it did not seem real. It was like the most violent cowboy-and-Indian films out of America. The World War Two films. The horror films.
he kept telling himself. Yet it did not seem real. It was like the most violent cowboy-and-Indian films out of America. The World War Two films. The horror films.
A British Army helicopter was circling overhead. Armed soldiers and rolls of barbed wire were clearly visible atop walls and rooftops.
People who had been farther back in the march continued to pour into the Bogside. As their stewards learned what was happening up ahead they made desperate efforts to turn the crowd back but it was almost impossible. Hysteria had set in.
From the looks on the faces of the paratroopers Barry realised they were hysterical too.
Gunfire, petrol bombs, water cannon, CS gas, the screams of the injured, the moans of the dying. But ten times worse than it had been in 1969; ten times worse than anything Barry could have imagined.
People tried to carry victims to safety only to be shot down themselves. Barry saw a paratrooper casually walk up to a wounded man lying on his belly and shoot him in the back of the head.
Barry saw terrible things. They began to merge into one another, and then into all the other terrible things stored in his memory.
He was no longer attempting to take pictures; he was not a photographer anymore. He was a Volunteer in the front lines without a weapon, trying to protect those who were more defenceless than he. When a sobbing woman bolted into the path of the paratroopers he dove at her and bore her to the ground, covering her with his body until the soldiers ran on. He found an infant in a pramâ
God knows where the mother is
âand pushed the pram into an open doorway, out of the line of fire. Then he picked up a hunk of rubble and hurled it at the nearest paratrooper. It wasn't enough, it made no impression. The man snarled at Barry, snapped off a quick shot that missed, and went on.
God knows where the mother is
âand pushed the pram into an open doorway, out of the line of fire. Then he picked up a hunk of rubble and hurled it at the nearest paratrooper. It wasn't enough, it made no impression. The man snarled at Barry, snapped off a quick shot that missed, and went on.
A steward with a megaphone was beating it uselessly against
a wall. A big strong man in a hooded anorak was bleeding from the shoulder and blubbering like a baby. A priest, bent double, came around a corner waving a white flag, closely followed by several men carrying a youth whose body was dripping blood.
a wall. A big strong man in a hooded anorak was bleeding from the shoulder and blubbering like a baby. A priest, bent double, came around a corner waving a white flag, closely followed by several men carrying a youth whose body was dripping blood.
The gunfire did not let up for a moment. Since it began only a few minutes had passed in reality, but it seemed an eternity to Barry. It seemed the world had always been full of killing.
Horror upon horror. Dead and dying, needlessly slaughtered. No way to escape. No mercy.
Soldiers laughing wildly as they fired into the crowd.
Other books
Holt's Holding part two (The Holt's Series) by dagmara, a
A Bomb Built in Hell by Andrew Vachss
The Blood of the Land by Angela Korra'ti
Sleep Sister: A page-turning novel of psychological suspense by Laura Elliot
Nikki and the Lone Wolf by Marion Lennox
Tales of the Forbidden by Jaden Sinclair
No Small Victory by Connie Brummel Crook
Letters to Katie by Kathleen Fuller
Hetty Dorval by Ethel Wilson
The Bread We Eat in Dreams by Catherynne M. Valente