On the Brinks Read online

  After months of continual harassment, he was eventually told in no uncertain terms by our OC that if he didn’t rein in his horns, the place would be set alight and burned to the ground.

  Sitting in his office, the governor simply smirked and pulled a box of matches from his coat pocket.

  “Here, use these,” he said, throwing the box on top of a table as a gauntlet.

  The OC calmly picked up the box and put it in his pocket, before walking out of the office. The rest, as they say, is history, and what a piece of bloody history it would turn out to be.

  Later that same evening, the OC informed us that the place was to be ‘set ablaze, leaving no stone upon another. Let the whole of Ireland see the flames. Let the darkened sky turn to light. Let all eyes see the terrible and justifiable anger of …’

  Well, perhaps not in those dramatic biblical terms, but the message was the same: Burn the fucker down.

  It has to be said that the OC’s order wasn’t entirely unexpected, though it was entirely unwanted. Lest the worst-case scenario should happen, we’d been training for months to get physically fit, running round the exercise yards and clambering over man-made obstacles in the canteen. A bit like “Dad’s Army” meets “Benny Hill” – only without the theme music.

  When I say we, I actually mean the other prisoners. Never one for any form of physical exertion, due to childhood asthma and laziness, I always managed to make myself scarce, hidden someplace with a paperback, usually one by Sven Hassel and his motley crew of German soldiers. Nothing like a bad war book in a bad time of war.

  Prior to the burning, a couple of would-be inventors in our ranks constructed gasmasks, from charcoal and cloth that looked suspiciously like well-used underwear. Indents of buttocks could be clearly seen in the flimsy cloth. In all honesty, those gasmasks would barely stop a good fart, never mind the CS gas heading inevitably in our direction. The creative force behind the masks had obviously been watching too many episodes of “Blue Peter”.

  Out of common prisoner-of-war courtesy, we briefed our loyalist counterparts on what was soon to happen, and fair play to them, they said we could use their cages as first-aid posts, so I guess even they knew what was coming our way. Some of the more ballsy loyalists even readied themselves to participate in the fighting, but were quickly overruled by their commanding officers. Realistically, it wouldn’t look too good in their neighbourhoods if they were seen fighting alongside the republican foe.

  A terrible pity, I thought at the time. What beautiful irony that would have been: loyalists and republicans fighting as one against a common enemy.

  Within minutes of our OC giving the command, the flames began nibbling greedily at all and sundry. The screws, seeing howling, blackened-faced madmen emerging from the cages, made the most sensible decision any of them probably ever made: they ran like hell from the hellish sight, howling louder than us. If running and howling in uniform had been an Olympic event, gold medals would have been handed to the screws by the crane load.

  Almost immediately after breaking out of the cages, we dedicated ourselves to destroying as much of the prison complex as humanly possible. Watchtowers were toppled, administration buildings annexed, prison generators destroyed, as well as the notorious prison kitchen, producer of all things bland and indigestible. A small number of prisoners even managed to arm themselves with batons and shields, liberated from the screws as they hastily went AWOL.

  As the hours went by, the night sky became vividly illuminated, with flames seemingly reaching its ceiling. The flames danced with frightening power, in amazing hues of purple, blue and green, like some mythical Phoenix rising from the ashes. It would be many long hours before the flames had finished feasting, leaving nothing in their wake but the ravaged skeletons of razed huts and buildings.

  Throughout the night, miniature skirmishes took place between some of the more macho prisoners and equally macho British. Nothing serious in scale; more a testing of wills, strength and ball-size. Morale was high, and old comrades who hadn’t seen each other in years met and hugged like … old comrades who hadn’t seen each other in years. Fires were made – as if we hadn’t had enough of the bastards already – to ward off the night’s coldness. In another time, in another place, we would have looked like boy scouts, gathering in circles of campfires, telling ghost stories.

  As I stood by one of the fires, trying desperately to warm my freezing arse, I wondered why the hell we had done this mad thing in winterish conditions? Wouldn’t summer have been more appropriate? Or would that have been just a little bit too sensible?

  As dawn finally broke, we made our way, exhausted yet triumphant, towards the massive security gates. What the hell we were going to do when we reached the gates was anyone’s guess. Mixed feelings of dread and excitement were coursing though my body.

  Some of us were attired in blankets, draped poncho-like over our bodies, like followers of Emiliano Zapata. To cushion the pain of the kicks in the balls I expected to be receiving very soon, I had a towel stuffed down the front of my jeans. The bulge made me walk funny, and I must have looked like an actor from a porn movie, but I didn’t give a shit.

  With adrenaline flowing like Guinness on Saint Paddy’s Day, we suddenly seemed invincible. Fuck yeah we did! Seemed, alas, turned out to be a most appropriate word.

  Outside the Kesh’s perimeter, waiting patiently to beat the shit out of us, were numerous regiments of hardened British soldiers, chiefly from Marines, Hussars and Paratroopers. And just to make sure we didn’t stand any sort of a chance, they had brought along helicopters, six-wheeled Saracen armoured personnel carriers, and shit-inducing guard dogs the size of grizzly bears.

  Little did we realise at the time, but we were setting the scene for one of biggest, boldest, bloodiest, badassest battles between the British Army and the Irish Republican Army – ever.

  Had it been a movie instead of real life, we could have called it Apocalypse Now meets Spartacus. Unfortunately, we all know what happened to brave Spartacus …

  Ah well, think of all the money saved on laxatives.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Bloody Hand-to-Hand is Never Handy but Always Bloody

  To say it was a turkey shoot is no exaggeration.

  British soldier participant, Battle of Long Kesh

  We started to pack up and leave during the early evening of the second day. The prisoners back in their compounds, most of them had built small shelters out of breeze blocks and tin sheets and were sitting around small camp fires. I spoke with many of them and thought what splendid soldiers some of them would make.

  British soldier participant, Battle of Long Kesh

  At the first set of security gates, our OC quickly ordered us into military formation. A small no-man’s land of concrete was sandwiched between each set of security gates, usually guarded by a handful of screws. This time, of course, the screws were long gone.

  The absence of humans, and all natural sounds, gave the entire scene an unnerving atmosphere of gut-tightening dread. A grey, slightly spooky morning mist had settled in the small distance, making visibility very limited.

  “Wonder what they’re up to?” I whispered, to nobody in particular.

  Before anyone could answer, a little hum went skimming through the air, breaking the silence.

  “What the fuck was that?” I asked.

  “An engine,” someone directly behind me said. “I’d know that sound anywhere. I’ve worked on engines all my life. That’s a heavy-duty bastard.”

  Before I could ask another question, out of the distant mist appeared the grilled metal face of something quite fearsome-looking.

  “Fuck the night …” whispered a voice behind me. “Armoured cars …”

  The engine of the metal beast began to bellow like a bull’s battle call. Its enormous wheels started grinding in the dirt, causing thick black smoke to funnel from its arse. It was preparing to charge at us, as if we were matadors covered in red blankets. Then, just when I t
hought things couldn’t get any worse, another metal beast appeared directly behind its friend.

  “Oh … shit …”

  Both beasts came charging at us, quickly accelerating to top speed as they approached. The sounds of their engines became bone-rattling. There was little doubt in my mind that they intended to run us over, if we didn’t move.

  Obligingly, we quickly parted like the Red Sea, but instead of Moses appearing with his magical staff and tribe of escaping Israelites, we saw mobs of British soldiers, rushing at us and firing rubber bullets at point-blank range.

  Immediately, brutal gladiatorial combat commenced, Irish and British clashing with batons and bare fists. Heads were cracked. Teeth went flying. Faces and noses were mashed. It seemed to last forever.

  Then helicopters appeared, hovering menacingly in the background.

  Ultimately out-gunned and out-manoeuvred, we did an about-turn, hastily moving in the direction of the fenced football fields. We may have been heading towards the playing fields, but they sure as hell weren’t going to be level ones.

  Rubber bullets were zipping past my ears, like little black turds of electricity. I kept waiting for my head to be smashed open by one of them, but thankfully I managed to squeeze my way into one of the fields before the grilled gates were slammed in my face.

  Inside, hand-to-hand fighting continued unabated. In the intense mêlée, three British soldiers became separated from their unit, and quickly captured by us. Their faces were etched with panic and fear, and who the hell could blame them in this hell?

  I remember one of the captured soldiers being bigger than Clint Eastwood, but he looked like a terrified little kid. Blood was spurting from his nose, into his mouth. Despite everything we were going through, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. He could easily have been one of my brothers, Danny or Joe, getting a thumping for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Thankfully, all three men were handed back unharmed to their unit by our OC. A strategic move so as not to incur the wrath of the enemy? Or gesture of humanity? I like to think the latter.

  No sooner were they handed back than the fighting recommenced.

  The helicopters had now reached us, and hovered directly above. Their rotor blades created small windstorms, knocking us off balance. Soldiers, feet dangling from the fuselages, began firing canisters at us at close range. Each canister split into clusters upon impact, filling the air with the stench of gas. A gooey greenish mist engulfed everything within its reach, like thick London fog. Visibility was nil.

  I had encountered CS gas before, during numerous riots in Belfast, and was slightly acclimatised to it, as most Belfastians were. CS gas works by stimulating the corneal nerves, irritating the mucous membranes in the eyes, nose, mouth and lungs. This produces crying, sneezing, coughing and difficulty in breathing, alongside temporary blindness. A bit like drinking raw poteen.

  This time, however, there was something startlingly more evil about the gas we were being bombarded with. First of all, this gas felt like a living, breathing thing, crawling all over my skin. My eyes felt as if someone had jammed hot ashes and onions inside them; snot was running from my nose at an alarming rate, like a busted water tap. To make matters worse, I had pissed myself. At least I thought I had pissed myself, until I realised it was blood: I had ripped my leg trying to squeeze through the closing gates. I began tearing at the skin on my face, thinking it was on fire. I was drowning in gas fumes, and screamed to God not to let me die like this.

  Suddenly, everything became soul-quieteningly calm, as I encountered the Twilight Zone effect. The gas was making me hallucinate, in an almost psychedelically utopian freefall. I felt myself sinking into the ground, as if I had wandered into a deadly swamp. I couldn’t feel my legs. Directly above, the Yellow Submarine floated by. John, George, Paul and Ringo were waving out of the portholes. Ringo kept reaching out his drumstick for me to grab, hoping to get me out of the swamp.

  “Grab that, Sam,” he kept saying in his Liverpudlian accent, while the other three looked on, bemused.

  But each time I touched the drumstick, it turned into particles of sawdust.

  “Got yourself in another hole, Sam?” said a voice directly behind me. I thought it was God, but it turned out to be semi-god Hunter S Thompson.

  “Can … you … help … me … Hunter?” My words were coming out slurred and in slowwwwwwwwwww motion. My mouth felt and tasted like rubber, as if I’d just been to the dentist.

  “Ha, man! You got yourself into that hole. Gotta get yourself back out. Think of the shit I went through writing Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. I didn’t cry like a sissy boy. Did I?”

  Before I could say how much I loved that book, the Big Yellow with the Fab Four went under the Velvet Underground. Hunter winked, and then was lifted up to the heavens in a pink chariot, but not before giving me some sound advice. “Write about it, kid. Write about it. That’s the best way to deal with it. Write about it …”

  As he faded out, Mickey Mouse, Goofy and Pluto arrived on the scene.

  Goofy was laughing that goofy laugh of his, and Mickey kept taking the mickey, asking what the hell I was doing down there, in that great big hole? Pluto kept licking at my face, making me giggle like a nappy-wearing infant. Donald Duck was nowhere to be seen, but I suspected it was only a matter of time before he would appear, wise-quacking. He was probably away somewhere, screwing Minnie, behind Mickey’s back.

  Before I knew what was happening, Goofy began hitting me with an enormous cartoon hammer. Each time he hit me, the word Pow! blazed in front of my eyes, followed by little birds and stars circling my head. I couldn’t feel a thing. We laughed. We laughed so much my ribs hurt.

  Then, as the effects wore off, the pain started to register. Mickey and Goofy were gone, replaced by two British soldiers smacking me across the back of the head and ribs with batons, and not cartoon ones, but solid-as-a-fucking-rock, real-life batons.

  At some point – I don’t exactly remember when – I found myself being dragged along the ground by the same two jolly chaps, and not in a genteel manner. They were using my long hair (it was the seventies, after all!) as a rope, and trailed me for what seemed like miles, but in reality was probably a few feet.

  In all honesty, I was glad to be out of that evil Fog of War, and to be getting semi-fresh air once again into my lungs. In the distance, I could hear screams, men howling in agony.

  “What was all that about, mate?” asked a British soldier standing over me. I could barely breathe, let alone talk.

  I shrugged my shoulders, which is quite hard to do when pinioned to the ground by your own dead, frightened weight.

  To my surprise, he held out his hand. I took it, and he pulled me up. My head was spinning. I stank of gas. It was everywhere on my being: skin, pores, hair, clothes – even those places we don’t like to talk about, at least not in public.

  The young soldier couldn’t have been any older than me. He looked thirteen, but was probably seventeen, eighteen at most. Same size, same build. Had yet to tackle a razor with any seriousness.

  “Smoke?” he offered, reaching into the top pocket of his uniform and pulling out a crumpled pack of cigs.

  If I hadn’t felt like crying, I would have laughed at his question. Gas smoke kept coming from my clothes and arse, like a locomotive driven by the notorious blackleg and strikebreaking bastard Casey Jones.

  “No thanks,” I said. “I’ve had enough smoke to last me a lifetime.”

  He lit the cig, and we began walking.

  “You Irish are fucking mad,” he said, a small smile on his small face, the lit cig doing a jig at the side of his mouth.

  I couldn’t disagree, looking behind me at the madness of fighting against hugely overwhelming and superiorly-equipped odds.

  “You’ve got to fight for what you believe in, no matter what,” I finally managed to mumble, shocked to see smoke coming out of my mouth as I spoke. I wondered if I’d been turned to ash, and hadn
’t noticed?

  For the next few minutes, we made small talk, mostly about football and pop music. He was from Newcastle, a proud Geordie and fanatical Magpies supporter. He could barely understand my accent, nor I his, but for now he was my new best friend, who had taken me away from Apocalypse Now, if only for a few fleeting moments. In another time, another place, we could easily have been drinking buddies, except that he was probably too young to be permitted into a pub.

  Just as our friendship was blossoming, a snarl came from behind.

  “Harper! This isn’t a fucking nursery! Get that prisoner over here, to the wire.” It was a sergeant. He looked like a grizzly in uniform. A bit like Smokey Bear, but without the warmth and cute smile.

  “Yes, Sarge!” said New Friend Harper, quickly discarding his cigarette. “Sorry, mate. Orders are orders.”

  “Fuck, don’t I know …”

  Before I knew it, Sarge was shoving my face against the wire at the football pitch.

  “Stand there! Move a muscle, I’ll fucking kill you with my bare hands,” he said.

  He looked very sincere and his bare hands looked like bear hands, so I did as requested. I did not move a fucking muscle, even though my eyes and face still stung like hell, and I wanted to rub them so bad it hurt. My arse demanded a good scratching also, but I ignored it, knowing it was trying to get me into shit, in more ways than one.

  For an hour I stood there with other prisoners, most bleeding, all coughing like old men in iron lungs. Then we were marched back, en bloc, in the direction of the cages. I thought I could hear the theme music to The Bridge on the River Kwai playing in the background. Above us, a helicopter followed, like a sky-high sheepdog, watching our every move.

  As we neared the cages, the devastation we had wreaked was a marvel to behold. They looked as though an atomic bomb had been dropped on them.