The arrival of mustered coloured large army lorries and canvas covered land rovers brought fantastic excitement to young lads in the heady days of 1970s Shankill, Lurgan, pleasantly interrupting the long summer months, we easily made new friends of the army personnel, they even built us a large sandpit in the shape of a boat which during the construction we inquired “what it was” were told teasingly a swimming pool. I remember marching behind a lone piper from a Scottish regiment as he paraded around the estate with his scurlling bagpipes echoing off the houses as the local dog population barked in harmony.
Months later I remember trying to understand why they weren’t our friends anymore. They had turned their attention to raiding and smashing and we could not play with the big men in uniforms any more. Although we were very young, I recall some of the lads who once played in the landrovers now sneaking in and wrecking the radio equipment, even the dogs seem to change and became ardent enemies of the soldiers.
Great changes to the lazy summers occurred as burnt out cars formed barricades creating a mini state and Free Shankill found its autonomy, with the “Rector’s wall” now forming part of the border between the neighbouring Wakehurst estate and ourselves, dividing good friends as well as some families. Battle lines were drawn and good community relations wrecked as the “Rectors wall “ (probably the earliest peace wall in the Troubles) became a catalyst for recreational rioting, usually sparked by youths returning from school, which graduated to older teenagers mostly not from the local area, older men and the occasional gun battle.
I remember my father’s despair as the local graveyard became a battle ground, a place where he spent much of his free time assisting the family of caretakers in Protestant Shankill Graveyard,
My father Jim would have known and admired Danny, as one of his own daughters was severely disabled.
Danny’s smile was a welcome distraction in the troubled times of the early seventies Shankill. Even though he was obviously Down’s syndrome, he communicated and interacted quite well with the local community, being much loved and renowned for visiting the corner shop every morning to exchange the empty milk bottle for a full one.
In his youth Dad had once a fine shock of curly red hair; by 1972 he had grown into a very proud amiable caring father much loved by his wife and eight children,.Although he was a lowly paid labourer, through his hard work ethic he was very proud of the fact he had never received benefits for himself or our large family. By 1972 in his late thirties he had lost most of his red hair though he still retained some curls to the back requiring his daughter to trim regularly. Like Danny, my dad was much admired and loved by the people of the estate, known as a man who would give the coat off his back and did, in the vein of a ragged trouser philanthropist.
Unusually one morning my father had taken sick leave as he hadn’t been feeling well. Next day feeling a bit better, he decided to do some much needed redecoration as the little house with the large family regularly required. Even though my dad was in full employment the family healthy and happy, money was scarce so he had no transport: he had to walk to the local hardware shop to buy paint.
On the return journey dad called with his best friend Fred the local Church of Ireland cemetery keeper; with their mutual interest in pigeons the Troubles even in the aftermath of Bloody Sunday, internment and the recent Ballymurphy massacres could not separate them.Many times my father and Fred had together made the journey with their hampers to the local pigeon club. I recall the gentleness of my father as he neatly stitched the pigeons that had been injured by the overhead electricity wires.
After leaving Fred and crossing back over the divide, he came upon a gang of British army personnel attacking Danny and a pregnant woman who had tried to protect him.Their attention quickly turned to my father as he tried to remonstrate with the attackers. My father decided to draw the attackers away by escaping but was brought down by two rubber bullets fired at close range to his back.
The walls of the house he staggered into were covered with blood as rifle butts rained down on his balding head.
My Dad’s brother in-law uncle Billy an ex-service man came to his aid but was also shot and assaulted.
At this stage the assailants decided to retreat, dragging my now unconscious father across the divide where they could carry on the assault in safety. As my father began to gain conscious they returned to the assault, rendering him once more unconscious, before carting him off to the cell of the police station.
My mother and sisters were traumatised to witness someone they loved so much in a bloody police cell his remaining curls unrecognisably caked in blood. The first sight of the crude stitches on his balding pate looked like the serrated edge left by a large tin opener, in stark contrast to the gentle neat stitching employed by my father on his pigeons. The image will forever remain with me.
Later for the first time in his life my father appeared before a court.An unsympathetic magistrate believing the attackers’ lies, convicted him, even though many people including Fred vouched for his good character.
The leader of the attackers is at present serving multiple life sentences for committing numerous murders in his native country. This troubled tourist has contributed many articles to books and media including local press ( Sunday Life being the latest) citing the assault on my father as the final straw, expressing his view that his experiences while on “tour” as the reason for his psychopathic condition. However it is my contention as can be witnessed on the many television programmes relating to Army training, that people of his nature are actively recruited for those very traits.
Shankill was radicalised as these events reinforced the perception regarding the way justice and fairness was appropriated to their community. The area subsequently became a difficult place for armed tourists, and the reverberations like ripples in a pound can still be felt.
My father’s health was never the same. He died of a heart attack a few years later at a young age, His family along with Danny’s await an apology from those responsible for the uninvited tourist.
I note and take issue with the hypocritical support the attackers cause has received from local government funding, victim support groups (Finucane Centre) and in particularly the Nationalist newspapers (Irish News). They had promised me right of reply to an article regarding the issue – a promise which they never fulfilled.
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