Torn Apart

by Ken Wharton

  Tomás Ó Fiaich, then Catholic Primate of Ireland, called the killings ‘...gruesome slaughter ...’ Margaret Thatcher said, ‘This is one of the most horrifying crimes in Ulster’s tragic history. The slaughter of innocent people is the product of evil and depraved minds, and the act of callous and brutal men.’ The Daily Express’ headline was to the point and most apt: ‘Horror Without End’. The front page read:

  When the terrible wreckage of the Droppin’ Well yielded its final bomb victim last night, it added up to the blackest day even Ulster has seen. Sixteen [sic] including 11 soldiers, 60 injured with 15 soldiers among the most serious cases. Ulster Secretary Mr James Prior went to Ballykelly and visited the injured at nearby Londonderry. [He said] ‘This dreadful outrage was committed against young people intent on enjoying an evening out ... it must rank amongst the most cold-blooded acts of savagery carried out in Northern Ireland throughout all the years of violence here. It was a massacre without mercy. Words are inadequate to express the sense of shock and horror and outrage felt throughout the community.’

  Almost a year later, on 20 November 1983, the INLA carried out a Ku Klux Klan-style attack on a church service at Darkley, Co. Armagh. In the attack, ten members of the congregation were hit by gunmen firing automatic weapons; three died and seven were badly injured. Although the sectarian attack was carried out by INLA, the killings were claimed under a flag of convenience: the Catholic Action Force. The organisation claimed that the attack was a direct retaliation for the continued slaughter of Catholics by the UVF. In several killings the previous month, the UVF had also used a flag of convenience, claiming their killings in the name of the Protestant Action Force.

  The Mountain Lodge Pentecostal Church is located close to Darkley and only a few miles from the Irish border, thus affording the gunmen a ready-made escape route from the scene of the slaughter. As the gunmen arrived on a drizzly late-autumn evening, they observed three men standing at the church entrance, while inside the sixty-strong congregation were singing a hymn, ‘Are You Washed in the Blood of the Lamb?’ Without hesitation, they opened fire, hitting all three men in a sustained volley of shots; Victor Cunningham (39) and Harold Brown (59) were killed instantly, while David Wilson (44) was mortally wounded. Mr Wilson staggered into the church, covered in blood, which caused the women and children inside to scream in panic. As he collapsed and died in the aisle, the three gunmen opened fire from outside, their high-velocity rounds cutting through the wooden building like a hot knife through butter; at least thirty rounds were fired.

  By coincidence, the service was being tape-recorded at the exact moment of the attack; the gunfire and panicked screams of those inside can clearly be heard, the moment of slaughter recorded for posterity. A further seven people were hit, requiring immediate hospital treatment; their physical scars may have healed, but their mental anguish will perhaps never be assuaged. Afterwards, the RUC found several bloodstained Bibles strewn across the floor, plus blood-soaked clothing, coats and scarves dropped in a heap where their shocked owners had shed them in trying to escape the hail of bullets sweeping the small church. One cannot begin to imagine the shock and horror of the men, women and children trapped in what to them must have seemed like a slaughterhouse.

  An INLA spokesman, in claiming responsibility for the shooting, said, ‘By this token retaliation we could have easily taken the lives of at least 20 more innocent Protestants. We serve notice on the PAF to call an immediate halt to their vicious indiscriminate campaign against innocent Catholics, or we will make the Darkley killings look like a picnic.’ It is thought that one of the gunmen was Joseph Craven, who was himself killed by the UVF on 5 December, just two weeks later; what is certain is that one of the guns was supplied by INLA leader Dominic ‘Mad Dog’ McGlinchey.

  In 2014, the author visited the scene of the attack; the original building still stands, although the bullet holes have been patched up and painted over. However, there are surviving photographs that show the scores of bullet holes that left the wooden building resembling a sieve. A new white-bricked church stands a few yards to the right of the old wooden building – a symbol of defiance against sectarian murderers.

  As I stated earlier in this chapter, an atrocity cannot be measured purely in terms of how many people were killed and injured, or the extent of the destruction, with this next incident being a case in point. On Sunday, 8 April 1984, close to Malone Road in South Belfast, senior Belfast magistrate Tom Travers and his family, having worshipped at St Brigid’s Church in Derryvolgie Avenue, began the short walk to their home in Windsor Avenue. Unknown to them, a PIRA gunman was waiting for them. When he stepped from his hiding place it ended a chain of events that was to have tragic consequences. A local PIRA dicker had reported to the commander of the Andersonstown PIRA that a magistrate worshipped at a local church. The situation was discussed at local level, before being passed up the line to the Belfast commander, who sent the order down: kill him! The order was then passed down to two gunmen, who were supplied with weapons by the Andersonstown armourer. Stolen cars and plans were arranged as the next stage in this tragic sequence of events was put into motion. Together with another dicker, Mary Ann McArdle, the gunmen and an unnamed woman, all of whom were wearing wigs, arrived at the church.

  Mountain Lodge Pentecostal Hall near Darkley, Co. Armagh, where three church elders were shot dead by the INLA; the bullet holes are circled.

  The children who escaped death by inches at Darkley; from left, Graham Ritchie, Helen Wilson, Nigel Wilson, Andrew Reid (standing) and Keith Ritchie, photographed the day after the INLA attack.

  Inside the bullet-marked interior of the church.

  Tom Travers, his wife Joan and their daughter Mary (23) had only gone a few yards when the gunman fired a round at Mr Travers, which made the family stop and look around. He was hit six times and seriously wounded. One of the gunmen then purposely fired at Mary, hitting her in the back, mortally wounding her. One of the gunmen pointed his pistol directly at the head of Joan and fired; miraculously, the gun jammed, sparing her life. The killers then ran to a waiting car, where McArdle helped them dispose of weapons and wigs before aiding their escape back in the direction of Andersonstown.

  Mr Travers later said, ‘I saw the look of hatred on his face, a face I will never forget. At that time, Mary lay dying on her mum’s breast, her gentle heart pouring its pure blood on to a dusty street in Belfast.’ An ambulance was quickly on the scene, but Mary was already dead; another victim in the IRA’s long-term goal of uniting Ireland. A Sinn Féin spokesman refused to show any remorse for the death of the innocent woman, claiming that she was only hit because a round intended for her father had ‘accidentally’ hit her.

  The sister of the murdered girl, Ann Travers, wrote the following words for the author and I am indebted to her:

  Joan Travers and her daughter Ann at the funeral of her other daughter, Mary, shot dead by IRA gunmen in Windsor Avenue, Belfast, while walking home from Mass with her father, Judge Tom Travers.

  On the 8th April 1984, Mary walked home from Mass at St Brigid’s Church Derryvolgie, with our parents Tom and Joan. All three were in great form; Dad was always happy after attending Mass, as it gave him a spring in his step. They made their way to our home in Windsor Avenue, the street next to Derryvolgie Avenue. Mary was walking between Mum and Dad; she chatted about the hymns her primary 3 class would be singing that afternoon at St Agnes Church Andersonstown, as they celebrated their first confession in preparation for making their first holy communion. Mum turned to Dad and said: ‘Doesn’t Mary look beautiful?’ ‘Do you like it Mum,’ Mary smiled as held up the collar of her new blouse. At that moment they heard a shot. They stopped at the entrance of Windsor Tennis Club. Dad stepped slightly into the entrance and turned, as he saw a man walk towards him, waving something under a newspaper, the Catholic Universe. Dad described the man as having, ‘... a wild look in his eye ...’ as though he was high on drink or drugs. Dad said: ‘What do you want?�
� and he replied: ‘It’s you that we want,’ and with that Mary said: ‘Daddy that man has a gun!’

  Dad didn’t look at her, remaining focused on the gunman, hoping Mary and Mum would run, not realising that she was speaking about a second gunman, who as she finished her sentence, shot her in the back, and she fell into Mum’s arms. Simultaneously the first gunman shot Dad in the shoulder, forcing him onto the ground; the gunman then stood over Dad and at point blank range shot him a further 5 times, in the chest, stomach and legs. The gunman who shot Mary walked over to Mum and as Mary lay dying in her arms, held the gun to Mum’s head and pulled the trigger; the gun jammed so he pulled the trigger a second time, again the gun jammed, someone was looking after Mum that day, when the gun was later recovered forensics showed if he had pulled the trigger a third time it would have fired. The two gunmen ran off down an alley way into the neighbouring street, Malone Avenue, it was here that they met Mary Ann McArdle, who had with her a small dog; the gunmen gave her their guns and wigs, which she stuffed them down the surgical stockings which she was wearing, calmly walking off with the dog onto the Malone Road. Eye witnesses saw the gunmen entering a house and a separate eyewitness jumped onto his scooter and alerted police at Donegal Pass RUC station; they brought him back up the Malone road in a police car where he pointed out McArdle and she was arrested.

  I was 14 at the time of my sister’s murder and along with my brothers came upon the scene just minutes after it happened. I was faced with my Mother kneeling over my Father saying: ‘My poor husband, my poor husband; somebody please help my poor husband.’ Dad was conscious and trying to undo his watch strap, and there was poor Mary, lying in the dirty gravel, gurgling, her head lying awkwardly. Ambulances and security forces were quickly upon the scene. Mary was lifted into an ambulance and I overheard my brother Paul ask a Nurse: ‘But she’s going to be okay, isn’t she?’ The nurse shook her head and said: ‘I’m really sorry.’ I climbed out of the ambulance and stumbled home.

  Dad was very seriously ill; Mary’s funeral was delayed as it was believed Dad wouldn’t survive but he did. He lost a kidney and part of his lung, one bullet at the top of his spine couldn’t be removed and when he passed away from Lung cancer in 2009 (he never smoked), it was still in him. He suffered a lifetime of chronic pain and cramp spasms after being shot. A man who for legal reasons cannot be named, whom Dad identified, and Mary Ann McArdle were charged with murder and attempted murder; the other gunman who shot Mary was never found. The un-named man was acquitted, but my father always believed he was the gunman. The IRA changed our lives forever on the 8th of April 1984; they should never be remembered in a ‘romantic’ fashion; they were cold hearted terrorist killers, who wore wigs and disguises to murder those who had no way to defend themselves.

  McArdle was sentenced to fourteen years. She showed contempt for her actions and the court that found her guilty, as she waved and laughed at her supporters in the court when she was found guilty; she was released under the Good Friday Agreement. While behind bars, she became an Officer Commanding for the Provisionals.

  On 28 May 1985, the Provisional IRA, having learned that a Protestant civilian, Gary Smyth, an electrician by trade, had applied to join the RUC, made the decision to kill him. It is impossible not to consider this murder as anything but sectarian. It was known that he drove regularly from his home in the Protestant area of Ballysillan in Belfast to a college at Millfield. His RUC application had been made, but no announcement had been made, which makes the incident both sinister and puzzling. Was the information leaked by a sympathiser inside the RUC or was it someone known to the dead man? As Mr Smyth parked his car in the tech’s car park, three armed men, having locked the car park attendant in his hut, walked over to him and shot him several times; he died at the scene. The gunmen raced away in the direction of the notoriously Republican Unity Flats; no one was ever charged with the murder. A spokesman for Sinn Féin refused to condemn the sectarian murder, claiming that it was a ‘... consequence of the British presence’. In chronicling the violence, it strikes one just how glibly both Republican and Loyalist murder gangs could rationalise and excuse the catalogue of murders that blighted Northern Ireland in this period known somewhat euphemistically as ‘the Troubles’.

  There were many incidents that occurred during the Troubles that are shrouded in mystery, with cases being covered up to protect informants or simply not to upset the peace process; one such incident took place at Magee College in Londonderry on 23 March 1987. The bare facts are that the Provisionals killed a lecturer at the college simply because he worked part-time at Magillian Gaol in the city; they then left a booby-trapped device in his car, which subsequently killed two RUC officers. The mystery arose when an unnamed PIRA Volunteer told two authors* that Martin McGuinness was directly involved.

  Martin Jarvis (61) had just finished a lecture at the college and was returning to his car. PIRA gunmen – alleged to include Paddy Deery – fired several shots into the lecturer’s vehicle, killing him almost instantly. One of the men then quickly placed a booby-trapped device inside the car – an act that must have been seen by several people but not one of whom gave the investigating officers any warning. According to Liam Clarke and Kathryn Johnston’s source, McGuinness ‘... callously looked on as Leslie Jarvis, who was studying for a psychology degree, was gunned down in the college car park’. The book** continues by further quoting their source: ‘Everybody was on the other side of the road watching as the bomb went off. McGuinness was in the house opposite watching everything. He quite often liked to be close when things went off, to watch and see how they react. It was part of his strategy, his way of refining operations.’

  The RUC were naturally called out to investigate the murder of Mr Jarvis, whose body was still in his car. Very shortly afterwards, they arrived and first on the scene were Detective Sergeant John Bennison (41) and Detective Inspector Austin Wilson (35), both from Limavady. As the two entered the vehicle to examine the body of Mr Jarvis, the booby trap exploded and both men were killed instantly. If the allegations about the late Martin McGuinness are correct, it is further evidence that all of his denials about being a PIRA commander and not being involved on the ‘military’ side of the organisation are blatant lies.

  On the second Sunday of every November throughout the British Commonwealth countries, services are held to remember their fallen of not only both world wars, but also of hundreds of other ‘smaller wars’. At the eleventh hour, nations fall silent to honour past generations. At Enniskillen, Co. Fermanagh, on Sunday, 8 November 1987, that same silence was punctured by a huge explosion that rocked the town centre, leaving twelve dead and many more injured.

  In the town centre of Enniskillen stands the statue of a First World War soldier; he stands with his rifle resting on his boots, gazing down for all eternity at the monument below him at the names of those who fell – Irish as well as British – in two terrible wars. Behind him stands the St Michael’s Reading Rooms which is today rebuilt and renamed the Clinton Centre. Late on the Saturday evening – 7 November 1987 – two PIRA men, one of whom was alleged to be Charles Caulfield,*** walked into the building, quietly planting a holdall containing 40lb (18.2kg) of Semtex in a cupboard adjacent to the outside wall that directly faced the war memorial. The timer was set to coincide with the build-up of both military personnel, who would be marching and laying wreaths and as civilian spectators. As Denzel McDaniel**** states in his Enniskillen: The Remembrance Sunday Bombing, ‘... the initial recce was carried out by two local PIRA men who had worked out timings, locations and the people to be targeted. The bomb probably arrived on the outskirts of the town at some stage during the early part of Saturday afternoon. Sometime during the evening, the bombing team took a gym bag and calmly walked towards their choice of location.’

  Sunday the 8th dawned; it was Remembrance Day, 1987. The crowds began to gather a little after 10.00 hours, with many civilians standing with their backs to the wall behind which the instru
ment of their pending deaths was waiting, primed and ready to issue its death-dealing power. Later on, a survivor would lament: ‘At 11 a.m., we should have been remembering the dead ... instead we were digging them out.’

  At 10.43, approximately seventy-five people were standing with their backs to the aforementioned wall; the hands on the timer ticked down to zero. There was a flash of whiteness followed by a huge rumbling roar, which an eyewitness described as lasting for around ten seconds; then there was absolute silence, penetrated a second or so later by moans and screams from the injured. There was no sound, of course, from those already dead. The screams were then joined by alarms going off; to this was added a swirling cloud of smoke, sometimes grey, sometimes red as the pulverised concrete mixed with blood vapours, and a terrible mist filled the air.

  The following quotation, used by kind permission of Helion Books,* is taken from another book by the author:

  As people came out of the immediate shock and pulled themselves to their feet, there was a sudden realisation that a child was missing or a husband or a wife and the dazed survivors were scrambling around in the bricks and rubble and dust, desperately seeking their loved ones; hoping against hope that they were alive; the ecstasy of finding them wandering around, dazed like themselves, or that icy dagger to the base of the stomach when a pile of smoking and bloodied rags on the ground proved to be the man or woman that they had shared a bed with for 30 or 40 years. Within minutes soldiers and police had taken off their raincoats to cover the dead; limbs protruded out from underneath the rubble, marking their temporary graves like makeshift crucifixes. Survivors spoke of seeing a woman’s body with her head embedded in the metal railings, so severe was the force of the bomb which blasted her into them.