Fifty Dead Men Walking

by McGartland, Martin

Something else that I liked and respected about Davy Adams was his attitude to the IRA punishment gangs. Several times, I heard him denounce punishment beatings and he would frequently insult and ridicule members of the punishment gangs whom he believed brought the IRA into disrepute and dishonour. He would sometimes sit in a pub with his mates and watch a punishment gang sitting across the room, chatting, laughing and drinking, openly boasting that they were the true law enforcers of the organisation, the men who protected the IRA’s strict disciplinary code. Davy Adams would treat them with contempt, because he believed that they should have been involved in doing valuable IRA work, like targeting soldiers or police, risking their lives and their freedom, rather than chasing, beating and sometimes maiming kids and others with their baseball bats and iron bars.

  And yet he would never forget those IRA members who had been caught and jailed, fighting for the cause, because he would never forget that he had served a long jail sentence. He would ask people for books to send to the inmates and provide food parcels. He would also write secret letters to personal friends inside jail, which would be smuggled inside by sympathisers and relations of the imprisoned men.

  Immaculate, good-looking and proud, Davy Adams would often find himself receiving attention from various women and yet I would never see him take advantage of any of them, as though he didn’t welcome their attention. He seemed totally dedicated to his wife and kids and even, on occasions, when he had a pint too many, he would always leave the pub and go straight home. As I watched, sober as always, I would always see a number of women endeavouring to attract his attention, openly flirting, virtually offering themselves to him. He didn’t want to know.

  Too many republican women, senior members of the IRA have always seemed especially attractive, not only because of the dangerous lives they lead but because of the romantic image the organisation has created over the decades. Many are still feted as heroes and the women found their attraction both powerful and seductive. Though Davy Adams wanted none of their attention, there would be many other senior IRA men who revelled in the limelight and would take advantage of their positions to conduct many illicit affairs.

  It appeared little to many of these women that they were already married, so strong seemed the attraction of the IRA image. Many affairs took place because the women found the men irresistible, but for the men it would usually be for different reasons. Most IRA members would enjoy the attention and take advantage of the situation, but for others it would only be a means to an end. The men would often take advantage of the relationships to gain access to the woman’s house or flat, so they would have yet another secret hideout for storing their guns, ammunition and bomb-making equipment. Sometimes the women would be persuaded to look the other way while the men turned their homes into bomb-making factories.

  Occasionally, Davy Adams would accompany me on IRA targeting operations, surveying possible locations. We would even walk up and down the Protestant Shankill Road, which took considerable nerve. Every Loyalist would have recognised him as easily as they would have recognised his uncle, Gerry Adams. To walk along the Shankill revealed the courage of the man.

  Once, Davy and I went to survey a flat in the Shankill Parade which had been identified as a late-night drinking den of members of the hard-line UVF. We had parked the car a few hundred yards away, parted company and approached the flats from different sides. We both knew that if we were caught in that area we would be kidnapped, interrogated and, more than likely, beaten to death, our bodies discovered the following day down some alley with a bullet through the head. That night, we walked along the road and looked up, checking the exact address. As there was no one on the streets we stood watching as ten or more UVF members, some obviously drunk, enjoyed their late-night binge. I constantly looked around, checking to see if anyone was approaching, but Davy didn’t seem to care a damn about his own safety.

  He told me that he wanted me to go to a house in Kerrykeel Gardens, in the Suffolk area of Belfast, to meet some IRA members. I had no idea why he wanted me to go, nor did Davy offer any reason. He liked to work in that way with me because he knew me to be naturally curious and was confident that whatever he suggested I would wish to investigate. This would be no exception.

  A freckly-face young man in his late teens, with a noticeable baby face and dark ginger hair, opened the door and motioned me to go into a downstairs room. Once inside, he told me to sit on the single chair which was facing the wall and wait. I did as I was told but became worried when I heard no voices, for I wondered if my identity had somehow been revealed or, perhaps, that someone had seen me making phone calls from public call boxes, arousing suspicion. Five minutes later, I heard some people enter the room and my heart began to beat faster, but at no time did I even think of turning round.

  ‘OK, Marty,’ a voice said, ‘did Davy tell you why you’re here?’

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘He just told me to come to this address.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what it is Marty,’ the voice continued. ‘We want to know some things about you.’

  That question put the fear of God in me. I became convinced that my true identity had been rumbled. I wondered what would happen next.

  ‘Is it true you have your own car?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, fearful that someone may have found the tracking device.

  ‘Have you ever been in trouble with the police?’ the voice asked.

  ‘A few times, yes,’ I replied, ‘but nothing serious.’

  Another voice spoke up, ‘Are you well known to the peelers in your area?’

  ‘No, not really,’ I said.

  The first voice asked, ‘Marty, tell us, why did you join the IRA?’

  I had been briefed some months earlier by the Special Branch as to exactly what I should say if IRA members ever asked me why I wanted to join the organisation. They hadn’t told me anything specific to say, never giving me the exact words to remember, but they said that I should tell them that I believed in the IRA, that I wanted to serve the cause.

  ‘I joined because I believe in what the IRA is doing,’ I said, ‘and so that I can help protect the people in the area where I grew up.’

  They asked me how well I knew Davy Adams and I told them that I had known him for a couple of months. They asked me what I thought of him and I told them I found him to be honest and dedicated to the cause.

  ‘Do you know that he’s also well known to the peelers?’ the voice asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I lied.

  They asked me how I had first met Davy Adams and I told them that it had been through Harry Fitzsimmons, a lad whom I had known all my life.

  Another voice piped up, ‘Fuck, I know Harry well; he’s a good lad. But he’s also well known to the peelers.’

  After a few more questions the men left the room. I still did not move but sat facing the wall. I could feel my heart thumping, wondering what would happen next, fearing the worst. The minutes dragged by like hours.

  Ten minutes later they returned. ‘OK, Marty,’ said the voice, ‘you can turn round now.’

  When I turned round I saw the two men, one of whom I recognised from the Special Branch files. The first voice belonged to Spud. The other man was in his 30s, about 5ft 7in tall, medium-built with a high forehead.

  Spud said, ‘Now I can tell you why you’re here. I’m sorry you had to face the wall while we questioned you, but it’s for everyone’s safety.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I replied, ‘don’t worry about it.’

  ‘Marty,’ he went on, ‘we’re setting up a new IRA unit, a new cell and we have been told a lot about you. We think you would fit in well for what we have planned. Basically, we need people who can get in and out of areas where UDR soldiers and peelers live, where they feel safe from IRA attacks.’

  ‘Aye,’ I replied, ‘I’ve been in that position many times; stopped by the army and the peelers, made to show my licence and insurance and things and then told to be on my way.’


  ‘Do you want to come in with us, then?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I would,’ I replied eagerly, ‘that would be great.’

  ‘There is one important point, Marty,’ Spud said, sounding grave and somewhat ominous.

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked, wondering what the hell he was going to say.

  ‘’You will have to keep away from Davy Adams.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ I asked, knowing that Felix wouldn’t welcome that news.

  ‘Through no fault of his own, Davy is too well-known to the Branch,’ he said. ‘He may draw attention to you without realising it and we can’t risk that. We don’t want the Branch to get to know about this squad because we are going to be really successful.’

  ‘I understand,’ I said, but I knew that, somehow, I would continue to see Davy Adams from time to time.

  Spud told me, ‘I’ll tell you what I want you to do, Marty. I want to put together a new cell and recruit young men, new recruits to the organisation, who are totally unknown to the RUC. I intend to use these recruits to carry out dangerous operations where the enemy feels safe; in their own homes.’

  I was told to report the following night to another address, a flat in the same area of Belfast. In all, seven of us were in the room that night and our leader told us that we were all part of the new cell, along with three others we would meet at a later date.

  As he talked, I checked out every one of the team, trying to remember their looks, their faces, height, weight, anything that could identify them from photographs. I was sure that I had never seen a single one of them before on any Special Branch file, except for the leader. I knew this would spell trouble for the Branch because it meant that the members of this new cell were all recent recruits. I anticipated that if this cell was being created from raw recruits, unknown to the police or Special Branch, there was the distinct probability that other cells were also being created around this time.

  When I left the flat that night, I had a good idea of each man and knew that, if shown a photo, I would be able to recognise most, if not all of them.

  I was surprised that at the initial meeting our first major operation would be discussed. The leader told us that two RUC patrol men had been targeted in the Rathcoole area north of Belfast, a fiercely loyalist area.

  He said, ‘This area is full of UVF and UFF loyalist paramilitaries and if we can kill two RUC men in that area it will be a real fucking embarrassment to the Loyalists and also a very good result for us.’

  Within an hour of leaving the meeting, I phoned the Branch and spoke to Felix, who called me back at the phone box. I explained in detail what had happened that night. He sounded concerned at the news and told me it would be necessary for me to meet him, as a matter of urgency, the next morning. I also told him of the planned attack in Rathcoole and he said he would take care of that.

  The following morning, I met Felix and Mo at one of our meeting places. They were waiting for me in their parked car. As they listened to me relating everything that had happened the previous night, I could see they were both worried men. Felix had told me that the previous night he had spoken to senior officers within the Branch. He asked if I would drive off and return an hour later to meet one of their most senior officers.

  Felix, Mo and the senior officer were sitting in the blacked-out van when I returned. Felix asked me to explain to the officer, who surprisingly wore a hand-gun in a shoulder holster, everything that had happened the previous night. He also produced three more photographic files which I had never seen before, full of pictures of IRA suspects from other areas of Belfast. Once again, I went diligently through each page of photos, but recognised none of those whom I had met the previous night.

  Before I left, Felix asked me to keep them closely informed of any meetings that I was asked to attend and, more importantly, if I heard of any operations being planned.

  Over the following months, the cell would meet, on average, once a week. We would be encouraged to find sympathetic Republicans prepared to offer their homes to conceal weapons, Semtex, ammunition and bomb-making materials. We were actively discouraged from keeping any IRA material or weapons in our own homes, for fear of being raided.

  I decided to discuss the matter with my Special Branch controllers and suggested to them that I should keep whatever was necessary in my home because I knew the Branch could then ensure that the flat would never be searched. They agreed and told me that they would organise for a block to be put on my address, which meant that no police or army patrols would ever be permitted to enter or search my home.

  At a cell meeting one night, I volunteered to keep some arms and explosives in the roof space of my flat and was advised to go and see a member of the IRA who was the area Quartermaster. I was told to go to an address off the Falls Road where I would meet a 40-year-old man with shoulder-length fair hair.

  The man they described opened the door to me. ‘I’ve been sent down to you to get some stuff,’ I said.

  He asked who had sent me and I gave him the name of our IRA boss.

  He never asked any other question, but told me to wait until he returned. 15 minutes later the man came back and handed me 5lb of Semtex, three detonators wrapped in toilet paper and two battery packs fitted with tilt switches and timers, enough to make three under-car booby traps. He also gave me a 9mm Browning automatic and a small sock containing about seventeen 9mm rounds.

  I drove straight home and immediately took the gear inside, because I knew Angie had taken baby Martin to her mother’s for the day. I went into the hallway where I knew there was a small opening in the ceiling, no more than a foot square, above the cupboard. I put the gear in there, convinced that Angie would never search the roof space.

  A few weeks later, my pal, Harry Fitzsimmons, asked me if he could use my flat for a few hours one day because he needed to build an under-car booby trap. I did not bother to tell the Branch because there was no danger of anyone suddenly raiding the flat. He brought the equipment, including a magnet, in a plastic supermarket bag.

  Harry put the fear of God in me that day. I knew nothing whatsoever about explosives or how they should be handled. To me, explosives spelt danger.

  We went to the bathroom and Harry laid out everything on the linoleum floor. He began to cut the Semtex with a pen knife and gave it to me to hold. It felt like squidgy chewing gum, yellowish in colour with mottled orange and brown specks. It was also very, very difficult to get off any surface, including skin. We wore pink kitchen gloves. By accident, Haary cut a hole in the forefinger of one of his gloves and he was so worried that his finger-print could end up on the materials that he wound some black tape around the finger before continuing with his work. He then began to hit the Semtex with a piece of wood, striking it really hard.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ I shouted. ‘You’ll blow us up if you go on like that.’

  He just laughed at my reaction and went on beating the Semtex into the shape he wanted. I became convinced that the whole lot would explode, and backed out of the room and went and stood in the hallway expecting an explosion, fearing the worst, wondering what on earth I would tell Angie if our flat had been blown apart by an IRA bomb exploding accidentally.

  About 90 minutes later, a long time after I had become bored watching him, Harry announced, ‘That’s it, come and have a look.’

  He was proud of his work, very proud. He explained to me exactly what he had done, but I didn’t pay that much attention for I had no wish ever to become an explosives officer for the IRA.

  Despite my forebodings about the bomb, I agreed to keep it in my flat for a few days, in the same place I had hidden the weapons.

  I immediately informed my handlers about the bomb and they told me they were keen to see it.

  Because of the possibility of Angela seeing the bomb, I arranged a meeting after midnight. I waited until she had gone to bed and then told her I had to go out and see someone. I quickly took all the gear out of the roof space and put it into a
carrier bag before driving off to meet Felix and his mate.

  On this occasion, the Branch were taking no chances. I drove behind Felix and Mo in their car and another Branch car immediately drew up behind me as protection, escorting me to Castlereagh Police Station. I carried the bag in and they immediately took out the contents, spreading everything on the table. A photographer and a bomb expert came into the room, photographed the booby trap from every conceivable angle and then took it away for examination. They were gone the best part of two hours.

  When they returned to the room, the bomb expert explained to me that the Semtex had been injected with a chemical of some type, which would ensure that the bomb would never explode. They produced the Polaroid snaps to check that the bomb had been re-assembled in precisely the same manner, so that not even the bomb-maker himself would think anyone had tampered with his masterpiece.

  When I arrived home, however, sometime after 3.00am, I was about to put the booby-trap bomb back into the roof space when I noticed a small piece of black wire was missing. I searched everywhere, but to no avail. And after twice searching my car I phoned the Branch.

  ‘This is Carol,’ I said to the telephonist. ‘Is there any chance of contacting Felix very, very urgently. Please tell him to phone me at home.’

  I sat by the phone not daring to move until Felix phoned back. The last thing I wanted was to wake Angie. It was almost dawn when the call came through.

  ‘What the fuck’s up with you?’ Felix said jokingly, ‘Do you never sleep?’

  ‘No, this is real serious shit,’ I said. ‘I’ve lost part of the bomb.’

  ‘Jesus,’ he said, sounding concerned, ‘are you sure?’

  ‘I’m positive.’

  ‘Have you checked your bag, your car?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ I said, ‘I’ve been here for the past hour searching high and low. I can’t find it.’

  ‘Stay by the phone and I’ll call you back. I’ll get someone to search the office.’

  Fifteen minutes later Felix phoned back. ‘Found it,’ he said. ‘Now for fuck’s sake, go to bed and we’ll meet tomorrow. Will you be able to connect it?’