Fifty Dead Men Walking

by McGartland, Martin

‘We need you to go and get the rifle,’ Spud said in a matter-of-fact voice.

  ‘You fuckin’ what?’ I exclaimed. ‘You want me to risk my neck because some other cunts have lost their bottle. You must be joking.’

  ‘We need that rifle,’ Spud explained trying to interest me in carrying out the plan, ‘We need it desperately for other operations we have planned.’

  ‘I want nothing to do with it,’ I told him.

  ‘Well, if I show you on the map where it is will you go and take a look?’ Just drive past to see if you can see any activity and report back.’

  ‘But you know,’ I went on, ‘that if the SAS is involved I won’t see fuck all from driving past. Those guys can lie buried in the ground for days without moving. When I show up, they’ll just let fly.’

  ‘Just take a look,’ Spud pleaded, ‘just take a look.’

  My mind was racing. I knew that if Spud needed the rifle for other planned operations – in other words, for executions – then maybe I should intervene and try to get hold of the weapon.

  ‘OK,’ I said, ‘I’ll take a look, but I’m not promising.’

  ‘You’re a good lad, Marty,’ he said, ‘I knew we could rely on you.’

  Twenty minutes later, I phoned Felix and explained my dilemma.

  ‘I’ll check it out. We’ll meet at the usual place in an hour. OK?’

  ‘OK,’ I replied.

  An hour later, I was face to face with Felix and Mo, telling them once again exactly what had happened.

  ‘OK, let’s go,’ said Felix.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I enquired.

  ‘We’re going for a ride to Ballymena to pick up the rifle.’

  ‘But what about the fucking SAS?’ I asked, anxiety in my voice.

  ‘I’ve made enquiries,’ Felix replied. ‘I don’t think they’re there yet, but they may be. We’ll have to tread carefully.’

  ‘Fuck me, Felix,’ I protested, ‘Are you mad or something?’

  When we arrived at the location Spud had indicated, it was still daylight. Having driven along the hedgerow five or six times, we stopped. Felix decided that Mo and I should go and search for the rifle while he stayed in the blacked-out van with his radio, in case of trouble.

  ‘Shit, Mo,’ I said as we clambered out of the van, ‘do you think this is stupid?’

  ‘Aye,’ he said with a grin, ‘but Felix knows what he’s doing. He’s nobody’s fool.’

  ‘I fuckin’ hope not,’ I said as we crossed the road and began searching the hedgerow. I kept looking around me, fearful that at any moment an SAS man in camouflage would pop up, as if from nowhere, and either shoot me or smash my head in.

  We searched for more than ten minutes without success, and I began to wonder whether Spud had deliberately sent me on a wild goose chase, possibly to check me out, perhaps even having detailed someone to follow me, suspecting something.

  ‘Marty, come here.’

  It was Mo, further down, working along the hedgerow on the other side.

  I stopped looking and ran towards him. He was holding the rifle which was partly covered with a bedsheet.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said and we walked down the field towards Felix and the van. I was still looking around anxiously, fearful that the SAS may have been waiting to catch us red-handed. But nothing stirred. I felt massively relieved when we finally clambered into the van to see Felix beaming, a huge smile across his face.

  ‘There you are, Marty,’ he said, ‘I told you it would be a piece of cake.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ I said, but I was happy to be in the safety of the van and driving back to Belfast.

  ‘And what do I tell Spud?’ I enquired. ‘What shall I say?’

  ‘Tell him that you went to have a look,’ Felix said. ‘Tell him that you drove along the road, backwards and forwards a few times, and then you got out and had a look, but you found nothing. Tell him you searched for five minutes or more but with no success. Not wanting to call attention to yourself, you pushed off.’

  ‘Will he believe me?’ I asked.

  ‘Fuck knows,’ Felix said with a smile, ‘but I expect he will. Remember, Marty, he couldn’t find anyone else to go. Don’t worry you’ll be OK.’

  I was worried when I called to see Spud, but I had rehearsed my story a dozen times or more in my head before going to see him.

  ‘Did you go?’ he asked me. ‘Did you really go, Marty?’

  ‘Aye,’ I said, ‘if you want, I’ll tell you what it was like.’

  ‘No, no,’ he said, ‘there’s no need for that. But you couldn’t find anything?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘But to search the whole long hedgerow would have taken a dozen men an hour or more. I wasn’t going to be seen searching the undergrowth, in case I was spotted and people asked questions.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Spud said, ‘you did well. Shame about the rifle though.’

  ‘The dozy cunts should have brought it back with them,’ I said.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘Now we’ll have to get another one from somewhere.’

  Agreeing to that mission seemed to enhance my reputation within our cell and Spud became more deferential towards me, marking me out for praise, and seeking my advice when he hadn’t done so in the past. It also meant that I was learning about other IRA activities which I wouldn’t have known about otherwise.

  It seemed an extraordinary coincidence but it was about this time that Angie told me she was pregnant again. I sensed, however, that she did not seem as happy as she had been when she was expecting young Martin. Understandably, she was worried because she believed that I had become deeply committed to the IRA and believed I was spending 90 per cent of my waking hours talking, planning and doing God-knows-what with other members of the organisation.

  ‘You know I don’t like what you’re doing, Marty,’ she would say, an anxious look on her face.

  I would try to calm her, tell her that everything was fine; that we would all be OK.

  ‘But now I’m pregnant again,’ she would say, ‘and I don’t know whether you’re going to be with us this week or next week. I keep reading in the paper and hearing on the news that IRA people are being arrested, others killed, and I keep thinking that could be you.’

  Perhaps I hadn’t realised the extent to which she worried, for she would continue, ‘It’s awful being here on my own, knowing you are getting mixed up in trouble and not knowing what I would do if anything happened to you.’

  These conversations, which would arise from time to time, always put me in a quandary – I wanted to tell Angie the truth, but wasn’t able even to hint that I was, in fact, an agent working with the Special Branch and therefore would never be arrested and imprisoned. I felt desperately sorry for her. I had tried to put her fears out of my mind, but when she spoke openly to me, I realised the hell she was going through alone, at home each night, waiting for me to return. There was simply no way for me to tell her that I was working for the Branch, for the British Government, and not the IRA.

  I would lie awake at night, unable to sleep for hours, thinking of a way I could allay Angie’s fears without telling her that I was working for the Government. But one fact that I kept telling myself was that Angie was worrying unduly; the chance of my being arrested and jailed was nil, and one day we would all live together as a happy family. But not yet. First, I reasoned. I had to finish the job I had started, helping to save people’s lives. I believed that my life was safe and my future secure, but there were others depending on the job I was doing.

  Time and time again, Felix would tell me, ‘Remember, Marty, what you are doing. You’re not simply saving a man’s life, but the life of someone’s father, someone’s husband or someone’s son. They will never know what you did for them. But you will know. When all this is over, you will realise the lives you saved by your courage. And you must never forget that. For me, it’s easy, telling you what to do from the safety of this place, but you are out there, risking your neck every day.�
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  In March 1991, I determined to spend more time with Angie, to help her through the last weeks of her pregnancy, as well as to give her the emotional support which she needed.

  I had been detailed by Spud to check out a house in Richill Crescent, near the RUC headquarters in Knock, East Belfast, where an RUC Constable lived alone. He was in his 50s, without a car and would walk to the bus stop each day on his way to work. The IRA decided that they could not shoot him in cold blood, because a safe getaway could not be guaranteed in an area where so many RUC officers lived.

  They finally decided that the only way to kill the officer was to place a booby-trap bomb in the wheely bin in his back garden. They knew that, once a week, he would push the bin into the street for collection. I warned the Branch of the planned attack and they told me to watch developments and to keep them notified.

  The police officer was advised to move immediately but when I went to check the house I saw a number of people moving about outside, as though a party was in full swing. It seemed strange for this was the first time I had ever seen anyone, except for the policeman, in the house. I became convinced that the Branch had laid a trap for the IRA bomb squad, and I feared that someone would be killed if an attack was mounted.

  So I decided to lie to both the IRA and the Special Branch. I told Spud that the RUC man kept his wheely bin locked in a shed in his garden, and told the Branch that the attack was still being planned. Spud decided to call off the planned attack, but the Branch repeatedly asked me for progress reports on the attack. I constantly fed them the same intelligence – the operation was still on.

  I continued to watch the house, wondering what was really being planned, either by the Branch or the RUC. Sometimes I discovered lights on all over the place, at other times hardly anyone seemed to be about, but generally there appeared to be a number of people living there. One night, I took the unusual step of taking Angie with me because she seemed to be on the point of giving birth. Our son Martin was staying the night with Angie’s mother.

  We parked the car, picked up a bite to eat at Kentucky Fried Chicken nearby, and walked the mile-and-a-half to the street where the RUC man lived. Then we walked back again. Angie had said she wanted to take a long, slow walk in the fresh air and it seemed an ideal opportunity for me to spy on the house and for Angie to stretch her legs. At no time did I tell Angie anything about the planned attack, nor that there was an RUC man living there.

  Later, I dropped Angie at her grandmother’s house in Ballymurphy for the night. The following morning – 16 March – I received a call saying that Angie had been taken to hospital in the early hours of the morning. I went straight to the hospital and hours later, baby Podraig was born, a healthy, bouncy baby boy with dark hair like his mother.

  A few weeks after Angie and Podraig came home from hospital, a Housing Executive official came to tell her that they had arranged for her and the children to move into her grandmother’s house in Glenalina Park on the Ballymurphy Estate, the house where her mother had spent her childhood years. Angie’s grandmother would be moved to a smaller house off the Falls Road.

  Before leaving our flat, I made sure that every piece of IRA equipment had been moved to a new safe house in the area.

  I was still involved with both my own IRA cell and working as often as possible with Davy Adams, gathering information and targets that I would pass on to the Branch. In the Spring of 1991, Davy Adams phoned me as I was having a glass of coke in a republican bar.

  ‘Marty,’ he said, ‘can you come down and have a drink with a couple of friends. I’m in the club on the Falls Road.’

  Davy and his pal Paul were having a drink and chatting to Rosena Brown, who was working a shift as a barmaid.

  ‘I’m going to Scotland tonight,’ Davy told me, ‘and Paul wants to bring Rosena along, too.’

  ‘How are you getting there?’ I asked.

  ‘We’ve got a lift laid on.’

  I wondered why Davy would be so keen to visit Scotland. Convinced it had to be serious IRA business, I volunteered to drive him.

  ‘Would you really drive us?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, sure I will,’ I replied. ‘I’ll have to go and get some money from home. I’ll see you back here in 20 minutes.’

  I went to a cash machine and withdrew £200. I also took the opportunity of phoning Castlereagh and left a message with ‘B’ Division, asking them to tell Felix that I was going to Scotland.

  ‘Put your foot down,’ Davy said as soon as we were all in the car, ‘the ferry sails in 45 minutes.’

  Davy sat beside me in the front, while Rosena and Paul sat in the back, cuddling and kissing for most of the journey.

  I enjoyed that drive, racing at speeds in excess of 100 mph along the back roads leading to Larne. Davy loved the fast driving, yelping and whooping as we tore along the narrow, twisting roads. In the back, Rosena and Paul were screaming blue murder, shouting for me to slow down, convinced we would all be killed in a pile up. But Davy was determined to make that ferry.

  ‘Calm yourselves,’ Davy told them, ‘Marty is a bloody good little driver. He’ll get us there.’

  We made it, with five minutes to spare.

  It was the first time that I had ever left my native Ireland. And I did not enjoy the journey one bit. The crossing was rough that night, and Davy and I were seasick on the way over to Stranraer. But as soon as we reached port and I stood on the terra firma again, I felt better. We were met by two lads from Glasgow and we followed them in our car. We finally reached our destination at about 2.30am, a small terraced house on a run-down housing estate. Rosena and Paul took the only bedroom, while Davy and I had to sleep on the floor in the front room. I was so tired, though, I fell asleep within minutes.

  Early the following morning, Davy phoned Brian Gillen back in Belfast who seemed agitated that Davy, Rosena and I had travelled together to Scotland. He feared that the Special Branch might be watching the ferries.

  That afternoon, we all walked to a flat on the estate and met two scots, both in their 30s. They were introduced to me as two strong republican supporters. The two men explained that they had been able to trace some hand-guns which they were acquiring from Glasgow criminals. At that time I was well aware that the IRA in Belfast were desperately short of hand-guns, though we had plenty of AK-47s. To carry out most of the operations the IRA planned at that time, hand-guns were essential, because they could be easily concealed and moved from place to place.

  Having completed the business, we all went to Parkhead the next day to see the crunch match of the Scottish soccer season, Celtic versus Rangers, viewed for generations as Catholics versus Protestants. Rosena was in her element, shouting and screaming whenever Celtic gained possession of the ball or came close to scoring. Throughout the match, we heard some supporters shouting IRA slogans at the Rangers supporters on the terrace opposite and they, in turn, would hurl loyalist abuse at the ‘Micks’.

  Later that night, I went out alone for a McDonald’s burger, and took the opportunity to phone Castlereagh, leaving a message for Felix, telling him what had happened in Glasgow. I was very happy to return to Belfast the following day, as I had missed Angie and the kids. Before that weekend, I had never been away from Angie and it made me realise how involved I had become with her. It made me think how good our relationship had become and how much she meant to me.

  Angie’s mother was the first person I saw as I came into the house and she gave me a cold look, as though I had a nerve walking into the house as though I hadn’t been missing for four days.

  Angie walked in from the kitchen. ‘Where have you been?’ she asked, not wanting to give me a roasting in front of her mother. On the way back I had discussed with Davy what I should tell Angie. I had done nothing wrong, but I didn’t want Angie to think that I would simply push off and leave her for a long weekend without telling her first. Davy advised me to tell her that he and I had been arrested and held by the RUC.

  She believed the
story I told her, but I could tell she was far from happy with what had happened.

  I felt bad about having to lie to Angie, and even worse that I had left her for so long without telling her. I determined to make it up to her. I had genuinely missed her and I felt I wanted to spoil her, to show her how much I cared for her and the kids. I hadn’t been spending much money on Angie and my bank balance was healthy. After my recent pay rise, I was earning more than £3,000 a month from the Special Branch and decided to make our three-bedroom home really comfortable.

  Felix had decided the time had come to change my car, and I had been given £3,300 to go and buy something suitable. With Angie, I went to Wilson’s Car Auctions and we bought a two-year-old Mark IV Ford Escort 1.4LX, which had been a Bank of Ireland company car.

  I decided I wanted to park the car in the front garden rather than leave it in the road where, I figured, it could have been the target of joy-riders. I walked to a nearby building site and asked a JCB driver if he wanted to earn a few quid for doing a little job for me. He agreed to drive over to our house, knock down the front wall and scrape out the crazy paving. Levelling the area. The job took him a little over an hour and he was happy with the £30 I gave him. The next day, a load of concrete was delivered and I laid and levelled the concrete. I arranged for a pair of wooden gates to be erected, hoping that would deter would-be car thieves. At the same time, I put up the swing that Angie and I had bought on our trip down south.

  But I wanted to show Angie that I really cared, and was only too happy to spend my money on making our new home really beautiful. I paid a joiner to clad the bathroom with pine and paid a decorator to wallpaper the entire house. We bought new carpets for the whole house, purchased a three-piece suite from her mother, bought a new bed, wardrobe and side tables for our bedroom and two single beds for the other rooms. For the kitchen, we bought a new washing machine, fridge/freezer and cooker. I spent over £4,000, but it was worth every penny for Angie was thrilled with her new home.

  I knew I was taking a risk spending such money, arousing suspicion with Davy Adams and other IRA men calling round to see me from time to time. And yet I accepted that risk because I wanted to spoil Angie, to show her I cared and that I could be kind and generous. After all, she had to endure an odd life with me, not knowing where I worked, what I did or when she would ever see me. I tried to lead as normal life as possible, but it was becoming increasingly difficult with the demands the IRA was making on my time and the need to keep my handlers notified of everything that was going on.