I checked the immediate area around the Republican Plot by foot. I checked all my routes. I walked slowly around the central path and measured the distance to the chain-link fence that separated an industrial complex from the graveyard. I also measured from the chain-link fence to the motorway, where my getaway car would be waiting. I needed precision. The whole operation relied on split-second timing. I went back and redid the journey, this time at a faster pace. I searched for places where I could position myself and not be outflanked by Republicans who no doubt would do their best to catch me as I made my escape.
The whole operation had now begun to take shape. I visualised it and in my mind’s eye I saw it all crystal-clear. I shoot Adams and McGuinness, drop a few grenades to panic and confuse people and in the mayhem I escape to the motorway, where my associates and I make our escape.
I started to fine-tune everything. I chose my clothes carefully. I couldn’t go into Milltown cemetery in the standard Loyalist hit-squad gear of blue boiler suit, heavy boots, gloves and balaclava. So I chose a new look. I needed to blend in. I wanted to look no different from the hundreds of young Republicans who would go to the funeral service and pay their final respects at the Republican Plot. I had to look like them, but I also had weapons to conceal. The gun couldn’t sit in my coat pocket and I couldn’t string the grenades around my neck. My outfit had to perform two functions: disguise me and disguise my weapons.
In my garden shed I experimented with items of clothing from my own wardrobe. I tried fleece jackets and jeans. I tucked the guns down the waistband of my trousers but they were too bulky and too obvious. I started to use my head, making mental notes about exactly what my requirements were for the operation. I needed functional clothes that didn’t look out of place. I went to a motorbike shop and bought leather gloves. I cut the legs out of an old pair of Levis and made holsters from one leg to secure a gun under each armpit. From the other leg I made a kangaroo-type pouch which I would tie around my stomach to hold the seven grenades. The pouch would be linked to the holsters with old leather ties. The grenades would be placed in the pouch, the ones with the shortest fuse settings first. I etched the Roman numeral ‘V’ on two five-second grenades so that in the heat of the operation I knew exactly which grenade to grab. I made a webbing holder for the grenades with two old belts. I stitched them together and laughed to myself at the thought of the young Michael Stone sewing mailbags as he did his time in the Maze for stealing guns. The fleece top, jacket and all-weather coat disguised the bulkiness of the munitions I was carrying around my middle and under my arms. I was ready.
I checked my weapons meticulously. I cleaned both and took the Browning to a shooting range I had made for myself. It was down a storm drain and completely soundproofed. I used it regularly and there were thousands of spent shell cases down there. I put my earplugs in and used the gun, shooting round after round to make sure it worked properly. After ten minutes I was satisfied with the weapon and had no reason to believe it would let me down. I was ready for war, ready to die for God and Ulster.
I felt uncomfortable that I kept my weapons of war in my family home, but I consoled myself by saying it was the biggest operation of my life, it was right to do this because the operation was honourable and I was taking the war into the Provos’ own backyard.
I kept contact with my two associates to a minimum. I had one dry run with the driver and now it was time to coach my back-up man. The original plan was that he would accompany me into the graveyard and perform a crossfire operation, but I had a change of heart. I wanted to go into Milltown alone. On 14 March I told him of my new plan. At first he didn’t believe me and playfully punched me with his fist. I looked him in the eye and told him I wasn’t joking: his new role would be strictly as my back-up man and he would keep position on the motorway. I reassured him by saying I needed a good man who would give accurate covering fire when I was chased by Republicans. I told him his job was still important and probably more important than going into Milltown with me. He pleaded with me to change my mind. I told him my mind was made up and that he now had a new role on the city-bound carriageway of the M1 motorway.
He looked at me, tears welling in his eyes, and begged me to give him a chance. I shook my head and said no. The lad broke down and cried. He sobbed like a baby. After the tears of disappointment dried, we talked. I explained my decision. I told him that I couldn’t guarantee his safety. I told him the operation came with no guarantees. I said there was a chance both of us would die at the Republican Plot. He said he was prepared to die at my side and asked one final time if I would change my mind. I said no. He told me he would never forgive me and I told him to behave himself.
Back home, Leigh-Ann had taken the children shopping. It was the perfect opportunity for me to have a full dress rehearsal. The guns fitted perfectly in the denim holsters, the barrels pointing backwards and out. The handmade webbing to hold the grenades was also a snug fit. I took one look in the mirror and I didn’t like what I saw. I was standing in my own home dressed for my war with Republicans. I was putting my family’s life on the line. I was an arrogant and selfish bastard. My children and wife came a poor second to the Republicans I made it my life’s mission to stalk. No one in my entire family knew I was a paramilitary. It would be a shock to them all if I were to die on active service on 16 March. Before I went on an operation, I gave myself a survival rate. Most of the time it was 50:50. I figured Milltown would be at least 60:40 against me, but could even be less. But I believed it was worth a risk if it meant the leadership of the Republican movement was wiped out.
My human side continued to seep through the tough soldier exterior. Reality was beginning to hit home. The enormity of what I was about to do was starting to sink in. I can remember every freeze-framed second of the day before the operation. Unable to sleep, I took an early morning walk in the Belfast hills. I took my dogs and sat on a bench and watched the city wake up below me. I could see the shipyard, where I worked as a teenager. I could see other landmarks, such as the City Hall and the Royal Victoria Hospital. I could see Milltown spread out before me. I knew I might die on active service and for a brief second I thought about pulling the plug on the operation. I was only human, not a robot or a monster. I didn’t have ice running through my veins. I was anxious and a little scared. I was doing Milltown for innocent Protestants and civilians everywhere. I was doing this to protect innocent people, no matter what their religion, from the evil endorsed by Gerry Adams and Martin McGuinness.
I continued walking and thinking and ended up at the home of a good friend. I asked him to take my dogs and to look after them, not to fight them, and said if he was bad to them I would be bad to him. He was puzzled and asked what was going on and why I was leaving my terriers and pitbulls with him. I told him I needed to know the dogs were in safe hands. As I walked away from his home he shouted after me, ‘I don’t understand what’s going on, Stoner. What about Leigh-Ann and the kids?’ I never answered and just kept on walking, not daring to look back.
I was now focused and in control. The big ball was rolling. The big ball was in motion and once moving couldn’t be stopped. I met up with my two associates and together we did our final dry run. We drove to the M1, pulled into the hard shoulder and I went over the sequence of events with them to make sure they understood their instructions. I had to be sure in my head the two volunteers knew exactly what their job was and their exact positions during the entire operation. I warned them to be alert and fine-tuned for danger. I told the driver to cruise the roundabouts and junctions of the Westlink and under no circumstances to sit on the hard shoulder for hours on end. I stressed it was essential he keep moving to avoid being spotted by the security forces. I told them that when they were parked on the hard shoulder they should open the car bonnet, scatter some water on the ground and pretend to have a broken radiator. It was important they used their heads and not look suspicious. The golden rule was to keep moving.
As we pulled away
from Milltown my back-up man once again asked me to change my mind about letting him take part in the cemetery part of the operation. I didn’t answer his question, just shook my head and indicated to the driver to move off.
I knew the time of the funeral from the death notices in the Irish News. It was common knowledge that the security forces were staying away, but I needed to be sure. At previous Republican funerals it was normal for the RUC and British Army to be present. They were there to stop Republicans firing a volley of shots over tricolour-draped coffins, and Republicans saw this unwanted intervention as a massive insult to the memory of their dead. I checked with one of my intelligence officers, who confirmed the RUC and Army would not be shadowing the ceremony. He asked why I wanted to know and I told him I was working in the area and was making sure my personal security wasn’t going to be compromised. I had a clear run and that was one less thing to worry about.
Throughout the day I paid visits to friends. There was a good chance I would not survive the operation. Every time I felt apprehensive at the thought of the operation, I forced Martin McGuinness’s face into my mind. That was enough to spark the fire of hate bubbling in my belly. If you play, you pay, Martin.
I did final checks on my weapons and gave the getaway car a final examination. I had personally modified it. I welded a quarter-inch steel plate inside the boot to provide an extra layer of security. Cushions were filled with sand and placed against the back window, again for added protection. I also dropped the suspension to make the car stick to the road when we made our high-speed getaway.
I knew I had emotionally and physically switched off from Leigh-Ann. I was a mass of contradictions, wanting to be close to my loved ones and yet craving my privacy. I tried to play games with Daryl but it was forced fun. I just wanted to hold him in my arms. I was saying goodbye to a little boy I might never see again. My beautiful Lucy was just a baby and I cuddled her, fed her and got her ready for bed. Leigh-Ann was suspicious and asked me if I was feeling all right. I gave her a stupid answer, something about a father wanting to spend time with his daughter, but she just looked at me with a funny expression on her face.
I tuned into every news bulletin. The late news on BBC Radio Ulster said large crowds were expected at the triple funeral. I knew it was going to be huge and guessed somewhere in the region of two thousand, maybe three. Bravado was beginning to set in. I honestly believed I could take on a crowd of that size and win. I really believed I could take out three, maybe more, top Republicans and get out of the cemetery alive. I was focused. I had three men in my sights and I knew that, if everything went according to my detailed plans, then this time tomorrow Gerry Adams, Martin McGuinness and Danny Morrison would be dead.
The large crowds gathered to mourn the Gibraltar dead were not my targets. I was after those who organised, supported and condoned atrocities such as La Mon and Enniskillen. I knew that some non-IRA people might get caught in the crossfire and that would be regrettable in my eyes, but that was war and in war innocent people get injured and killed.
I went to bed but couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned for hours before giving up and getting dressed at 3am. I sat with Lucy for an hour. She was sleeping gently and peacefully in her cot. I kissed her and went into the kitchen and turned on the radio. West Belfast was aflame with rioting. Republicans were welcoming home their martyrs with hijacked vehicles and flaming barricades. I looked at old baby photographs. I thought about my three sons from my first marriage, Michael, Gary and Jason. Soon Leigh-Ann was up, getting Daryl and Lucy ready for the day. She asked me why I tossed and turned and why I couldn’t sleep. I lied. I told my wife I was bidding for an important tender and would know in the next few hours if I was successful. She put the kettle on and made us both a cup of coffee. We sat in the kitchen in a comfortable silence. I took her hand and told her I would see her later.
At the back door I turned to look at her and wave goodbye, but she had her head turned away, bouncing Lucy in her arms. This is my lasting image of 16 March 1988: my young wife holding our daughter in her arms as I waved an unseen goodbye to them both.
15
MILLTOWN
I UNLOCKED MY SHED AND STARTED THE RITUAL OF DRESSING FOR THE OPERATION. I DID SO METHODICALLY RATHER THAN MECHANICALLY. I strapped the handmade webbing around my middle and placed the grenades in it. I primed them by straightening the split pins and placed them in order of time delay into the webbing. I filled the speed strips – security forces issue at the time – with .357 Magnum and Winchester bullets and placed them in the pouch. I put on the denim holsters and inserted the weapons, barrel down, cocked and with the safety catch on. The leather gloves and a cap went into the pockets of my all-weather coat. I was ready for my war with the Republican movement. It was payback time, big style.
I followed my usual travelling procedure, taking a bus into town. I sat at the back. When I look back now, I find it unbelievable that I had live grenades strapped to my stomach and guns under my arms. I listened to idle chit-chat, pensioners talking about the weather, kids talking about school and young mothers coaxing toddlers to behave.
Then he arrived, a friend from my youth. He insisted on sitting beside me. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts, but he insisted on taking the seat beside me and refused to stop chirping in my ear. He even put his arm around me and said, ‘What about those Provies being buried today. I hope it pisses out of the heavens on them.’ I agreed. Of course I wanted it to rain. If it rained it meant I could pull the hood of my coat up over my head and disguise my long hair.
I got off at the City Hall and was surprised how quiet the city centre was, but then I remembered it was a Wednesday and half-day closing. I began walking in the direction of the Royal Victoria Hospital, keeping my eyes peeled for a black taxi, but there were none around. The vehicles, which normally clogged the city’s roads, were today like the proverbial hen’s teeth. I kept walking and was soon in West Belfast outside the Falls Road entrance of the Royal Victoria. Small crowds had started to gather and were walking in tight clusters towards the Andersonstown Road.
Walking in the opposite direction was an Army foot patrol. There were eight soldiers and two policemen. I nodded at one RUC officer as we passed each other, then realised what I had done. I had invited attention. Because of my cockiness I looked suspicious. I looked like a young Republican and I had deliberately chosen that look. I was fucking stupid to wink and nod at the Army because Republican youths wouldn’t do that. The security forces now had an excuse to stop and question me.
I was staring trouble straight in the eye. The young policeman stopped in his tracks and repositioned the weapon he was carrying. Did he want to search me? I could see him nodding to me and whispering to his superior. What the hell was I going to say? What was I going to do? I pulled a story out of thin air. I was a gambler, I owed money, I was told to bring the weapons to a man in a blue van parked in the car park of the hospital to pay my debts. If they search me, they charge me with possession and I am looking at twenty years. I kept walking. I had my first close call of the day.
A black cab pulled up alongside me. I got in and joined two young men and a young woman. They looked at me and I looked at them. They continued their conversation, speaking quietly to one another and I was relieved they ignored me. We began our journey to St Agnes’s church but didn’t get very far. The road was jammed with people. The black cab pulled up outside Andersonstown leisure centre and I got out to make the walk to the church, where the funeral mass for Danny McCann and Sean Savage would take place. Mairead Farrell’s funeral service was taking place in another part of the city, but she would join her dead colleagues for the slow procession to the Republican Plot. I gave the driver a pound coin, dropping it into the tiny tray. I walked into the crowd and heard, ‘Hey, lad, hey, big fella.’ I turned towards the voice. It was the driver. I instinctively felt for my Browning and he stuck his hand out of the window and said, ‘Here’s your money back, the black cabs are on us all day.’
I kept walking towards the church, keeping on the left-hand side of the road. There were thousands of people. Last night I had guessed somewhere in the region of two thousand mourners, but today I could see how much I misjudged. There were at least four thousand people here. The streets and roads were clogged with men, women and children making their slow pilgrimage to the funeral mass. I stood on the steps of the leisure centre and had a good look around. I could see two of the coffins had arrived. I could see Danny Morrison organising media crews and pointing out the best locations for cameras and reporters. I felt I was watching a really bad movie about Northern Ireland. I heard the click-click of a nearby camera. It was time to move further up and further in.
I mingled with the crowd and was shocked to discover it was a broad sweep of nationalism as well as Republicanism. Some were middle class and some were working class. There were sharp suits and tracksuits. There were thick West Belfast accents and middle-class accents. There was a guy in a wheelchair being pushed by a kind friend. I remember him clearly. I remember thinking the IRA had done this to innocent civilians. I walked on, gathering speed. There were children everywhere, playing games and chasing one another. They were shouting and laughing at the tops of their voices. I felt a surge of anger. The parents of these children were mad taking youngsters to something like this.
None Shall Divide Us Page 12
