Blazer: Return of the Troubles: A Cop Thriller

by G. C. Harmon

  The answer did surprise me. God is all powerful and always present, Flanagan assured me. But He gave man the freedom of choice. And even when we have that agency, he can sometimes use us as his instrument on earth. And sometimes that tragedy that we witness, it’s not about the victim of the tragedy, but about those that witness it and either question God’s will—or become it.

  That stuck with me. I started looking at my life and looking at where God might be using me as his instrument. How was I meant to react and be affected by the events of my life, from my father’s death, to my new association with the movement for Irish independence?

  Two days after the riot, I was once again brought to the bar by Cullen. The back room was a different scene. Where just days ago they were drinking and raving about the RUCs and the Brits, now they were preparing for war. There were a half dozen men that I recognized from the previous meeting. Now they were cleaning guns. Several of the men had disassembled pistols and a couple rifles on a table, and they were wiping them down. Others were carting boxes of ammunition around and loading magazines for the weapons.

  Cullen and I approached the man who had led the meeting two nights ago, a tall and lanky muscular man we knew as Riley O’Sullivan. When he saw us, he slapped together the broken down pieces of a Browning Hi-Power, and then held the gun out to my cousin. Cullen had a passing knowledge of firearms, so he at least knew the operation of one. He pulled back the slide, confirmed the gun was empty, then handed it to me. It was my first time holding a gun, and I have to admit, I felt a power surge through me. Looking back, that power was an illusion, but it felt so real in that moment. I must have looked like a fool for standing there waving it back and forth in the air to admire it from all angles. I remember the amused looks on Cullen’s and Riley’s faces as they watched me. But O’Sullivan turned very serious very quickly. Just beyond the waving gun, I saw Riley’s smile drop. “What do you think, Fitz?” he asked, “Could you pull the trigger for Ireland?”

  I realized that, up until now, I had not committed any real crimes. Sure, I had been present at a couple of riots and thrown some rocks. But I had not participated in any shootings or bombings, and I certainly had not killed anyone. I never dreamed prior to this moment that killing could be part of my life.

  That changed quickly. On the night of my first ambush.

  O’Sullivan needed someone to probe some of the checkpoints of the British occupiers. A squad of eight British soldiers had set up a checkpoint at one of the bridges over the river that connected County Armagh and County Down. Cullen and I were teamed up with one of the more seasoned fighters, a man named Seamas. Before going out that night, we had a hasty planning session to determine how we should make our approach. We considered trying to sneak up on the squad via the river, but Seamus said wading in would be too cold in the dead of winter, and using a boat presented a whole new set of challenges, not the least of which was making us sitting ducks if we were discovered. Seamus found a map and studied the terrain. He found a building across from the checkpoint that had been bombed out some months before, adding to the image of a warzone that had gripped Northern Ireland. After dark, we walked casually through the town that night, until we got to the area near the bridge, when we retreated to shadows. We managed to sneak into the bombed-out building unseen. We sat and watched through pane-less windows as a hundred yards away, the British Army soldiers lounged around their checkpoint. Each carried their L1A1 rifles, but most had them slung across shoulders, everything was casual to them, even a joke. Seamus whispered curses to them about that very topic, that Irish autonomy to the Brits was a joke. It seemed to reinforce the anger in our young minds.

  As the night wore on, we discussed various plans of attack. The longer this took, deep down, I knew that, at least for my part, I was stalling. This was not something I really wanted to do, as much as I supported Irish independence. In the end, our plans were dashed when one British soldier walked toward the bombed out building, calling over his shoulder about needing to urinate. We froze in the shadows inside, hoping to stay invisible. But the soldier blazed up a flashlight, probing shadows around the building, as if checking for one that offered some privacy. In moments he was out of sight of the checkpoint, still probing the perimeter of the building. He stopped next to a window, opened his fly and released his bladder.

  He just happened to be feet away from my hiding place. In fact, I was behind a ruined pillar, but not well hidden. The soldier had stuck the flashlight under his arm while he relieved himself. As he retrieved it, the light washed across the window. He caught sight of something, and shined the beam there, catching me in the spotlight.

  I jumped up, not knowing what to do, but instinctually, I pulled my pistol. The soldier struggled to pull off the rifle slung over his shoulder. As he fumbled, I thought that, even in the dark, I could see the look of fear on the young Briton. Or maybe I was projecting there the image of the young soldier I’d seen before, and the fear splashed across his face. As the soldier fumbled for his rifle, I froze, even with my pistol raised. I knew what I was supposed to do, blow the soldier away. But I knew that I shouldn’t do so, for God commanded man not to murder. I stalled, allowing my own imminent death to creep closer as the soldier raised his rifle. In that moment, a Biblical phrase flashed across my mind: Father, take this cup from me.

  My pistol fired. The soldier dropped out of sight behind the wall. I realized I had squeezed my eyes shut, but they suddenly popped open wide. The soldier no longer stood there. What had I done?

  Seamus and Cullen leapt from their hiding places and rushed to me. Seamus, more seasoned to such violence, squeezed off several rounds at the checkpoint soldiers, as they had alighted to the sound and were calling out to the man down. They ducked from Seamus’s bullets, but when the cover fire broke off, they jumped up and came running.

  “The back,” Seamus whispered to us, “Out with ye.”

  I found my legs, and Cullen ushered me toward the back door we had snuck in through. In moments we were running through the shadows and back alleys of Newry. I paid little attention to Seamus as we ran, but he did throw some shots behind us, trying to discourage the Brits from pursuing us. But I could still hear them shouting, and I knew they would hunt us down.

  I couldn’t begin to trace the route we took through the town trying to avoid the Brits. It seemed like hours, but we finally wound up at the back of the bar. Seamus led us quietly inside and to the secret meeting room. I sat there stonefaced while Cullen and Seamus briefed O’Sullivan on our exploit.

  Truthfully, by this point, I really did not know if I had hit or killed the young soldier. The others were convinced that I had, the way they described him going down. Or maybe they simply wanted O’Sullivan to believe I had murdered the man in cold blood. I never heard any news accounts later of any dead British soldiers. To this day, I am still unsure whether I killed this poor innocent man.

  For his part, Riley O’Sullivan did not call the act a success or failure. He only gave me a pat on the shoulder and said, “Good lad,” and walked away. I have also often wondered if this whole operation was simply to get me to commit a serious criminal act that would ensure my loyalty. I think they would likely have given me up in a heartbeat if I was ever seen as betraying them.

  I slept uneasy that night. I waited for British soldiers to break down the door and storm my home to arrest me for murder. When I woke up in my own bed, and not with British rifles leveled at me, I was surprised.

  When I left home for the day that morning, I sensed a definite change in the town. Walking near the river, I observed a large convoy of British Army trucks rolling slowly in, loaded with hundreds of soldiers. Seeing this, I cursed my stupidity, and I changed my course to avoid them. I made my way to the bar. There I found Riley O’Sullivan in the public section of the bar, eating his breakfast of ham and eggs. I spoke to him in a whisper, asking if he’d seen the new soldiers arriving. Aye, said Riley, and of course they’re going to try and hunt down the m
an who killed one of their own.

  But it was worse than that. Within hours, the Brits had sealed off the entire town. O’Sullivan and his lot started receiving reports of people trying to head north to Belfast, or even just to cross the river into the next county…and all were stopped, questioned and searched, and turned back. They also began to receive reports of deliveries that were prevented from entering the town, including a truck load of alcohol bound for their bar. This was particularly offensive to the patrons and the IRA fighters that hid out there. The town of Newry was completely under siege.

  The siege lasted several days, but quickly became unbearable. Food and water storage began to diminish. But the lack of freedom was what bothered most of us primarily.

  After meeting with O’Sullivan, I spent the first day of the siege in the church. I sat in the pews much of the morning, quietly praying, begging God for forgiveness, and believing it was futile. From a distance, Father Flanagan saw me, and saw the anguish on my face. Without bothering to entice me into the confessional, Flanagan simply struck up a conversation with me. He later told me that he believed he would have to drag out of me the reason I was so distressed. But I found I was eager to somehow cleanse my soul.

  I told the priest about my encounter with the British soldier, and that I may have killed him. The tears rolled down my face as I poured out my guilt and anguish. And the worst part of what I told him: the town was under siege because of me. I begged him to tell me, how is God using me as his instrument now? And then I broke down and sobbed, saying over and over, I don’t want to do this anymore.

  Pray with me, Flanagan said, but I was sobbing too hard to hear the words of the prayer. He let me cry there with him for what seemed like hours.

  I finally went silent, all cried out, but I continued to hide my face. Flanagan finally said that I could stay there as long as I wanted. And if it was necessary, he would step up and defend my decisions if the rest of the IRA cell came looking for me. However, when I’d purged myself of emotions that day, I decided I had to somehow confront the outside world. I left the church and went home.

  The IRA was not willing to let me go that easily. The next morning, I was woken up by Cullen knocking on my window. He told me that Riley was gathering everyone at the bar again, and that he had something big in the works. I tried to speak up and tell him I may not be able to participate. I tried to keep my enthusiasm down, keep the refusal casual and not offer any real reasons. But Cullen would only talk over me. “You’re a star in their eyes,” he said, “You should totally capitalize on that popularity.” I tried another excuse, that my mum needed me today. But again, Cullen just talked over me and became more insistent. In fact, he was starting to make his insistence sound like a threat, like I was in danger if I did not come with him. Against my better judgement, I left with him.

  When we entered the back bar room, we found the usual lot hanging out and chatting. After all Cullen’s talk about Riley wanting to brag about his star killer, O’Sullivan didn’t say a word when we came in. He was in a booth in the corner of their back room, in a whispered conference with two other men, including Seamus.

  Minutes later, O’Sullivan gathered his force of now eight around him. He began with an overview of their situation that appeared more dire than I knew. The British had sealed off the town, preventing anyone from venturing in or out. “You all know the reasons why,” he said. “They will squeeze us until the town gives up their insurgent IRA cell.” His response to this: Rather than do a simple driveby shooting, they would attack and wipe out one of those checkpoints.

  I felt the bottom drop out of my stomach.

  O’Sullivan began to go over his plan, but I wasn’t really listening at this point. I was only trying to figure a way out of this mess. After speaking for several minutes, O’Sullivan concluded his briefing with, “We do it at one o’clock, right after their lunch time, so they’re sitting fat and lazy from their meal. We catch them between us, and we get our vengeance.”

  I had barely been listening, but I suddenly piped up and said, “Could this even work?” I surprised myself for speaking up as I did. Even as I said this, the plan was sounding more and more futile.

  “Anything’s possible,” Seamus said quietly. “Either we strike a blow for independence, or we martyr ourselves for the cause. Either way, they’ll have no reason to choke the town, and our fellow Irishman can live again.”

  This was not the answer I hoped to hear. If we were successful, we would be alive but hunted the rest of our lives. If we failed, we would most likely be dead, but my soul would cry out for the redemption that I never would have had the chance to seek in this life. I felt I would be damned to hell either way.

  The first chance I got…I ran.

  I simply couldn’t do it. I’d had enough trying to kill the Brits, even though they would probably kill me the first time I gave them a reason. I decided to remove myself from that situation. For a moment, I felt like a coward for abandoning my “brothers” and the cause. But I couldn’t stand before God and have more killing on my conscience.

  While the men conversed and made further plans, I slipped out of the bar and ran away.

  After running blindly through the streets for an hour, I heard the bells of the church ring at noon time and realized that I hadn’t been running so blindly after all. I stepped out of the shadows of another bombed out building and found myself at the mouth of the alley behind the church. I made my way into the cloisters, which surrounded a rose garden that got sporadic attention from those who worked in the church. I found an entry door and slipped inside.

  I had entered one of the transepts. Despite being the middle of the day, the church seemed dark. The sky outside was overcast, and the light coming through the stained glass windows was minimal. It seemed better this way, easier to hide. I wandered the aisle for a moment, then slipped into a pew in the nave and sat. At first I was fearful that someone from the IRA cell would find me here, and I kept looking over my shoulders at the nearby entrances. As the hours went by and no one found me, that practice went by the wayside.

  So when Father Flanagan edged his way into the pew behind me and placed a hand on my shoulder, I nearly jumped out of my skin. I turned and stared up at the stern but kind face of the priest. “Oh, boyo, the troubles you’re under,” the priest lamented.

  “I need sanctuary, Father,” I said. “I need to hide, I need to escape. I can’t do what they want me to do.”

  Flanagan sat in the pew behind me. “You’re welcome to stay here in the church as long as you need, son. But this is not the kind of problem that you can simply hide from for a day and resume your normal life. You’re talkin’ matters of life and death.”

  “Do you know what they are doing out there, what they’re planning?” As I look back on this moment, I believe Father Flanagan must have known at least something. He was a sympathizer with the Catholic layman’s cause and the IRA itself. But I never knew if anyone from the cell ran their plans past the priest.

  “All the more reason to face it like a man,” the priest told him.

  “You’re right, of course, father. I’ve given the whole thing some thought. I think the most peaceful and honorable thing for me to do would be to leave Ireland. I’ve done some thinking on this. My mother has a cousin in the US, he works for their State Department. When my Da passed, and things in this town heated up, she reached out to him. I don’t know how successful she was. But if I could get out of the country, I could make contact with him, and maybe emigrate to the U.S. All I need is a little help, Father.” My eyes implored the priest.

  “It is a grand idea, lad, but not without its problems. For instance, if you throw yourself on the mercy of the American State Department, they’re going to want something. And they have no dog in this fight, so they may not be interested. They may go so far as to broker a deal with the Brits on your behalf, but that might mean compelling you to give up the lads that you know. And the honor you seek to keep intact will be tarn
ished by such an act. You’re looking at many an obstacle for this next big step of yours, and no guarantee that it will work out the way you want. But I may have an option that will play in your favor.”

  I was curious. “Yes, Father?”

  “Have you considered joining the priesthood?”

  This sent a rush through me. My heart began to race, and deep down, I took that as a positive sign. I could immediately see how it would help my situation, but…

  I sat back in the pew, deep in thought. “It’s such a big step. I suppose I hadn’t really thought about it. I’m barely eighteen. I’ve never tasted the love of a woman. I really haven’t yet lived.”

  “There are many facets to the life of a priest, many avenues that we follow. But the bottom line here is service. You’ve got the right heart for the job, boyo, and the seminary can set the spirit right in you. But the bottom line for you is, it can help your situation.” The silence stretched for a moment, and Flanagan finally said, “Look, you have time to think and pray on it. I have a cot I can set up in a back room, and you can stay there as you need. But you need to make a decision soon.”

  I didn’t have the kind of time that Flanagan thought I did. The attack on the Brits was supposed to happen tomorrow.

  Of course I took the father up on his offer. I spent the night in a small room near Flanagan’s own quarters. For much of that night, I lay in darkness and stared at the ceiling, contemplating the decision before me. Part of me wanted to find or ring up Cullen and beg him not to take part in the assault. The cell faced certain death, and I wanted to give me cousin a way out like what I sought. But there were too many problems with this. In leaving this church I could forfeit any chance of freedom or sanctuary from the cell, selfish as that sounded to me. I’d never get the Americans to go along with helping my friend out as well, and I knew I’d never get Cullen to turn his back on the IRA. I believed he was too far gone. In the end of this line of thought, I knew I was stalling out. I knew that if I waited too long, God might make the choice for me.