LITMIR.BIZ

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me any more. Disappear and keep your head down, he told me. Herron, who never left home without his Star pistol, started to go out without it. He even wandered the streets of East Belfast without security or his bodyguards.

      Tommy Herron died in September 1973, three months after his brother-in-law, ambushed by Loyalists on a quiet road in County Down. His body was found outside Drumbo and his legally held firearm was still in its holster. He had taken a lift with someone he knew and obviously trusted. They drove for a few miles but a gunman was secretly hidden in the boot. As soon as the car stopped, the gunman pushed the back seat forward and shot him in the head. Herron didn’t stand a chance. His body was dumped in a lonely ditch and lay undiscovered for days.

      Many of his close associates fled to England, America and even Australia, terrified they would be next. I wanted retribution for his death. I started to look for targets and went to Shandon golf course, where arms had been stashed, but the hide had been emptied. I had no weapons. The Braniel unit had run away and I was the last remaining member of the unit that Herron had set up.

      I went to Herron’s funeral. The gunmen were there, and the men who organised his execution. The South Belfast brigade wanted Herron removed from the picture and had ganged up on other brigades to get their way. To convince the other members of the UDA’s Inner Council, South Belfast put out a rumour that the American journalist Herron that was romantically involved with was a CIA plant. The rumour took on a life of its own and it freaked out the UDA hierarchy. It was the final nail in Herron’s coffin.

      Many years later I was told that the two gunmen were ordered by their brigadier to kill Herron or face death themselves. In the UDA, volunteers did what they were told.

       6

       RED HAND COMMANDO

      WITH HERRON’S DEATH, THE BRANIEL UDA WAS DECIMATED. FOR ME IT WAS TIME TO BECOME ANONYMOUS AND INVISIBLE. I’d listened to Herron’s advice, and now I made a decision to disappear. I never resigned or left the UDA; I removed myself from the picture by seconding myself to the Red Hand Commando’s newly formed unit in the Braniel. The Red Hand Commando, founded in 1972, was close to the UVF and limited its territory to Belfast.

      Sammy Cinnamond was the Commander of the Red Hand Commando on the estate. He was a good Loyalist and a good friend. He made the initial approach by saying he was sorry to hear about the death of Tommy Herron. He then asked me what my immediate plans were. I told him I didn’t have any. He persisted with his questioning and asked if I was staying in the area. He then came straight to the point: was I interested in crossing over to the Red Hand Commando?

      The Red Hand Commando met in Braniel Community Centre once a week and its midweek slot was sandwiched between disco-dancing classes and other community activities. They called themselves the Braniel Fishing and Shooting Club and had a notice pinned up in the reception area. There were thirty men in the group, including an RUC reservist and a former British Army soldier.

      I went along to a meeting, but that first night I told Sammy Cinnamond that I couldn’t swear an oath of allegiance to the Red Hand because I’d already sworn to remain a member of the UDA until the day I died. But he said that was fine and I could make a solemn promise to the Red Hand instead. He explained that he’d fixed it with a UDA brigadier ‘up the country’ so that I could be seconded to the Red Hand for as long as I wanted. All Cinnamond insisted on was that I put my hand on the Bible, pick up the Walther gun and swear an oath to ‘never betray my Loyalist comrades’.

      I did make that promise. I swore on the open Bible to never betray my brothers-in-arms. I thought of Tommy Herron and hoped he wouldn’t think I had let him down by moving sideways. And as I said those words I hoped he understood that although I was now ‘UDA deactivated’, my promise to protect my community and my people would continue under a different guise. It was January 1974, four months after Herron’s death.

      After the ceremony a suitcase was dragged from behind a chair. Inside was a tartan blanket and underneath the blanket was an assortment of ‘old rattlies’ that had been secretly made at the Harland & Wolff shipyard. Cinnamond nodded at them and said, ‘That’s your equipment, that’s what you need to do your job.’ I was introduced to another man, called ‘the Armourer’ because he was in charge of the unit’s weapons. He was a former British Army soldier and an expert bomb maker. The IRA was targeting Protestant bars almost every night and the Braniel Red Hand Commando retaliated. The Armourer masterminded the unit’s city-centre bombing campaign, including attacks on the nationalist bars Paddy Lamb’s and the Hillfoot. He was very skilled and didn’t need large amounts of explosives to create a big bang. He looked at the building to assess exactly what type of explosive and how much was needed and where it should be placed for maximum impact. The Armourer could ‘car park’ buildings with the smallest bombs.

      The Red Hand Commando had a small office on the Upper Newtownards Road and one of my first duties for the group was protecting William Craig, the leader of the Vanguard Unionist Progressive Party. Craig had no idea I shadowed him. I was always ‘suitably attired’ and for a year I shadowed him when he attended and addressed VUPP meetings. The party was mostly ex-members of the Ulster Unionist Party who were disillusioned with the policies of its leaders, Terence O’Neill, James Chichester Clarke and Brian Faulkner. Craig, an MP for East Belfast, was also a former Home Affairs Minister in the 1966 Stormont government.

      In 1976, I married Marlene Leckey. Together we had three sons – Michael, Jason and Gary – but within two years the marriage started to break down. I was away a lot on active service, and, with all the late nights and weekends away, it became very difficult for her. I left the marital home after two years of marriage and move into rented accommodation. We could not be officially divorced until a legal timeframe had elapsed, and in 1983 we divorced on the grounds of my unreasonable behaviour. By then, I was living with the woman who would become my second wife, Leigh-Ann Shaw.

      In 1978, I took six months off from the Red Hand and joined the Royal Irish Regiment at Ballymena. I did so with the permission of my superiors and to do a specific job. I joined to learn how to use anti-tank weaponry because a shipment was due, although at the time I did not know this. When the Army asked me why I wanted to join, I said I fancied a change of career. When I asked if we could train on anti-tank weapons, I was told those munitions were at least a year away. Six months was the minimum amount of service permitted, and I made a decision to use my time wisely to forge a network of contacts that I could call on in the months and years ahead.

      Sammy Cinnamond was a quiet and logical man. He once asked me how I felt about the Catholic families who lived on the Braniel. Even though it was a Protestant housing estate, thirteen Catholic families were still choosing to live there. In my eyes, I told him, those families were not a problem, and I was being truthful. I was thinking of the Maines, an old couple who lived near my mother. I told Sammy that I didn’t want anyone touching them because they were quiet, good, church-going people. Sammy agreed and said, ‘The thirteen Roman Catholic families are very welcome in the Braniel. No harm will come to them and they are safe – that is until the day the IRA comes into this area and ambushes a Protestant family. They are my insurance policy and, just like an insurance policy, if I have to cash it in I will.’ Sammy didn’t elaborate but I got his drift. I knew he was talking about retaliation if anything happened to a Loyalist family on the estate.

      Through Sammy Cinnamond and the Red Hand Commando I was introduced to two other men, John McKeague and John Bingham. I met McKeague just once, in a Loyalist club on the Ravenhill Road. Sammy introduced us and McKeague and I spoke for a few minutes. I was initially taken aback by his shock of blond hair but immediately understood why people said he was a member of the Red Handbag Commando. McKeague was blatantly homosexual. A hard-working Loyalist, he even printed his own political papers on his own press and he ran the Woodvale Defence Association like a military operation.

      John Bingham was a different sort of operator. He was the West Belfast Commander of the UVF, which had strong links to the Red Hand

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