LITMIR.BIZ

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being done, such as Enniskillen, La Mon and the Abercorn, and not do something about it. It is impossible for me to think that I would have never become a volunteer. Before long, terrorism became a way of life for me. I lived on the edge. I knew what my capabilities were. I knew I had the power to take life and to grant mercy, but I was never indiscriminate, unlike the Provisional IRA.

      This book is an attempt to explain my actions as a volunteer and a retaliatory soldier. By committing the story of my life to paper, I am taking responsibility for my past. I am acknowledging that I caused pain to four families when I took their loved one away from them.

      To the families of Patrick Brady, Thomas McErlean, John Murray and Kevin Brady I am sorry for your loss. I am sorry that you never got to say goodbye to your son, husband, boyfriend, father and brother because of me. I deeply regret the hurt I caused the families of the men I killed. I regret that I had to kill. I believed at the time that it was necessary. There is nothing I can do to take away the pain I have inflicted. There is a lot of hurt out there and I am responsible. Much of that hurt comes from my actions as a paramilitary. I don’t see myself as a criminal. I committed crimes as an Ulsterman and a British citizen and that was regrettable but unavoidable.

      To the families of Kevin McPolin and Dermot Hackett I am also sorry for your loss.

      I didn’t choose killing as a career; killing chose me. I hated bullies. When I was a young boy and saw someone being bullied at school or work, I always stepped in. As I grew older and started to form opinions, I realised Republicans were bullies, nothing more and nothing less, who took life after innocent life and no one seemed interested in stopping them. I put myself forward as a volunteer, thinking my actions could change things.

      This book is also an attempt to explain the bigger picture: why young men from my community felt duty-bound to take up arms. It is a shocking account of the grim business I was engaged in for almost thirty years. There is nothing romantic about taking a life in defence of your community. It is a cold and brutal act. When a person dies, a little part of you dies too. I want to share that horror as a reminder that we must never look back. All of us must keep our eyes fixed on the road ahead, not the dark paths behind us.

      Maturity is a wonderful gift. It is only now as I face the autumn of my life that I really understand. I understand what motivated Republicans. They saw grave injustices being perpetrated on their community and they lashed out. They were angry young Catholic men and no different from me, an angry young Protestant man who saw terrible crimes being perpetrated on his community.

      I committed some terrible crimes over the years and I did it in the name of Ulster and in the name of my Britishness. Republicans committed some terrible crimes over the years and they did it in the name of their Irishness. That’s the nature of the beast we call war.

      Looking back, I can hardly believe that I did those things and lived the life I led. It is like peering into the life of a stranger. But it is my history, the history of Michael Anthony Stone. The person who emerges from these pages is not likeable and he is not attractive. This book shows a young man eaten up with anger and filled with hate for anonymous names on intelligence files. It shows a ruthless man, dedicated to his cause and ready to take life for what he believed in.

      This is a true account of my life as a Loyalist volunteer. It is a shock to revisit my past, and writing this book has brought it all back. I have also realised that you can’t kill a political persuasion, just a human being. You can’t kill an identity, just a much-missed father and son. These people live on in their loved ones.

      My war is over. I am no longer willing or able to take a life for what I believe in. I am like an old dinosaur. I hope I can slip into obscurity, but I honestly believe I will die as I lived, with a bullet in my head. When it comes, I hope my death is quick and I hope it is over in seconds. I also hope none of my family or friends are with me when it happens. An old paramilitary saying comes to mind:

      If I go forward I die.

      If I go back I die.

      I’ll go forward and die.

      Michael Stone

      May 2004

       The Ballad of Michael Stone

      Three taigs flew into Dublin

      On a big Gibraltan plane

      The Provos planned to bury them

      With honour and with fame

      The Fenians they were out in force

      To see that all went well

      But the bravery of a Loyalist

      Did shame them all to hell

      Michael Stone he was the brave young man

      From the Braniel he did come

      Who thwarted all the Provos’ plans

      And killed the rebel scum

      With handgun and grenades

      He dealt the deadly blow

      And the PIRA didn’t get to have

      Their paramilitary show

      The brave young Proddy came

      From the east end of the town

      He infiltrated West Belfast

      And didn’t let us down

      He stood and did the business

      I’m sure you’ll all agree

      And the day before St Paddy’s Day

      Went down in history

       1

       MARY AND CYRIL

      I CAME INTO THE WORLD ON 2 APRIL 1955 IN LORDSWOOD HOSPITAL, HARBORNE, BIRMINGHAM, THE FIRST-BORN CHILD OF MARY BRIDGET AND CYRIL STONE. I am a British citizen and proud to be one. I have always cherished my nationality. My family history is complex, but it forms the backbone of my identity. I have two sets of parents: my biological mother and father, Mary Bridget O’Sullivan and her husband Cyril Alfred Stone, and the parents who raised me as their own, Margaret and John Gregg.

      I know very little about my biological mother. Mary Bridget O’Sullivan is an Irish name but I do not know if she was an Irish citizen. All I do know is that she spoke with a strong English accent. Mary Bridget was the eldest child in a very large family. Her own mother died when she was very young and she was charged with raising her younger brothers and sisters. My biological father was born in the United Kingdom but spoke with an accent straight from the Shankill Road. He lived in England all his life yet his accent was as strong as if he lived in the heart of West Belfast.

      Mary Bridget and Cyril met in the UK and were married at Caxton Hall registry office, London, in 1953. She was just eighteen and he just twenty-one when they exchanged vows. The union lasted only two years, enough time for Mary Bridget to decide motherhood and marriage weren’t for her. She walked out on her husband and new baby in September 1955, when I was just five months old. Mary Bridget never again saw the baby boy she left in Cyril’s arms. A restless Jack the Lad, Cyril took just minutes to plan his next move: the boat to Belfast to his only sister, Margaret, and her new husband, John, who lived in Ballyhalbert, on the shores of Belfast Lough. He handed his son into the care of the young couple, who raised me as their own, turned on his heels and joined the Merchant Navy.

      Margaret

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