LITMIR.BIZ

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thought his father would die from the shock. Wesley’s experience touched a raw nerve. I was furious.

      This sectarian attack on my family sowed the seeds of hatred and resentment that would stay with me for most of my adult life. The seeds took root, pushing me nearer and nearer to the big paramilitary organisations. I began to take an interest in what was going on around me. I bought newspapers and listened to news bulletins. I familiarised myself with the deteriorating situation. I vowed to never forget the sobs of a grown man who thought that he was going to die and his parents would be left with no one to care for them. I knew someone, somewhere sanctioned this activity and, just like the school bullies I despised, they had to be sorted out.

      But worse was to come. Once again my family would be touched by sectarian violence and this time loved ones would be injured and killed. Harry Beggs and his sister, Doreen Beggs, were frequent visitors to our family home. Harry, an educated young man, was blown to bits in the electricity showroom where he worked in August 1971. He died saving the lives of two young female colleagues. Seven months later Doreen took her two little children into the city centre on a Saturday afternoon shopping trip. They stopped for some dinner in the Abercorn, a popular restaurant in Cornmarket. It was 4.30 and the place was packed with women and kids. A bomb ripped through the restaurant, killing two women and injuring seventy others. Doreen and her two youngsters were among the seriously wounded, suffering severe leg injuries. The bomb was planted by members of West Belfast’s 1st Battalion of the IRA, who hid it under a table. The warning was phoned from a pub on the Falls Road, just two minutes before the bomb went off. The two women who died were Catholics.

      When the IRA blew up a popular restaurant in Belfast city centre they pushed me into the arms of the UDA. I knew, when that bomb went off in March 1972, that I was on a path of no return that would eventually take me to prison, or to my death.

      Loyalist

      When I was just a boy

      This bloody war was begun

      With a rebellious violence

      Which killed and stunned.

      Indiscriminate terrorists

      Still slash and scar

      With sectarian attacks

      On Protestant bars.

      Bombs of destruction

      Tear the heart out of my city.

      Bloody Friday, Enniskillen,

      They never showed any pity.

      Republican death squads

      Spawned from hell.

      In ethnic-cleansing, they do excel.

      These hooded cowards

      With hate-filled eyes

      Create the horror

      Ignore the cries.

      Now a man

      I’ve answered the call.

      I am an Ulster Freedom Fighter, defender of all.

       4

       FOR GOD AND ULSTER

      TOMMY HERRON WATCHED MY FLOURISHING STREET CAREER WITH INTEREST. HE LIVED ON THE BRANIEL ESTATE AND SAW POTENTIAL IN THE ROUGH-AND-TOUGH KID WHO EXCELLED IN HIS ROLE AS LEADER OF THE TARTAN GANG. I sorted out the ‘anti-socials’, those who terrorised old people, trashed their neighbours’ properties and were a nuisance in the area. I gave offenders one chance. They were warned verbally, but there were no second chances. I never ‘kneecapped’ anyone, but beatings were a regular occurrence. Tommy Herron later told me it was my ability to keep the anti-socials under control that brought me to his attention. He said he was impressed with my street skills, which belonged to a man older than sixteen.

      A one-time security guard, Herron was a powerful and ruthless man who ran the East Belfast brigade of the UDA from a tiny office on the Newtownards Road. He was also vice-chairman of the Association, and this made him one of the most important and powerful figures in the early development of the UDA. He was a big, muscular man and always expensively dressed in a suit and tie and a long camel coat. Herron appeared frequently on television and gave countless press conferences, sometimes in a combat jacket and forage cap, at that time the standard UDA uniform. He was abrupt and he was rash, and he liked to shout and raise his voice, but when he talked, he talked sense. When Tommy Herron spoke I sat up and took notice.

      I first met him in 1972. Although it was thirty years ago, I can still see him in my mind’s eye. It was a weekend evening in early summer when his car pulled up. In the middle of the Braniel estate was a small grassed area where kids would play and teenagers would congregate. I had my Alsatian, Wolf, with me. About ten of us, including a couple of girls, were larking about, when a silver Zodiac car pulled up alongside us and stopped. A man wearing a sharp suit got out, followed by two men. They wore dark glasses and were obviously there as personal security. The man in the sharp suit approached me, looked at me and then finally addressed me.

      ‘Hello, kid, I want a word with you.’

      I didn’t answer him. I had no idea who he was. He spoke again.

      ‘Listen, kid, I’m moving into the area. I know you live in Ravenswood Park. I know it’s your area. What’s it like to live here?’

      I didn’t know who the man was, but he looked important. His car was flash; he had expensive clothes and two bodyguards. Whoever he was, he knew my name and where I lived. He handed me an address in Ravenswood Crescent and instructed me to visit over the following weeks. I had no intention of going anywhere near his house. Two weeks later I found out who he was. He was on television, wearing a combat jacket, forage cap and dark glasses. The TV reporter addressed him as Tommy Herron, UDA Supreme Commander. I was livid. I didn’t want the UDA, whoever they were, moving into my turf. I asked around, to find out if anybody knew anything about him, but no one did, except one lad. The only thing he said was, Herron was capable of blowing your head off.

      I still had the UDA leader’s address, so I went to see him. I wanted to find out exactly what he wanted from me. I knew he wasn’t just passing the time of day when he stopped his flash car to speak to me. He wanted something and I knew it involved me. I rang his doorbell and he invited me in. He came straight to the point.

      ‘I want to start a squad in this area. I need good men. I have moved here from South Belfast to protect my family. I am looking for a couple of good guys. I think you will fit the bill. Do you have any mates that you trust?’

      I told him I had several and he asked me another question.

      ‘Can you use a gun?’

      ‘Yes, I used to play at soldiers when I was an Army Cadet.’

      ‘What about this?’

      He handed me, butt first, a 9mm Star pistol. It was his own weapon. Before he handed it over he cocked it and flicked on the safety catch. I took the pistol, released the magazine, cocked it, cleared it, leaving the working parts open, reloaded and put the safety catch on. He said he was impressed.

      ‘Will you meet me next week?’ he asked.

      I said I would, and he gave me a day and a time. It was to be at Davison’s Quarry in the Castlereagh Hills. He told me to bring four friends but only guys I trusted. He also told me not to be late because he hated bad timekeepers. A week later I stood in Davison’s

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