Voices from the Grave: Two Men's War in Ireland (49 page)

BOOK: Voices from the Grave: Two Men's War in Ireland
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When Gusty Spence was convicted and sentenced for the Malvern Street murder, legend has it that he complained bitterly, ‘So this is what you get for being a Protestant!’ It was a refrain that would be repeated by hundreds of Loyalists after him and it reflected an anger that far from Loyalists being jailed for taking up arms to defend a common cause, the Unionist establishment – RUC, polit-icians and judicial system – should instead praise them. David Ervine was no different.


here were the police officers who were defending the status quo
just like me, the screws who were standing beside me in the dock
defending the status quo just like me, and the fucking judge defending
the status quo just like me. Now there was plenty of talk in our
community about ‘Ulster will fight and Ulster will be right’, and
‘shoot to kill’, and plenty of political mouthing, but when you actually
went and did it, somehow or other you were the scum of the earth,
and that was certainly on my mind … I’ll never forget when Lord
Justice Jones [sentenced me], I waited on him getting the black hankie
and putting it on his head. He was renowned for harshness, and I
remember him saying to me, ‘The defendant has very unfavourably
impressed me’, and he chastised the policeman, Frank Savage, for
being less articulate than the prisoner, which I thought was a rather
strange comment. It came from the judge’s interruption during the
policeman’s evidence when he asked him, ‘Do you believe that the
defendant is contrite?’ and Savage didn’t know what contrite meant.
At that point the judge lost the rapper and said, ‘I have absolutely no
doubt that the defendant knows what contrite means’, and here was
this peeler getting sandbagged for not being a polished connoisseur
of the dictionary. It was crazy, but behind it was a sense that: ‘Hold
on a wee minute here, you’re a scumbag, you shouldn’t be articulate
.’

I think that the Loyalists found themselves very much misunderstood,
that the community mood music was to fight back, even if
they themselves would not necessarily do the fighting. There was a
clear belief that the forces of law and order would not protect the
people, would not protect the integrity of Northern Ireland’s position
within the United Kingdom … But there were other things, I mean,
these judges were case-hardened. You weren’t talking here about
going into a court filled with your peers who would make a judgment
on whether you were guilty or innocent. It wasn’t about getting the
truth, it was just about clearing the decks, the conveyor belt to Long
Kesh. There weren’t too many people who were walking out of the
courts, and under the Diplock
*
regime it was democracy defending 
itself by undemocratic means. I think when democracy defends itself
by undemocratic means then it is behaving wrongly, and in my case
it’s punishing me because I believed that I was doing the right thing
for my society, on the basis of the refusal of the state to actually deal
with the problem of IRA insurgency
.

There’s no such thing as justice. I think that there’s loads of law,
but I don’t believe I ever saw justice, I don’t believe that justice is
done in courtrooms. I think that the independence of the judges is
very questionable; not only was very questionable but still is very
questionable. They get infuriated when they hear that said, but I
cannot believe that they were an independent group of people. They
were part of the state machine, and it was a state machine going
through the illusion of normal democratic behaviour. I remember
my mother coming to see me and I was telling her just some of the
things that happened to some people in police stations, and she
didn’t want to believe it. I had never seen the institutions from the
inside, I never really had any effective functioning with the police,
I had no effective functioning in the courts, I had no effective functioning
in the prison regime. But my experience of the institutions
was that they were as corrupt as fuck, and if I thought they were
corrupt as fuck, and I was a defender of the status quo, how much
more when the young Nationalist got his first glimpse. I wonder was
he surprised at the degree of shit that exuded from those institutions,
or did they just reinforce the rightness of his cause?

 
Notes – 3
 

12
David Miller,
Queen’s Rebels
, pp. 1–13.

13
Michael Hopkinson,
The Irish War of Independence
.

14
Principles of Loyalism
, Progressive Unionist Party internal discussion paper, 1 November 2002.

15
Sarah Nelson,
Ulster’s Uncertain Defenders
.

16
Independent
, 18 October 1994.

17
Ed Moloney,
Paisley: From Demagogue to Democrat?
, p. 146.

18
Ibid., p. 231.

19
McKittrick et al.,
Lost Lives
, p. 556.

20
Principles of Loyalism
.

21
McKittrick et al., Lost Lives, pp. 1474–5.

22
Information culled from McKittrick et al.,
Lost Lives
.

23
Ibid., pp. 441–2.

*
The no-jury system of trials was introduced in 1972 ostensibly to avoid the intimidation of juries in terrorism cases on foot of a recommendation made by Lord Kenneth Diplock, a senior Law Lord, who had been asked by the British government to consider alternatives to internment without trial. In the Diplock courts, as the new system was christened, a single judge acted as jury and anyone found guilty had an automatic right to appeal before three judges.

4

 
 

The British government did not start treating Northern Ireland’s Loyalist paramilitaries in the same way as the Provisional IRA, as terrorist threats whose members needed to be removed from the streets, until February 1973, when the first two Loyalists, both leaders in their way, were interned and sent to Long Kesh. Loyalist violence had really escalated in the wake of the internment swoop aimed at the IRA in August 1971, not only because, far from dealing the IRA a fatal blow, it had boosted Republican violence and greatly increased Nationalist alienation. The moderate SDLP had walked out of the Stormont parliament a month before over some controversial killings carried out by the British Army and after internment it spearheaded an angry campaign to boycott Northern Ireland’s institutions and to withhold public rent and rate payments to the state. The one-sided nature of the operation, which ignored Loyalists, fuelled Nationalist anger. The UVF was already there, albeit hidden inside the folds of Tara, and in September that year the various Protestant vigilante groups set up in Loyalist districts in and around Belfast during the year came together to form the Ulster Defence Association (UDA), which acted partly as a mass protest movement and partly as a deadly paramilitary force. By February 1973, well over a hundred and twenty people had been killed by either the UVF or the UDA. By 1973, Edward Heath’s government in London was beginning to seek a political exit from the morass of Irish politics and had turned its mind to constructing a widely based deal around the concept of power-sharing between Unionists and Nationalists, and some form of relationship with Dublin, the so-called ‘Irish dimension’. Exploratory meetings had been held in late 1972 but the SDLP, the major Nationalist party, was playing hard to get, raising demands that internment be ended.
The decision to intern Loyalists was thus seen as a sop to Nationalists and a one-day protest strike, a precursor of the UWC strike a year later, was called by hardline Unionists and led to confrontations between Loyalists and the British Army, during which one UVF member and one UDA member were shot dead.
24

The first two Loyalists interned also came, one each, from the UVF and the UDA. The UDA internee was Edward ‘Ned’ McCreery who led a gang in East Belfast notorious for the viciousness of its killings. One of its victims was kidnapped, stripped, hung by his heels and repeatedly stabbed and beaten before being shot dead. Another had the shape of a cross and the letters ‘IRA’ branded on his back.
25
A grenade attack on 1 February 1973 by members of McCreery’s gang on a bus carrying Catholic workers to a building site in East Belfast was the trigger for his internment. The UVF leader chosen for detention was not really a UVF member at all, but the founder of a small paramilitary group that aligned itself, to the point of virtual absorption, with the UVF. John McKeague founded the Red Hand Commando in 1972, and had a storied track record in the world of Protestant politics. Once a close associate of the Reverend Ian Paisley, he had been charged but acquitted of involvement in the 1969 bombings that ended Terence O’Neill’s political career. He went on to found the Shankill Defence Association, which played a major role in the violence of August 1969 in West and North Belfast, then broke with Paisley, ostensibly over money but also because rumours about McKeague’s sexuality – he was reputedly a paedophile – had become rampant amongst Loyalists.
*

The decision to intern Loyalist paramilitaries, along with the burgeoning moves by the Heath government towards what became the Sunningdale Agreement, acted as a stimulus both to para military recruitment and their violence. By the middle of 1974 the UVF and the UDA, in their different and often conflicting ways, had become major actors in the story, serious obstacles in the way of British policy. They had, for instance, played an important role
in the UWC strike that brought Heath’s efforts to nought in 1974, although by David Ervine’s account it seemed the UDA, rather than the UVF, was more active, more ready to expose its members at street barricades and the like. By the time David Ervine was caught with a bomb in the boot of his car, the memory of that victory was beginning to fade and with it the central place the Loyalist paramilitaries had created for themselves in the Unionist political firmament. And by then the British, led now by Labour’s Harold Wilson, were frying different fish. A month after Ervine’s arrest the first moves were made towards a truce between the British and the IRA and while Loyalists assumed the worst, that the British would sell them down the river, they were mistaken. None the less, the consequences of the IRA’s lengthy ceasefire would be serious for the UVF. The change in British security strategy, fashioned during the ceasefire and introduced towards the end of 1975, criminalised Loyalists as much as it did Republicans and soon RUC holding centres such as Castlereagh in East Belfast were churning out UVF men whose admissions during interrogations would earn them convictions and often lengthy jail terms in the juryless Diplock courts.

The policy of ‘criminalisation’ officially came into effect on 1 March 1976 when special-category status for all paramilitary prisoners was scrapped. The accompanying emphasis on confession-based convictions was soon felt by the UVF. Less than a year after Ervine had been removed from the scene, in October 1975, the bulk of the UVF in South-East Antrim – based principally around the towns of Carrickfergus and Larne – was arrested and charged with a series of murders, attempted murders, bombings and robberies. In February 1977, after a trial that lasted seventy-six days and at the time was the most expensive in Northern Ireland’s legal history, twenty-seven South-East Antrim UVF men were convicted, twenty-one on the basis of verbal or written statements they had made to detectives in Castlereagh. Among the murders they were convicted of were those of two UDA members, shot and buried in a secret grave in the spring of 1975 during vicious feuding between the two
groups. When the new policy picked up momentum, Long Kesh began filling up with UVF prisoners.

One of those imprisoned was thirty-five-year-old Billy Mitchell, the former Paisleyite turned UVF leader. Many early UVF figures had imagined the Troubles would be sharp but short; by mid-1973 it was clear that they could last a lot longer. Against a background of growing paramilitary impatience with Unionism’s political leaders, Mitchell persuaded the UVF to call a ceasefire, which began in mid-November 1973, in an effort to prompt a Republican response. The ceasefire was enforced with impressive discipline and the UVF did not kill anyone for over five months, until the end of February 1974. During the cessation, Mitchell also met members of the Official IRA, who had been on a ceasefire against the British since 1972, and more controversially with leading Provisional IRA members, Daithi O Connail and IRA Quarter Master General Brian Keenan, for exploratory peace talks. The dialogue stumbled on the predictable issue of Northern Ireland’s constitutional status and the violence resumed. Even so, the British took heart from these developments and in April 1974, just as the UWC strike was building, the Labour Northern Ireland Secretary Merlyn Rees announced that the ban on the UVF would be lifted, a move that reflected British hope that this might encourage the recent signs of moderation.
26
A similar ban on Sinn Fein was also ended for the same reasons.

Mitchell’s move was supported by Gusty Spence from his compound

in Long Kesh. By that stage Spence had almost completed his remarkable journey away from violence and hardline, inflexible Loyalism but the first sight of Spence in Belfast since his arrest in 1966 was of the old, diehard Spence. In July 1972, he was granted forty-eight hours’ compassionate parole to attend his daughter’s wedding but as he was being driven back to the jail his car was blocked and Spence was ‘kidnapped’ by fellow UVF members. He spent the next four months or so of this contrived freedom
helping to reorganise and restructure the UVF; he also designed a uniform for the organisation, the main feature of which was the black leather jacket that became the UVF’s daunting hallmark. A British television interview with Spence made during his spell of liberty featured a taciturn, uncompromising figure whose answers came in unsmiling monosyllables. He was re-arrested in November 1972 but by the spring of 1974, some eighteen months later, he had performed a political U-turn, now advocating a peaceful, negotiated settlement to the Troubles. Before long he would also be quietly preaching the merits of power-sharing with Nationalists, a far cry from his adamant opposition to Terence O’Neill’s mild reformism.
27
Spence also encouraged the UVF to create a political party, the Volunteer Political Party (VPP) which had a brief if unsuccessful existence contesting for the votes of Shankill Road Loyalists. Like Billy Mitchell, Gusty Spence opened dialogue with Republicans, reaching out to IRA prisoners of both Official and Provisional stripes, helping to set up a Camp Council to negotiate issues of common concern with the prison governor, on which sat the Commanders of UDA, UVF, Official IRA and Provisional IRA inmates. In these developments, along with an influx of hardline prisoners to the jail, can be found both the source of Gusty Spence’s eventual estrangement from the mainstream UVF outside the jail as well as the influences that shaped David Ervine’s later political odyssey in the Progressive Unionist Party, the VPP’s successor.

The internment of Loyalists and a swelling conviction rate meant that by late 1973 the UVF’s prisoners had to be moved from Crumlin Road jail in Belfast to Long Kesh. Spence was one of the first to be transferred. He was the natural choice for Commander of UVF prisoners and introduced a regime strongly influenced by his years in the Royal Ulster Rifles, as he told BBC journalist Peter Taylor many years later: ‘The compounds were run on British Army lines with made-up beds, highly polished boots, pressed uniforms, etc. There was a daily regime. Reveille was at eight o’clock in the morning, followed by showers, breakfast, and then a parade. Then the day was laid out.’
28
By November 1974, when David Ervine was
driven through the gates of Long Kesh, Gerry Adams, Ivor Bell and Brendan Hughes were beginning their battle with the IRA’s Camp Commander, David Morley, another British Army veteran whose idea of prison discipline, while more eccentric than Spence’s, was similarly derived from his days as a squaddie. This was the Long Kesh that would be Ervine’s home for the next six years, first as a remand prisoner then as a sentenced man.

For the short time I was on remand in Long Kesh, I was held in
Compound 20. Compound 18 and 19 at that time were UVF compounds,
16 and 17 were UDA compounds and 21 was Official IRA.
We were held in the remand compound, 20, which was mixed UDA,
UVF … I remember the day that I arrived, I was met by Gusty
Spence who actually lived in Compound 18, but he was in Compound
20 to meet the influx of new prisoners in his capacity as the
O/C of the UVF in Long Kesh. So it was very clear that the [prison]
structure was not only solid, but was established in the relationship
between the UVF and the jail [authorities] … It seemed to me that
here was clear recognition of the importance of the control factor in
men. [The authorities] knew that they couldn’t control UVF people;
the only people who could control UVF people was the UVF leadership,
and that was very clear. You were coming from a jail where
you were locked up, allowed out, locked up, allowed out all day,
every day, that’s the way it worked. In Long Kesh, the huts had
doors that opened out onto a fairly large hundred-
metre-
square
compound and pretty much from seven o’clock in the morning till
nine o’clock at night you could do what you wished. Or at least
that’s the way you might have thought, but then enter UVF rules
and regulations where one had to be out of bed in the morning at
a specific time … washed and preened by a certain time, that one’s
living space had to be spotlessly cleaned. Being tidy was not good
enough. This wasn’t what I was expecting … My remand period in
Long Kesh was almost a grounding for what I would be coming back
to, because in the sentenced compounds, 18 and 19, the implications
of that discipline were actually much more acute than in Compound
20. They weren’t invasive but they were about making the place
function, and you learned very quickly a set of rules


there was a ‘no conflict’ policy [which meant] you weren’t
allowed to hit anyone. If you had a dispute [then] lifting your hands
was actually a very risky business because you were then directly
challenging the authority of the UVF in Long Kesh and that did
not go down well at all. You would have been expected to deal with
things in a manly manner. In other words if there was a real dispute
then [it was into] the boxing ring and [on with] the boxing gloves.
The venting of anger and frustration was done in a controlled
manner rather than simply in a brawl. There were very, very few
incidents of physical violence, but of course the other compounds
around us did not necessarily function in that way. Other groups
controlled their membership by violence. I remember the story
about a guy in, I think it was Compound 16, the UDA compound,
who apparently had infracted their rules and his head was put in
a workbench vice and tightened. The UVF leadership did not
advocate the use of violence for control purposes … and it worked.
On one occasion I saw a guy use a knife and he was immediately
stripped of special-category status, political status, if you like, and
thrown out. I actually think that in terms of control mechanisms the
UVF were away ahead of the game inside that jail … The cleanliness
wasn’t about telling anybody they were dirty; it was about
absolute discipline, having pride in yourself. It was a lot of very
subtle psychological things that I think Spence, perhaps in his army
years and in Crumlin Road jail, had thought of, along the lines of:
‘We know that people can get depressed; we know that there’s a
danger of disenchantment, they’re fed up and depressed’ … Spence
had a lot of things in place that were about keeping you occupied
and giving you a concept of pride … I have to say to you, I raised
the odd eyebrow, but I got on with it, and over later years I would
be in admiration for the style, attitude and nature of the way he
controlled those men
.


there were many reasons why the discipline of the UVF was
absolutely vital, but the point I make was that Spence was virtually
unassailable regarding fairness, [and the way he] used his authority.
He had been the O/C of the UVF before he came into Long Kesh,
and … a weaker leader would have been crushed from the outset.
There were a few wobbles but in the main the internal discipline of
the UVF held. The compound system was one of humane confinement,
particularly if it was augmented with psychologically sensible
attitudes on the leadership’s part and not only that, a ‘no conflict’
attitude by the leadership. You weren’t, if you were five foot three,
going to be pushed around by somebody six foot four when the
dinner queue came; you just weren’t going to get bullied, it wasn’t
going to happen

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