A longish free form ‘poem’ that is realy a narrative about my personal experiences in 1973 in the Bogside. It was provoked by the interest shown for the poor horse that suffered so much in the first world war. I wonder how many people that felt concerned by the fate of those animals – as I am – have thought a little about the more than 3000 people that died in the so-called Troubles, including the hundreds of British soldiers dead or injured? We forget, perhaps, that initially the troops were sent in to protect the Catholic minority that was acknowledged as having had to suffer second class status for so many years. The Good Friday Agreement is now, sadly, under threat by politicians who are either suffering from memory loss or have decided not to read modern history books. When the UK decided to join the EEC, it was acknowledged by most people that the Republic of Ireland would have to join at the same time. It is amazing to me that people wish to pretend that the UK decision to join the EU, as the EEC became, was purely economic. We must have been living on different planets. The 1975 referendum confirmed that the British people had chosen a third way between the Soviet bloc and that of the US.
By the way, as a matter of historical record, most of our Ireland training took place in a purpose-built film set in Germany…can’t remember where exactly. I can remember that there were dozens of men injured during the training, though. I was one of them. I jumped out of a window to chase a ‘suspect’ to find that I wasn’t actually on the ground floor – just a few grazes and a broken ego!
A Bogside Ballad
They had trained so hard to foresee every event
Military pragmatism – pretence of precision
On studio-made streets, hostile crowds played by soldiers
Within a purpose-built building in the German countryside
Flashes of light in this deliberate, desperate darkness
Objects thrown and brutal, baffling noise
Helmets, Perspex shields and baton rounds
Riflemen behind, pretending to identify snipers
This was simulation, though the injuries were real
Weeks later, their reality was in the Bogside
Along grey streets of grim terraced houses
An atmosphere filled with fear and hatred
Well-trained yet surprised and unprepared
Berets and redundant rifles replaced riot equipment
No permission was granted for baton rounds
They were there to search homes and keep a low profile
In the early hours of the morning, the crowd assembled
The banging of dustbin lids accompanied groans of over-armoured vehicles
Women on the front line shouted obscenities into the obscurity
But these sights and sounds were not simulated
These sticks and stones were meant to break bones
They had arrived in Ireland a few weeks earlier
Direct from a military airfield by chartered plane
Then by big green bus from Belfast
As if to advertise the presence of British soldiers
So vulnerable during that journey
First feelings of futility and fear
The unseen enemy was not foreign
Same language, same skin, same religion for many
Same roads, same houses, same bleak seventies’ recession
The start of so many surreal juxtapositions
But, that night, there was what can be called a riot
A special experience that confirmed the army’s weakness
They could not search houses in riot gear
And there were not enough troops to do both
Among a population, perhaps a hundred times greater
And the hostile indistinguishable from the others
Bloody Sunday had shown the folly of treating this as a foreign war
This was a civil war, the army in support of the civil power
A power, seen as corrupt, undemocratic and vicious by many
A mother tried to snatch a rifle, strapped to a soldier’s wrist
She received a blow from the unbound fist
Another, full of anger, spat at a fresh, fearful face
And, when pushed away, shouted of the disgrace
Arms were found – a few old rifles, a sub-machine gun and ammunition
Some were arrested, many were injured
Soldiers that were not infantry were used as infantry
Infantrymen were kept away for fear they might do their jobs
As they had tried to do a few months before
An attempt to resolve a political problem by military force
Lives and liberties lost to sustain the unsustainable
Some who threw stones would later become political leaders
On Rossville flats there was an observation post
To keep one man on watch, it required eight to guard him
Two sat by the lift shaft at all times, relieved every two hours
And two NCO’s managed the mission while the relief slept
One night the two lift guards were shot dead from behind
By freedom fighters from the fire escape
Afterwards the access was blocked by an armoured panel
The stable door was closed after the horse had bolted
Few soldiers took the time to look at a large map
Wherein one could see the proximity of the border
As if the sight of the size of the task
Would sap the simple soldiers’ enthusiasm
A horse could reach safety in such a short time
On patrol a sergeant knelt by a junction box
To better hear the radio and catch his breath
His beret was found later on the branch of a tree
His body parts recovered in a black bag
The stand-by teams were sent in
To arrest someone – anyone – in a show of strength
A bomb had exploded as another horse had bolted
Few have heard of the heroes of this conflict
The soldiers that risked life, limb and legitimacy
For a cause that had become void of substance
Who had left their loved ones in real foreign lands
Who had their pay reduced because they were returned to their own country
Who had never joined the army to be in the infantry
Who thought the enemy was the Warsaw Pact
This was not glorious active service
Against a tyranny or religious extremists
This was deadly public service
Meriting a mere medal and a mauve and green ribbon
And a few lines in the local newspapers
We remember the fallen in great foreign wars
And the horses that suffered with them
But seldom those that bolted after closed doors
And the victims of that military mayhem