Clown in the Glen

The Troubles were a violent and brutal time in the history of strife in Ireland. Brother against Brother, many young boys fought and died for their own personal beliefs. The following story isn't anything remarkable, it was written at 3am after watching a

 It didn't matter, the police, the prison, the laughter, the bickering, the hatred, the biggotry, the fighting - no, it didn't matter, not when you were laying half-dead on the ground bleeding profously from wounds that'd probably never heal.

 

Finnley McCalway, 2nd Co. Kerry IRA Volunteer Rifle Regiment, and this is my story.

 

          That morning had been as beautiful as any I had ever seen, we were camped out just a few miles outside of Belfast, making ready for a little hell-raising that was going to happen that night. I sipped on some tea that had been warmed from a little kettle over a homemade fire, the other boys were talking excitedly of the night that was sure to come. I joined in, making small talk and enjoying a cigarette or two before the older lads came in and began to issue some orders. "Stamp out that fire!" One of them yelled, we geared up, putting on our berets and hoisting our rifles over our shoulders - just another day on active duty, yeah?

 

The breeze was light, you could almost taste the River Lagan, which was something because we were still some ways out before hitting Belfast. 

In all there were probably around 30 of us, but I mostly stuck with three other lads from my home town. Jameson, O'Reilly, and of course, Seamus Mullins - a right old rogue with one hell of a temper. Jameson and O'Reilly were more quiet and conserved, except in the heat of battle, O'Reilly was mental, but that comes in later.

We weren't armed with much, some of us lucky ones had Armalites, others AK-47's, we had one RPG, and a .30 cal machine gun that had been left over from World War 2 - we didn't quite care what the arms were as long as they shot. I personally had a little MAC-10, nasty little bugger especially the kickback, but, as I said we made did with what we had. 

We stopped for breakfast after a brisk hours march, eating a meal of fried toast and egg, washing it down with the last of the tea. The captain started up a marching song, "Come Out Ye Black and Tans", a well known one and everyone knew the words to it. We laughed and joked, completely unaware of what the hell we had just gotten ourselves into - and what a mess it all turned out to be.

As we got nearer to Belfast, everyone was ordered to keep quiet, army patrols were about and we weren't about to get caught by the bloody Brits just yet. Apparently, some other IRA Volunteer group had recently made some hell in the area, so British patrols were tight and many, and by god were they throrough when they had to. 

Me and Jameson were sent ahead as forward scouts for our team of eight men, we reached the outskirts of one of the roads, fairly certain it was clear I moved ahead to check both ways. Just then I heard the roaring of a Sacaren, a British light vechicle and I threw myself in the brush on the side of the road. Well just my luck the bloody thing stopped and the troops came out and had a cigarette or twenty, for I was laying there for over an hour. Eventually the patrol passed, and I was stiff and soaked with dew that hadn't quite dried yet, Jameson was chuckling as we reported back in. 

The day passed by like this, dodging patrols and setting up a little ring of sorts around key target areas, they sent our lot out to hold off one of the city roads, an outskirt of course and it wasn't in the city centre, it was outside and it was uncomfortable. A small stone wall and a few mounds were all that was offered for protection, and thats the first time I had a bad feeling about the whole situation. 

Jameson and O'Reilly were chatting silently and nervously, Seamus was fiddling with his AK-47, I wondered if he'd ever shot a gun before, I wonder if any of us had. 

Night came on fairly quickly, and a messenger boy came 'round, instruction us on our various missions. Apparently we were supposed to sit tight and wait to see if any British reinforcements came in from this specific road, we were told that the chances were slim but they needed some lads on reserve just in case. I felt slightly relieved at this and was able to relax, except for when the shooting started. 

It built up slowly, small arms fire, pistols and light assault weapons. And then the machine guns opened up, and there were many explosions. All eight of us listened carefully and eagerlly, wondering how the battle was faring. Seamus was staring hard down the road, I followed his gaze and could make out the distant lights, scores of them. Curiously I walked over to him and he pushed me down,

"Finnley you mad b*****d get down, it's them, it's the Brits!" The rest of the boys gathered round and watched, instantly Seamus took command. He laid us in half on either side of the road, passing out ammunation and grenades. I checked my weapon, Jameson had gone quiet, dead quiet, and O'Reilly was chewing on a cigarette. Seamus however looked eager, his eyes wild with fury and spirit. The first armoured car past us, Seamus had ordered not to fire until his molotov cocktail erupted, a few blocks of troops passed by and the tension became to much. Someone on the otherside of the road opened fire, picking out a few enemy soldiers and then the whole bloody thing came down on us. 

Seamus swore and tossed his molotov, which landed short and did nothing. A grenade went off somewhere, but the Brits were taken by surprise somewhat and we had the upper-hand, that is until the heavy guns started firing. Those armoured cars may be useless against rockets, but against us, well, they cut us to pieces. The night was thick and black, the only thing we could see at this point were muzzle flashes. The Brits had spread out all over the place, someone lit a flare but was shot to hell, whether by friendly troops or by one of us getting luck I'll never know. I emptied a clip of my submachine gun into what I thought were British soldiers, I heard them moan and scream, bullets whizzed over my head. I reloaded, Jameson was whooping and O'Reilly was screaming at the top of his lungs. I wasn't really sure where Seamus was but I heard the crack of his assault rifle nearby. The enemy machine guns spattered death on us, Jameson was the first to go, getting clipped in the  chest he fell onto his face bleeding and sobbing. 

O'Reilly lost it then, watching his friend die and the massed adrenaline sent him off, he stood up and charged right into the column of the British troops. I'm not sure how many he took down before he died, for he ran all the way down the road firing, there are still legends that he lives, wiping out the entire rear block and escaping into the night - this was all rubbish of course, he probably only made it half-way before getting blasted apart. 

The boys across from us were slowly dying out as well, Seamus had been hit in the forearm but was still training and firing into the enemy on single shot. I crawled my way over to him, his face was impassive and he seemed to not even notice I was there. An explosion rocked behind us, they must of thought an entire Company was attacking us because they were firing personal rockets into the brush, the stone wall had long since been blasted to pieces. 

Eventually I ran out of MAC-10 ammo, switching over to my sidearm, a simple black pistol, I fired a few shots into where I saw muzzle flashes, but the enemy response was so much greater I was eventually pinned. Seamus was on the ground grasping at his forearm as adrenaline began to wear off and fear set in. 

"Oh Finnley... they got me real good mate, real good. Heh, well, I'll, yeah I'll beat you to hell you b*****d, I swear it I'd beat you in football, rugby, wrestling, and I'll sure as sure beat you to Hell!" He groaned, turning over onto his back and giving a sob into the night. He had seemed to set and narrow and wicked just a few moments before, and now he was sobbing and crying like a school boy who had just been told off by his mum. If the situation hadn't been so grinned I would of most certaintly laughed, but I was crying myself so there wasn't much I could of said. 

It took the British ten minutes to realise that they were no longer being fired upon, and it all went eerily quiet except for the low rumble of armoured cars. They were stomping through the brush, looking and searching, shooting at anything that moved. A few of them came over the mound that overlooked our position,

"Theres one there Rundley, look!" One of them said, indicating the wounded figure of Seamus, who was just barely concious. I had pushed myself as far into the base of the mound as possible to avoid being seen, I had a few shots left in my pistol and I wondered if I had a chance in hell, in reality I was dead, but I was young and full of wit and quick courage. They hopped over expecting to find a desereted clearing but I opened up, catching one dead centre in the spinal cord and he fell over limp, I hit another one in the leg and finished him off through the base of the neck. I charged out and felt a cool whack against the back of my head, the world was spinning before me, everything seemed to dance and jiggle about. I felt another whack in the chest and a sharp pain in my knee. I fell over onto my back in a heap, gasping for air and biting my lip to avoid crying out. Blood was drawn and I lay there, my eyes slits and watering in unfathomable agony. 

And here I am, laying on the ground, dying slowly yet surely from bad wounds and waiting the untold end. A shadow hovered over me, I could just barely make out the soldiers helm. He crouched over me, taking a good look, I saw his face, those warm rosy cheeks and familiar blonde hair, the deep setted hazel eyes...

"Finnley? Oh god, no, Finnley oh lord please no." My fathers voice was shaking over me, he hefted me up, hugging and crying onto my shoulder. I tried to speak but he hushed me up, rocking me back and forth as if I were a babe. Around us, other Pro-British Irish Volunteers came about, standing solemnly and quiet. The world was slowly turning black, the back of my head was throbbing, my dad was still sobbing into my sleeve.

"D-dad." I managed to spit out, he looked at me, hard in the eyes - something I'll never forget for as long as I live and he said,

"Son, son, my son. My only son my good only son, this is how it'll all end? Curse this war, and curse every single man with a brain and suit. Damn it all, oh damn it all..."

I faded off, freeing myself of the pain and with the hope that I still could beat Seamus down on his way to Hell.

Author's Note

It's not a complex story - it wasn't designed with complexity in mind. I simply wanted to portray the meaning of the story - that civil war, despite how just both sides will make their lot sound, is still a horrible and terrible thing.