MX - Inside The Uda Volunteers and Violence

Inside the UDA
Volunteers and Violence
Colin Crawford
Foreword by Marie Smyth
Pluto P Press
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Copyright © Colin Crawford 2003
The right of Colin Crawford to be identified as the author of

this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from
the British Library
ISBN 0 7453 2107 0 hardback

ISBN 0 7453 2106 2 paperback
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

Crawford, Colin, 1948–
Inside the UDA : volunteers and violence
/ Colin Crawford ; foreword by Marie Smyth.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references.
ISBN 0–7453–2107–0 (hardback) –– ISBN 0–7453–2106–2 (pbk.)
1. Ulster Defence Association––History. 2. Northern Ireland––
Politics and government. 3. Paramilitary forces––Northern
Ireland––History––20th century. 4. Political violence––Northern
Ireland––History––20th century. 5. Northern Ireland––History,
Military. 6. Unionism (Irish politics) I. Title.
DA990.U46C726 2003
941.60824––dc21
2003011541
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Designed and produced for Pluto Press by

Chase Publishing Services, Sidmouth, EX10 9QG, England
Typeset from disk by Stanford DTP Services, Towcester, England
Printed and bound in the European Union by
Antony Rowe, Chippenham and Eastbourne, England
In memory of Cassie, 2003
Contents
Abbreviations ix
Acknowledgements x
Foreword by Marie Smyth xi
1 Introduction to the Conflict in Northern Ireland 1

800 Years of Troubled History 1
The Roles of the IRA and of the UDA/UFF in the
Conflict Since 1969 5
2 Researching the UDA 10

The Probation Service, Long Kesh and Political Prisoners 10
Specific Methodology 16
3 The UDA/UFF: History, Organisation and Structure 20

A Brief History of the UDA/UFF 20
A Paramilitary Organisation? 24
A Working-class Organisation? 30
Strategy and Tactics: Selective Targeting versus
Random Killing 32
Infiltration by the Police and the Security Forces 39
Collusion Between Elements of the British Security
Forces and Members of the UDA/UFF 42
From Paramilitaries to a Politicisation of the Conflict 46
4 Phase One: Beginnings – the UDA’s Chaotic Sectarian
War of the 1970s 51
Sam Duddy 51
‘Ken’ 63
‘Billy’ 76
John White 89
5 Phase Two: The 1980s UDA/UFF – from Infiltration to

Reorganisation 97
‘Terry’ 97
‘Jackie’ 112
vii
viii Inside the UDA
6 Phase Three: The Mid-1980s UDA/UFF –

Travelling Gunmen and the Selective Strategy 127
‘Gary’ 127
Michael Stone 143
7 Phase Four: The 1990s – the Selective Strategy and

Retaliatory Sectarian Murder 154
‘Tommy’ 154
Johnny Adair 165
‘Gordon’ 173
‘Alan’ 183
8 Phase Five: The UDA/UFF 1993 – the Shankill Bomb

and the Greysteel Massacre 193
Combatant A 193
Combatant B 196
Combatant C 202
Combatant D 206
Conclusion 210
Bibliography 218
Index 221
Abbreviations
ASU active service unit.

CO Commanding Officer.
DUP Democratic Unionist Party.
FRU Forces Research Unit. A British Security Forces Unit drawing
upon MI5, Army intelligence and Police (RUC) Special Branch.
INLA Irish National Liberation Army. A small republican terrorist
group.
IRA Irish Republican Army.
IRB Irish Republican Brotherhood.
IRSP Irish Republican Socialist Party.
LVF Loyalist Volunteer Force. A small but dangerous and fanatical
group, considered to be ‘outside’ mainstream paramilitary
loyalism.
MI5 Military Intelligence, Section 5.
PUP Progressive Unionist Party. The party which represents the
UVF/RHC politically.
RHC Red Hand Commando. Closely linked to the UVF, this is
considered to be a small but elite loyalist paramilitary group.
RIR Royal Irish Regiment.
RUC Royal Ulster Constabulary (Police).
SAS Special Air Service.
SASU special active service unit.
SDLP Social Democratic and Labour Party (of Northern Ireland).
UDA Ulster Defence Association. The largest of all the paramilitary
groups in Northern Ireland, and possibly in the Western
world.
UDP Ulster Democratic Party. The party which represented the
UDA/UFF politically.
UDR Ulster Defence Regiment.
UFF Ulster Freedom Fighters. The more militant ‘military wing’ of
the UDA.
UPRG Ulster Political Research Group.
UUP Ulster Unionist Party.
UVF Ulster Volunteer Force. The second largest loyalist paramilitary
organisation in Northern Ireland.
ix
Acknowledgements
I should wish to thank the officers and men of the Ulster Defence
Association, the Ulster Freedom Fighters, the Ulster Democratic Party
and the Ulster Political Research Group for their help and for contri-
butions to this work. I was afforded a very special access to the
organisation which was greatly appreciated. I hope that this work
meets the expectations which were placed upon it, in recording a
history of the UDA.
Thanks also to my wife Gillian for her patience in giving me the
time and space to write and to finish this work.
Most of all, however, I should wish to thank my colleague and
friend Marie Smyth, of the Institute for Conflict Research. This work
may have remained unpublished had it not been for her academic
guidance, and more particularly her connections within the literary
and publishing world. Also to Julie Stoll in Pluto Press whose French
flair assisted greatly in the coherency of the book.
Finally, I should wish to thank all those many people, loyalist and
republican, whose political vision and courage are helping to bring
peace to our shared country.
x
Foreword
Marie Smyth
In the context of a growing global interest in non-state military actors,

this book sets out to provide an account of the Ulster Defence
Association (UDA) and it more militant wing, the Ulster Freedom
Fighters (UFF), and their role in Northern Ireland’s troubles. It is
produced in the global context of George Bush’s war against terrorism,
and growing interest in understanding the origins, modus operandi
and motivations of such organisations. Some seek this understand-
ing in order to overcome such organisations militarily. Others seek to
understand the political and social circumstances that give rise to the
formation and proliferation of violent non-state intervention.
In the local context of Northern Ireland, the book appears at a par-
ticularly challenging time for loyalist politics in general, and for the
UDA in particular. In the wake of the Good Friday Agreement,
unionism and loyalism have faced the challenges involved in the
transformation of Northern Ireland politics, from direct rule to a
locally devolved assembly. This has required substantial changes in
unionist/loyalist and nationalist/republican political behaviour. For
Loyalists it has meant moving from a position where they shunned
republicans, refusing even to be in the same room as them, to one
where they sat together with them in government. For those within
the ranks of the paramilitaries, it has meant the transition – albeit
imperfect – from militarism to democratic politics. For the UDA, the
subject of this book, this transition has not been easy, for a number
of reasons. Perhaps most importantly, the organisation has enjoyed
a very limited amount of success in electoral politics. It has been
observed that unionist constituents do not readily vote for parties
with paramilitary links. Both political parties associated with loyalist
paramilitaries, the Ulster Democratic Party (UDP), which is associated
with the UDA, as well as the Progressive Unionist Party (PUP)
associated with the Ulster Volunteer Force (UVF), have struggled to
become electorally viable. The PUP, however, has met with more
success than the UDP, winning two assembly seats whereas the UDP
won none. The UDP eventually folded as a political party and was
xi
xii Foreword
replaced with an interim organisation, the Ulster Political Research

Group (UPRG), whose task it was to reform, unify and revitalise the
political operation of the UDA and its political associates.
However, the disputes within the UDA, the UDP and latterly the
UPRG mirror the wider pattern of dissention and division with
unionism and loyalism in the post-Agreement period. Splits and
vitriolic disputes within the mainstream Ulster Unionist Party (UUP)
were marked from the early days of the Agreement by Jeffrey
Donaldson’s walkout at the time of the signing of the Agreement.
This was followed by the outbreak of a series of loyalist feuds, within
and between loyalist paramilitaries, the most serious of which was
between the UVF and the UDA from 2000 onwards. The result of
these disputes was the internal segregation of some loyalist working-
class communities, separating UVF and UDA supporters from each
other. Nor was life within the Ulster Defence Association unmarked
by division. (In September 2002, they expelled Johnny Adair, the
Commander of C Company in the Lower Shankill, and his associate,
John White, who appears in this volume.)
There are three kinds of substantive causes of these disputes: the
tension between militarism and politics; the tension between those
for and those against the Belfast Agreement; and the tension between
those motivated by personal gain and involved in crime, racketeer-
ing and drug trafficking.
MILITARISM VERSUS POLITICS
The first tension, between militarism and politics, is between those

who espouse militaristic solutions to political problems, in opposition
to those who tend to choose the political path. There has been much
debate in Northern Ireland among paramilitaries in general and their
supporters about the effectiveness of politics, compared with that of
violence. Some argue that violence works, that Sinn Fein would not
have had two ministers in the Northern Ireland Assembly had not the
Irish Republican Army (IRA) bombed and shot its way into the
political arena. There are other examples. One referred to by Mo
Mowlam in her account of her time as Secretary of State for Northern
Ireland was the infamous ‘lesser of two evils’ decision at Drumcree
(Mowlam, 2002: 97). Orangemen were allowed to march through a
Catholic estate at Drumcree in 1999, because the Chief Constable
argued that, if they were prevented, the violence that resulted would
Foreword xiii
be worse than the violence emanating from the Catholic community.

Therefore, on that basis, the Orangemen were allowed to march.
In a militarised society, evidence is plentiful to support the
argument that it is might not right that often prevails. Within
loyalism, then, to argue for the adoption of an exclusively political
path is to face the accusation of having ‘sold out’ unionism and
loyalism by abandoning the battle against the IRA. Support for a
military engagement has a wider currency within unionism. Both
the UUP and Paisley’s Democratic Unionist Party (DUP), while
eschewing paramilitary activity themselves, have argued that the IRA
should to be defeated militarily by the use of the security forces. Both
parties would see themselves having special links with the security
forces, many police and RIR members are DUP or UUP supporters,
and both parties have argued against the reforms of the police
proposed by the Patten report. So even within parties that have no
paramilitary link, military solutions are favoured for the problems
of Northern Ireland. Yet the argument that ‘terrorists’ should be
defeated by military means is not without its contradictions.
The first contradiction, British military or loyalist paramilitary
action directed, in this case, against republicans has arguably
provided and maintained a context in which the IRA has been easily
able to continue to recruit those who wish to defend their
community against such patent threats. For example, the IRA was
inundated with recruits after Bloody Sunday, when the British
Paratroop regiment killed 14 Catholic civilians on a civil rights march
in 1972. So, military strategy may be counterproductive, in that it
can serve to escalate, not end, conflict.
The second, the pursuit of a physical force solution may be difficult
to present and justify in the political domain, and may risk the loss
of the moral high ground. This is inevitably politically dangerous,
and in the post-conflict period has been played out within paramil-
itary groups as the tension between gangsterism on the one hand
and bona fide politics on the other. This second contradiction is par-
ticularly pertinent to this book. Within these pages, those who have
pursued strategies such as the use of sectarian assassination of
Catholics articulate their feelings and thoughts about their past
actions. Were these actions morally justifiable or were the individual
actors criminals or psychopaths? Were they dupes of the state, used
and discarded when their usefulness was over? Were they heroes,
taking up arms for a political cause and in defence of their
communities and political heritage? Or were they victims of circum-
xiv Foreword
stances, the accident of birth into a loyalist community? Would we,

the readers, have done likewise if we had been similarly born and
reared? It is a topic that Crawford addresses, but one on which it is
difficult to reach independent conclusions without reverting to
default sectarian positions.
The physical force argument has been taken up with some gusto
by the Bush administration in the United States in the wake of the
al-Qaeda attack of 11 September 2001, and thus been provided with
a new global currency. It is one thing, however, when a state
government declares war on terrorism, and quite another when non-
state actors takes the law into their own hands, deciding to prosecute
their own war, albeit on the side of the state, on their own terms.
This, in essence, is what the UDA did. Indeed, the evidence now
points to collusion and cooperation between the state and the UDA.
The UDA were fighting for the state, not against it. Yet those who
take up arms in order to defend the state, but operate outside that
state’s law, paint themselves into a peculiar political and moral corner.
This dilemma is more than a matter of historical interest. It is a con-
temporary political struggle for those who now wish to pursue a
political rather than paramilitary path, and who now must explain
their own past to themselves and to their electorate.
PRO- VERSUS ANTI-AGREEMENT
The other context for disputes within and between loyalist organ-
isations has been the shifting attitude of the unionist community as
a whole to the Agreement. Unionists and loyalists have become
increasingly divided in their attitude from the late 1990s onwards.
Whereas at the time of the referendum on the Good Friday
Agreement, it was estimated that half of unionists supported the
Agreement, support has subsequently steadily declined. This is partly
due to a perception among some loyalists that the Good Friday
Agreement is a bad deal for loyalists and represents a shortcut to a
united Ireland. Some also allege that those who sit in political nego-
tiations in local government or in the Assembly, with republicans in
particular but also with other rival loyalists, are betraying the cause
for which loyalists have fought and died. The UDP’s failure to win a
seat in the Assembly elections of 1998, and their general lack of much
electoral success, has fuelled this tension. It has been assumed by Mo
Mowlam and others that inclusion in dialogue and the political
process is an effective prophylactic against a return to violence. The
Foreword xv
exclusion – albeit democratic – of the UDP from the Assembly is

perhaps one factor in their continuing volatility and internal division.
CRIME VERSUS POLITICAL IDEALS
The final tension within and between loyalist paramilitaries is related

to their involvement in gangsterism, racketeering and drug
trafficking. Although those close to the UVF would contest that that
organisation is heavily involved in these activities, few who know
the UDA would argue that there has been heavy involvement by
UDA members in a range of illegal activities, and much of that
activity has been for personal, not political gain. Turf wars over
territory are related to racketeering and drug trafficking, and latterly,
competitive recruitment of young people by the two main loyalist
groups has made unaligned loyalist young people the subject of
another form of turf war. John White, among others, has called for
an end to racketeering and illegal activity and a return to politics.
However, the presence of competing financial interests within the
organisation makes it volatile and liable to internal disputes.
This book is a privileged account of the UDA and the UFF, and
their role in Northern Ireland’s troubles. The author gained the trust
of his informants, themselves members and former members of these
organisations, during his time as a probation officer in the jails. It is
written with their consent, knowledge and cooperation, and this has
shaped the kind of access that Colin Crawford has had in the
preparation of this book. The production of this book has been
judged by some of the members of these organisations, if not the
organisations themselves, to be an important contribution to the
documentation of the history of the organisation, and thereby to its
understanding of itself and its own history and dynamics. Yet this
very support and cooperation raises issues about the work itself, its
objectivity as well as the ethical propriety of publishing it. Does it
advance the cause of terrorists? Does it glorify the deeds it recounts?
Does writing and publishing such a book serve any legitimate
historical or political purpose?
One concern about this kind of account is that it gives comfort to
those who deserve none, and that those who produce such work are
apologists for terrorists. The combatants interviewed in this book are
presented inter alia as victims of circumstance. Their family
backgrounds, their own losses or anger at losses in the Protestant
community provide the context for the choices they made to take up
xvi Foreword
arms and in some instances to kill or to attempt to do so.

Unfortunately, suffering and victim status has often been used in
Northern Ireland in order to justify acts of violence or damage done
to those associated with the victimiser. Subjective perceptions of vic-
timisation provide a context for the motivation to take up arms in
some of these accounts. Yet this fails to explain why others in similar
positions do not do take up arms or harm others.
A more robust analysis of the motivation of those represented in
this work must take into account factors such as age, gender,
educational level and social class. These are all males who became
involved as adolescents or young men. All of them came from
working-class backgrounds and none was bound for third-level
education. The inclusion of their perceptions of their own suffering
does, however, attempt to engage the sympathy of the reader, and no
doubt engaged the sympathy of Crawford himself. As a probation
officer, he was professionally tasked with helping these men with
their personal and intimate problems, and with helping to rehabil-
itate them. Crawford himself has struggled with his role in relation
to both loyalist and republican prisoners. As a result of his work in
the prisons, and his subsequent research for an earlier book, he
formed personal relationships with some of the loyalist informants
in this volume. Robbens (1995, in Sluka, 2000) whose work involved
an ethnography of Argentinian generals who had perpetrated
dreadful acts of violence, describes what he calls his ‘ethnographic
seduction’, where he began to like these men after they became his
hosts. Any sympathetic portrayal of these men will be repugnant to
many. Some such as Abu-Lughod (1993) argue that a humanistic
approach, which includes, for example, the family background data,
should only be used in circumstances where the aim is to broaden
support for a particular group. The inclusion of personal details
challenges the reader to see those portrayed here as similar to the
rest of us, with families, uncertainties, unresolved issues, in short as
human beings. Bornstein, in his analysis of his own study of the
Intifada argues that:
For those not immediately threatened by violence … commitments

are often shaped by emotions of fear or empathy largely in
response to narratives of suffering of others. Because of the
empathetic power of suffering, different groups will actively seek
to make it useful in different ways. Victims might speak to bring
order to their psychic disorders, social workers quantify and classify
Foreword xvii
suffering to move their own agenda, politicians invoke the

victimized to bolster their legitimate rule, later generations act in
the name of honouring those long dead and academics and intel-
lectuals speak or write of violence to give important relevance to
their work. (Bornstein, 2001: 550–1)
Kleinman and Kleinman describe stories of trauma as ‘the currency,

the symbolic capital, with which [victims] enter exchanges for
physical resources’ (Kleinman and Kleinman, 1997: 10). This book,
while perhaps useful as an accumulation of the Kleinmans’ ‘symbolic
capital’, is not simply a bid for sympathy. It simultaneously presents
the suffering of the informants alongside their acts of violence, their
killings and attempts at killing. It is, at one and the same time, an
insider account written empathically, and an account written with
one eye on the perception of this group of loyalists by outsiders,
perhaps even by republicans. It appears contradictory and uncomfort-
able at times, perhaps for this reason, and one other. Those inside
the UDA and UFF are, indeed, human beings, with insecurities,
feelings, blind spots, and have more in common with the rest of us
than is, perhaps, comfortable to admit. Such accounting is politically
important. The setting out of these contradictions affords a better
understanding of these men, and facilitates the development of a
deeper and more robust analysis of their organisation and politics.
This book appears at a time when interest in the process of post-
conflict truth recovery has been awakened in Northern Ireland. A
group calling itself Healing Through Remembering published a report
in June 2002 pointing to the value of personal accounts and story-
telling as a method of constructing a diverse and inclusive history of
the conflict. The truth that is recovered by such processes is not
singular, but multiple. There have been few accounts from paramil-
itary combatants, and this book addresses that scarcity. The book is
also germane to the controversy surrounding the alleged collusion
between the security forces and loyalist paramilitaries in Northern
Ireland. As I read the earlier drafts of the book, it became clearer how
this collusion operated. As Northern Ireland struggles to establish
policing and security that is independent and deals equitably with
those who break the law from both communities, the accounts in
this book add to the available evidence on the relationship between
sections of the security forces and the paramilitary groups. That more
of the loyalist side of that story is now on record in the public
domain is an important contribution to truth recovery, and to public
xviii Foreword
understanding of relationships between the security forces and the

UDA in particular.
This book adds something to the understanding of one issue,
related to one central activity of the UDA/UFF, that of the sectarian
killing of Catholic civilians. For many, particularly those from the
nationalist community who were its targets, this has been the most
repugnant part of this organisation’s operation. In this book, the
portrayal of the UDA/UFF as a ‘people’s army’ with a loose affiliation
across many loyalist communities in Northern Ireland, where the
boundaries between members and non-members are blurred, suggests
that perhaps the concept of a civilian – particularly a Catholic civilian
– is not clear. Certainly, the IRA killing of police officers, who were
almost all Protestants, was perceived by many in the loyalist
community primarily as the killing of Protestants, not, as republicans
would see it, as the killing of combatants representing the state. There
does not seem to be a clear distinction within the accounts and
analysis in this book between the political meaning of targeting those
who bear arms, and killing those who do not bear arms and are not
involved in combat.
From a subjective viewpoint, this book is painful and shocking to
read. It was my neighbours who were killed in the Greysteel killings.
The lack of remorse in one of the accounts published here makes it
even more painful. One would wish to protect those bereaved by
these men from reading some of their proud, unrepentant
statements. It has also, no doubt, been a difficult book to produce.
Spending long hours immersed in such terrible stories casts a deep
shadow over one’s own life. Colin Crawford has brought these stories
into the public domain as a result of remaining in these shadows,
without distancing himself from those he interviewed, and without
disowning his human connection to them. This is a great risk to take,
and no doubt some will condemn him for it. Although the analysis
in this book will not be palatable to many, it is nonetheless important
that, as a result of Crawford’s efforts, we can know a little more about
the hidden side of loyalism, and the perspectives of those who have
killed out of loyalty. This goes some way to filling a gap in existing
published material. Bowyer Bell, on the topic of documentation and
analysis of loyalism, wrote:
Such [a] history is especially difficult because increasingly the

lethal loyalists were so few, so haltingly structured, so transient
Foreword xix
and inarticulate, and thus, almost always beyond analytical reach.

(Bowyer Bell, 1993: 300)
This work goes some way to addressing that shortfall within the
burgeoning material on Northern Ireland. In terms of the correspon-
ding gap in the documentation on state terror Jeffrey Sluka points out:
while there is now a massive literature on antistate terrorism, state

terror has been neglected by academics, the media and
governments. The reasons for this have been more political and
ideological than empirical. (Sluka, 2000: 1)
It is only through improving our understanding of the experience

of all the citizens of Northern Ireland, and by including all shades of
political opinion in political and historical documentation and
dialogue, that lasting peace can be achieved.
Marie Smyth
Washington DC
November 2002
Marie Smyth is CEO of the Institute for Conflict Research in Northern

Ireland, a Lecturer in School of Policy Studies, University of Ulster and a
Jennings Randolph Senior Fellow at the United States Institute of Peace in
Washington DC.
1 Introduction to the Conflict
in Northern Ireland
800 YEARS OF TROUBLED HISTORY
Relationships between Britain and Ireland have been historically

characterised by conflict and discord. A comparative peace had been
established by the turn of the twentieth century when Ireland was
an integral part of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland
and was democratically represented at Westminster, in common with
Scotland and Wales. However, Irish ‘Home Rule’, or independence
from Britain, was always high on the (Catholic) Irish political agenda.
The First World War (1914–18) involved a conflict between Germany,
and the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland. Thousands of
Irish men joined (British) Irish and British regiments, serving with
distinction in the allied trenches. The Irish population at that time
were described as being ‘never more loyal to Britain’ as the kingdom
united in war.
This was the unlikely background to the Easter Rising in Dublin
(1916), involving the Irish Republican Brotherhood (IRB) and IRA.
The IRA occupied the main post office in Connolly Street, Dublin,
proclaiming Irish freedom from Britain. Irish citizens on the streets
of Dublin found it difficult to comprehend the bizarre events
unfolding before them. There is no doubt that this ‘rising’ did not
enjoy popular support with the Irish people, and 300 civilians, 60
‘rebels’ and 130 British troops were killed in a level of conflict not
witnessed in Ireland for 100 years. Many jeered the IRA men as they
were paraded through the streets as prisoners. But the rising was not
as it seemed; the rising had been predicated upon the need for a
‘blood sacrifice’, in the cause of a United Ireland. The equation was
psychological in nature, a gesture of rebellion, in the full realisation
of the likely draconian British military response. And in this regard
Britain did not disappoint the strategists of the IRA and IRB. To gain
sufficient popular support the IRA had to occupy the role of ‘victim’
and the British that of the ‘oppressor’. This simple strategy was
employed, in the certainty of its success. The British military estab-
lishment was challenged by the poets, writers and visionaries within
1
2 Introduction
the ranks of the IRA and IRB as the tenure of British rule in Ireland
became increasingly untenable.
Not for the first time in Ireland it was the prison issue which
marshalled popular support for the rebels. The leaders of the rising
were shot by firing squad including James Connolly who was
executed while sitting on a chair, unable to stand with an ankle
wound. The IRA prisoners, who were treated as ordinary criminal
offenders, began protesting for ‘political status’ or ‘prisoner of war
status’. IRA prisoners were both being shot and brutalised as public
sympathy swayed away from the British and towards the IRA. The
IRA’s strategy was, demonstrably, working, with a direct correlation
between escalating British oppression and support for the rebel IRA.
In 1917 the first of the protesting IRA prisoners died through
forcible feeding while on hunger strike. The London Daily Express
commented, in relation to this single gruesome event: ‘Ashe’s funeral
has made 100,000 Sinn Feiners [i.e. IRA supporters] out of 100,000
constitutional nationalists.’ The centrality of the prison/prisoner
issue in Irish conflicts was, and not for the last time, being demon-
strated. A second IRA prisoner, Terence McSwiney, a former mayor of
Cork died after 73 days on hunger strike during 1920, in Brixton
prison, London. This had, again not for the last time, drawn inter-
national attention to the cause of Irish protesting prisoners,
significantly alienating the Catholic church and much of the
Catholic Irish population.
The conflict in Ireland had in the meantime deteriorated in a
virtual guerrilla war between the IRA, the Royal Irish Constabulary
and the Black and Tans, a ruthless auxiliary British force. The vast
majority of the ordinary Irish people were caught between these
warring groups. But as British oppression and reprisal became more
extreme there was little doubt where Irish loyalty would lie. Britain’s
‘Irish problem’ was spiralling out of control, and causing embarrass-
ment nationally and internationally, as liberal pressure mounted for
some form of political compromise.
In the ‘Protestant North’ of Ireland, however, unionists and
loyalists organised to resist Irish Home Rule. The UVF was formed
and by 1912 its membership numbered some 100,000 men. The
unionist and loyalists in the North of Ireland at that time had the
support of the British political and military establishment. Addressing
assembled UVF men Bonar Law, leader of the British Conservative
Party, pledged that ‘they will not be wanting help from across the
Channel when the hour of battle comes’. A retired English General
800 Years of Troubled History 3
of the Indian Army was placed in command of the UVF, the

appointment having been arranged by Field Marshall Lord Roberts.
In 1914 gun running into the northern ports of Bangor and Larne
resulted in the importation of 24,000 rifles and 3,000,000 rounds of
ammunition, augmenting the existing 16,000 rifles. The British Army
in Ireland when asked about their disposition to ‘coerce Ulster’, i.e.
engage the UVF militarily, replied that they’d rather face dismissal.
The event was immortalised as the ‘Curragh Mutiny’.
An Anglo-Irish Treaty was signed in December 1921, by an Irish
delegation representing the IRA and the British cabinet. Michael
Collins, Commander of the IRA, reportedly commented having
signed the Treaty, ‘I have signed my death warrant.’ This observation
proved to be prophetic.
The Treaty provided for independence for 26 of the 32 counties
of Ireland, which was to be called the ‘Irish Free State’ and not the
Irish Republic, which the IRA had fought for. The term ‘Ulster’ wasn’t
to be mentioned during the talks; instead the ‘six counties’ could
opt out of the newly created Free State. Effectively 26 counties in
southern Ireland were given relative independence from Britain,
whereas Ulster, reflecting the (Protestant) majority will of the people,
elected to remain British.
Significantly the signing of the Treaty caused a split within the
IRA which has been discernible in the ranks of republicans from that
time to the present. Collins’ men in the ‘old IRA’ became part of the
Free State Army, while an anti-treaty IRA was formed determined to
fight on for total Irish independence from Britain. Ireland had been
deeply destabilised by events across what was by then the Ulster
border, with 30 people killed in a single night. Catholic refugees
streamed out of Ulster and into the new Free State. Collins, now
caught in the double bind of having to accept the integrity of the
new state, but wishing to defend nationalists in the north made his
‘could not stand idly by’ speech. This was a prelude to his arming
those who were by now his enemies, the anti-treaty IRA in the north,
for the protection of Catholics in the new state.
The Irish Civil War broke out in 1922 between what was now the
Irish Army and the anti-treaty IRA. During eight days of fighting in
Dublin 60 people were killed and 300 wounded. Collins now engaged
the anti-treaty IRA with the same ferocity as he had the British. In a
history replete with irony he procured 10,000 rifles from the British
and recruited into the Irish Army former professionals from the Royal
Irish Constabulary, and the British and American armies. On 22
4 Introduction
August 1922 Michael Collins was killed by the anti-treaty IRA while
travelling in his open-top Rolls-Royce car, his armed escort unable to
save him.
The war escalated as the Irish Prime Minister William Cosgrave
assumed power determined to stamp his authority on the ‘rebels’.
An Emergency Power Bill was introduced allowing for IRA men taken
in arms to be shot. Seventy-seven executions were carried out during
the following seven months. Thirty-four IRA men were executed in
January 1923 alone in nine different Irish towns. Eamon de Valera
eventually gave the order, endorsed by the anti-treaty IRA, ‘soldiers
of the rearguard, dump arms’. ‘Other means must be sought to
safeguard the nation’s right.’ The Irish Civil War was over, however
the anti-treaty IRA’s war was far from forgotten.
In 1921 the then IRA had agreed a ‘partitionist settlement’ with
Britain separating the Irish and Catholic south and the mainly
Protestant and British north. Some 75 years later, in 1998, 94.4 per
cent of the population of the Republic of Ireland voted for the Good
Friday Agreement predicated upon a partitionist settlement and an
internal resolution of the Northern Ireland conflict. This could be
seen as a distinctly unsympathetic disposition in the Republic toward
those in the Provisional IRA, and others, fighting a terrorist campaign
for ‘Irish freedom’, or Irish independence from Britain. (Alternatively
this may have reflected a desire to limit any future conflict to the
north.) Again in 1998 Sinn Fein, the political representatives of the
Provisional IRA, embraced both the peace process and a partitionist
settlement, apparently in direct contravention of the IRA’s own
Standing Orders. In the Sinn Fein Ard Fheis convened in May 1998
96 per cent, 331 of the 350 delegates, voted in favour of the Belfast
Agreement, permitting Sinn Fein members to sit in the Northern
Ireland Assembly. In so doing they embraced the reality accepted by
Michael Collins some 77 years earlier. Almost one million Protestants
and countless others with allegiance to Britain in Northern Ireland
would not be coerced into a united Ireland. At the heart of the
conflict in Northern Ireland is the constitutional question. For the
previous 30 years the Protestant community as a whole had argued
that any change to the constitutional status of Northern Ireland can
only be achieved through the democratic wishes of its people. Had
the north been forcibly subsumed into an all-Ireland state the
UDA/UFF would have immediately assumed a total war posture
involving a massive escalation in the conflict. This scenario delu-
sionally pursued by the IRA had always been unthinkable, precisely
The IRA and the UDA/UFF Since 1969 5
as the voting patterns confirmed. The current peace process and the
resolution of Northern Ireland’s political conflict, politically and
within Northern Ireland, remains as the singular way forward.
THE ROLES OF THE IRA AND OF THE UDA/UFF IN THE

CONFLICT SINCE 1969
The IRA’s 1922 war in Ireland was manifestly political, as a war of

independence against the British, or as a civil war fought between
pro- and anti-treaty IRA factions. The 1969–2002 Ulster conflict was
infinitely more complex, initially involving the relative social
oppression of the Catholic minority (pre-1969), civil rights, and a
disproportionate unionist/loyalist response, culminating in sectarian
attacks upon the Catholic community. This saw the re-emergence of
the IRA, and the first political and sectarian murders. (The UDA
version of this history is considered in the text.) The interest groups
to this conflict were multifarious, and often fickle in their allegiance.
These included the British and Irish States, unionists and loyalists,
republicans and nationalists, Protestants and Catholics, the respective
armies and police forces, special operations groups and intelligence
services. The paramilitary groups included broadly the loyalist UDA,
the UVF and the republican IRA, both the Official IRA and the
Provisional IRA. The war operated at a number of levels involving
both loyalist and republican terrorism, state infiltration, agents, spies
and informers, sectarian violence and murder, random murder and
selective targeting, psychopathic murder and torture, criminal
activity, corruption, state oppression, state-sponsored terror, alleged
collusion, and state policies of ‘shooting to kill’.
All these important themes will be addressed in this book, upon
the basis of how they were encountered and experienced by
individual UDA volunteers in Ulster’s ‘dirty war’.
Of the many books written about the Northern Ireland conflict
most attempt to provide for historical and explanatory contexts
usually within a republican or British framework. These are usually
books which attempt to engage with the global or macro issues and
offer analysis and commentary at that level. In my own research and
writing this has proven less than helpful, serving to generalise a
conflict which is infinitely complex, and precisely as variable as those
who became involved in it, be they loyalist or republican. This book
will break from literary convention in that it will move from the
specific, actual human experience in circumstances of conflict, to
6 Introduction
the general, the social and political context as determined by the

given experiences. Accordingly, this work will provide for a minimal
contextualisation, into substantially considering the life experiences
of individual ‘actors’ caught up in the conflict. Finally, upon the basis
of this presented material, a historical analysis of the UDA/UFF war
will be considered. This approach has been utilised to both individ-
ualise and humanise the experience of conflict as it impacted upon
essentially ordinary people at war.
While republican ideology has been articulated and disseminated
by Sinn Fein/IRA and their public relations, and ‘prisoner of war’
department, the motivation of the loyalist combatants remains
something which is largely unexplained. In the early 1970s loyalist
ideology could be described as a resolve to remain British and to
resist, at all costs, the violently enforced inclusion of the Ulster state
into a united Ireland. Many loyalists viewed Catholics as their natural
enemy, and found it difficult to distinguish between Catholics and
IRA members. They currently point to the massive electoral support
of IRA/Sinn Fein (relative to the minimal political support enjoyed
by the political representatives of the loyalist paramilitaries) in
vindication of such a historical disposition. The loyalist paramili-
taries took the view that the Protestant population generally, and
their security forces in particular, were under lethal threat from the
IRA, and they clearly held Catholics in general as complicit.
The loyalist paramilitary ideology is deeply embedded within (if
unconsciously) the Protestant religion, and a sense of Britishness,
which is probably one of the more traditional forms of Britishness
remaining in the United Kingdom’s increasingly multi-cultural
society. Both the Protestant work ethic, and a ‘standing on your own
two feet’ mentality, are central to this ideology. The cultural emphasis
is placed upon the individual, and individual responsibility,
ultimately between the individual and his or her God. The Protestant
religion reflects this ethos, being hugely diverse, with the congrega-
tion of the given churches often holding much democratic power,
again emphasising the significance and rights and responsibilities of
the individual. The Catholic church alternatively lays much greater
emphasis upon ‘the collective’, interdependency, and unquestion-
ing acceptance of both the (Roman Catholic) church and its
hierarchy. Within this model dependency is encouraged through the
confessional, a belief in the church’s power to forgive, and purgatory,
where entry into heaven can be facilitated by prayer, mass and con-
tributions made to the church. The Protestant version of religion
enjoins a somewhat harsher reality, without the possibility of earthly

intercession. In all of this, Protestant history has been based upon
dissent, while the Catholic experience has been consistently charac-
terised by cultural solidarity and continuity.
These philosophical and ideological differences have carried clear
but largely unarticulated consequences for the organisation and
functioning of the IRA and UDA respectively. The IRA is a highly
disciplined and coherent ‘secret army’, while the lethal loyalists ‘were
few in number, haltingly structured, and transient to the point of
(usually) being beyond analytical reach’ (Bowyer Bell, 1979). Their
value base was deeply influenced by the Old Testament view of
natural justice and ‘an eye for an eye’, and in this the victims of the
IRA were repeatedly avenged by the killing of ordinary Catholics.
(However, the loyalist UDA’s operational strategy changed dramati-
cally during the late 1980s and 1990s.) The loyalist paramilitaries
were for most of the 1970s and 1980s unapologetically involved in
sectarian murder, not uncommonly killing their fellow Protestants,
mistaken for Catholics. These killings were not, at any time,
authorised by the central leadership of the UDA, again reflecting
individuals’ freedom to act at will, without authorisation, and
without sanction. Loyalists, unlike republicans, rarely think or speak
of ‘an ideology’ per se. Rather, the ideology is assumed, implicit and
understood. It is also graphically represented in the militaristic and
menacing murals, often depicting doomsday war scenes, which
pervade many working-class loyalist areas. Ulster, British, Scottish,
UDA, UFF, UVF and Red Hand Commando (RHC) flags also festoon
these same areas, reassuring a population as to an identity perceived
to be fundamentally under threat.
While the paramilitary loyalists emphasise their Britishness, at
every opportunity the threat of a British withdrawal during the 1970s
was responded to by the UDA through detailed planning for a
Unilateral Declaration of Independence. This would have involved
a realignment of the Ulster border, the creation of a new and over-
whelmingly Protestant state, and no doubt a state of war with the
Irish Republic. For the paramilitary loyalists within the UDA/UFF
this remains an option of last resort.
Republicans would wish to have us believe that their war was
driven by ideology, while the loyalists didn’t lay claim to such
grandiose motivation. The reality is men and women only become
involved in conflict when that conflict becomes personal. This point
is usually reached when a specific trigger, or triggers, connect with
8 Introduction
an intensity of human emotion and passion which is experienced

powerfully enough to neutralise the prohibition toward violence,
and even the instinct of self-preservation. In my extensive profes-
sional experience the terrorist is not someone driven by political
ideology or other ‘noble’ motivation, but much more usually an
ordinary person, driven beyond his or her point of tolerance by extra-
ordinary circumstance.
While the war in Northern Ireland clearly had a pathology of
sectarian tension and conflict, its connection with the Irish War of
Independence (1916–21) and the Civil War was erroneous, and has
proven unsustainable. Notwithstanding the IRA’s methodology of
conflict was drawn from that period and largely determined the
course of the contemporary troubles. However, of much more sig-
nificance is the question of the motivation of the individual ‘actors’
who choose to enact whichever methodology of violence in the
name of their cause, be it loyalist or republican. This book attempts
to address precisely that question, from a loyalist and more specifi-
cally a UDA/UFF perspective. Under what circumstances do ordinary
men and women commit themselves to a paramilitary cause and a
willingness to kill, be killed, tortured, or imprisoned, possibly for
life? I have found generalised assumptions and constructions in this
matter distracting from the individual truth. Why does one man in
a street resolve to kill for his cause, while 20 others don’t? To
understand this we must develop our understanding of the said
individual or individuals, and of the totality of his or her circum-
stances during the currency of active conflict.
In attempting to further understand these complex issues this book
considers the oral histories or biographies of loyalist UDA/UFF
volunteers throughout their campaign from 1969 to 1994. It is the
contention of this volume that understanding the motivation of
individuals involved in terrorist or counter-terrorist conflict gives
greater insight into the nature of terrorist warfare, or more simply
the social psychology of individuals whose lives are touched by war
and murderous violence. It is suggested that this work takes us as
close as possible to the front line of UDA/UFF experience of conflict,
considering as it does the life histories of the combatants involved
in it.
This is a history of the UDA/UFF as told by the active volunteers
of these respective organisations. To my knowledge this is a unique
approach to the understanding and analysis of the Northern Ireland
conflict, and its appeal is in its individual human quality. Having
established such a basis for the book, this material will be contex-
tualised in a social history of the UDA/UFF from 1969 to 1994, and
a critical analysis of UDA/UFF strategy and tactics during that
period. The post-ceasefire history of the organisation will also be
considered in the conclusion and postscript, highlighting the con-
temporary volatility of what is now a highly fragmented and
dangerous grouping.
2 Researching the UDA
THE PROBATION SERVICE, LONG KESH AND POLITICAL

PRISONERS
My family owned several businesses and properties in Belfast and I

lived in large houses in the affluent south of the city during most of
my childhood. I was educated in the genteel Inchmarlo Preparatory
School, south Belfast, before progressing to ‘public’ secondary school,
the Royal Belfast Academical Institution. My family took a very
relaxed view of my education as I was expected to serve in, and
eventually manage, the family grocery businesses. I left ‘Inst’
prematurely (at 15, without qualifications) and without regrets, until,
that is, my then girlfriend (and now wife) gained academic qualifi-
cations and a place at college. That provoked a competitive academic
frenzy which exists to this day (I recently registered for my fourth
higher degree). At 17 I left the family business, returned to school,
progressed to art college and eventually joined the civil service as
we, the educated but not professionally qualified, tended to do. I was
appointed as an executive officer (grade II) to the Department of
Social Security. This was a newly created government department,
which in those early years of the troubles, 1969–71 was often
confused, in the public mind at least, with MI5. As a visiting officer
assessing claims from elderly claimants I quickly demonstrated my
ability to award ‘special needs grants’ in complete opposition to the
culture of the department. It was during this time that I discovered
that I had some skills in working with people.
In 1972 I joined the Probation Service and was seconded for pro-
fessional training to Croydon College, south London. During my
final placement in 1974, with the South East London Probation
Service, I received a telephone call while in the Eldridge Room, in
the Mint Walk office, Croydon. It was the chief probation officer
from Belfast, ‘we’ve got a job for you’. ‘It’s Long Kesh, near Lisburn’
(Northern Ireland). Long Kesh was the detention centre and prison
camp for IRA and loyalist political prisoners with a brief but already
notorious history. My probation colleagues in Mint Walk were
genuinely horrified as I began to feel as if I’d been sentenced to some
10
Long Kesh and Political Prisoners 11
terrible fate during my absence from Northern Ireland. One of the

assistant chief probation officers, whom I knew in Croydon,
touchingly, offered me a prime job in Croydon, within one hour of
the call from Belfast. But I’d been given a mission by my superiors
in Belfast and I accepted it without question.
I had some experience of prisons while working in London, from
the closed cells of Brixton to Holloway, where one client held there
on remand had no memory of it, such were the drugs she was given.
Long Kesh was different, set in a desolate landscape with army
patrols, guard dogs, search lights and watch towers, and low-flying
helicopters. This was more akin to a scene from Vietnam. I was
dispatched to the welfare office in ‘Phase Five’ of the prison which
held some 500 IRA and loyalist prisoners in segregated compounds.
I remember walking to the office that first morning, past the
boundary walls, the security gates, the watch towers, the high wire
and barbed wire compound fences, thinking ‘war crimes’. These were
the ‘men behind the wire’ of legion and history, and I had ended up
right in the middle of them. I was immediately aware that this was
the epicentre of the Northern Ireland conflict, and that what
happened behind these walls carried consequences for everyone.
At first I was appalled that so many men were confined to
compounds, or as the IRA prisoners accurately described them, cages,
without apparent recreational facilities, or work. As the prisoners
stared at me menacingly, an unknown stranger, through the wire
fences, my mental associations were with a concentration camp. I
questioned, how could we do this to people? To the outsider Long
Kesh was a deeply threatening and frightening environment.
In the event my first impressions gave way to a very different
understanding of the compound system of Long Kesh. The various
compounds were, by and large, run as benign communities within
which life operated as normally as possible, within the confines of a
prison. Prisoners had almost complete autonomy and independence
from the prison and institutional forces. The prisoners had ‘special
category’ or political prisoner status, and enjoyed the considerable
privileges that went with it. The could wear their own clothes, receive
extra visits and food parcels. All of these privileges served in
maintaining the prisoners sense of self-respect and dignity, their inde-
pendence from the prison, physically and psychologically, and helped
in maintaining contact with the outside world. In short special
category status and the compound system helped to avoid many of
the devastating personal and interpersonal consequences of institu-
tional criminal incarceration. There was very limited prisoner–prison

officer contact, and the individual supervision of prisoners, providing
for the opportunity to degrade and punish prisoners, as in criminal
systems, couldn’t even be attempted. As for prison work, this
wouldn’t have been acceptable to the political prisoners in any event,
who instead had developed a profitable handicraft industry.
In those days (1974–79) the prison welfare department both from
choice, and of necessity, operated independently from the prison
service, in truth maximising distance from it. Credible relationships
were maintained with all the paramilitary groups extending to
friendships with both the loyalist and republican leaderships. Certain
members of the Prison Welfare Department were by now (1974)
firmly embedded in the covert paramilitary world and in paramili-
tary politics. Cordial relationships between some of the loyalist and
republican leaderships already existed in the prison, which was all the
more remarkable given the state of the war in the outside community.
The stark choice which faced loyalist and republican prisoners,
facing each other in compounds only yards apart, had been live
together, or die together. Intergroup ‘non-aggression pacts’, and ‘no
conflict policies’ had already been agreed, to ensure the survival of
individual prisoners caught in the wrong place, at the wrong time.
This was the beginning of a procedural resolution of conflict between
the warring factions with an obvious potential for development.
There was a realisation that if this could happen in the nucleus of the
conflict in Long Kesh, among the so called extremes, it could be
exported outside, into the community.
A paramilitary Camp Council was formed involving the most
senior members of all the paramilitary groups at that time: the
Official IRA, Provisional IRA, the Irish Republican Socialist Party (IRSP
– a splinter republican grouping), the UVF and RHC, the UDA and
UFF. They discussed ‘matters of common interest’, and even united
in protest actions over food and visiting arrangements. The two most
powerful paramilitary leaders in the prison, by a very long stretch,
were Gusty Spence of the UVF, representing loyalists, and the
Provisional’s leader David Morley, representing republican interests.
There was a mutual desire to replicate the paramilitary talks on
matters of common interest inside Long Kesh, ‘to the outside’, among
the representatives of the same groups in the community. This was
a very high risk project but it was pursued regardless with consider-
able commitment. (I know of at least one loyalist shot dead because
of his involvement.) The welfare of the prisoners was always high
on the Camp Council’s agenda, and a Downtown Welfare Office was

proposed (1975) to include conference facilities, to centralise the
various operations of the prisoner welfare groups, loyalist and
republican. The office was to be manned by ‘an accepted probation
officer’, who would offer professional assistance and support to the
said groups. That officer was also to maintain regular contact with the
prison’s welfare department, and through him or her the Camp
Council, in an attempt to provide for an ‘all inclusive process’. What
was being proposed was an embryonic peace process. The proposal
was at first well received by the Northern Ireland Office but
eventually it insisted upon having a role. This had always been a
fragile, ultra-sensitive and potentially dangerous project, significantly
under paramilitary control. The involvement of an official
government agency was unacceptable to all sides, including the
Prison Welfare Department, which ironically worked under, but
detached from, the same Northern Ireland Office. The underlying
reality was the H Blocks of the Maze were at an advanced stage of
planning, and the compound system which had created the
possibility of interparamilitary group relationships in the first place
was itself doomed.
I experienced Long Kesh, subsequently renamed the Maze, to be
a unique and fascinating environment. I resolved to research it, in
part to further my understanding, but also to record the lessons
which I was convinced could be learned. I enrolled for a research
Master’s degree with the Cranfield Institute (1976) and published
the MSc thesis in 1979. (Published in the university sense, as in made
publicly available in the Cranfield library, rather than commercially.)
The principal findings of the research were (Crawford, 1999a):
1 Reconviction rates. The reconviction rates for special category or

political prisoners was found to be some 12 per cent. That is, of
those special category prisoners released from prison, 12 per cent
had been reconvicted and returned to prison within a two year
period. This was actually a remarkable finding, as it compares
with reconviction rates with criminal offender groups of some
70 per cent to 90 per cent.
This leads to one of two conclusions. Either a) the compound
system as a humane containment penal strategy was some 500 per
cent more effective that conventional criminal systems or b) the
prisoners contained in the compound system were not criminal
offenders in any conventional sense.
2 Criminalisation. My research established that criminalisation

policy involved a dehumanising and brutal regime which served
to alienate prisoners, their families and host communities.
3 Escalation of conflict. My study predicted that criminalisation
policy would result in an escalation of the prison protests, hunger
strikes, and ultimately in the level of conflict in Northern Ireland.
4 The study also found that criminalisation policy also brought to
an end the concrete resolution conflict developments between
the warring paramilitary groups.
In 1979 the findings of the research were published in the media,

which was clearly in the interests of all the paramilitary groups
anxious to regain political status for their members. Sadly the impli-
cations of the findings were substantially ignored as prison officers
were murdered, the prison protest intensified and the conflict in the
community escalated. Northern Ireland seemed to be verging towards
civil war as the news broke of the death of each of the ten hunger
strikers who died during 1981.
Going public with the research findings carried obvious implica-
tions and I resigned from the Probation Board for Northern Ireland,
before being pushed. I was a career probation officer with little
interest in other fields of social work. I was flattered to be offered
jobs in the fields of both community work and social work but these
were of secondary interest. Eventually I was offered a lecturing
appointment in the Ulster Polytechnic (now University of Ulster) at
Jordanstown. But this was something of a shot in the dark as I wasn’t
trained to teach, and I had no real interest in teaching. In fact I had
left art college prematurely in late 1960s precisely to avoid a career
in teaching. But the holidays were attractive and the polytechnic
theoretically offered the opportunity for further research. In the event
my research activity went into almost terminal decline given both the
culture and expectations within the Jordanstown social work
department. In short I found myself displaced, cut off from my
probation career, the paramilitary world, and almost completely from
research. I had maintained some contact with individual loyalists
and republicans but that part of my life was over, or so I thought.
Some 15 years after leaving the Maze, during February 1995, I
received an unexpected call from Dublin. It was Tim O’Connor,
Department of Foreign Affairs, then assigned to the Forum of Peace
and Reconciliation, who informed me that I had been mandated by
‘loyalist prisoners and former prisoners’ to represent them and their
interests at the Dublin Forum. I was being offered the position of,
ironically, a special category observer. My role at the Forum was to
attend all meetings of the Forum, contribute to the proceedings and
report back to the PUP (UVF). My task was to advocate the early
release of loyalist political prisoners as part of the peace process. My
disposition in this matter had been correctly assumed. None of the
loyalist groups had informed me of this nomination. I made contact
with the UVF to be told that Gusty Spence had personally put my
name forward. When I made contact with Spence he was quite non-
plussed and seizing the initiative used what was obviously a well
rehearsed line, ‘Colin, an opportunity has arisen for you to serve
your country.’ ‘We want you to’ etc. However, the Forum’s remit for
me was to act on behalf of loyalist prisoners and former prisoners,
not exclusively the UVF. Accordingly I arranged a meeting with rep-
resentatives of the UDA/UFF, who predictably knew nothing about
the nomination in question. Within an hour of that discussion I
received a reply: ‘I’m to instruct you that you have a mandate to
act on behalf of UDA/UFF prisoners and former prisoners at the
Dublin Forum.’ The prisoners clearly hadn’t been consulted, but
rather decisions had been taken on their behalf, but I knew that
there would be no dissension.
This reconnection with the loyalist paramilitaries lead to further
research, and the publication of Criminals or Defenders? (1999a), and
to the subsequent enquiry which resulted in this book. The idea for
this current text derived from a conversation with John White (Castle
Buildings, Stormont, 1998). John, then chairman of the UDP, told me
that, in the light of the adverse publicity given over to the loyalist
paramilitaries, he’d like to write a book about the UDA men he knew.
In the event we were both acquainted with many of the same people,
so I realised immediately what he had in mind. But also perhaps
even more than John, as a welfare officer in the Maze, I knew their
stories. I knew why some of the men had ended up alone and isolate,
estranged from their families and even from themselves. I knew why
others had emotional and mental problems and why they used drugs
to escape the panic attacks, flashbacks and the uncontrollable
tremors. And I knew why some of the most decent men I had worked
with ended up killing themselves. The common denominator in all
of this, the shadow under which each lived, was, as they termed it,
‘the war’. The project would take the form of an empirically based
study which would convey the realities of loyalism, and the
UDA/UFF in particular, from the inside. I was fully aware that this
would stand in direct contradiction to the more conventional

stereotype of the UDA and UFF. I thought that it was an excellent
idea so I encouraged John in this proposed undertaking, offering my
full support as a writer and researcher. John then uttered the fateful
words, ‘I’ve been thinking. Maybe you could do it for us?’ The para-
military loyalists didn’t have too many friends, academics or writers
to call upon, the UDA in particular didn’t have anyone to call upon.
So I’d just been given another ‘mission’. I realised from the outset
that this one was going to take years. John had known all along that
I would undertake it, and that was down to one simple fact, there was
nobody else. We also knew that if this version of history was not
documented now, no meaningful record of this paramilitary group
and its history would remain.
SPECIFIC METHODOLOGY
My earlier research and publication was concerned with scientific

social enquiry, involving interviews with larger numbers of
respondents, statistical data, analysis and quantification. In all of
this, however, there was an increasing preoccupation with the life
histories of the individual paramilitary members who were
interviewed. The questionnaires and the box-ticking became increas-
ingly irrelevant, given the richness of oral history accounts of people
who became individually involved in the Northern Ireland conflict.
As each was so diverse, unique and individual, it became increas-
ingly difficult to make any assertions or generalisations about
paramilitary loyalists. Clearly there was corruption, criminality,
sectarian murder, infiltration and gangsterism, etc., and all of this
informs the stereotype of the loyalist paramilitary. However, these
descriptions are applicable to what was often the leadership of the
UDA/UFF in particular, and tell us little about that constituency of
the ordinary loyalist volunteers whose war was primarily perceived
of as being fought against the IRA, and not the murder of innocent
Catholics (at least after 1989). This element within paramilitary
loyalism had its equivalent and mirror image within the ranks of the
IRA; sadly, blatant sectarian murderers were common to both sides.
In the event the central achievement of this book is to examine the
spectrum of volunteers from the sectarian murderers to the soldiers
involved in the selective targeting of ‘hard targets’ (the IRA and
known republicans).
The men who agreed to take part in this research were interviewed
in the community, usually in the smoky back rooms of UDA welfare
offices. However, a substantial number were also conducted in the
wings of UDA H Block 7, HMP Maze. Arrangements for access had
been made on a weekly basis, extending to approximately one year,
as part of a UDP ‘political’ delegation (1999/2000). The role of this
delegation was to support UDA/UFF prisoners prior to their release
into the community. This was fully consistent with what I was doing
in that my interventions increased the men’s self-esteem and sense
of worth. In fact, without exception there was a degree of gratitude
that someone had bothered to take the trouble to get their side of
the story.
The respondents were usually interviewed at least on two or three
occasions, having been informed from the outset that the resultant
transcripts may be published in book form. All the interviewees
volunteered to participate in the research, largely because their
cooperation had been requested by John White. I hadn’t fully
realised the significance of being in White’s company as I entered the
UDA/UFF prison wings. The extent of this was revealed when I was
acting as a character witness for one of the men some years later. A
defence solicitor had been curious as to the nature of my
involvement. He had asked the man in question if he trusted me. He
replied ‘Yes.’ The solicitor then asked why? ‘Because he came in [to
the Maze] with John White.’ ‘And that meant you could trust him?’
‘Completely, 100 per cent.’ ‘You’d trust him with your life?’ ‘Yes.’
I had wanted to interview as many men as possible in the UDA H
Block, possibly 20 or 30 of the 80-odd prisoners there. I had
interviewed about ten men and expressed my interest in seeing more,
to be told, ‘Colin, there are only seven of us on this wing’ (containing
some 20 men). By ‘us’ he was referring to the ‘soldiers’, those who
had become the politically motivated gunmen of the UDA/UFF. To
give me an example he nodded over at a tall and obviously physically
fit man playing snooker. ‘You see him.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘He got drunk at a party
and killed a police officer. I really don’t think you’d want to see him.’
There was hierarchy among the prisoners of which I had been
oblivious, between the various elements, which could be loosely
described as the politically motivated ‘soldiers’, those men
imprisoned because of usually unauthorised sectarian offences, and
those found guilty of non-political criminal offences. The other
remarkable thing was the gunmen tended to be smaller and
nondescript, relative to their counterparts who were unmistakably
‘hard men’. They were also quiet and ordinarily decent people, who
kept themselves to themselves. I had noticed precisely the same
phenomena when working with IRA prisoners. The gunmen or the
soldiers on both sides are precisely those whom you wouldn’t suspect,
while the obvious hard men appear at the fringes, often having
committed sectarian and criminal offences.
I had unintentionally drawn attention to this hierarchy, and there
is little doubt that this caused enormous jealousy and resentment.
However, I enjoyed the absolute protection of the organisation, and
at certain times I had cause to be thankful. Regardless of where I went
the ‘politicals’ were never too far away, but I hadn’t understood why
before then. I had been surrounded by some very dangerous men,
and protected by those who were even more dangerous. Initially it
had been my intention to tape-record interviews, and I couldn’t
believe my luck when I was allowed to take a tape recorder through
prison security, into the H Block. I spent the first few weeks in the
Maze simply playing snooker and talking to the men as the
opportunity arose. I was trying to blend in as best I could, capitalis-
ing on the fact that a new face in prison always arouses some interest.
I decided to interview the CO (UDA/UFF Commanding Officer) of
the H Block, who was, without doubt, Johnny Adair. I went into
Adair’s cell to conduct the interview, and he was obviously in an
agitated state. He jumped repeatedly out of his chair to shout instruc-
tions down the wing, or to enquire who was or who wasn’t back from
a visit. I explained the rationale for the interview facing Adair’s
penetrating stare. Then the fateful event, I produced the tape recorder
and Adair jumped back so quickly the chair was knocked flying. Adair
was so angry he was speechless as he pointed in turn to the tape
recorder, and then to me open mouthed.
People started to gather at the entrance of the cell, having heard
the noise made by the chair. The tension was palpable, and it was
between Adair and me, in his cell, in the centre of a UDA/UFF H
Block. John White came in and ushered Adair out of his cell. He came
back to explain. Johnny Adair had been set up through conversa-
tions with police officers which were covertly tape recorded, and
used in evidence against him. He was subsequently sentenced to 16
years’ imprisonment for ‘directing terrorism’. Ever since that, under-
standably perhaps, Adair had been paranoid about tape recorders,
and the people who used them. The research instrument was changed
accordingly from taped interviews to interviews and note-taking with
additional material recorded on tape, in the car, outside the prison.
I had known about how the evidence was gathered against Adair,
but stupidly enough, I hadn’t made the connection. Tape recording
in this context was also, as I increasingly realised, simply too
dangerous, potentially risking everyone’s personal security. Maybe
that’s why the prison authorities allowed me to take the tape recorder
in, in the first place. I hadn’t taken account of the fact that it could
be impounded going back out, so vital confidentially could have
been critically compromised. Adair’s response toward me had been
vindicated.
Once the interviews were written up they were returned to the
men for the purposes of accuracy, and to prevent incrimination. This
often involved a process of mediation until the final text was agreed
as both factually correct and authentic. Some of those interviewed
wished to remain anonymous, others were aware that they could be
identified through their stories, while a minority wished to be named.
The interviews undertaken in the Maze prison helped to provide
perhaps the bulk of the material in this text, and proved vital in
further understanding the nature of the UDA/UFF war.
3 The UDA/UFF: History,
Organisation and Structure
A BRIEF HISTORY OF THE UDA/UFF
The UDA has been, and is, one of the largest paramilitary organisa-
tions in the Western world, which had an estimated membership of
50,000 in 1974 (at the height of the troubles) and a current
membership of some 20,000. However, the history of the UDA, and
its role in the Northern Ireland conflict, has largely evaded academic
or research enquiry. This in itself is interesting, particularly in the
light of the volumous literature written in respect of the IRA. Clearly
the IRA can be understood and contextualised within the Irish War
of Independence and the Irish Civil War, 1916–22, affording it a
historical legitimacy. From the outset, therefore, during 1969–71 its
campaign was viewed as comprehensible and rational. Conversely,
the role of the paramilitary loyalists was not widely understood as
they were viewed, and portrayed, as acting against the very British
state of which they claimed to be a part.
Political developments in Northern Ireland in 1970 and in
particular the emergence of a militarily effective Provisional IRA were
of critical concern to the loyalist and unionist communities. By the
end of June 1970 one Provisional IRA ‘special operations’ unit had
carried out over 40 bombings. In July 1971 the Provisional IRA
increased its campaign of terror attempting to provoke further con-
frontations between Catholics and Protestants at street level. A
number of large car bombs exploded in central Belfast mercifully
only injuring nine people. In September 1971 a series of explosions
over a two-day period across towns in the Province left 39 people
injured. Later that month an IRA bomb in a Shankill Road pub killed
two (Protestant) men, injuring some 30 others. (Previous IRA bombs
in loyalist bars had caused serious injuries but were without fatalities.
These were all manifestly sectarian unprovoked attacks.) Later that
month (September 1971) an Ulster Defence Association was
proposed, to unify the disparate ‘Protestant Defence Associations’.
At its inception during 1972 the UDA had very few guns or arms and
significantly it was without friends or allies whom it could call upon.
There were a few pistols and shotguns, and rifles which in the main
20
A Brief History 21
dated back to the First World War. (Most of these had been part of
the consignment brought into Northern Ireland by the Clyde Valley
in 1914 for the UVF. Ironically perhaps the guns were to be used to
militarily resist Irish unification and the imposition of Dublin rule
in the North.)
The Provisional IRA had no such difficulty in acquiring guns, guns
were brought in from the United States, and more disconcertingly
from the Republic of Ireland during 1971. Two ministers of state in
the Irish Republic, Charles Haughey and Neil Blaney, were subse-
quently charged with smuggling arms to the IRA in the North. They
were later cleared of the arms offences as their defence council had
argued that the guns had been imported as an officially sanctioned
operation for the Irish Army (Bowyer Bell, 1979). The actual signifi-
cance of this cannot be overstated. The UDA and the Protestant
community as a whole considered that government ministers of the
sovereign government of the Irish Republic conspired in arming
terrorists within the sovereign jurisdiction of another country, to kill
British soldiers, Protestants, Catholics and innocent civilians more
generally. And there was another, more insidious dimension to this
officially sanctioned, illegal importation of arms. In 1971 the IRA
had two wings operating in Northern Ireland, the Official IRA and
the Provisional IRA. The Official IRA were the inheritors of the
traditional legacy of the original (1916) IRA with a commitment to
socialist and non-sectarian policies. (For example, it had condemned
the Provisionals’ manifestly sectarian bombing of the Shankill Road
bar in 1971.) The Provisionals had broken away from the Officials
in December 1970 because of the Officials’ obsession with parlia-
mentary politics and the subsequent undermining of the basic
military role of the Irish Republican Army (Bew and Gillespie, 1993).
Relationships between these two IRA factions, both with
substantial community support at that time (1971), were extremely
strained with the Officials accusing the Provisionals of conducting
sectarian warfare. Significantly the more conciliatory Official IRA
were not given guns from the south, those guns were quite deliber-
ately delivered into the hands of the more militant and more
sectarian Provisional IRA (Bowyer Bell, 1979). This meant that the
Provos were immeasurably better equipped than the Official IRA,
which was to have a deadly significance for them in the subsequent
violent internecine feud between those two organisations. It appeared
that Irish government ministers interfered not only in British political
difficulties, but in the violent military politics of the IRA itself. While
22 History, Organisation and Structure
this affair, the ‘official’ importation of guns for the Provisional IRA,
had clear and tangible consequences – the military arming of a
terrorist faction – the psychological and moral consequences were
even more profound. It gave, and it was seen to give, the Provisional
IRA a sense of political legitimacy in prosecuting its armed struggle.
It was the equivalent of, and tantamount to, the British Army arming
the loyalist paramilitaries.
The implications of this for the loyalists were plain enough, they
now faced not only a republican paramilitary force similar to
themselves, but an armed terrorist army with logistical and tactical
support from the south. This resulted in a dramatic escalation in the
IRA’s violence and murder.
While the loyalists faced an enormous threat from the Provisional
IRA, they were even more unnerved by the attitude of the British
government. In November 1971 Harold Wilson the British prime
minister (who the loyalists viewed as ‘their’ prime minister)
announced a ‘Fifteen Point Plan’ for a solution to the Irish problem.
In this Wilson proposed ‘movement toward a United Ireland over a
period of 15 years’ (Bew and Gillespie, 1993), which would have
secured Irish unification by 1986. This was to involve the notion of
‘Protestant consent’, although the plan failed to provide any
explanation of how such Protestant consent would be forthcoming.
The UDA’s construction of this policy was quite clear, the British
wanted out, and that in the last analysis the loyalists would stand
alone. The ‘siege mentality’ and feeling of isolation within loyalism
became even more consolidated. However, there was an even more
important implication in Wilson’s proclamation, for the Provisional
IRA. Wilson’s statement provided it with an inescapable message,
‘the Brits want out’. Accordingly as the UDA saw it the Provisional
IRA would conspire to facilitate their departure through murdering
British soldiers, police officers and Protestant and Catholic civilians.
Its tactics of terrorism, bombings and murder were (for it) both
vindicated and rewarded. It was implicitly invited to kill and bomb
its way into a united Ireland.
All of this provided for the back-drop of the formation and growth
of the Ulster Defence Association, and explains why its membership
in 1971 numbered an estimated 40,000–50,000 men and women.
The UDA was substantially a Protestant army with a remit of
defending the British and Protestant community, and Northern
Ireland more generally. Traditionally the police reservists, the ‘B
Specials’, had provided for this function, but to loyalists’ fury the B
A Brief History 23
Specials were shamed and disbanded in April 1970. This fact had
greatly exacerbated the loyalist sense of vulnerability, and feelings
of being both unprotected and isolated. In their view both the army
and the police had failed them and the single force which loyalists
had traditionally depended upon to protect them from the IRA, the
B Specials, had been abolished. In many ways the UDA was formed
to fill the security vacuum which now existed with police ranks. Even
more fundamentally the UDA had been formed as an army of last
stand, to fight the civil war in Ulster, which for many loyalists at
that time appeared imminent.
The British had indirectly and directly presided over a corrupt and
discriminatory state, from the inception of the state in 1922 until
the outbreak of the conflict in 1969. The sectarian nature of the Ulster
state between 1922 and 1969 has been well documented. Northern
Ireland had been characterised by discrimination and oppression,
unionist and Protestant ascendancy, and institutionalised Catholic
disadvantage. While clearly this was fuelled by unionist self-interest,
it was also motivated by a fear of the republican enemy within.
However, it should have been self-evident in any political analysis
that such a sustained period of oppression would have social and
political consequences. Northern Ireland was born out of conflict,
and the realities of war and the republican threat to the state’s very
existence were, in 1969, within living memory. When the IRA war
began, with the inevitable bombings and shootings, it was not the
unionist establishment who bore the brunt of its offensive, but the
loyalist working-class communities, who had no part in the political
corruption which had preceded 1969. The loyalist working class in
the Shankill perceived themselves to be as deprived as the nationalist
working class in the Falls. The loyalists genuinely didn’t understand
the nature and basis of the civil rights protests and disturbances.
They questioned what civil rights did they have? There was an
endemic cultural resistance to understanding genuine Catholic
grievance. They were taught to believe, and did believe, that any
protest by Catholics was insurrection, a point behind which lay the
gunmen of the IRA. Perhaps history was to vindicate such a view.
Northern Ireland had been ‘ignored by London, detested by
Dublin, and was unknown elsewhere’ (Bowyer Bell, 1979). The
success of the IRA campaign in the early days, months and years of
the conflict was in direct contrast to the government’s failure to
contain it, and to maintain life, law and order. The British position
was viewed by loyalists as ambivalent, lacking in political will and
military commitment. As Bowyer Bell comments of British attitudes

toward Ulster in 1969:
Fair or not, it was accurate to say that no one in Britain wanted an

Irish problem, few know anything about a real Ireland, and fewer
wanted their acquaintance broadened …. In point of fact within
the establishment clumps of specialists or Arabian tribes, or the
history of the Hittites could be more easily found than those
conversant with Irish politics. (Bowyer Bell, 1979)
A PARAMILITARY ORGANISATION?
The Ulster Defence Association is an umbrella organisation, which

was formed when all of the highly localised Protestant Defence
Associations amalgamated during 1972. These defence associations
had been organised throughout Northern Ireland with concentra-
tions in Belfast, Lisburn and mid-Ulster. Consisting of groups that
had formed spontaneously in the loyalist community, the associa-
tions were by and large open and democratic with the central raison
d’être of defence of Protestant areas against republican/IRA attack.
The metamorphosis into a larger organisation, the UDA, was fraught
with many problems. There were tensions between localised power
and control, the ethos of democracy, and the level of local
commitment to the aims and objectives of the centralised leadership.
There was a particular tension between the principles of democratic
organisation and military or paramilitary operation. The concept of
central and hierarchical military control was similarly undermined
by the organisational history of localised control. While diverse levels
of commitment among individual members of an association was
unacceptable, it was even more problematic in volunteers in a para-
military force.
From the outset, therefore, as a paramilitary organisation the UDA
had serious structural problems, rendering it ineffective at one level
as unarmed local defence associations, while at another it became a
potentially deadly terrorist organisation. In September 1972 Andy
Tyrie was elected supreme commander of the UDA. Although Tyrie’s
title suggested a degree of centralised power and control, this could
not be realised, given both structural and ideological deficiencies.
On the ideological front, there was no real consensus within the
organisation on the issue of whether it was prosecuting a proactive
A Parliamentary Organisation? 25
war against the enemies of the union, or if it was a defence

association formed simply for the defence of Protestant communities.
Certainly a ‘state of readiness’ of sorts was maintained within the
UDA. However, the percentage of UDA members who were actually
involved in active service at any one time was minimal, and reached
no more than perhaps 5 per cent of all members overall. By 1973 it
had become apparent that the UDA needed a separate military wing.
As a result, later that year the Ulster Freedom Fighters was formed as
a special operations group within the UDA, to be deployed in para-
military activity. The UFF identified its role as that of maintaining a
balance of terror. Within the first six months of its formation, from
June to November 1973, the UFF were responsible for the deaths of
some 20 nationalists, including a Sinn Fein councillor. The structure
of the UFF was streamlined and the organisation had a militaristic
ethos, with its own operationally independent command structure,
yet it was located within the UDA. In name, the UDA was under the
control of the supreme commander, and six battalion commanders,
who were in charge of each of the six sub-regions of Northern
Ireland. These regions were, in turn, internally controlled by
company commanders, and subdivided under the supervision of unit
leaders. At the bottom of this hierarchy were the UDA’s greatest
resource, the ordinary volunteers. These were usually decent and
non-criminal local men, although it emerged that the leadership
could not always be described in those terms. Figure 1 shows the
command structure of the UDA and UFF, and their relationship to
one another.
Unit leaders normally controlled large housing estates or geograph-
ical areas, and were invariably indigenous to the local population.
Democratic organisational practices were maintained in some areas,
with offices being filled by election, while in other areas, power was
seized by the ‘hard men’ of the UDA. Hard men are described by
Feldman (1991) in his study of Northern Ireland as ‘the local bare-
fisted street fighter intimately associated with specific
neighbourhoods though often enjoying a city wide reputation. The
hard man could have been a semi-professional trained pugilist
(Belfast has a rich tradition of boxing families) or simply a street
tough’ (Feldman, 1991: 46).
From 1971 the UDA had been involved in raising funds which in
the beginning had been to procure weapons for the defence of the
loyalist and Protestant community (see the accounts of Sam Duddy,
‘Billy’, ‘Jackie’, Michael Stone and ‘Tommy’ for descriptions of UDA
Supreme Commander UDA
Political UDA’s Inner Council Representing Military

Advisers its Six Battalions Advisers
UDA Battalion Commanders Overall Commander UFF
Company Commanders
Company Commanders
Unit Leaders
Unit Leaders
UFF Cells
UDA Volunteers UFF Volunteers
UDA/UFF Political Prisoners
Figure 1 UDA/UFF Command Structure
procurement of arms). Some loyalist areas were coming under

sustained republican attack, and the demand for weapons was
substantial. In 1972, loyalist paramilitaries were caught trying to
smuggle weapons into Northern Ireland from England through
Belfast International Airport. One loyalist from west Belfast was
arrested and imprisoned during such a mission. The chances of
success were minimal rather it was a largely symbolic act of
desperation. The UDA, in common with other paramilitary groups
of the period including the IRA, developed an income base by
becoming involved in protection rackets, extortion and armed
robbery. This aspect of the UDA’s operations is described in the
accounts of Sam Duddy, ‘Billy’, ‘Jackie’, Michael Stone and ‘Tommy’.
While much of the proceeds of these illegal activities were used to
purchase guns, and to provide financial support for the welfare of
prisoners and their families, the lack of financial governance within
the organisation almost inevitably resulted in fraud and embezzle-
ment becoming common practice within the UDA. Some UDA
leaders felt secure enough in their power bases to openly flaunt their
newly acquired wealth, in the form of cars, clothes, jewellery and

continental holidays. That UDA funds were being used in this way
was common knowledge in many of the UDA’s catchment areas, and
did immeasurable harm to the reputation and standing of the organ-
isation. Funds that had been accumulated by criminal means were
being used for the personal gain of some of those within the organ-
isation. Examples of the kind of criminal activity and personal gain
prevalent within the organisation are contained in the accounts of
Sam Duddy, ‘Billy’, John White, ‘Terry’, ‘Jackie’, Michael Stone,
‘Tommy’, Johnny Adair and ‘Gordon’.
By 1973/74 the UDA had become an organisation composed of
clearly distinct and disparate elements. The ordinary volunteers were
still by and large politically motivated, not involved in corrupt
activities and committed to fighting republicans and the IRA. (The
selective targeting of Sinn Fein/IRA is described in many of the
following accounts including ‘Terry’, ‘Jackie’, ‘Gary’, Michael Stone,
‘Tommy’, Johnny Adair, ‘Gordon’, ‘Alan’, Combatants A, B, C and
D). Others within the UDA simply viewed the conflict as sectarian,
and justified sectarian warfare and murder on that basis. The position
of the UDA’s leadership was more complex. Many UDA leaders were
politically motivated, uninvolved in corruption, and enjoyed strong
support within the organisation. They had a very clear view of the
war and made various contributions to it (see the accounts of Sam
Duddy, ‘Billy’, John White, ‘Terry’, ‘Jackie’, ‘Gary’, Michael Stone,
‘Tommy’, Johnny Adair, ‘Gordon’, ‘Alan’, Combatants A, B, C and
D). Because these leaders controlled what were called ‘military active
units’ they were commonly arrested and questioned or interrogated
by the police. A significantly high percentage were prosecuted and
imprisoned. The level of police activity directed at the UDA was
usually commensurate with the level of paramilitary activity in the
command area of the local UDA battalion or company. A militarily
active UDA Commanding Officer in a given location could therefore
expect to be arrested or placed under close surveillance by the police
on a regular basis, whereas a militarily inactive CO would not attract
much police attention. Similarly a CO involved in criminal activity
could expect the security forces to attempt to ‘turn’ him into
becoming an informer or agent. Thereafter, he would be allowed to
carry on his UDA activities relatively undisturbed by security force
attention, as a reward for deflecting UDA volunteers from conflict-
related activity as criminal activity increased. Security forces’
infiltration of the UDA is described in the accounts of Sam Duddy,
John White, ‘Terry’, ‘Jackie’, Michael Stone, Johnny Adair and

‘Gordon’. The IRA’s hatred of the Royal Ulster Constabulary (RUC),
and Special Branch in particular, is well documented, and manifest
in their targeting police officers for attack. However, the IRA
continues to be unaware of the debt of gratitude which they owe to
the RUC, in that it was as a result of infiltration of the UDA by the
RUC that the UDA attacks on the IRA were substantially neutralised.
The UDA could have identified those COs who were acting as agents,
or who had been otherwise compromised by the security forces,
through applying these two simple criteria: a) the record of conflict-
related activity, attacks against the IRA or more disconcertingly upon
the wider Catholic community, and b) the patterns of arrests of UDA
commanders and their relationships with the police. The military
leadership simply failed to apply these two simple criteria in assessing
the wildly different profiles of the organisation. The outcome was
laxity and a benign chaos which was, incredibly, allowed to continue
until the reorganisation in 1989.
By the late 1970s the criminality and infiltration which had
permeated the UDA was an open secret, but in real terms affected
only a small percentage of the organisation. In spite of the fact that
this element constituted only a small minority within the organisa-
tion, it was enough for the media to be able to represent them as
being characteristic of the UDA as a whole.
Training
The most obvious deficiency in the organisation during the 1970s
and 1980s was the lack of training and the resultant lack of military
coherency (both in terms of military methodology and military
psychology). This would always have been apparent to the security
forces, but was somewhat belatedly realised by the UDA/UFF during
the mid- to late 1980s. During 1987 a UDA training camp, and
military training, became established for UDA and UFF volunteers.
This was probably one of the most significant developments in the
organisation’s history, marking as it did an increased professional
capability within the UDA and UFF. Given the state of the organisa-
tion during the 1980s it seems unlikely that a development of this
magnitude and significance was suddenly initiated from within the
UDA. Rather it could be suggested that outside influences were instru-
mental in what was to be the transition of the UDA/UFF from a
largely undisciplined rabble into a militarily competent force.
During the 1970s and 1980s the military training provided for
UDA/UFF volunteers could be best described as rough and ready. The
lack of efficient organisational practices and professionalism within
these groups was surprising given that both the UDA’s and the UFF’s
membership included former and serving military personnel. Andy
Tyrie was credited for introducing a professional residential training
programme for the UDA/UFF in the mid-1980s. This development
had been fiercely resisted by a majority of the pre-1989 UDA
leadership. They did not wish to see the emergence of a younger,
politically motivated, militarily competent force, because their tenure
could be readily challenged by such a grouping. The training was
provided by former British Army personnel who were experienced
in both terrorist and counter-terrorist warfare. The training offered
was sophisticated and included in-depth anti-interrogation
techniques, forensic science training, secure mobile communica-
tions, surveillance and targeting and psychological warfare – the art
of inducing fear in the enemy. Weapons training had a decidedly
special forces ethos, and included training in the manufacture of
anti-personnel devices or bombs, close combat skills, lethal force –
how to convert an ordinary rifle into an automatic sub-machine gun
and training in the use of ‘speed strips’ for automatic weapons which
could double the duration of rapid fire capacity in such weapons.
For accounts of training, see ‘Terry’, ‘Jackie’, ‘Gary’, Michael Stone,
‘Tommy’, Johnny Adair, ‘Gordon’, ‘Alan’, Combatants A, C and D.
Given the extent of security forces’ infiltration within the UDA,
during the 1980s it can be safely assumed that both the British
security forces and British intelligence (and special operations groups)
were aware of this training initiative, which was allowed to proceed
unhindered. Some have suggested that the security forces, including
the British Army and the RUC, were at the very least non-interven-
tionist insofar as they did not interfere with this training initiative.
In effect, an anti-IRA/republican special operations unit was being
formed within loyalism, which could operate outside the law and
without the constraints which had hampered the security forces’
efforts to end hard-core IRA terrorism. It does not seem unlikely that
the UDA’s movement towards increasing professionalism and the
resultant capacity for selective targeting of IRA personnel would have
been allowed to proceed unhindered by those wishing to put the IRA
out of business. This training undertaken by the UDA/UFF had two
significant outcomes. The first was an increased operational
capability, and the second and more important was an improvement
in the morale, psychological preparation and confidence of

volunteers. By the late 1980s, for the first time in the history of the
conflict, the UDA/UFF had trained soldiers who were both motivated
and equipped to take on the IRA.
However, this significant development coincided with the Stevens
Enquiry in 1989, which culminated in the arrest and imprisonment
of the old corrupt UDA leadership. These arrests included that of
Brian Nelson, a British agent who was controlled by the Forces
Research Unit. Other UDA commanders who were working as double
agents or informers for the police and security forces were also
arrested at that time. These arrests cleared the way for a younger,
trained, competent UDA/UFF leadership to emerge. However, the
arrests also compromised the ability of the security forces to continue
its de facto control of UDA, while simultaneously facilitating the
development of a new pro-British special operations unit, which
could fight the IRA and function beyond the constraints of the law
and normal military convention. British special operations forces
and intelligence services were arguably less concerned with remaining
within conventional military or policing protocols in their war with
republican terrorism.
A WORKING-CLASS ORGANISATION?
The UDA has always drawn its members from the Protestant working
class, and always has had a working-class, Protestant ethos. For a
paramilitary group dependent on community support, there are
advantages to this in terms of the sense of ownership within its
constituent communities. At another level, however, the deep
mistrust of anyone from outside the loyalist ghettos and of the
educated middle class excluded those who could have offered profes-
sional leadership. The critically important disadvantage of this
non-hierarchical kind of organisation is the difficulty in developing
the potential of volunteers with the vision, education and personal
authority to provide effective leadership. As an organisation, the
UDA was formed in great haste, with ordinary men speedily propelled
into positions of leadership and power without regard to their
experience or aptitude for such roles. This resulted in many being
placed in positions beyond their realm of competence. Nonetheless,
some good individual leaders did emerge during the 1970s, and
notably after 1989, but this was more by accident than design. More
commonly, however, a macho culture within the UDA command
A Working-Class Organisation? 31
ensured that leadership positions were usually seized by the hard

men, and as a consequence the macho culture and the strategic
inconsistency of the UDA was perpetuated. The UDA’s lack of
refinement was perhaps most pronounced in the public relations
management of the media.
With their complete lack of public relations skills, and their studied
indifference towards politics and self-presentation, the emerging
UDA, composed of working-class men, became a soft target particu-
larly for urbane international journalists. International media
reporting of the Northern Ireland conflict tended to reduce the
complexity of the so-called ‘troubles’ into the easily digestible
accounts of the ‘good guys’ and the ‘bad guys’, the ‘freedom fighters’
and the ‘reactionary thugs’ (Parkinson, 1999). The IRA were quick
to accept and exploit their sympathetic and at times overtly partisan
media characterisation. In stark contrast to the loyalists, republicans
demonstrated enormous sophistication in international propaganda,
particularity in North America. Within the context of the United
Kingdom, the British were so concerned with republican media and
presentational skills they imposed successive media bans. The UDA,
on the other hand, with the relative lack of sophistication due
perhaps to its working-class orientation and membership, to its great
cost readily accepted their portrayal as the hard men. In line with
this acceptance, they typically conducted interviews with the inter-
national media wearing balaclavas and carrying baseball bats. This
was consistent with the image that the UDA of that time wanted to
convey, in order to achieve their goal which was to intimidate the
IRA. The result was that the world acquired a rather stereotyped
image of the UDA. Once a stereotype is formed, and accepted as the
reality, the tendency is to look for evidence to support and
consolidate the stereotypical view, which becomes the societal view
of the labelled and stigmatised group. Evidence which contradicts
the stereotypical view or the stereotyped understanding of the given
group tends to be discounted, as the psychological disposition is to
accept only information that confirms the stereotype – what the
external audience ‘knows’ is already formed.
Thus the UDA as a working-class organisation had been portrayed
by the media, whose language they didn’t understand, as being
vulnerable to what Skolnick (1978) has termed ‘riff-raff theory’.
According to riff-raff theory the legitimacy of an entire political
movement can be wholly undermined by the criminal activities of
a minority, however tiny. If the motivation or activities of just a small
number of paramilitary volunteers can be established as criminal,

the integrity of the entire paramilitary organisation can be discounted
and subsequently characterised as criminal. Even if the vast majority
of men in a paramilitary group or organisation are motivated by
purely political factors, this becomes largely irrelevant if they become
contaminated by association with the stereotype of the criminal
organisation. Any claim they may have to political legitimacy is sub-
sequently discredited and discounted with a wider audience. It was
precisely this type of attempted political delegitimisation which
facilitated the British government in ending the policy of granting
paramilitary prisoners in Northern Ireland the status of political
prisoners, and introducing their policy of criminalisation directed at
political paramilitary prisoners. The policy of criminalisation
ultimately didn’t work largely because of the resolve of the political
prisoners to resist it, refusing to accept a designation and status
misapplied to them. This was the battle of wills which led, quite
predictably, to the hunger strikes of 1981, with contemporary IRA
prisoners following in the footsteps of Thomas Ashe and Terrence
McSwiney. Once again the prison issue, Irishmen protesting for
political status in British prisons, rallied enormous support, with
massive rallies, the intervention of the Catholic church and inter-
national condemnation (Crawford, 1999a). The British had, once
again, shot themselves in the foot, the question being whether or
not this was intentional. The prison protests had substantially swung
the international audience to conclude that the British should indeed
leave Ireland, a policy disposition shared by the British Foreign Office
and the vast majority of the British public during 1981. The prison
protests and hunger strikes had greatly enhanced the case for British
disengagement, clearly serving the interests of those arguing for such
an outcome (Crawford, 1999c).
STRATEGY AND TACTICS: SELECTIVE TARGETING VERSUS

RANDOM KILLING
By 1971–72 two main strategies were being utilised by the UDA. This
dual strategy involved the selective targeting of IRA/Sinn Fein, and
the random murder of Catholics. This was held in response to the
IRA’s bombing campaign and strategy of killing members of the
security forces, and Protestants more generally. Thus the war in
Northern Ireland, as prosecuted by both the UDA and the UVF, was
simultaneously a political war against the IRA, a war to determine
Strategy and Tactics 33
the future of the state, and a sectarian war in which random Catholics
were killed. The localised UDA/UFF leaderships had embarked upon
their random strategy arguing that this strategy was being pursued
by them and their members out of military necessity. This aspect of
the UDA campaign is described in the accounts of Sam Duddy, ‘Ken’,
‘Billy’, John White, ‘Terry’, ‘Gary’, ‘Tommy’, ‘Gordon’, ‘Alan’,
Combatants A, B, C and D. The aim of this strategy was to maintain,
as they saw it, a ‘balance of terror’ between the two communities.
From 1972 until 1976 the IRA escalated its violence and this was met
with an increased and almost equal level of loyalist paramilitary
violence. After 1977, UDA violence declined and fell well below the
level of IRA killings. As Malachi O’Doherty (1998) commented some
years later: ‘Murdering Catholics at random made a certain amount
of cynical good sense, if your objective was to keep reminding all
Catholics that there was a price to be paid for some of them
supporting the IRA.’
In spite of the apparent tactical merits of the random killing
strategy, a majority within the UDA/UFF did not agree with it and
refused to implement it. By the mid-1980s elements within the UDA,
and within the UFF in particular, were increasingly aware that they
were not attracting the calibre of volunteer required to effectively
engage the IRA. It seemed to the leadership at that time that the
organisation would remain unable to attract high-quality recruits
while they continued to conduct a sectarian war. A further disadvan-
tage of the random killing strategy became evident: the leadership
realised that they could not work with potentially sympathetic
sections of the security services until their killing became more
targeted, focused and selective.
1972 was Northern Ireland’s most critical year. In January of that
year the Parachute Regiment shot dead 14 Catholic civil rights
supporters in Londonderry in what became known as Bloody Sunday.
This traumatised the Catholic population north and south and paved
the way for the IRA to characterise the British Army in Northern
Ireland as a hostile army of occupation. This one event led to a
massive influx of volunteers into the IRA, and lent a renewed sense
of legitimacy to the republican fight to remove the British presence
from Ireland. The consequences of Bloody Sunday and the
subsequent recruitment into the IRA would be felt in Northern
Ireland and elsewhere for decades.
In March 1972, the IRA set off bombs in the Abercorn Restaurant
and in Donegal Street, both in central Belfast, causing multiple deaths
and horrific injuries. Media coverage of these events was gruesome.

Human torsos were filmed lying smoking on the ground, severed
limbs collected in plastic bags. This atrocity was for the loyalists the
equivalent of America’s 9/11. Unlike America, however, the moral
outrage was met with governmental complacency, and as far as the
UDA was concerned further concessions to terrorism. Law and order
was fragmenting in Northern Ireland, reflected in a state of increasing
social and political chaos and in these circumstances the Northern
Ireland parliament, Stormont, was suspended, as direct rule from
London became imposed. The loyalists regarded this as a concession
to the IRA, and a victory for its violence. This sense of aggrievement
was further consolidated when in July of that year the media reported
that secret talks had taken place between the IRA and representatives
of the British government in London.
The UDA at that time saw republican terrorism gaining concessions
from government and concluded that when dealing with the British,
violence pays. (See the accounts of Sam Duddy, John White, ‘Jackie’,
‘Gary’, Johnny Adair and ‘Gordon’.) That point was not lost on rank
and file UDA members, and as result, loyalist violence escalated,
mostly in a largely unplanned and spontaneous fashion. In late July
1972, more than 20 bombs exploded in the Belfast area, causing
horrific human injury and the loss of lives. As the IRA bombing
campaign intensified, the UDA’s random assassination of Catholics
increased in frequency. The IRA were claiming 1972 as its ‘Year of
Victory’ (Bowyer Bell, 1993). Both loyalist and republican paramili-
taries believed that the British were on the verge of disengaging from
Northern Ireland. Increased political destabilisation in Northern
Ireland resulted, and the loyalists prepared to fight a ‘holy war’,
which had in effect already commenced. (See the accounts of ‘Ken’,
‘Billy’, John White, ‘Terry’, Michael Stone, Combatants A, B, C and
D for views of the conflict as a holy war.) For the IRA this destabil-
isation gave them a glimpse of potential victory and led to renewed
paramilitary activity on their part, which translated into a ‘one last
push’ mentality based on the conviction that one more horrendous
atrocity would cause the British to withdraw from Northern Ireland.
In July 1972 alone, a total of 401 people were killed, 280 through
republican violence and 121 through loyalist violence, 71 of which
were claimed by the UDA/UFF (McKittrick et al., 2002).
This pattern of violence in 1972 was to set the tone for the UDA’s
military strategy, and for the next five years, until 1977, the UDA/UFF
continued to wage what was largely sectarian warfare against a
Catholic community, which it regarded as complicit with the IRA.

Table 1 shows the total numbers killed by loyalist and republican
violence. The interdependant nature of loyalist (UDA/UFF) violence
is evident from the total killed and the patterns emerging. The
rationale for this is evident in the accounts of Sam Duddy, ‘Ken’,
‘Billy’, John White, ‘Terry’, ‘Jackie’, ‘Gary’, Michael Stone, ‘Tommy’,
‘Gordon’, ‘Alan’ and Combatants A, B, C and D.
Table 1 The Statistics of Murder
Responsibility for deaths

Year IRA/all republicans UDA/UFF All loyalists
1970 21 1 1
1971 107 4 22
1972 280 71 121
1973 137 44 90
1974 149 41 131
1975 130 20 121
1976 163 50 127
1977 74 12 28
1978 62 2 10
1979 104 10 18
1980 58 9 14
1981 84 5 14
1982 85 1 15
1983 62 2 12
1984 51 2 10
1985 47 2 5
1986 41 6 17
1987 74 12 20
1988 69 12 23
1989 57 6 19
1990 52 8 20
1991 53 17 41
1992 42 21 39
1993 *39 31 *48
1994 *27 12 *38
1995 7 0 2
1996 14 1 5
1997 *5 4 *13
1998 37 2 17
1999 4 0 3
2000 *3 2 *8
2001 *0 1 *4
* Loyalist killing exceeds that of republicans
Source: McKittrick et al., 2002

After 1976 the marked drop in the number of deaths caused by

the UDA can be explained by their lack of a military strategy from
1976 onwards. From that point, corruption and criminality began
to take hold of the organisation in a substantial way involving
protection rackets, extortion, armed robbery and petty crime.
Another key factor was the extent of police infiltration of the UDA,
with many police informers and double agents involved in the organ-
isation. The combination of these factors had the effect of largely
closing down the UDA’s paramilitary operation. This remained the
situation throughout the 1980s, when the UDA’s paramilitary
campaign remained relatively inactive. One additional factor served
to reduce the number of killings carried out by the UDA/UFF. In
common with the UVF, the UDA was attempting to become more
selective in its identification of targets. From this period onwards,
the UDA/UFF began to target known IRA and Sinn Fein personnel
in preference to its previous policy of randomly selecting targets in
the Catholic community. Martin McGuinness, Gerry Adams, Owen
Carron and Bernadette Devlin were among the public representa-
tives on a very extensive list of UDA/UFF targets. (See the accounts
of ‘Ken’, John White, ‘Terry’, ‘Jackie’, ‘Gary’, Michael Stone, ‘Tommy’,
Johnny Adair, ‘Gordon’, ‘Alan’ and Combatants A, B, C and D.)
Loyalist paramilitaries had in fact attempted to assassinate all four.
UDA/UFF reorganisation: 1989–94

By the mid-1980s many of the gunmen of the UDA/UFF were being
persuaded by their political advisers as to the futility of killing
ordinary Catholics as a primary military strategy. However, a
significant number of gunmen within the UDA/UFF still reserved the
right to carry out fatal attacks on randomly selected Catholics in
retaliation for specific acts of IRA violence, although this meant that
the UDA/UFF strategy was not entirely coherent, composed of
sporadic retaliatory acts attacks alongside attacks on selected targets.
The impetus to move towards a more selective targeting strategy was
subsequently facilitated by the Stevens Enquiry. This was established
in 1989 headed by Sir John Stevens, Metropolitan Commissioner of
Police, and was charged with investigating allegations of collusion
between the security forces and the loyalist paramilitaries. As a result
of the Stevens Enquiry, many of the pre-1989 UDA leaders were
arrested and questioned, and the extent of infiltration of the organ-
isation by the security forces began to enter the public domain. This
led to a root and branch reorganisation of the UDA and UFF. Many
of the corrupt and criminal elements within the UDA were removed,
and the top leadership, which had actually been largely controlled
by the police and army through infiltration, was also expelled from
the organisation. The resultant internal reorganisation led to the
production of a new UDA/UFF mission statement in 1989, which
read like an up-dated version of Andy Tyrie’s original 1971 objective
of ‘terrorising the terrorists’. This new reformed UDA/UFF formulated
the goal of ‘taking the war to the IRA’. The UFF would claim in
retrospect that that is precisely what it went on to do. Between 1989
and the ceasefire in 1994 the UDA/UFF claim to have killed some 26
IRA or Sinn Fein personnel, although they have never differentiated
between the IRA and Sinn Fein (while acting on reliable intelligence).
(See the accounts of ‘Terry’, ‘Jackie’, ‘Gary’, Michael Stone, ‘Tommy’,
Johnny Adair for descriptions of this intelligence.) However, this
UDA/UFF claim was either ignored or discounted by the media and
republicans, both anxious to deny the legitimacy of loyalist paramil-
itaries. The selective targeting strategy was not always successfully
implemented. In 1988, UDA member Michael Stone went to the
Milltown Cemetery with the intention of killing Gerry Adams, Martin
McGuinness and Danny Morrison at the funeral of the IRA volunteers
killed in Gibraltar. Stone conducted a gun and grenade attack in the
cemetery in an attempt to selectively kill IRA/Sinn Fein personnel
and demonstrate that loyalists were departing from a policy of
random killing of Catholics. However, this went badly wrong and
two innocent civilians, Thomas McErlean and John Murray, were
killed. The third person killed, Kevin Brady, was an IRA volunteer
who was given military honours by the IRA at his funeral.
The dispute over the effectiveness and accuracy of UDA/UFF
targeting came to a head in 1989 over the murder of Loughlin
Maginn. Maginn was a Catholic living in Lisburn, killed by the UFF
who claimed to have been increasingly selective in targeting IRA/Sinn
Fein members. After Loughlin Maginn’s murder the media claimed
that it was another sectarian killing of an innocent Catholic.
However, the UDA/UFF claimed to be in possession of documenta-
tion from the security forces which associated Maginn with the IRA.
In its frustration at the allegations of sectarian murder, the UFF
showed a BBC reporter the security forces’ intelligence files they had
of alleged IRA suspects, including Maginn. Jackie McDonald, a south
Belfast UDA brigadier commander, insisted that intelligence
information on Maginn had come from the Ulster Defence Regiment
(UDR), the local regiment of the British Army. He maintained that
the intelligence the UFF received was ‘verbal, written and pictorial’
and that ‘there was absolutely no doubt that Maginn was, in
UDA/UFF terms, a “genuine target”’ (Taylor, 2000). This led to
widespread allegations of collusion between the security forces and
the loyalist paramilitaries, and pressure on the legal authorities to
investigate, which ultimately resulted in the Stevens Enquiry.
The IRA nationalist politicians and a range of human rights organ-
isations continued to claim that there was collusion between the
security forces and the UDA/UFF from 1988 until the ceasefires in
1994. The UDA/UFF’s response to these allegations is to maintain
that they were acting on good intelligence, and that they were getting
the right people, namely IRA/Sinn Fein members.
The precise reliability of the intelligence they were acting on and
the legitimacy of the targets remains open to debate. The UDA/UFF
claim that they were acting upon either their own or low-level
security force intelligence. Apart from the broader allegations of
collusion between loyalist paramilitary groups and the police from
political parties such as the Social Democratic and Labour Party
(SDLP), Sinn Fein also complained vehemently about collusion. This
was because republicans – the IRA/Sinn Fein – were for the first time
being effectively targeted by the loyalist paramilitaries, no doubt to
their discomfort. In addition to the 26 republicans – either members
of Sinn Fein or of the IRA – that the UFF claimed to have killed, they
made over 80 assassination attempts. These attempted assassinations
were evaluated as successful operations in that they contributed to
the psychological warfare objective of ‘instilling fear in the enemy’,
namely Sinn Fein/IRA. According to some accounts, on several
occasions a target was deliberately not killed, because the UFF
preferred to leave him alive so that he could import the fear back
into the ranks of the IRA.
The targeting of Catholic civilians may have served to increase
Catholic support for the IRA as the defender of the Catholic
community, and thus perversely served the interests of the IRA.
However, when IRA/Sinn Fein members began to be targeted, many
loyalists have observed that the political climate altered quickly, in
the direction of a cessation of hostilities.
During 1988 and 1989 the UDA/UFF began reorganising all over
Northern Ireland. Perhaps for the first time it had an effective
leadership and a successful strategy in UDA/UFF terms. The new
loyalist campaign had been initiated within the UFF’s 2nd Battalion
C Company in Belfast, and steps were being taken to replicate the
Infiltration 39
new leadership’s organisation and tactics of taking the war to the

IRA throughout all UDA/UFF units in Northern Ireland. The pre-1989
UDA/UFF with its widespread corruption, criminality and infiltra-
tion was being systematically cleaned up and restructured.
These changes had many implications for the organisation, and
impacted on many of its operations, not least of which was
recruitment into the organisation itself. Hundreds of young UDA
volunteers had been prevented by the self-serving nature of the old
regime from succeeding in their objective of taking the war to the
IRA. The inadequacy and corruption of UDA leadership at local level,
compounded in no small measure by police infiltration, had
conspired to render the UDA largely ineffective. This had resulted in
large-scale disaffection within and around the UDA throughout the
1970s and 1980s. Indeed it is surprising to some that the organisa-
tion survived at all until 1989. The organisation’s ranks had been
depleted because there were many high-calibre young loyalists who
had no wish to join an organisation whose principal activity was
random sectarian murder. This tension is described in the accounts
of ‘Terry’, ‘Jackie’, ‘Gary’, Michael Stone, Johnny Adair, ‘Gordon’ and
‘Alan’. This new generation of recruits had been deterred by the rack-
eteering, drug peddling and gangsterism within the UDA. However,
joining the UDA/UFF as a reformed disciplined and military force
was quite a different and more attractive prospect. At the point when
the UDA/UFF began to demonstrate their new political and military
coherence, a new breed of higher-calibre volunteers came forward.
Men who would have previously joined the UDA were now recruited
by the UFF. This, in turn, led to significant operational changes
within the UFF after 1989.
INFILTRATION BY THE POLICE AND SECURITY FORCES
Prior to 1989 the UDA/UFF had been infiltrated by the police and
the security forces at the highest levels (see the accounts of Sam
Duddy, John White, ‘Terry’, Michael Stone, ‘Tommy’ and ‘Alan’).
This infiltration and external security forces’ control and influence
resulted in very few paramilitary operations being carried out by the
UDA/UFF. Paramilitary operations were also subverted, and
volunteers were routinely arrested. Men were apprehended in cir-
cumstances which could only have been possible with information
gleaned from security forces’ infiltration of the UDA. The police and
army agents in the UDA set about neutralising the military capacity
of the organisation (see the accounts of John White, ‘Terry’, ‘Jackie’,

‘Gary’ and Michael Stone). In retrospect, this should have been
obvious to anyone in the UDA who had bothered to analyse the
pattern of arrests and botched operations. Guns were doctored so
that they failed to fire during operations, safe houses were kept under
surveillance, operations were patently set up by the security forces so
that UDA/UFF men could be apprehended en route to or returning
from them. Events occurred that could not be coincidences. Elements
within the security forces were clearly determined to put the UDA out
of business. However, the role of special branch and the British intel-
ligence services with the UFF was distinctly less certain, as is clear
from the accounts of ‘Tommy’, Johnny Adair, ‘Gordon’ and ‘Alan’.
By 1989, the UDA/UFF began somewhat belatedly to learn the
lessons from the 1970s and 1980s about infiltration and security and
secrecy within the organisation became of paramount importance.
The flow of information within the organisation was reduced
drastically, and communications were restricted to a minimal ‘need
to know’ basis. Volunteers were not advised of the details of a mission
until a particular mission was initiated. Volunteers were ranked
according to their level of security clearance, with the highest
clearance given only to those who had successfully proven
themselves in action. Intermediate clearance was given to those who
volunteered for active service, and there were selection procedures,
in-depth interviews and trial runs before they were placed on active
service. These differences in the UDA/UFF after 1989 were noted by
the security forces, in particular by the police. Sir Hugh Annesly,
Chief Constable of the RUC, described the newly reformed UFF in
September 1991:
There is very little doubt that the ‘old guard’ if you like, would
have had a level of activity above which they would not have gone,
and I think that in that sense they were something of a restraining
influence … That influence has now gone … the teams that are
coming through are more aggressive … I think they are prepared
to match some of the activities the IRA have committed … and I
think that some of those who might have stood in the way have
been pushed to the side, to be replaced by harder, more
determined, more ruthless and better quality individuals in their
capacity to organise and carry out attacks within Northern Ireland.
Infiltration 41
The men selected for active service were rated as ‘high calibre’ by
the leadership, and only those who were not known to the police
and security forces were chosen. This precluded the deployment of
those with records of arrests, or with paramilitary or criminal records.
Other volunteers with low levels of security clearance were used only
in non-combat capacities. At this time, all weaponry was stored in
pristine condition in dry storage. All guns were checked and regularly
fired to ensure that a supply of weapons in working order was
available in advance of a mission. Discussion about missions was
only permitted to be conducted by those who had directly taken part
in them.
Volunteers were provided with training in their legal rights upon
arrest and of their right of access to legal counsel. Active volunteers
were trained in interrogation and anti-interrogation techniques. They
were trained to deny knowledge of anything illegal. As a result of all
of this the ranks of the UDA/UFF were not depleted by the operations
of the security forces, UDA/UFF volunteers were successfully evading
arrest, and those who were arrested mostly managed to avoid
subsequent prosecution.
In stark contrast to the earlier leaders of the UFF, the new leaders
were expected to lead by example, to lead ‘from the front’. No
ranking officer could require a volunteer to undertake any action
which he had not previously undertaken himself. Accordingly,
officers were required to carry out the most dangerous aspects of
missions in order to provide role models for the men in their
command (see the accounts of John White, ‘Jackie’, ‘Terry’, Michael
Stone and ‘Gordon’).
All of this effected dramatic changes within the organisation. Prior
to 1989, UDA/UFF volunteers who went on active service faced
almost certain arrest and imprisonment. It is remarkable that even
this prospect did not deter many of them. However the reorganised
cells – which were formerly referred to as active service units –
operated strictly according to the new organisational ethos and under
the new ‘standing orders’. Secrecy became paramount; the
information flow was restricted to a need to know basis. Companies
acted independently from battalions to minimise the knowledge base
to those directly involved in active operations. Nonetheless, as a
precaution, volunteers who had been arrested and questioned by the
police were stood down from active service, and were forbidden to
associate with those who remained active. This was to prevent infil-
tration and assumed, correctly, that those volunteers who had been
arrested would be subject to security force surveillance. As the success

of the UFF’s more selective strategy of taking the war to the IRA
became apparent, and the old strategy of randomly killing Catholics
was demonstrably abandoned, the organisation attracted more and
higher-quality recruits (see the accounts of ‘Terry’, ‘Jackie’, ‘Gary’,
‘Tommy’, Johnny Adair, ‘Gordon’ and ‘Alan’). By 1994 the UFF was
engaged in its war with the IRA/Sinn Fein with growing confidence.
As one senior UFF commander put it: ‘For the first time we were
playing to win.’ This observation was confirmed by others within
the organisation, see the accounts of ‘Jackie’, ‘Gary’, Michael Stone,
Johnny Adair and ‘Gordon’. Within the UDA in 1994, morale was
high, the new strategy was demonstrably working and they
determined to draw their war against the IRA to a successful
conclusion. However, the UDP and the political advisers to the
UDA/UFF had by now realised, in common with Sinn Fein, that a
resolution of the conflict could only be achieved politically. The UFF
agreement to a ceasefire in 1994 went very much against the tide
within an organisation that was experiencing, at long last, a degree
of military success. The ceasefire was agreed as a result of the inter-
vention of trusted political advisers within the organisation, who
had a track record within the organisation and had proven
themselves militarily. Without their military credentials, they would
have lacked the credibility and gravitas to influence the hawks within
the organisation in the direction of seeking a political resolution to
the conflict.
COLLUSION BETWEEN ELEMENTS OF THE BRITISH SECURITY

FORCES AND MEMBERS OF THE UDA/UFF
One of the key questions about the UDA/UFF as an organisation is

also one of the most controversial and perennial dimensions of the
Northern Ireland conflict. This is the question of the allegation of
collusion between elements of the British security forces on the one
hand and the UDA/UFF on the other.
Were there sections of the security community who realised that,
while conventional police and military tactics could limit and
contain republican terrorism, they could not defeat it? Were there
some within the intelligence and special forces who feared that the
IRA’s terrorist campaign could be waged indefinitely at enormous
cost to the lives of British civilians and security forces? After some 25
years of patrolling the streets of Northern Ireland, of sustaining heavy
Collusion 43
casualties, and heavily constrained in how they could respond, did

those same forces decide to enlist the help of pro-British paramili-
tary forces? The UDA/UFF were quite willing to operate outside the
law in taking the war to IRA/Sinn Fein, their common enemy.
Enlisting the help of ‘friendly forces’, in the form of local militias,
against a shared enemy is a standard military tactic, the most recent
example being the Americans’ support for the Northern Alliance in
Afghanistan.
Accordingly, security forces’ intelligence files on IRA/Sinn Fein
members and known republicans were passed on to the UDA/UFF.
This is addressed in the accounts of ‘Jackie’, ‘Gary’, ‘Tommy’ and
Johnny Adair. It has been established by the Stevens Enquiry that
security files were indeed passed on. A major debate has arisen around
whether sections of the security forces passed over files of innocent
Catholics; was this systematic, deliberate, or does this stretch
credibility? The status and affiliation of many of the murdered men
remains in dispute. There is an inevitable propaganda battle between
the UFF and the IRA. The UFF claim to have had their own
undisclosed intelligence sources and clearly the IRA would have
wanted to keep its volunteers’ membership secret, whenever possible.
Accordingly the status and affiliations of many of the UDA/UFF’s
victims remain in dispute, as in the case of Loughlin Maginn. For
the views of UDA/UFF members on this issue see the accounts of
‘Gary’, ‘Tommy’, Johnny Adair and ‘Gordon’. The UFF maintain that
the number of known republicans and IRA members it killed was
greater than had been suggested, implying that some of those it killed
who are regarded as civilians were, in fact, in the IRA. The UFF claim
to know this upon the basis of its own intelligence sources, derived
from low-level security forces, their own surveillance, and from a
variety of other sources regarded by them as ‘absolutely proven and
reliable’. However, this is a difficult issue to resolve without access to
this intelligence, and the danger of impugning the reputation of
those innocent Catholics murdered by the UFF is a real one; this is
simply to record the UFF’s version of its history and motivation.
The UFF argue that there is a propaganda battle on this issue, and
maintain that the IRA has not claimed all of its dead members for a
variety of reasons. First, the IRA wish to deny the legitimacy of UFF
killings, and its military success in engaging the IRA. By claiming
that those killed were, in fact, civilians, the IRA minimise the success
of the UFF. Second, the IRA withhold claiming dead volunteers as
members at the request of volunteers’ families who are anxious to
maintain anonymity and respectability in the community. Third,

the UFF allege that dead volunteers are not claimed by the IRA as
members so that they do not jeopardise insurance and claims for
damages against the state. Finally, the IRA allegedly do not
acknowledge dead volunteers as members in order to maintain the
cover of its remaining volunteers.
The IRA, like other paramilitaries including the UFF, had volunteers
whose clandestine activities were completely unknown to family
members, even their wives. Such individuals’ continued value to their
organisations depended on their ability to operate covertly, and to
keep their paramilitary involvement secret. One of many cases where
an apparent civilian later proved to be in the IRA was that of Kevin
O’Donnell, who was killed by the SAS in 1992 as he was attacking the
RUC with a heavy machine gun. He had previously sworn in a British
court that he was a ‘devout Catholic’ and ‘not an IRA supporter’
(Geraghty, 2000, McKittrick et al., 2002). The truth in relation to the
affiliations of many of the victims may never be known, rather the
‘truth’ may be perceived as an entirely subjective entity, determined
by whichever version of history one subscribes to.
There is little doubt that elements within the British security
services during the mid-1980s and 1990s did have an interest in the
increasing military, professionalisation of the UDA/UFF. It can also
be established that from 1986 in particular, elements within the
UDA/UFF were involved in selective targeting. Brian Nelson had been
recruited as an army agent by the Forces Research Unit while serving
in the British Army. Nelson was encouraged to join the UDA where
the Forces Research Unit ensured his progression by supplying him
with high-grade intelligence (i.e. about republicans). He was to go
on to become the UFF’s Intelligence Officer and his role according to
secret army files was to ‘make their [UFF] targeting more professional’,
and to get ‘these gangs’ (UDA/UFF) to concentrate on ‘specific
targeting’ of ‘legitimate’ republican terrorist targets (Ware, 2002).
Security files were passed to Nelson giving details of the ‘right people’
(so called ‘legitimate’ republican targets). The UFF acted upon this
intelligence, with a conviction that army intelligence was accurate.
This appears to have been a reasonable assumption, but in reality
some of the files are known to have related to civilians suspected of
IRA involvement, which fell far short of the ‘hard evidence’ the UFF
gunmen assumed they were acting upon (Ware, 2002). On one
occasion Nelson sent a gunman to the wrong address, and Terry
McDaid, an innocent Catholic, was killed. Nelson was furious that a
Collusion 45
Catholic civilian had been killed, and complained aggressively to his

army handlers. Nelson was subsequently informed that Terry McDaid
was traced as having links to the Provisional IRA. This was the British
Army’s attempt to placate Nelson. The significance of this was truly
astonishing: the UFF, in the form of Nelson and his associates, were
apparently more concerned about the murder of innocent Catholics
than sections of the British Army, who had supplied the intelligence,
and then subsequently tried to justify the murder through falsely
linking the victim to the IRA (Ware, 2002). All of this took the UFF
completely by surprise as it had assumed that the FRU would have
wished to have attacks on the IRA/Sinn Fein if not clinically, at least
accurately, focused. In the absence of any other military explanation
the UFF had reasoned that the army’s strategic objective was that of
terrorising the IRA’s host (general Catholic) population.
This was a tactic which the UDA/UFF had employed for decades
but by 1989 many of the commanders reached the conclusion that
this was essentially counter-productive. It was precisely that
realisation which was instrumental in the UFF’s strategy change to
the policy of selective targeting. The UFF knew the balance of terror
argument well enough but it appeared to many that as it was
becoming more selective, the army’s interest extended to maintaining
the random strategy (the tactical murder of innocent Catholics).
However, there were those within the UFF who remained uncom-
fortable with this explanation, believing that it stretched credibility
to accuse the British security forces of sanctioning what was in effect
sectarian murder. It was not until the Scappatticci revelations (May
2003) that the UFF, and others, understood the underlying dynamic.
The UFF had become very successful both in acquiring intelligence
on and in targeting IRA/Sinn Fein personnel. The intelligence
gathered extended well beyond that which was passed on by the
FRU, as the UFF began to independently target IRA men who were
in fact British Army agents. The FRU had accordingly passed on
information relating to innocent Catholics to deflect the UFF away
from the assassination of the army’s own operatives placed within the
IRA. By that time (1989) the FRU and British intelligence had almost
totally compromised the IRA through intelligence infiltration, and
the highest priority was given to keeping agents within that organ-
isation intact. That was the intelligence and operational imperative,
regardless of who else got killed or imprisoned or tortured by an IRA
increasingly aware of the extent to which it had been penetrated.
This was the beginning of the end for the IRA’s long war in the north.
FROM PARAMILITARIES TO A POLITICISATION OF THE CONFLICT
The IRA and the loyalists from the outset of the troubles were
involved in overtly sectarian murders. These could be listed ad
nauseam. However, the ‘political thinkers’ in the IRA wished to
legitimise IRA operations through becoming more selective in whom
they murdered largely for PR purposes, and accordingly more police
officers and soldiers were killed. This extended to include retired
police officers, previously serving police officers, members or former
members of the security forces, those who worked for the security
forces (including cleaning ladies, for example), members of the
families of security forces, etc. Accordingly the press would report
‘an innocent Catholic’ being killed but an equally ‘innocent’
Protestant would be described as a ‘former (retired) police officer’,
almost implying that one murder could be explained, while the other
couldn’t. The list of legitimate targets became so comprehensive it
lead Professor Steve Bruce (1994) to comment that ‘the IRA found
PR-friendly reasons to kill pretty well everyone in the Protestant
community’. However, Protestants did not regard ‘their’ soldiers or
‘their’ police officers or ‘their’ civilians for that matter as legitimate
targets and each and every such murder was not uncommonly taken
personally. The IRA was fully aware that their actions would result in
a loyalist backlash, it had violently pushed for precisely such a
backlash, which it knew full well would be visited upon the human
shield of ordinary Catholics. This was for the very simple reason that
the UDA (and loyalist paramilitaries) didn’t know who the IRA were.
However, this situation changed during the late 1980s and 1990s
amid the allegations of collusion as discussed.
While the IRA could invoke a degree of legitimacy (presumably) in
killing a British soldier or police officer (and ordinary civilians for
that matter), inevitably loyalists in the early and mid-stages of the
conflict would kill ordinary Catholics in reprisal. That was deeply
regretted by the command of the UDA throughout the 1970s and
1980s, but it was accepted by others as being absolutely inevitable.
As Andy Tyrie, supreme commander of the UDA, subsequently
commented (in relation to the 1970s/1980s):
I was sickened every time I heard about the death of a Catholic

taxi driver or shop keeper. We wanted to go for the IRA and
republicans but we couldn’t locate them, we didn’t know who they
were. The bottom line was if they [the IRA/Catholics] killed us
From Paramilitaries to Politicisation 47
[Protestants/British citizens], some of us were going to kill them.

We would have loved it if the Irish Army had been in Northern
Ireland. We [the UDA] would have taken them on, head on. We
wouldn’t have bothered shooting one or two in the back, we’d
have gone straight for them. You see that’s the way Protestants
fight, we make good soldiers but bad terrorists. Well that’s not
strictly correct, by the late 1980s some of our men were getting it
[terrorism/counter-terrorism] right. Those were men who studied
the IRA and who used the IRA’s own strategy and tactics against
them. It took us all that time to learn [terrorist tactics] because we
had no history and no tradition of it [terrorism]. The IRA started
out with an enormous advantage over us. They had a history of
terrorism going back fifty years. To be quite honest the Protestant
people didn’t know what had hit them. Nobody in Northern
Ireland should ever have been regarded as a legitimate target. There
never should have been a war here and we are lucky that it didn’t
get out of control. As far as I’m concerned the UDA actually
prevented total war in Northern Ireland because we held men in
line and held them back. Of course we wanted to ‘take on’ the IRA
but we couldn’t find them, so it was largely sectarian murder, and
I was desperate to limit that. The UDA held the power to escalate
things ten-fold but where would that have got us? Tens of
thousands dead in a sectarian war just to end up with some sort
of a realigned Ulster, as a Protestant state. This thing [Northern
Ireland] had to be sorted out politically, there never was a military
solution but it took the Provos 25 years to catch on.
Elements within the UDA/UFF were fully aware, as were elements

within the security forces, that conventional means of engagement
were totally ineffectual against determined, ruthless IRA terrorism.
That was the unspoken truth, and the underlying reality, which drove
the intelligence flow and the specific targeting in the covert war in
Northern Ireland from the mid- to late 1980s until the ceasefire in
1994. It was based upon an understanding of brutal reality, beyond
the comprehension of ordinarily decent, if naive, British logic, and
notions of playing by the rules.
As Bowyer Bell (1993) eloquently states:
No-one in power in Great Britain, certainly none of the trendy media

people attracted like carrion birds to Northern violence, understood
Ulster reality, grasped that the IRA not only intended war – was
waging war – but would also destroy all that had been cherished
and defended over the centuries. The IRA wanted a 32 county
Republic, Tone’s Republic ... The British army saw merely armed
agitation ... They [the IRA] wanted everything ... war had come to
Ulster, a war waged by the IRA cunningly and with provocation,
with recourse to brutality and terror, a war waged regardless of the
costs, waged by those beyond shame or compromise.
The UDA/UFF accordingly became involved in the intelligence-

led, brutal and ruthless dirty war tactics necessary in a
counter-terrorist campaign. (However, when such tactics are
employed by the state, these can be characterised as governmental
oppression of the people, which is almost inevitably counter-
productive. This difficulty is substantially overcome when the conflict
is articulated between, and confined to, rival terrorist groups.) Some
loyalist strategists maintained that only the admittedly simplistic
logic of psychological behaviourism would eventually bring an end
to conflict and in this the timing of retaliatory strikes became
important, with the emphasis upon rapid response. They reasoned
that the IRA had to learn that if loyalists, or the wider British
community, suffered from republican terrorism the IRA/republicans,
and the nationalist community, would bear the brunt of equally
brutal counter-terrorism. Many within the UDA/UFF argued that this,
and only this, would be the factor of limitation in combating
republican terror and in securing a cessation of hostilities. In this
regard the UDA/UFF were, with some help, escalating their war in
order to end it. Commenting on this in the Sunday Life some years
later John Taylor, a unionist MP, stated: ‘The loyalist paramilitaries
achieved something which perhaps the security forces could never
have achieved. The [loyalist] killings convinced the Provos that they
couldn’t win.’ Some time earlier, in 1996, another MP, Colonel
Michael Mates, had made a similar assessment:
A bunch of loyalists came out of gaol where they had been serving
life sentences, during which time they found out a helluva lot
about how PIRA worked and they said to themselves ‘There must
be a better way than filling a bar with bullets. We need to knock
off major players’. The ‘selection committee’ were sitting in the
place where all the best candidates were. Among those who were
assassinated between the Downing Street Declaration [December
1993] and the declaration of peace [August 1994] were about
From Paramilitaries to Politicisation 49
fifteen top [Sinn Fein/IRA] people. [Again such claims are in

dispute.] The IRA were taking a hell of a ‘pasting’. The hard men
agreed to a tactical pause. They said ‘we can’t go on taking
casualties at this rate’. That’s exactly what it was, a tactical pause.
(Geraghty, 1998)
An extension of this ‘military’ analysis may point to the desirability

of a maintained ‘live’ loyalist paramilitary presence. As Geraghty
(1998) himself observes of the republicans’ ceasefire at this stage of
the war (1994): ‘The number one theory is that the loyalist assassi-
nation offensive had pushed the republicans to a position where they
needed some respite … The deniable, surrogate [loyalist] death squads
– a potent weapon in the war against the IRA – had had their day.’
The reality is, they remain intact.
During the 1970s and 1980s the loyalists waged their campaign,
largely reactively, against the ordinary Catholic community, many
arguing that this was necessary in maintaining ‘the balance of terror’
in what they viewed as a sectarian war. By the mid-1980s there was
a discernible movement toward the selective targeting of Sinn
Fein/IRA members. As discussed, the source and nature of the intel-
ligence the UDA/UFF were acting upon remains in contention, as
does the actual status of many of the victims. No doubt these matters
will be subject to further enquiry.
Accounts of the loyalists campaign have been documented, more
often critically than objectively, but this has been relatively neglected
in relation to the literature amassed on republicanism and the IRA.
As Cusack and McDonald (1997) observe: ‘Until now there has been
a dearth of literature related to all the Loyalists’ terrorist movements
in the North. This may be somewhat deliberate.’
Since 1971 the UDA and UFF have developed very considerably,
not only in terms of their military and strategic capacity, but also in
relative political sophistication.
Since the early days of loyalist militarism, the loyalist paramili-
taries have made a commendable and impressive political journey.
(In fact the loyalist paramilitaries and their political representatives
have had a considerable history of seeking an accommodation with
republicans – Crawford, 1993.) The loyalists for example, have no
difficulty with ‘parity of esteem’ for all citizens in Northern Ireland,
nor with a Bill of Rights which would actively promote non-discrim-
inatory policies. As Crawford et al. (1999b) state:
It is interesting to note that the Loyalist ‘extremists’ and in

particular the political representatives of the Loyalist paramilitary
organisations are more willing to seek accommodation with
Republicans than Unionists, who seem to harbour thoughts of
racial superiority, and who wish to maintain a sectarian caste
system in which even Loyalists have their inferior place.
McDonald and Cusack (1997) make a similar observation relating

to the politicisation of the Protestant paramilitaries:
Their metamorphosis from sectarian militarism to a position more

liberal than the mainstream Ulster Unionist party has been a
remarkable political journey. While preserving the Union, they
appear prepared to accept some form of Government which would
accommodate nationalists rights and fears.
However we probably have to draw upon conflict resolution theory

to further understand the process of the politicisation of the military
conflict in Ulster.
If the parties can neither conquer or avoid each other, some form
of procedural resolution is likely. In procedural resolution the
parties have to stay together, and live with each other. Conflict in
general may not be resolved permanently in so far as the parties
continue to exist in contact, but particular conflicts may become
resolved simply in the sense that they come to an end as social
systems and are replaced by other conflicts and other systems. [i.e.
from systems of violent conflict, to those of democratic dialogue]
… It is almost inevitable that an element of commonness injects
itself into enmity once the stage of violence yields to another rela-
tionship even though this new relation(ship) may contain a
completely undiminished sum of animosity between two parties.
(Coser, 1972)
4 Phase One:
Beginnings – the UDA’s
Chaotic Sectarian War of
the 1970s
SAM DUDDY
Sam Duddy (now aged 50+) presents as a mild mannered and polite man,
smallish with a light build. He is an avid reader with literary interests in
history and psychology. Following a visit to the university a colleague
enquired: ‘He’s hardly one of “them” is he?’ In the event Sam is an
archetypal UDA man who has always maintained a significant role in the
organisation. Duddy has been active in work with loyalist prisoners and
their families over a period of 30 years.
We lived on the Shankill Road. There was my mother and father and
I had three brothers and five sisters. I remember my mother died
when I was just eight. I was only a child at the time of course but I
remember that as a very sad time. The house always seemed to be
dark after that. I suppose that we were comparatively well off. We
lived in a big house with a third floor, an attic really but that gave us
space. I can remember primary school quite clearly. I remember when
I was in P1, I would have been five or six, and the teacher asked me
to read a passage from my reading book. It was a story about a cottage
in the country which had nasturtiums growing around the front
door. The teacher was surprised that I could read so well, but my
mother had bought children’s books for me with words and pictures
and she had taught me to read. Then the teacher asked me ‘could I
spell “nasturtiums”’ so I spelt ‘nasturtiums’ for her. She was delighted,
she actually went out and got the other teachers to come into the
classroom just so as they could hear me read and spell ‘nasturtiums’.
I loved to read and I’ve always enjoyed reading books. I enjoyed
school a lot, I suppose I would have been a bit of a ‘teacher’s pet’.
Although I did very well at school I had to leave at 15 to go into the
family business. They gave me something I’d never heard of before
or since, a ‘school leaving certificate’. [A school leaving certificate
51
52 Phase One: The 1970s
which may have been something of a rarity and unheard of in the

Shankill area, was in fact the state school equivalent of the grammar
school junior certificate, denoting academic ability and potential.]
I went into the family business after school, with my father, and
things were going well but he died two years later. I tried to carry on
but it was impossible for a 17 year old in business. I was getting bills
left right and centre and tax demands and it got to be that I was
paying out far more than I earned. The business was run from our
house and when an older brother and sister moved out [and stopped
paying their share of the rent] I just couldn’t afford the rent. So we
had to leave our home and the family split up. I went to live with a
married sister in Rathcoole. That would have been around 1968. I
got married shortly after that and my wife and I moved into a terrace
house in the Oldpark [at that time a religiously mixed part of Belfast].
This night my wife and I went for a walk down Agnes Street, and on
down to the bottom of the [ultra-Protestant] Shankill Road. The
atmosphere at the bottom of the Shankill was eerie, very tense. We
could sense that something was wrong. There were women standing
outside their front doors and huddling in small groups but no
children or men were about. I asked one of the women what was
wrong and she said, ‘The Catholics were here last night throwing
stones and petrol bombs. They said they’d be back tonight with more
petrol bombs, to burn us out.’ That was in [Protestant] Conway Street
which ran through to the [Catholic] Falls Road. There had been a lot
of sectarian tensions in the area and everybody had known for a long
time that there was going to be trouble. Then she [the lady in the
doorway] said, rather proudly, ‘Our men are down there [Bombay
Street] now, they’re going to sort them [the Catholic’s] out.’
I turned to my wife and said, ‘Listen, I have to go down there.’ I
half expected her to say no but she didn’t. She just nodded. The lady
of the house said, ‘You go on love, don’t you worry about her, she’ll
be fine here with me.’ ‘Just you go on and do what you have to do,
she’ll be here when you get back.’
Sectarian tensions in Belfast were running very high at that time.
There had been rioting all over Northern Ireland and some [Catholic]
rioters had been shot by the police. In October of that year Herbert
Roy [a Protestant] had been gunned down by the IRA in a sectarian
killing while he was standing at the corner of [loyalist] Dover Street.
That had sent shock waves through my [loyalist] community, the
IRA were back and they were back killing Protestants. That was a big
thing at that time. It traumatised the whole loyalist community. It’s
Sam Duddy 53
funny how you can always remember the first one who gets killed.
So many people were killed after that you just got used to it, well
actually you never did get used to it. But that came out of the blue,
Herbert Roy’s murder, and it was a real shock. The IRA are back. There
was a dangerous combination of rage and fear of Catholics killing
Protestants. There was a real sense in the community that we
[Protestants] couldn’t let them [Catholics] away with that. It was as
if everyone took it personally, and it was personal – it was between
them [Catholics] and us [Protestants].
On the two nights before Bombay Street Catholics had attacked
the Protestant lower Shankill. Then Herbert was gunned down. All
of that was orchestrated, it had been deliberate in order to provoke
Protestants. The IRA were well aware of the tensions in the Shankill
and in the Province more generally, but they pushed and pushed
and pushed. Shooting Herbert was like throwing petrol onto a fire.
The IRA were using tactics but we didn’t have a clue about ‘tactics’.
All we knew was our people had been attacked and they were living
in fear and that they [Catholics/IRA] had started killing ‘our’ people.
There were crowds of men [Catholics and Protestants] facing each
other when I got down there [near [Catholic] Bombay Street]. There
was a very foreboding atmosphere. There was a young policeman
there, a B Special. He was saying, ‘For God’s sake lads keep well back.
They [the Catholics] have guns.’ We could hear a burst of automatic
fire and the young police officer turned around to look over at the
Catholic side. The next thing I knew there was more shooting and
he was shot right in front of me. He had been wearing a walkie-talkie
and a bullet [from the Catholic side] had gone right through it and
into his chest. Me and some of the other men dragged him over to
the cover of the wall of a house so as they [Catholics/IRA] couldn’t
shoot him again. I noticed a trail of dark liquid and I knew that it was
blood. I tried to give him first aid and made him as comfortable as I
could. I said to the other men standing around, ‘Look if the Catholics
come over [i.e. if they ‘charged’ from Bombay Street] he’s dead. Carry
him the fuck out of here because they’ll tear him to pieces.’ I ran to
get an ambulance and the police. I was trembling with emotion and
anger and I just thought to myself over and over again, ‘Right if that’s
what they fucking want, that’s what they’ll fucking get.’ When I got
back to the [Protestant] crowd everybody had heard about what had
happened and they all felt exactly the same way as I did. First Herbert
Roy and then a young B Special gunned down right in front of us.
When we started moving down toward Bombay Street we noticed
the removal lorries. The IRA were moving people out of Bombay
Street, with removal lorries. It had all been planned.
They [the IRA] had wanted us to invade Bombay Street, it was to
be sacrificed in part of the wider strategy. But of course you didn’t
think like that at the time. Sometime afterwards, when I started to
put two and two together it was obvious the gunmen, the lorries, all
of that took planning. They [the IRA] were sacrificing Bombay Street
and that part of the Falls Road so as they could take the role of the
‘defenders’ of the oppressed ‘Catholics’. The fact was they had pushed
us beyond any reasonable tolerance. They had attacked us, killed
and shot ‘our Protestants’ and then that young police officer, right
before our eyes so it was absolutely inevitable that we [Protestants]
would attack them. Catholics and Protestants in the Shankill and
Falls had been like followers of different football teams before that.
There was rivalry and fights, that’s just the way it was and you
expected that. But then the guns came out and people got shot, and
got shot dead, and then everything changes. Can you imagine if
Manchester United and Liverpool fans were facing each other in
Wembley stadium and suddenly a Liverpool supporter shoots a
Manchester United fan! All hell would break loose and the Liverpool
supporters would be annihilated. Well that’s just the way it was on
Bombay Street that night.
As we [the Protestant crowd] were going into Bombay Street we
could see them [the IRA/Catholics] setting fire to the houses they
had moved out of. You still had gas lamps in those days and they
[Catholics] were putting them all out. The street was blackened out.
Then they [the Catholic crowd] threw petrol bombs into the houses
and they burst into flames. Orange and red flames lit up in the
darkness. The police had arrived by that stage and they appealed to
us, ‘Come on lads, this is dangerous, go home.’ But nobody listened.
After that it was just sheer group hysteria. We [the Protestant crowd]
went berserk wrecking all the houses. The Catholic crowd had just
disappeared, like they were supposed to.
And that was Bombay Street. The IRA had known full well that
the world press was there [in Northern Ireland] and sure enough they
were there in Bombay Street, by [IRA] invitation. The IRA had wanted
to give them a show, and stupidly enough we were so naive we gave
them one. Footage of Bombay Street on fire was flashed around the
world, and there we were, the ‘Protestant thugs’. What the cameras
didn’t show you was the body of Herbert Roy, or the shot police
officer, or the Catholic intimidation of Protestants on the two
Sam Duddy 55
previous nights. Fair enough we had run riot and property was
damaged but we hadn’t killed anyone. OK you saw the result of
loyalist anger, but that was taken completely out of context. The
loyalists had valid reasons to be angry, we had been deliberately and
calculatingly pushed into doing what we did. The IRA had set us up
to give them a mandate and sure enough we walked into it, and we
gave them one.
I joined the Westland Defence Association [WDA]. I was in the
tenants association as well, helping people, particularly the old
people, as best I could. There was a lot of sectarian intimidation and
people [Protestants and Catholics] were being threatened all over the
place. Belfast was being divided up into Protestant territory and
Catholic territory. Sometimes you couldn’t even tell where the
dividing line was, but it was there alright just as if it was a brick wall.
I became involved in printing a local newssheet to let people
[Protestants] know what was happening, and to keep the morale up.
That showed them that we were organised and that we were in there
with them. The IRA got to know about that and sure enough they
came for me. My wife and I were put out of our house at gunpoint
and we were told that if we ever went back we’d be murdered. We
both thought that they [the IRA gunmen] were going to kill us
anyway, so we were only too glad to get the hell out of there.
We had to leave our home that night with what we were standing
up in. A friend in the Westland Estate [a predominantly Protestant
housing estate in west Belfast] agreed to put us up, but really they
didn’t have the space. We spent the night in the front room [the
lounge] but we were well past sleeping so we just drank cups of tea
until the morning. Men from the local [Protestant] defence
association called the next morning. They knew of an empty [vacant]
house on the estate and they helped us move in there. We had no
money so they [Westland Defence men] lent us enough to buy a bed
and a couple of chairs to sit on. We were glad of anything we got
because as we thought, now at least we’re safe. The funny thing about
this was the man who was to become the chief constable for
Northern Ireland, Ronnie Flannaghan, lived in the next street away
from us. There was trouble and rioting all over the place, ‘Prods’ were
being forced out of the Oldpark [west Belfast] and the ‘Bone’
[Ardoyne, north Belfast] and Catholics were being forced out of the
‘East’ [east Belfast]. The atmosphere was very ominous, between the
rioting, fires, barricades and the gunfire. We hadn’t realised it at the
time but we had actually moved out of the frying pan into the fire.
The Westland Estate was literally surrounded by republicans from

the [Catholic] Antrim Road, the Ardoyne and the New Lodge [road
north and west Belfast]. We were under attack from republicans and
the IRA and make no mistake about it, that was all about naked
sectarian hatred. They [the IRA] wanted us [Protestants] out, and they
wanted to kill us. People [Protestants] in the area were shot dead.
They [the IRA] came in on ‘drive-bys’ and shot people going about
their business in the streets. [A drive-by is where a car is driven into
a given area carrying one or more gunmen. The car ‘drives by’,
identifies a target then the gunman opens fire and the car is driven
on usually at high speed.] The army and the police were nowhere to
be seen. We [Protestants] were on our own up there [in the Westland
Estate]. I was in the Westland Defence Association by that stage.
Vigilante patrols were set up but we had no guns. The IRA had
automatics [machine guns], high velocity sniper rifles, powerful
pistols, the lot, but we had fuck all. There were virtually no guns on
the loyalist side. The only weapons we had were baseball bats and I
just thought to myself, ‘What the fuck are we going to do when they
[the IRA] come in with their machine guns? Throw bats at them?’
The bottom line was, all we were doing was providing targets for the
IRA. Everybody knew that, but we did it anyway, all night every
night, each man just getting a few hours sleep. The women and
children could sleep better knowing that the men were on the streets.
Mind you the women were good as well, they supported us to the hilt
bringing us tea and buns. When cars we didn’t recognise drove by the
estate some of the men would flash ‘handguns’ but they were toy
guns. The UDA got the nickname of ‘the water-pistol men’ in those
days because all we had for guns were water pistols, which we painted
black, that’s how desperate the situation was. In the darkness of night
the IRA wouldn’t have known the difference. They were so well
armed it probably never occurred to them that we didn’t have
anything [guns]. But believe it or not that worked, the areas that
were ‘patrolled’ were much less likely to be attacked. So the IRA with
their machine guns, AK47s were deterred by WDA men with toy
guns. That tells you a lot, doesn’t it?
A short time after that the UDA was formed to bring all the
[Protestant] defence associations together under one umbrella organ-
isation. That had been a brilliant idea, to have a unified command
across Belfast and all of Northern Ireland. One big united Protestant
defence force. It was exactly what we all needed. Arrangements were
made for a UDA officer to visit our area. He was a colonel in the UDA
Sam Duddy 57
but he had been a sergeant in the [British] army. He must have been
promoted every day for a week in the UDA. But give him his dues he
was obviously a military man and he was the sort of guy you
wouldn’t fuck around with. He told us that republicans and the IRA
had started a war with the loyalist and unionist people of Ulster.
Some of us resented that because we were in west Belfast and the IRA
had been targeting us. We didn’t need somebody from the East
coming over to tell us what we already knew. That’s the thing about
Belfast, it’s very territorial. Even in the Shankill Road for example,
it’s the ‘upper Shankill’ and the ‘lower Shankill’ and there’s great
rivalry between the two. So even in the same organisation it would
be the upper Shankill UDA and the lower Shankill UDA with different
battalions and leaderships in competition with each other, and
usually they couldn’t agree about anything. That spirit of independ-
ence and local difference would have very serious consequences for
the UDA. The UVF was very different, it was run from the Shankill,
there was one command and that was it. The Shankill command ran
the UVF all over Northern Ireland and that was just accepted.
Anyway this colonel from east Belfast told us that there was going
to be a war in Northern Ireland between the loyalists and the IRA. He
told us what we already knew, that we couldn’t count on the army
or the police, because the government controlled the army and the
police, and that the [British] government wanted out of Northern
Ireland. ‘Therefore,’ he said, ‘the government doesn’t want to defeat
the IRA, the government wants to help the IRA.’ ‘The government has
already told the IRA that they want out [of Northern Ireland], and
they have publicly said that to the IRA, to encourage the IRA.’ ‘But
things haven’t changed from 1916, Ulster [Protestants] will still fight,
and Ulster [Protestants] will still be right.’ [As quoted by Winston
Churchill, 1916.] Then he [the colonel] told us that the UDA needed
volunteers and that the volunteers would be armed and trained in
combat. He guaranteed that every volunteer would receive training
and a gun. Then he told us that guns were expensive and that UDA
volunteers would be expected to pay ‘all they could’ in weekly ‘dues’
for the ‘defence of Ulster’.
The community centre we were in on the Westland Estate was
badly run down. There was no furniture and we didn’t even have
glass in the windows. The people [of the estate] didn’t have anything.
The seats we were sitting on were comprised of rough wooden planks
on cement blocks. The colonel was sitting at a table which was
actually two tea chests pushed together and draped with a Union
Jack with a bible on top. There were about 50 of us in the room and
you could have heard a pin drop. We all knew that this was the ‘real
thing’. The next thing we knew was the colonel pulled out a sub-
machine gun from under the table. He said, ‘the time has come, the
UDA needs you as volunteers’. ‘We need you to serve your God and
your country.’ The guy next to me just said, ‘Oh for fuck’s sake’ and
ran out. About 20 of the men just ‘bottled’ [lost their nerve] and ran
out. They went out of there so fast they left a cloud of cement dust
on the floor. The rest of us, about 30 in total, stayed and volunteered.
As far as I was concerned this was exactly what we [Protestants]
needed, at long last we were organising to defend ourselves. The
colonel swore us in one by one. We all took an oath on the bible
swearing allegiance to ‘God and country and the UDA’. We were told
that the UDA was organising all over the country and that we would
have to elect our own officers, ‘men who could command the respect
and loyalty of the volunteers’. We agreed to meet the next night
because there were men we wanted in who were working and
couldn’t attend that night. There were no hard feelings toward the
guys who left. Some of them had wives who wouldn’t let them join,
some of them held down two jobs and couldn’t afford the time, and
some were just too old.
We met the next night and elected our Commanding Officer or
CO as he was called. It was all above board and democratic. We were
just ordinary decent working men trying to defend our area and our
families. The guy we chose was the wisest man in the room. He was
a shipyard worker and he was a good man. —— was very intelligent,
he could have talked about anything, but more than that he’d
travelled and he’d been around. —— was a hard man but fair, he
never looked for trouble. Another guy had also run for election but
we knew that he had a criminal record for fraud against the ‘national
assistance’ [department of social security] so nobody voted for him.
At that time two police officers lived on our estate. They knew the
[UDA] meetings had taken place but they just turned a blind eye to
it, and let us get on with it. Later on we asked them to join, but they
weren’t having any of it. It was hot and heavy in those days.
Protestants were being shot and killed all over the place. But we
[Protestants] hadn’t hit back. We knew that the UVF was there and
we all thought that they’d hit [the IRA/republicans] first [i.e. before
the UDA] because they were more military than us, and they had
guns. They also recruited [former] soldiers who had fought terrorists
in Cyprus and Borneo, whereas we really hadn’t a clue. I’d never
Sam Duddy 59
fought anybody in my life. I’d run from a fight, but you couldn’t run
from this, not the IRA.
In June 1970 the IRA shot and killed five Protestants in sectarian
murders. That was it, as far as we were concerned the ‘balloon’ was
up. It wasn’t long after that [August 1970] they [the IRA] blew up
and killed two police officers along the border. Then [February 1971]
they blew up a BBC Land-Rover and killed five people, a BBC Land-
Rover! Soldiers were getting killed all the time. Nearly 60 [60 actually]
members of the security forces were killed in 1971 alone, and over
20 [27] Protestants murdered and that was just for openers [just the
start of it].
We [the UDA] got more and more organised and we had patrols
going out every night. By then [1971] we had street barricades, and
a few pistols. Two-man patrols would go out and around the estate,
and one of the men would have a gun. But it was all psychological
more than anything else. A .38 pistol won’t do much up against an
AK47, or an Armalite [IRA automatic weaponry], there just was no
contest. In the early days we [UDA members] all paid our dues and
we could see that guns were coming in, and we knew that the
[loyalist] prisoners and their families were being looked after [given
money] so that was fine. All of that worked very well for the first
couple of years. In those days everything was up front. We were
getting Steyr rifles, they were ancient. —— fired one and it knocked
him clean off his feet. Flames belched out of the barrel, and you
could nearly hear the bullet travelling down it but at least they were
guns. After a while we were told that the funds had to go to the [UDA]
battalion HQ in the Shankill Road, and that’s when the corruption
started. People like —— started to take over. —— was a classic hard
man who was no more than a criminal really, and he had worked
his way up [the UDA ranks] by bullying and extortion. Even in our
own wee area things [corruption] started to happen, and it was
probably the same all over [Northern Ireland]. The simple reason was
that UDA commanders really had to be full time, because by that
stage there were so many people involved and all of that took time.
But a UDA commander wasn’t paid. So the vast majority of people,
who had jobs, either had no interest, or couldn’t afford to put
themselves up for [UDA] office. That meant unemployed people,
people who’d never done a day’s work in their lives got into positions
of leadership. It was accepted that full time UDA officers were entitled
to a percentage of the ‘proceedings’, but it was largely up to area
commanders to decide what percentage to take. And human nature
being what it is, the percentage of what was taken went up and up
and up. These guys started wearing ‘the suits’, they drove fancy cars
and took continental holidays. In those days none of the ordinary
people in our areas went to Spain, we went to Millisle or Ballywalter
or Portrush [i.e. stayed in Northern Ireland]. Another side to that was
when an area was ‘active’ [in paramilitary terms] the COs would be
arrested and taken to Castlereagh [interrogation centre] for
questioning. But when an area was inactive the COs would be left
alone. Now that was a very clever strategy by the police, because they
knew that if they hit the CO on a regular basis for paramilitary
activity the COs in question would make bloody sure that paramil-
itary activity stopped. And that’s exactly what happened, by the end
of the 1970s and early 1980s the UDA had become militarily inactive.
Police infiltration was another major problem. The police would
befriend certain individuals, they’d offer them drinks in the police
station. If someone was caught for drunken driving, or a domestic
[violence] it was, ‘OK you play ball with us.’ I heard of one guy, they
gave him four whiskeys in the police station and then arrested him
as he got into his car. Charges weren’t pressed so that was it, the
police had him [i.e. as an informer]. We [UDA] knew that they’d [the
police] slip our guys some money, and if you accepted that they had
you by the balls. You were a ‘paid informer’ and paid informers were
tortured and shot [by the paramilitaries] so you had to play ball with
them or they’d threaten to tell someone in the organisation. The
police would turn a blind eye to the criminal stuff, the racketeering
and the robberies, just as long as the paramilitary activity was kept
in check. So the UDA was seriously compromised, if not brought to
its knees, by the police.
All of that posed serious problems for me because I was a UDA
man, and I was fully committed and loyal to the UDA, but I was
having more and more difficulty with the local command. At that
time Andy Tyrie was in charge of the UDA, he was the supreme
commander of the UDA, I knew that Andy was straight [i.e. non-
criminal] and that he wanted to do what I wanted to do, to take on
republicans and the IRA. Tyrie had no interest in killing ordinary
Catholics because he knew that that’s what the IRA wanted. When
we [the UDA] killed Catholics the IRA was delighted because it gave
them the role of the defenders of innocent Catholics.
The UDA as an organisation had never been ordered to kill
Catholics. Andy Tyrie had given the order to ‘terrorise the terrorists’
[i.e. the IRA]. Anyway I went down to meet Tyrie in UDA HQ in 254A
Sam Duddy 61
Shankill Road. He was a very busy man with a desk loaded with
unanswered correspondence. He asked me to draft a few replies for
him to sign and because I’m a good writer I was pleased to do that.
Tyrie obviously liked the work and he offered me a job there and
then in his personal staff. I thought that was tremendous because I
would be a salaried full-time UDA man. As far as I was concerned I
couldn’t have had a better job.
Being in that position gave me an even greater insight into the
corruption in the UDA. By the late 1970s nearly all the good military
men had either moved on or moved out because of the corruption.
It actually seemed that most of the good men who remained became
corrupted themselves. So that was the UDA. You had a good top
leadership, the best grassroots volunteers anyone could ask for, but
almost everything in the middle was bent [corrupt].
Andy Tyrie tried his best to reform the organisation but despite
his best efforts it just got worse instead of better. In the end he just
gave up and walked away from the UDA, at least as it was then
[1988/89].
As a full-time UDA man I was a target for the Provos. I knew that
anyway but the police confirmed it for me. I was on an IRA death list.
In the early 1970s I drank in a local bar, Crangle’s pub near the
Westland Estate. It was a [religiously] mixed pub with middle-class
Catholics from the ‘private’ houses around there and working-class
Protestants from the estate. That was fine and nobody minded that
because we thought that middle-class Catholics would have more
sense than to be in the IRA. We met there every Thursday night. This
Thursday I left [UDA] headquarters and I was travelling through
Belfast when a whole series of [IRA] bombs went off. The town was
in chaos and roads were sealed off everywhere because of bombs or
bomb hoaxes. Army and police jeeps were flying around everywhere
with their sirens going off. It seemed to me that they were just going
around in circles. Some of those young soldiers actually looked
scared. I was standing at a bus stop when a jeep pulled up beside me
in traffic. A young squaddie nodded at me and said, ‘Fucking hell
does this kind of thing happen a lot around here mate?’ I just
laughed over at him and said, ‘Welcome to Belfast son.’ I arrived at
the bar about two hours late. There had been an IRA attack and they
had killed two men with automatics and semi-automatic pistols. The
IRA team had left just before I arrived, and I knew that they had
been there to get me. I was going to be blamed for it anyway. Walking
into that bar was like walking into hell, blood, bodies and the
screams of the injured. I went over to one of the men who had been
shot. He was the son of a friend of mine. He was sitting with his
back propped up against the bar, the blood pouring from his head
where he had been shot. He said, ‘Sammy, Sammy I’ve been hit. I
think it’s bad.’ I said, ‘Listen you’ll be fine it’s just a scratch on your
fucking head.’ But I knew that he was dying. He said to me ‘Sammy,
top pocket it’s my wages, give my wages to my Da to give to Mary
[his wife].’ I said, ‘Son, don’t you worry about that now, I’ll make
sure your wife’s OK.’ But he insisted, ‘No, Sammy take the wages.’ I
pulled the money out of his top pocket, there was £20 soaked from
the blood running from his head. The tears choked me; I just
thought, ‘You’re lying here fucking dying and all you’re worried
about is your wife getting your wages, 20 fucking quid.’ There was
something unbelievably human about that, him lying there with a
bullet in his head worrying about his wife. I looked over to see
another bizarre sight. This other man had been shot in the neck and
he was lying beside the phone trying to phone home with the blood
pumping out of his neck. He was trying to phone his wife. I knew
—— and his wife and they hadn’t spoken in years and here he was
trying to reach her. —— thought that he was dying and here he was
trying to make the peace, that taught me an awful lot. At the end of
the day it’s who you spend your life with who matters, whether you
realise it or not at the time. What actually happened [to ——] was
he was shot in the neck and the bullet had come out through his
mouth. The next thing was the police arrived on the scene, they
burst through the door with their guns at the ready. It was like
watching a tape at high speed slowing down to low speed. They burst
in through the door fast and then they almost froze as they surveyed
the scene of carnage in the room. One young police officer in
particular went very pale. He started to sway on his feet and then
he just vomited. He didn’t have time to turn around, he just spewed
up in the direction of bodies he was looking at. A sergeant pushed
him backwards, out of the bar. All of that strengthened my resolve
to get the IRA, and the people who were bringing such wanton
destruction to ‘my’ country, and ‘my’ people.
As I walked out of the bar a friend’s wife came running up the
road. ‘Sam, Sam is Joey OK, oh please God he’s OK.’ Joey was still
lying on the floor in the bar, Joey was dead. I didn’t say a word to her,
she knew from my expression, and the tears in my eyes and she just
ran on past me wailing. The wailing sound she made will haunt me
for the rest of my life. I never ever want to hear that again. We [the
‘Ken’ 63
UDA/loyalists] had no victories [over the IRA] in those days. We were

always on the receiving end, it was nearly always Protestants being
killed and that’s because we [the UDA] were so badly organised. That’s
the price we were paying for the corruption and a leadership who
only cared about themselves. That’s the way it went on until early
1989 when Nelson was arrested [Nelson was the intelligence officer
of the UFF who had been a police/army agent]. After that a new
leadership began to take over and the UDA/UFF became a military
operation again. But what happened to the UDA should never have
happened and we have to learn from all of this to prevent it ever
happening again in the future.
It was the UDA’s job to protect the Protestant people but the UDA
let them down, it failed them. But they weren’t failed by the ordinary
volunteers, because you couldn’t meet better men that them. The
people were failed by the local leaderships who cared more about
themselves than the loyalist people. Those guys wanted a quiet life,
they didn’t want trouble with anyone, least of all the IRA. Let me
give you an example of that. After Milltown [the cemetery where
Michael Stone attacked an IRA funeral] two UDA brigadiers from two
Belfast battalions telephoned the IRA to say that they didn’t know
Michael Stone. They said that he was just a rogue loyalist who was
acting without authorisation. But Michael was UDA, he was a
travelling gunman who went after the IRA and republicans and he
needed no authority for that because that was his job. Those two
brigadiers were scared in case the IRA would retaliate against them
or their areas which would mean trouble, so they disclaimed Michael,
one of our [UDA] best operators. By way of contrast the UVF had
actually claimed Michael as one of theirs [i.e. as a UVF volunteer].
These guys were top brass in the UDA and they telephoned the IRA
to apologise for the actions of one of our top men, because they were
scared of the IRA. What sort of a fucking chance did we have?
‘KEN’
‘Ken’ (now late 40s) conforms to the more conventional stereotype of a

UDA man as a tall big man with a menacing physical presence. Obviously
a hard man in his day with a formidable reputation for extreme violence
he has mellowed becoming almost the opposite of his younger caricature.
As a UDA killer who gloried in his role ‘Ken’ gained insights in life which
challenged his profound sectarian hatred, giving way to remorse, clinical
depression and suicidal tendencies.
Well basically I lived in an area known as Brown Square which is

right at the bottom of the [ultra-loyalist] Shankill Road [in Belfast].
I was born in 1962. As a child I would have remembered playing
‘kick a tin’ in the streets, and ‘rally-o’, those were the sort of games
we played.
It would have been a happy childhood only we lived in a very
small house. I actually shared a bed with my two brothers. My mum
and dad had a room and my uncle had the back room, and an old
aunt who couldn’t walk she lived in the ‘living room’ of the house.
So it was actually a very small house with loads of people in it. I
suppose looking back the things you would remember would be the
tin bath in front of the fire. Getting washed in front of everyone and
that type of thing which doesn’t happen anymore.
I would have had a very good relationship with my parents. They
were loving parents. Looking back I can never remember my parents
working. They couldn’t get work.
My dad had worked in the shipyard on a ship called the Canberra,
which would have been some time before I was born. He’d got a back
injury working on the ship, and so he wasn’t really fit for work. One
of the ways we got an income at that time was my Dad used to do
the ‘pitch and toss’. My dad and a couple of uncles were hard men.
You had hard men at that time, street fighters, Stormy Weatherall
and Silver McKee, and my granddad ——, who used to go about with
people like that. There was no trouble in those days, no paramili-
taries or anything like that, so you had nothing to worry about. They
played pitch and toss in a wee entry at the bottom of the Shankill,
‘Brady’s Lane’. For pitch and toss you had a group of adults who
stood around in a circle, and one person would have had a small
stick with two of the old half pennies. They would throw them in the
air and they would land, two heads, two tails, or odds, and the men
would bet on how they landed. If they fell on a head and a tail they
were thrown again until you got what they called a ‘result’, either
two heads or two tails.
My dad was always a hunting man. He was away nearly every day
hunting for rabbits. Basically in those days we lived on rabbits.
Rabbits and hares and fish. He was always out with the dogs shooting
or fishing, so there was always food in the house. He used to go down
to the [Belfast] lough shore at low tide, and he would have got
mussels and cockles and willicks, and that was the diet we grew up
with. He also went down to Ballykinler, there was a big sandy strand
‘Ken’ 65
there. I also remember as a child going with him to Rockport just

outside Bangor and getting mussels there.
The food wasn’t too bad. I remember in those days it was the old
street system. You would have had 50 or 60 houses in a street. We
lived in a street called Sackville Street. All the doors would have been
left open and you could run in and out of anybody’s house. In those
days you were ‘elected’ [lucky] if you got a big heel of bread with
loads of butter and sprinkled with sugar, or else red sauce or brown
sauce on the bread. That’s what you looked forward to. You hoped
that whatever house you went into, they would give you the heel of
the bread with the butter and the sugar.
My mother was a very good person, she was very small. I know
that she was a very caring person, a loving person. She always made
plenty of time to be with us. If any of us had problems we would
have gone to her. She would have tried to the best of her ability to
give us all she could. In those days there wasn’t a lot of money about.
I can remember one Christmas in particular a couple of the brothers
got the old Dalek suit [as in Dr Who], with a toilet plunger sticking
out at the front. Because I was the smallest I only got playing with
it last. Things like that. There wasn’t much there but there was love,
you were respected as a child.
I went to Brown Square Primary School. It was built in 1811 and
was the oldest school in Belfast. I remember going into my first class
in P1. The teacher was called a Mrs ——. She was a big giant of a
woman. I was very very small. I remember walking into the classroom
on the first day. I fell straight onto the floor and crawled under a
cupboard, and I didn’t want to come out. I didn’t want to be left
there even though it was only 100 yards from my home. I think I
had a fear of authority. Anyone outside your family telling you what
to do. I was a very slow learner. In those days you had to work at the
teacher’s pace, rather than at your own pace. I found that frightening,
because I couldn’t work at the teacher’s pace. That meant that I was
always getting into trouble, getting the cane and things like that. I
couldn’t learn because I was too frightened, I was always frightened
of being caned. I needed people to encourage me for the attempts I
was making, not people putting me down. I would have been caned
at least once a week, sometimes twice a day because of different
things but mainly because I couldn’t keep up.
It was very frightening, and very very sore. You got caned right
across the tips of your fingers and it was very painful, the ‘whoosh’
of the cane coming down, and if you took your hand away you’d
get another one. Every time it happened to me I just wanted to run

home. I just did not want to be there. When you got beaten you
cried, everybody did and it was humiliating. Standing there crying
in front of the class. Girls and boys.
Secondary school wasn’t much better. I was expelled at the age of
111⁄2. I was in a classroom with all boys then, because I went to
Summerdale Secondary School. One of the boys in the class had
broken the back off one of the chairs. He broke it off and threw it at
the teacher. When I was nervous I always laughed. I was too
frightened of school and of teachers to have ever thrown anything
at them. But when the teacher turned round he saw me laughing and
he assumed that I did it. He came down and thumped me on the
head. He hit me so hard it knocked me down and I was crying. I
hadn’t done anything. I only knew of one way to respond to that. I
lifted a chair and hit him over the head with it. The next thing I knew
was I was expelled from the school and I was never allowed back into
secondary school after that. So, I didn’t really have an education. At
12 years of age I started working in a pub in the Shankill.
There were no social workers or education welfare officers who
came to see me from between the age of 111⁄2 until I was 15. When I
was 15 someone must have thought, ‘Why’s he not at school? Let’s
put him in a home.’ It was like a boarding school for people with
learning difficulties, and for kids who had got into trouble. It was a
place in Lurgan, a place called Fallowfield. I hadn’t been to school
since I was 11. I had started off cleaning glasses in the bar, and I
progressed to pulling pints. I had matured very quickly in one sense,
always in the company of the men, and they were good to me. But
I still couldn’t read or write or put things down on paper. My mum,
and an uncle who was on holiday from Australia at the time, drove
me down to Fallowfield. Because of my background I was already
smoking at the age of 15. When I was unpacking my clothes at
Fallowfield the teacher made me hand over my cigarettes, but I held
on to one pack. My mum and my uncle had left me there at about
9.30 that morning. They put me into a class with young people. At
about 10 o’clock there was a break, to have a glass of milk and
whatever there was. I took out a cigarette and started to smoke, with
my background I thought nothing of it. I was taken straight over to
the headmaster. He said, ‘Hand over the cigarettes.’ I said, ‘No.’ He
said, ‘Hand them over now.’ I said, ‘No, and even better than that,
give me back the cigarettes you already took from me, because I won’t
be staying here. I’m not going to be treated like this.’ So they packed
‘Ken’ 67
my gear and put me on a train back to Belfast. I made my way back

to the house, and when I got in my sister and my dad were there.
They said, ‘What are you doing back?’, and I told them about the
cigarettes. I got back so quickly my mum and my uncle weren’t back
yet. The next thing was the car pulled up, and I hid behind a chair
in the living room. My mum came in and said, ‘Thank god that’s
him away.’ That took me by surprise, I’d never expected to hear her
say that. When I came out from behind the chair she couldn’t believe
it. I suppose I had been a bit of a nuisance. After that they just sent
out a remedial teacher but I didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to
know either, because she was scared coming into our area.
In the early days, 1970/71, there were vigilantes out in the streets.
In Brown Square we were on the front line so there were people out
protecting the streets. Even as a child you had wanted to be a part
of that. We were under constant attack [from republicans/Catholics].
I lived in Sackville Street, which was opposite Coaches Street. Coaches
Street was to become the peace line with barbed wire and that
separating the two communities. When I was growing up I felt that
this was my community and that we were being attacked by
Catholics. I had early memories of being trailed out of bed at one or
two in the morning with fires and burning all over the place. Smoke
and shouting and screaming. Petrol bombs coming over. We lived at
the end of the street so we always got it. We used to be taken into
Duncairns Court, which was two small streets in the middle of
Brown Square. We would have been herded in there like cattle, maybe
50 kids in the one house. You had to soak blankets in water and hold
them up against the doors to keep out the smoke and the CS gas that
the army would have fired. When you got up the next morning it
would have been over and the army would be there. The streets
would have been littered with bricks and broken glass, smouldering
houses and burnt out cars. In Wilson Street you could have seen the
petrol bombs lined up. These were there to protect your community
from attack, to keep the Catholics out. There would have been
gunfire, bombing and shootings. Many a night I hid under the bed,
it would have frightened the life out of you. In Brown Square we
were at the bottom of the Shankill, but we were actually very isolated.
We had to get hundreds of people from other [Protestant] areas to
come and help us protect our area but sometimes other areas were
also under attack and they couldn’t send anybody so you felt very
vulnerable. At that time in 1969 when I was nine they sent the
soldiers in. They were based in Brown Square Barracks, presumably
to defend the Protestants, but sometimes all they could do was

protect themselves. I always hung around with the soldiers and I
became a sort of mascot for them. They gave me my own bed, and
my own wee uniform. At that time, when I was nine I can remember
them buying me a wee plastic rifle for my birthday, out of
Woolworths in Lower North Street. The reason I remember that was,
one of the soldiers was playing about with me and he broke the rifle,
and I started crying, so he gave me the money and sent me down to
Woolworths to get another one. In Brown Square Barracks they [the
soldiers] used to give me bread and butter, meat and cheese and I
would have taken it home to my mum, and my mum would have
made sandwiches for the soldiers on the streets. She did that because
we felt that they were there to protect us, because it was our
community that was under siege.
When I think back to it I was involved [with the loyalist paramil-
itaries] without even realising that I was involved. I was 12 years of
age and I went up to the Salisbury Bar and I had this wee scooter
with me, I was on this wee scooter. I went into the bar, and the
barman said to me, ‘Can you run down to the loyalist club and get
——’ [a former UDA leader who was later shot by the UDA, suspected
of criminal activity]. I went down to the loyalist club, and all these
guys were coming out with white shirts and ties. I said, ‘I’m looking
for ——.’ This small stubby guy said, ‘I’m—— what do you want?’ I
said, ‘I’ve been sent down from the Salisbury Bar, there’s some fella
there you want to see.’ ‘Right,’ he said, ‘come on.’ I remember we
went up the Shankill together, me beside him on my wee scooter. As
we got closer to the bar he started to quicken his pace, then he pulled
out a gun and ran into the bar. The next thing there was a shot. That
was my first involvement with a killing, but I thought to myself it
must have been OK, because —— was UDA, and the UDA were
protecting us.
When you work behind a bar people ask you to take this here, put
that there, so at the age of 12 I was involved before even realising it.
But I regarded these people [the UDA] as my community, these people
were protecting me and I wanted to be a part of that. I can remember
when I was being herded out of my house, into the safe house in the
‘courts’, I said to myself this must be what it means to be a man. That
you can protect your community, and protect the children in your
community. So you wanted to grow up quickly to do what they were
doing, that was your model of masculinity, of manhood.
‘Ken’ 69
During 1971, the time when I would have been a ‘mascot’ for the
soldiers, there were three Scottish soldiers murdered in Legoniel
[outside Belfast]. The soldiers had been drinking in a bar and three
girls had invited them to a party. The only problem was that these
girls were IRA and they drove the soldiers out to a ditch were they
were murdered. They were from the Royal Highland Fusiliers. They
had been from Girwood Barracks, but we had Fusiliers in Brown
Square as well. After they were murdered I got permission to go to
Scotland to attend the funerals. I travelled with another soldier who
was the bugler. I was obsessed with their deaths, ‘Who did this, who
was responsible for killing the three soldiers?’
Their murder had a traumatic and profound impact upon me.
These were soldiers who were protecting my community. They had
left their own homes and families to come over here to protect us
and they were being murdered. There were policemen who were
protecting my community and they were being murdered. People in
my community were being murdered. At 11 and 12 years of age I
was asking questions, who’s doing all this, who’s killing my people,
and the people who are trying to protect them? ‘It’s the IRA’, ‘well
who are the IRA’, they’re the ‘Fenians’ or the ‘Taigs’ [Catholics]. It
was one community against the other community. Therefore I
believed that anyone from the Catholic community would have been
the enemy. I was a Protestant, the Catholics were killing us, they
were Catholics, so Protestants would kill them in retaliation. When
I was growing up we faced [Catholic] Unity Flats. Because I didn’t
attend school I went out and threw stones and bricks, to bring the
Catholics out. That would start a riot and then both sides would start
shooting at each other, and I thought this was great. I did that a lot
because it was exciting. You didn’t think about getting shot, that just
never entered your head. You never thought that you might be the
one who ends up getting shot. It was just part of life then. You had
nothing to do so ‘let’s get a riot going’. I didn’t see it as breaking the
law, they [Catholics] were the people who were breaking the law,
destroying the country and murdering everybody.
When I was growing up 14, 15, 16 I looked around and all my
friends, every one of them, were joining paramilitary organisations,
either the UDA or the UVF. When you joined the UDA you got a blue
coat with a fur collar on it so I thought to myself, ‘I’ll have one of
those’, so I joined the UDA.
There were very strong links between my family and the paramil-
itaries. —— [a UDA commander] and —— [a prominent loyalist] they
would have been in the extended family. It was already a personal

thing, between me and Catholics, but then after the INLA (Irish
National Liberation Army) murdered —— [an uncle] it became really
personal, they’d started to kill my family. My brothers were heavily
involved, everybody in that generation was involved. My joining
was inevitable. It was a geographical thing. If you lived in a certain
area you joined the UDA, in another area it was the UVF. But the
bottom line was, if you were a young man in the Shankill, you joined
a paramilitary organisation. The organisation was more than a gang
or a peer group thing, it was your family. The organisation defined
who you were, it gave you an identity, a purpose. You might call it
tribal or territorial but that’s the way it was. I’ve actually thought a
lot about this. I did an interview for the Observer magazine when I
was 16 years of age. It was entitled ‘At home with the UDA’. —— [a
UDA leader] told me, ‘Whatever you do don’t mention anything
about guns or stuff like that.’ Basically I made the statement that ‘if
any republicans came into the Shankill they’d be killed’. The
interviewer asked, ‘Does that mean that the UDA have guns?’ I said,
‘I didn’t say that. I said that if any republicans are found in the
Shankill they will be murdered.’ That was 20-odd years ago.
From there I became involved in a UDA outfit, C1 we were called,
about 30 of us. It gave you a sense of purpose an identity, people
looked up to you. I hate to say it, but I’m being honest here, my
ambition had been to kill a Catholic. That went back to when I was
about nine or ten and the Scottish soldiers were killed. I wanted to
kill members of the community that had killed them. To me innocent
Protestants were being killed, and the soldiers had been innocent.
They had been naive enough to trust Catholics, that’s why they died.
They could never have thought that Catholic girls would lead them
away to be slaughtered. As far as I was concerned all Catholics were
the enemy, I wanted to kill them, they wanted to kill me. It was
something that I needed to do, it was forced upon me. I hadn’t
wanted any of those terrible things to happen, but they did, and I felt
that I had to respond. When I was 17 I had been out drinking with
some friends when I came across a group of men who were holding
two Catholics. They had been found in the Shankill, but they weren’t
carrying weapons. We reckoned they were doing intelligence work,
and ‘sussing’ out a bar or whatever. One of them [the Protestant men]
shouted over to me, ‘—– have you got a gun?’ I shouted back, ‘No,
but I can get one, hold them there.’ Then one of the guys escaped,
so I went over and led the other one away. —— went off to try to
‘Ken’ 71
get a gun. I waited for a while but no gun arrived so I killed him with
a breeze block. I hit him on the head with it and knocked him down,
then I finished him off.
I was pulled into UDA HQ next morning and they asked me why
I did it. What happened? I just said, ‘Well at the end of the day we
are fighting Catholics and the Catholic community, we’re fighting
against the IRA and that guy was a Catholic so what are you worried
about?’ There was a whole big debate about it, some people were
appalled, they didn’t like it. It wasn’t so much that a Catholic had
been killed, it was more about how it happened, in that he had been
beaten to death by a breeze block. Eventually they just told me to go
on, to forget about it. I had thought in my mind that these were
Catholics, these were the people who were murdering us. I knew that
if I’d been caught in the [Catholic] Falls Road, or the [Catholic]
Ardoyne, I would have been murdered, and I just accepted that. That’s
why I joined the paramilitaries, I wanted to do it, I wanted revenge.
I didn’t join the UDA to become involved in Catholics’ welfare, I
joined to kill them, just like they had killed us. That’s just the way it
was in those days. The only thing that I was annoyed about was that
the other one [the other captured Catholic] had got away.
I lived my whole life for the organisation [the UDA], I was there
to do whatever they wanted me to do. Hijacking cars, robbing banks,
anything that they wanted me to do. I was very heavily involved
with the UDA leadership at that time. I remember one particular
incident. When I was 16 —— gave me my first gun, and that has
quite an impact upon you at that age, it gave you power, you were
‘somebody’. I was on my way to becoming a UFF gunman, and that
was fine with me, that’s why I’d joined in the first instance.
I was convicted of one murder, and I can’t comment upon
anything else.
Because I was a young prisoner I couldn’t be sentenced, so I was
detained at the ‘Secretary of State’s Pleasure’. During my remand time
in the ‘Crum’ [Crumlin Road Prison, Belfast] we would have been
mixed, they didn’t segregate us [as loyalists] from the republicans. I
was in A wing. One day you were locked up and the next day you
were allowed out for ‘association’ [free association with other
prisoners]. One day the loyalists got out, the next day it was the
republicans turn. One day you got exercise, the next day you didn’t.
It was de facto segregation.
Basically your day consisted of lying in bed listening to the radio.
When we got into the yard we would have played football. We
weren’t allowed a football so we made a ball out of socks. If someone

hit it a high kick it would stick on the barbed wire and we had to get
more socks to make another one.
I was sentenced in 1982 and moved down to the H Blocks, H Block
3 YPs [young prisoners]. I didn’t want to be there, I wanted to be
with the men from my community [who were sentenced prisoners].
At that time there was a lot of fighting between loyalist and
republican prisoners with fire bombs going off in the cells. I went to
the governor and asked to be transferred [to be with the adult
sentenced prisoners]. He said no, that I was too young. I told him
that if I didn’t get transferred I’d have the wing wrecked. At that time
I was in charge of the young UDA men. He said, ‘You can’t do that.’
I said, ‘Just you watch.’ So he put me down as disruptive, and moved
me in with the men, so I got my way. When I went into the wing I
found that we shared it with some top republicans, ——, ——, people
like that. The loyalists were outnumbered by about three to one. As
I was the only life sentence prisoner there, people looked to me to
take charge. We pulled —— and —— [two republican leaders] into a
cell and told them that if any loyalists were attacked we’d kill them
and that they would be the first two killed. They [the republican
prisoners] didn’t allow us into the dining hall for about six weeks
after that, so we had no hot food for six weeks. That was when we
wrecked our cells protesting for segregation. After 18 months we
eventually got it. We were locked up 23 hours a day. I spent a lot of
my time ‘on the boards’ [punishment cells], and that could be rough.
There were a lot of beatings and things. Now a lot of people mightn’t
like to hear this but during that time some of the republican prisoners
[i.e. those who weren’t on protest and hence got access to the prison
‘tuck shop’] gave me fruit and tobacco and things. That was like a
culture shock to me, at first I thought they might have been
poisoned, so I waited. I saw other loyalists eating it, and they were
OK so I knew it was OK. When we were on protest the republicans
would have slipped us a couple of cigarettes under the door, or a wee
bit of tobacco, and that meant a lot to us, because you had nothing.
And they taught us Irish as well so as you could talk to them and the
screws wouldn’t have known what you were talking about. We col-
laborated in a sense, ‘Watch out there’s a screw on the landing’, that
sort of thing.
Turning away from sectarianism happened for me in 1980, when
I was sent to the YOC [Young Offenders Centre – outside Belfast].
‘Ken’ 73
I was in Hydebank [the YOC] from 1980 until 1981. It was for a
robbery. It wasn’t for myself [i.e. criminal], self-gain, it was under
the instruction of the UDA, and it was for money to buy guns. At
that time I was caught and sentenced to a year. With 50 per cent
remission as it was then, that meant I had to do six months and then
I was out.
So I lost my six months remission for not conforming [to the
requirements of criminalisation policy, calling prison officers ‘Sir’,
doing prison work] and I got another two months for fighting with
prison officers. I just hated authority. During that time I was on ‘lock
up’ [kept in a cell for 23 hours a day] for four months. I remember
—— and some of the other UDA leaders came up to visit me. The
governors were panicking, ‘Why are these UDA men coming up to
Hydebank?’ [A significant number of prison officers would have lived
in areas controlled by the UDA and they would have been extremely
vulnerable.] They assured —— that I was OK that I hadn’t been
touched. At that time prison officers were being beaten up and shot
in the community, we were approaching the height of the prison
conflict, before the hunger strikes of 1980/81. The prison officers
were worried in case I sent out a bad report. After that visit, after four
months on the ‘boards’ [punishment cells] they decided to put me
back on the ‘committal wing’ again. But they were putting me into
a cell with a Roman Catholic. Not only that but this was a guy I had
fought on numerous occasions, during the rioting in Unity Flats and
the lower Shankill. I remember walking into the cell, and he said,
‘Right big lad, what are you going to do?’ I said, ‘Well there’s one
thing, I won’t be staying here with you.’ There were ‘bed packs’ in
the cells, you had to fold your bed pack up like in the army. I said to
him, ‘I’ll not be making any bed pack in here.’ He said, ‘But ——,
they’ll just throw you back on the boards.’ He said, ‘Look big lad we
can work together here.’ I said, ‘What do you mean we can work
together?’ He replied, ‘We can get a racket going, get tobacco in and
sell it to the other prisoners. We can look after each other.’ As a
gesture of good will he made my ‘bed pack’ in the cell. So we struck
up a friendship, we became friends.
I came out of Hydebank in 1981, and within three weeks this guy
[this Catholic friend] came looking for me. Now I had got reinvolved
in the UDA. Within one hour of being released I had reported in to
HQ volunteering for a mission. Anyway I went and met with him
and we went into the King Arthur in the town centre and had a few
pints and smoked a few joints. Then we went back to my flat in the
middle of the Shankill estate. About two o’clock in the morning there
was a knock on the door, so I went down. When I opened the door
there were two hooded men with handguns ‘ready to do the
business’. I said, What do you want?’ They said, ‘We’re here to shoot
——.’ I said, ‘Look I brought him in and I’ll be taking him out again.’
They said, ‘We’ve been sent by the CO to shoot him.’ I said, ‘Nobody
is shooting anybody here. I’ll see the CO first thing in the morning
and get it sorted out.’ So the next morning I took him [the Catholic
friend] to the CO’s mother’s house and left him there while I went
to see the CO. I said, ‘Look I brought a Taig [Catholic] into the estate
last night. He’s not a republican he’s just an ordinary Catholic, he was
in Hydebank for robbing a bank, but it was criminal, not political.
He wanted the money for himself.’ I said, ‘If you want him killed, I’ll
kill him, but he’s just an ordinary Catholic.’ After some time the CO
said to me, ‘Because of who you are, and because of what you’ve
done, I’m going to let it go this time. Don’t let it happen again.’ So
I went to the CO’s mother’s house and got —— out of that estate as
fast as I could.
I would probably have killed him if I’d been ordered to do so. I
didn’t want to but I probably would have. But it would have been
quick, one [shot] to the back of the head. He wouldn’t have known
a thing about it.
But the reason I’m sharing this with you is to let you know that
for the first time in my life I had stood up for a Catholic. Make no
mistake I had put myself on the line for him. The two of us could
have been killed, him for being a Catholic in the Shankill and me
for protecting him. This was a very, very crucial period in my life,
my perceptions were changing. My understanding of things was
challenged. For the first time I had realised that not all Catholics
were in the IRA. I knew I thought that because I had said it, but it
wasn’t until I said it that I realised it was true. That’s what created the
dilemma for me over the next months. I had been bought up in a
sectarian world in which all Catholics were IRA men. I didn’t only
believe that, I preached that gospel in the full conviction that it was
right and now this had happened. It was actually traumatic, it caused
me a crisis of confidence. For us, Catholics were so linked to the IRA
the two were inseparable. At that particular time I was a UDA man.
There were expectations of me, that I would kick a door in and shoot
someone [a Catholic]. Now I had no problem with that, if it was an
IRA man, but now I did have a problem if he was just an ordinary
Catholic. Now that was a dilemma for me and it caused me serious
‘Ken’ 75
mental problems. I was actually on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

I would be out drinking in the loyalist clubs, I was the ‘big lad’, ‘big
reputation’, but they all expected me to kill Catholics. I thought that
I was going to crack up. It’s easy to go and do something when you
think that it’s right, but if something happens to suggest that maybe
it isn’t right, that’s traumatic. That ‘does you head in’ [creates mental
instability]. It was like suddenly I was in a different world to everyone
else. I had always believed that all Catholics were my enemy, the
enemy of my people, and that it was them or us. It was like a
revelation, they’re not all in the IRA, they’re not all bad. It was
frightening, all the certainty in my life had gone. I never had any
conscience about all that had gone on before but now it was different.
That guy [the Catholic] who had been killed, I was never convicted
for that, but my three mates had been the year before. When he was
killed I was the only one present. Every one of them named me, but
there were no witnesses and I didn’t make a statement so there was
nothing that they [the police] could do about it. There was this police
inspector Anne ——, she was always on my back. I was standing at
the back of this house kissing a girl when the house was raided. It was
Anne ——. Afterwards she came over and asked if I wanted a lift
home. I told her to fuck off, that people would think that I was a
‘tout’ [informer]. A week later I was in Paisley Park drinking with my
friends and a thought came to me. If you see Anne ——, stop the car.
I walked along the West Circular Road and on to the Ballygomartin
Road and there was a car coming up. It was Anne —— and another
detective. I got into the car and then confessed and Anne knew that
I would. Anne —— didn’t judge me, it was as if she understood. All
she said was, ‘We live in very bad times and very bad things happen.’
We were driving down the Shankill and Anne turned around and
looked at me, and she knew, she asked compassionately, as if she
knew the emotional turmoil I was in. ‘—— what about the murder?’
I confessed there and then. I was taken to Castlereagh [interrogation
centre] and charged.
I felt I’d let everyone down, my comrades, the organisation, my
community. I’d been in Castlereagh over 20 times and I’d never made
a statement. It was about the dilemma I was in about killing more
people. I don’t think I could have killed anyone else without knowing
who they were and all about them [i.e. if they were IRA], and that
wasn’t possible. So I couldn’t have lived in my community and lived
up to the expectations that people had of me in that community. I
was so confused, I didn’t know what was going on. The rules of
combat as I had known them had changed, now there was a different
reality. I confessed, I was convicted of murder, and I served 121⁄2 years
in prison. Now I didn’t have to do that, they couldn’t have touched
me without a confession. That was the price of my dilemma. I still
believe that the loyalists were right to fight the IRA, they had no
choice. But the IRA shouldn’t have killed ordinary Protestants, and
the loyalists shouldn’t have killed ordinary Catholics. But by its very
nature the innocent do get killed, that’s the reality of war. War itself
is the enemy, men think they control war, but war controls men, it
consumes them. I know because I was one of them, and I still don’t
understand it. We do things when we are at war that we would just
never, ever do, in normal circumstances. It’s like a contagion or an
infection that takes over your identity and blinds you. You become
a different person, and you are a different person. I’ve been clinically
depressed and suicidal and sometimes I felt that I just couldn’t go
on. I spend all my time now working with young people, trying to
make sure that they don’t go down the same road as me. Because
that’s the road to hell.
‘BILLY’
‘Billy’ (now in his 40s) is a slightly built man who has retained an almost
boyish aspect of his personality. He has a ready sense of humour and is very
engaging in conversation. As a young man he was imprisoned for
‘fundraising’, that is robbing banks for the UDA. This was during the
period of criminalisation policy, a brutal and dehumanising prison regime
predicated upon the need to criminalise political prisoners in Northern
Ireland (1976–90). Like a majority of the loyalist prisoners who fought
against criminalisation, Billy had never talked about his experiences of
degradation and torture at the hands of the prison service. The interviews
with Billy were both emotional and traumatic, in exchanges which were
of mutual significance.
Early childhood. I lived in —— on the Shankill Road. My grandma

lived in ——. My paternal grandfather lived in ——. Mostly I would
have gone up to my paternal grandfather. My grandmother died early
on. Most of my early memories would have been of the family. My
father worked in the zoo then. Every Sunday my father would have
taken me out and we went to one of the uncles’ houses or the grand-
parents. Or we would have gone for a walk. We would have gone to
the zoo quite a lot because he was a zoo keeper, and we got in free.
‘Billy’ 77
Or we would have gone up around Hazelwood [a local park] for walks,

things like that. In the summer my mother would have taken us to
Hazelbank. We were well looked after as children. We got taken out
all the time. It was a big close family. My father worked all week but
every Saturday morning we would have gone out with my mother
and we visited her side of the family. We would have been left in one
of our aunt’s houses and all the cousins would play together while
they went shopping. My father got up early on a Sunday morning
and made us all a big breakfast, a big fry-up.
I hated school when I first started. The first day I went to primary
school my mother was in hospital, with [giving birth to] one of the
other sons, it must have been Sam. She was in having him, and there
was only my father and me in the house. When it was time for school
my father took me before he went to work. I went to the Riddel
Memorial in Malvern Street. He took me up and dropped me at the
gates and said more or less, ‘Will you be alright?’, I said yes, I’d be fine
and he left. As soon as he left I started backing away. I wasn’t having
any of it. This teacher came out. The teacher was actually a Pakistani,
you know an Asian, and I’d never seen a coloured woman. That made
it even more traumatic for me. She grabbed me by the hand and tried
to pull me in and I kicked her in the shins, and tried to do a runner.
I ran up Malvern Street, and on to my grandda’s house. I told him
about it, and said, ‘You want to see the people that are trying to drag
me in. They’re not even white people’, and all this business. My
grandfather took me back down, and carried me into the class, and
set me down. He’d had a word with me and told me not to worry.
When I got into the class I must have settled down fairly quickly,
because I was alright after that. During the first couple of months I
was a bit rebellious but after that I settled down and I was alright
with it. I got to like the teacher, once I got to know her.
I was in the Riddel until P4 and after that I got moved up to
Highfield [Primary School]. We were moved out into the Highfield
[a larger housing estate on the outskirts of Belfast]. I thought that
we had actually moved to the country. We had a garden and all, our
own garden, and coming from the Shankill [inner Belfast] it was like
moving to the country to me. My mother had a very rough time
even getting me home to bed because I was up the back, up in the
fields and up to the mountain. There were dams up there where you
could find sticklebacks. To me these were like newts, or baby
crocodiles. I was into everything, I didn’t know anything about the
countryside coming from the Shankill. I got all the boys who were
already there to show me about the place. When I went to school I

found an orchard at the side of it. I’d never seen an apple tree before.
They couldn’t get me out of it. There was a wee farm beside it, and
your man had chickens and all. I used to bring bread and feed the
chickens. The only problem they had with me in Highfield [school]
was getting me in, because if I wasn’t up the apple trees I was feeding
the chickens. I thought this was tremendous. I made a lot of friends,
friends I’ve had all my life from primary school. I couldn’t wait to get
out of the class into the fields. I became very interested in nature
study, learning about insects and animals and how they ‘operated’.
I had a terrible thirst for knowledge about these things. Nature study,
I was right into it, and I’m still into it, in a big way. Some of the boys
would have kept me going, they’d call me ‘trout mouth’ because I’m
never done talking about fish and things. I remember one time we
were ‘doing’ [stealing apples from] an orchard when the ‘boy’ [owner]
of the house came out. We all did a runner but one of the boys
slipped and slid all the way down the tree. He dislocated his shoulder.
We had to take him to the doctors, and we told him [the doctor] that
he had slid down a bank. We were scared in case the Peelers [police]
would be after us. I went back and told my father the story and he
fell about laughing. He said, ‘That’s a “wheeker one” [good one] now
what were you really doing?’ He told me that no one would be
bothered to chase us because of that.
I was four when my younger brother was born, ‘Eric’. I felt a great
resentment about his being born to be honest with you. Looking
back now I don’t know why. I suppose before he came along I had
my parents all to myself. Then he came along and he seemed to be
taking over the love and affection that I had been getting. I had a
terrible dislike for him for a while. Actually it got to such an extent
that when I was about eight, just before we moved to Highfield, I
took him up to the waterworks. He was about four at the time. I took
him up and we were walking by the side of the waterworks dam and
I pushed him in. There were people around and I knew he’d be
rescued, but I wanted him to know what it was like to get pushed
out. Two bigger lads came along and pulled him out, and I just said
that he’d slipped. I said, ‘He won’t listen to me he runs away’, and
one thing and another. In the early years I had a lot of resentment
for him. But then the others [brothers and sisters] came along and it
wasn’t so bad. After all I couldn’t fight with all of them. Time went
by and I sort of discovered my niche. I realised that I could do things
that they couldn’t. I got interested in pigeons. My father built me a
‘Billy’ 79
pigeon loft and we used to go down to the pigeon market every

Friday night in Smithfield, at six o’clock. Anybody who had pigeons
to sell went down there rather than go to a pet shop, to cut the
‘middle man’ out. We used to go down and trade in pigeons, there
were all fancy pigeons, ‘fan tails’, ‘feather foots’, things like that. My
father never had pigeons when he was young so he got into it along
with me, so the two of us were into pigeons. Because he and I had
that interest together I lost the resentment which I had towards the
rest of them [younger brothers and sister].
When I went to secondary school it was Ballygomartin Secondary
School, and I loved it because there were new people to meet, people
from the Shankill and Woodvale and all over. I just loved it. In the
first year they put us all together in ‘Victor’ I think it was called, 1V,
1I, 1C, 1R. They put me in one of the ‘clever’ classes but all my mates
were in the ‘bottom’ class. I went to the form teacher and told him
that I wanted to be moved down to be with my mates. He said no,
so I ‘mitched’ [truanted] and got into trouble so then they moved
me down. One of the guys in my old class shouted over to me before
I moved, ‘Plasticiner’. I said, ‘What the fuck’s a “plasticiner”’? He
said, ‘That’s what they are where you’re going. They’re all so fucking
thick all they can do is sit around and play with plasticine all day.’
Then in the second year you got mixed about a bit, where the ‘go
getters’ were in the top class V1C then the middle one’s in the TO.
And then the people who were going to be binmen and that were in
the O and R classes. That was in second year, in third year that
became more prominent. 3G, 3H – boys who were heading for GCE
Geography, GCE History, and then you had 3V or something, they
were the ones going for CSE, then you had 3V1. They just went and
did what they wanted, they weren’t even trying to teach them. They
just didn’t care, or didn’t want to go to school, or they were as ‘thick
as champ’. In third form I was in 3H [History] heading for a GCE
and it was alright because I had a few of my mates with me.
When I got into fourth year, two of my mates had turned 15 and
had left school, and there was only me and another friend left. The
rest of the people in the class were all middle class. There was a
private estate which bordered the estate I belonged to. They were all
‘bought’ [privately owned] houses. The rest of the class was made up
of people from there. To me they were all snobs, ‘shirtlifters’
[homosexuals], I took nothing to do with them. When Easter came
my only friend in the class, John, left to go to work in the shipyard.
That left me in the class on my own, without any of the friends who
I’d knocked about with. I asked the teacher if I could get moved down
[to a lower class to be with his friends]. They moved me down to
another GCE class, but I wanted to move down further to where my
mates were [i.e. in the lowest performing class]. The teacher refused
saying, ‘You’re throwing your education away here.’ This was as I say
the ‘plasticine class’. The school had an outdoor pursuits centre.
Canoes and all of that. All these boys did was make sails for the
canoes, make canoes, repair canoes, go down to this centre and paint
it, and go out canoeing. I wasn’t going to sit doing maths while the
boys were out canoeing. I told the teacher I wanted to move down
with my mates. I told him that I wasn’t going to do PE with those
‘shirtlifters’. To me they [his classmates] were all snobs and
homosexual types. They weren’t my type of people at all, they were
all ‘mummy’s boys’. I mitched off school for two weeks and then I
went to the form teacher and said, ‘Look I’ve been mitching for the
past two weeks and if I don’t get moved down [to the bottom class]
I’m going to mitch for the rest of the year.’ So I got six of the best,
and moved down with 4Y. That was the class that nobody [teachers]
cared about.
About that particular time the UDA was being formed. I was
involved in the vigilantes in a loose way, running messages and that.
The area I came from was surrounded on all sides by republican areas.
There was a siege mentality in the area at that time. As far as people
were concerned the republicans were about to march in and burn us
out of our homes. A lot of men in the area ‘threw up’ [erected]
barricades. One of the barricades was directly facing my house. Being
the age I was this was like a big adventure. I was out scouting around
and listening to the gunfire. It was like a John Wayne movie was
happening just outside the estate.
At that particular time we [loyalists] had no guns. There were a
few guns about, old shotguns, legally held shotguns, but they were
specifically held at the barricades. To the best of my knowledge there
was no offensive fire from the area I came from. The shotguns were
no match for the rifles and automatic weapons the republicans had.
The shotguns had no range. I was only 14 or 15. What happened
was my father was with the vigilantes. My father would have been
one of the ‘leading lights’ [commanders] in the area. I would have
been out delivering messages, taking cups of tea to the barricades,
things like that, taking cigarettes. Then the UDA formed. That was
in my last year at school. Me and most of my mates joined the junior
‘Billy’ 81
UDA. Most of the people in my class would all have been members
of the Highfield Unit of the junior UDA.
That [UDA membership] was all over the school. I loved it. The
boys I knew were in sort of a gang. We would get together on a
Saturday and go into Belfast and hang around the town. We would
buy clothes and records and would go into Woolworths to buy our
dinner [lunch]. We would meet boys from other areas, Tartan gangs.
I was involved in a gang called the Ulster Boot Boys. We would meet
boys from other areas, the Shankill Tartan, the Young Newtown,
Woodstock Tartan, the Rathcoole. We would all go down to the
‘loyalist stand’ in Royal Avenue. Then there were Catholic gangs, the
Nerks from the New Lodge [a Catholic area]. We would have a fight
with the Nerks or the Divis Tartan [an ironically named Catholic
gang] which was another nationalist gang. It was just a big adventure
really, there wasn’t anything serious in it really. It was all sectarian,
on both sides, but we enjoyed it. That’s who we were, Protestants
and Catholics.
This particular Saturday we were going down into town when we
heard that there had been a bomb on the Shankill Road. On the way
down we stopped off at the Balmoral showroom, which was a
furniture shop off the Shankill Road, where the Shankill Leisure
Centre is now. We stopped there and saw people digging in the
rubble, looking for bodies. It was very confusing. There were men
crying, men and women standing crying. There were men shouting
and running about ranting and raving. Men digging, and men
shouting, ‘We’ll kill the bastards’, ‘Kill the bastards.’ I remember they
brought out the first body. It was the body of a child just a wee thing,
I found out later it had been 18 months old. It was wrapped in a
blanket. I remember when they brought it out I couldn’t help it the
tears just welled up in my eyes. They carried the next body out, it
was a three year old child. I felt this isn’t a game here any more, these
people [the IRA] are out to slaughter us. They’re going to kill us all,
we’re going to have to do something about this.
From that day on things just weren’t the same any more. The UDA
had only been formed a couple of weeks prior to this. I’d heard about
it because of my connections with the vigilantes, and the boys on the
estate. We are very tight knit were I come from, if anything goes
down everybody knows about it. This UDA thing was a good thing
in the area at the time. We discussed it among ourselves and we felt
that this [the formation of the UDA] was going to be good. The boys
just wanted to get trained [in combat] and one thing led to another.
Up until then it had been a bit of an adventure, just like cowboys

and indians, but from that day on [after the Shankill bomb, 1972] it
was no adventure. We knew that the UDA held their meetings on a
Sunday night, Sunday teatime, in the area. About 12 of us went and
offered our services. The UDA said yes, that they would form a junior
wing, and they would accept us into it. The entire membership of
the Ulster Boot Boys in the area went and joined the UDA. I think
there were 73 of us who all joined together. This would have been
about 1972. As far as we were concerned we were going to start
fighting back. Before that when the republicans had been shooting
into the area, it was like a big game to me, from then on it was no
longer a game, these people [the IRA] were out to kill us. They weren’t
going to be happy until they’d slaughtered every last one of us. So
we had to do something. From then on every shot fired into that
area, or every Protestant attacked, to me it became a personal thing.
It was as if it was an attack on me personally, and I had to do
something about it. That’s the way I felt. I put my name up for active
service in the UDA. Gradually I got more and more involved from
then on.
At the start it was like cowboys and indians but then it got serious.
In the early days [1972] the Highfield [Estate] was under fire from
[republican] rifles and automatic fire. I remember the film crews
would come around, and the foreign film crews in particular. They
had been so indoctrinated by the republican propaganda machine
that they refused to believe that we as Protestants were coming under
fire. They had assumed it was only the Catholics under attack. We
had to take them around and show them the bullet holes in the
houses. A number of Protestants had been shot and killed just going
about their business.
There was one camera crew in particular, I think it was French.
They didn’t believe that we were under fire [from republicans] and
all of that. So I got up on a ladder to point out a heavy-calibre bullet
hole. There was a ‘ping’ on the wall and they all hit the ground. The
republicans had tried to shoot me when I was up the ladder, even
though there was a camera crew there. They [the IRA] slipped up that
time. In those days the UDA held [controlled] the bottom half of the
Highfield and the [British] army the top. By this time we had got a
few rifles. This day there was a very heavy exchange of fire and we
felt we were going to lose it. These Paras [Paratroopers] came down
behind a wall in our section of the estate and began to return fire.
There was a big green field separating Highfield and the Catholic
‘Billy’ 83
estates, and we could see this IRA man working his way down with
a machine gun. That could have flattened [killed] us. The IRA man
clearly didn’t know that the Paras were there. He must have thought
it was just us with our .22 rifles and shotguns. When they shouted
‘Drop your weapon’ in an English accent he ran like fuck, but the
sergeant quietly said ‘Drop him’ and that was the end of that. The
next thing we knew a priest ran down to the IRA man who had been
shot, and seemed to be giving him the last rights or whatever they
[Catholics] call it. The next thing you know the priest grabbed the
gun and began to run back to the Catholic lines. The sergeant
shouted out, ‘Father drop the weapon, please drop the weapon’, but
he ran on. The sergeant turned to a soldier behind him and said
‘Drop him.’ The priest was shot. By this stage I was really getting to
like that sergeant. But what that really proved to us was that the
British could have mopped the whole thing up any bloody time they
wanted. The IRA were no match for the Paras. That one patrol could
have probably taken out all the gunmen in the Catholic estates. They
just moved in quietly, did the business, and moved out. That was
the end of the gun battle, the Paras had saved our bacon. As the
sergeant left he turned around and looked at me, I’ll never forget it,
I felt proud of him, this soldier I’d never met. I was only a young
fella, but he nodded over to me as if we were friends, and then
wheeled around and ran after his patrol. I never saw him again.
They’d no interest in taking our guns, they knew the score. They
knew that if they hadn’t come down, we would have been dead. That
machine gun would have cleaned [killed] us.
If it wasn’t obvious before that it was bloody obvious after it, we
needed guns. That’s how I found my forte. It wouldn’t have been in
our nature to kill people but at least we could rob banks. Unlike the
republicans we had no guns, and we had no friends to give us guns.
We had to buy guns, but we had no money. What do you do, you rob
banks. I became a bank robber for the UDA, so as they could buy
guns and as it turned out I was good at it. I robbed banks and post
offices all over Northern Ireland. There was this one week when I
robbed a bank and a post office. Nobody ever got hurt. You could
say that I commanded a certain respect as a bank robber. We worked
in a tight cell. We all decided where to ‘hit’ in the morning so no
one could know in advance. If any of us had a bad feeling about a
particular hit, it didn’t get done, we moved on somewhere else. We
were making thousands of pounds for the organisation, to buy guns.
We were getting the guns alright but certain people seemed to be
getting rich in the process. None of us approved of that. We risked

getting shot or jailed and they were getting rich! We got caught
eventually. It was a bank in ——. After we robbed the safe I was first
out the door, but on the way out I saw that the town was full of
police and army. They were over the cars and Land-Rovers with
handguns, rifles and sub-machine guns. It was like a scene out of
Bonnie and Clyde. I never actually got out through the door, I went
straight in behind it.
I signalled to the boys that we were surrounded. The next thing I
saw was gun barrels coming through the door. That was that, we
were arrested. I don’t know what sort of people live in —— but we
felt like Negroes in Alabama being taken out by the police. They were
all shouting, ‘Shoot the bastards, hang them, robbing our bank you
bastards, our money, hanging is too good for them, hand them over
to us.’ The whole town was out, it was a lynch mob. We were really
glad the police and army were there by that stage. If the good people
of —— had got us, they would have killed us.
We were remanded in the Crumlin Road prison [Belfast]. Although
we were in prison I wouldn’t have had it any other way. You were in
with other good loyalists and we’d been caught fighting our war. We
felt good about it, like we were serving our country, and now we were
in prison for serving our country. There was no segregation [between
Protestants and Catholics] in those days and you would have had
two loyalists in a cell, and then two republicans in the next cell.
There was a lot of fighting. So we felt as if we were still fighting the
war even though we were in prison. We’d go for them [republicans]
at every opportunity.
The other thing was, and it was quite funny, we were obsessed
with escaping. We would eventually loosen the bars in the cells, so
that we could pull the bars out and jump. The screws would catch on
and move us to a different cell. The thing was if we had removed the
bars and jumped out, it would have been a 30 ft drop into an exercise
yard. We didn’t know where the fuck we would have gone from there,
it was all high walls and wire. The only thing we did know was that
if we’d had the opportunity to do it we would have.
Eventually we were sentenced and transferred to the H Blocks.
Because we were classified as ‘young prisoners’ we were sent to H
Block ——. The Crumlin Road hadn’t been to bad. It was an adult
prison and you were treated like adults. The screws knew not to push
it, at least not with the paramilitary prisoners, although the criminal
prisoners could get knocked about.
‘Billy’ 85
H Block —— was different altogether. It was a borstal system they

ran there. I don’t know where they got the screws from for there, I’d
never seen screws like them. We’d been taken to reception for our
uniforms, trousers which were three sizes too big, shirts that you
could smell were dirty, jackets too big or too small, and shoes that
were too small and cramped your feet, or so big so that you clomped
around in them.
The screws in reception had made us use the showers, we were in
full view of them, and they had laughed at us. They had taken our
clothes, so we had to wear the uniform. When we complained and
asked for our clothes back they said, ‘Ask the officers in H Block ——
, they’re nice fellas, they’ll fix you up.’ We felt stupid in those
uniforms, and we looked stupid. We looked laughable, but this was
no joke. I felt desperate, like I was suddenly loosing my identity. I
turned round and looked at ‘Tom’, and saw just how much the
uniform changed him. He was just like some old fucking criminal
prisoner in that uniform. ‘Tom’ was usually the life and soul of the
party but here he was, sullen and scared. There was something about
the attitude of the officers, ‘You boys enjoy your stay with us now’,
‘You’re really in for it this time’, ‘You wee shits are going to learn your
lesson the hard way now.’ By the time we got into the van for H Block
—— we were shitting ourselves. We’d no idea of what to expect.
We were pulled out of the van and instructed to run into the H
Block. We went in through the first grille which faced the second
grille. The prison officer pushed us up to the grille and banged our
heads on the grille from behind. ‘You’ll know your driver in here
you wee shits.’ We were pushed into the ‘circle’. The principal officer
[PO] was there with two class officers. ‘Do you boys not know how
to enter a room? I can see you’ll have to be taught some respect
around here. Stand to attention, still, rigid. What’s your name?’ ‘Billy,’
welt [slap] on the face, ‘Billy ——, sir’, welt. Yes sir, principal officer,
sir. You get hit in the back and winded by the class officer standing
behind you. ‘Did I not tell you to stand to attention!’ Welt, and so
on. I saw one young fella, just a wee lad going through that once, and
he wet himself. The principal officer shouted, ‘Oh look, —— has
pissed himself.’ He went to each of the four wings and shouted down,
‘Watch out for ——, he wets himself and he’ll piss all over you.’ He
came back to the young fella and welt across the face. ‘You dirty,
dirty, wee fucker. After you lick that mess up from my fucking floor,
you can go to the punishment block for three days. You can piss all
over the floor and lick it up all you like over there.’ I was heart sorry
for him, he was shaking like a leaf and crying. I was scared in case
he would shit himself.
Anyway, after our ‘reception’ we were taken to the wing where our
cells were. There were officers lined up all the way down the wing
outside the cells with batons at the ready. They were all shouting
and jeering. I looked at my mate, and he looked scared. I was scared,
how hard were you going to be hit? Would you ‘go down’, and if
you went down would they keep beating at you?
We were UDA prisoners, but nobody had told us what to expect.
Half the problem here was it had taken us by surprise. If we’d known
what to expect it wouldn’t have been so bad. The officers behind us
pushed us into the wing and they began to beat us. They hit us with
the batons, and with the baton straps which were like whips, they
kicked us, punched us and tramped on us. It was really sore, really
painful, we were beaten black and blue and we hadn’t done a fucking
thing to deserve it. We were moaning and limping about the cell,
standing in whatever way caused least pain, and I said to ‘Tom’,
‘What the fuck would these bastards do to you if you actually did
something wrong?’ They just couldn’t have treated us any worse,
like I say it was a borstal system. We were in prison during the time
of criminalisation policy. The IRA were ‘on the blanket’ protesting for
political status. [The IRA prisoners refused to accept a prison uniform
and instead draped themselves with blankets from their bedding.]
We heard that they were getting it rough, getting their shit kicked in.
The next thing we heard was that loyalists were on the blanket,
including UDA men. I talked to the other UDA YPs [young prisoners]
and said, ‘Listen, why don’t we go on the blanket for “status” as well.
We’re getting our shit kicked in anyway, why the fuck don’t we go
on protest.’ Some of the boys didn’t want to be seen to be doing what
the IRA were doing [i.e. protesting]. Some of us, the hardliners,
decided to go on the blanket.
The next thing I knew I was called in by the principal officer. He
accused me of conspiring in a mutiny. I was sent to the ‘boards’
[punishment block] and I was beaten twice a day. I spent three days
and nights on the boards and then they took me back to the [H]
Block. The PO interviewed me again. ‘Do you know why you were
sent to the punishment block?’ ‘Yes sir.’ ‘In the circumstances do you
think that was a fair punishment? ‘Oh yes sir.’ ‘Were you mistreated
in any way during your stay in the punishment block?’ ‘No sir.’ ‘Were
you well treated during your detention in the punishment block?’
‘Yes sir very well treated.’ I knew fucking rightly that if I complained,
‘Billy’ 87
I’d end up back in the punishment block for another three days. But
the next bit threw me. He said, ‘Are you willing to sign a statement
to that effect?’ I said yes, but I didn’t know what their game was.
As it turned out my Da [father] had got wind of what was going
on, and he’d arranged for a special visit to see me the next day, Friday.
My Da was big in the UDA, and the screws in the compounds
[political prison section of the prison] were very wary of the UDA
and they had put pressure on for my Da to be allowed to visit. I went
out for my visit with the PO. When my Da saw me he nearly went
mad. I was still black and blue with cuts and half closed eyes. He
asked me what had happened, and I told him the truth, that the
screws had beat me over and over.
The PO said, ‘But Mr —— that’s not the way of it at all. Look I
even have this signed letter from “Billy” assuring me that no prison
officers were responsible, he’s just had some hassle with some Fenian
[Catholic] prisoners, now isn’t that the way of it “Billy”?’ My Da says,
‘Don’t give me that shite, he’s been systematically worked over, and
more than once. Look at his face, he can hardly walk.’ My Da said
that ‘any understandings between the UDA and the prison service
were over’. He warned the PO that I wasn’t to be touched ever again.
They must have left me in peace for all of two weeks.
Shortly after that screws’ cars were being vandalised and burnt out
in loyalist areas. Then a screw was shot. The PO called me into his
office. There was only him so I knew something was up. He said, ‘I
know all about you. You’re the leader of the fucking UDA in here.’ I
said I knew nothing about the UDA. Then he produced a bullet from
his drawer and put it pointing upwards on the table. ‘You see the
next time a prison officer gets shot, you wee fucker, I’m going to put
that in your fucking head.’ Then he hit me so hard I fell. I had
absolutely no doubt that he meant it. I went back to my cell and said
to ‘Tom’, ‘Send the word out, shoot more fucking screws. Tell them
that we’re getting fucking tortured in here.’ The word came back a
few days later that it wasn’t organisation policy [to shoot prison
officers]. We were getting tortured and they [the UDA] didn’t give a
fuck. That’s when we decided to go on the blanket. There were about
ten of us. The PO came down to the cell, and you could see the anger
come over him like a wave. His neck got red and then his face, nearly
purple. You could see the veins in his neck. ‘Put that fucking uniform
on, immediately.’ I just said, ‘My name is “Billy” ——, UDA, political
prisoner on protest for political status.’ That was it we all got a digging
[beaten up] and got sent to the boards. The screws would come in and
beat us up twice a day. They would start in the first cell and work
their way up. They used the batons and the baton straps. They would
hit you all over, but especially on the back, where it was most painful,
and where it didn’t show. The hardest bit was listening to the
screaming of your mates. Some of the boys cried for mercy but they
never got it. These screws had been hand picked, they didn’t know
what mercy was. Some of the ordinary screws who were assigned to
the punishment blocks didn’t like it. They would say, ‘Don’t worry
boys a few more days and you’ll be back in the Block.’ They didn’t
understand that it was nearly as bad in the Block. One old screw even
brought us ham from the kitchen. We were on punishment rations,
so we were starving. Ham never tasted so good. The funny thing was
those two prison officers were Catholics. They could have lost their
jobs for what they did, for giving us decent food when we were meant
to be on a number one diet. They were the first Catholics I’d ever
met. I was very confused by that. These were Catholics but they were
the good guys. It was our own kind, loyalist prison officers, who were
being bastards to us, I learned from that that there were good and bad
on both sides.
Then before you knew it we were getting ‘beat’ again. We could
only take it for so long and then we’d go off the blanket to recover,
but then we’d go back on it again. Things got so bad I used to dream
about shooting screws, we all did. You know the BBC building in
Belfast, with the satellite dish. I used to have daydreams about getting
up there with an AK47 and shooting screws as they marched by on
the 12th [12 July Orange Parade]. Half of the fucking screws were in
the ‘Orange’. I used to dream about ‘opening up’ and scattering them,
and then picking them off, one by one. I’d blow this one’s head off,
and shoot that one in the back of the spine. Shoot this one’s legs off,
and shoot this one’s son. Talking to you now like this seems crazy,
but it wasn’t crazy to me then. That’s what kept me going. I would
send the word out again, stop them torturing us, shoot more screws.
Our boys [UDA] weren’t shooting screws, but the Provos were. Every
time I heard about one getting shot I wanted to shout, ‘Yes, yes.’
The UDA leadership had let us down, and let us down badly. We
knew that there was corruption in the organisation, criminal
elements. Some people had been creaming off funds and getting rich.
It wasn’t on. They didn’t support us as political prisoners, because
they didn’t understand what political prisoners were. We weren’t
having it any more. When we [the political prisoners] got out we
started to take over. We put our people in positions of power and
John White 89
influence and then eventually we took over and cleaned up our act.
Certain people were ‘removed’. We didn’t shoot them or anything,
they knew who we were, and they knew that we were taking over.
They knew better than to go up against us. We weren’t in the business
of racketeering or intimidating Protestant businessmen. Our business
was taking on the IRA. The UFF increasingly became the cutting edge
of the UDA and we were going for the ‘right ones’. Provo activists
were getting shot and shot dead and they didn’t like it. People like
Johnny Adair were frightening the fuck out of them. He had a simple
message for them [the Provos], ‘You’re going to get killed.’ They tried
to assassinate him seven times. One time two of them [Provos]
opened up on his car with AK47s, Adair had managed to crawl up
under the steering wheel. He walked away with a cut on his back.
That scared them. They sent their top men, two of them were six
feet away from Adair with the AKs and still he walked away.
All the while Provos were being killed.
You know that old picture house in town, the one beside the Grand
Opera House? They used to have bingo there. My wife and her friends
would go down, and there would be these Catholics there, from the
New Lodge or somewhere. Anyway, this day one of the Catholic
mothers couldn’t control her wee lad. He was running up and down
the aisle, up to the front, throwing paper cups. The mother shouted
at him, ‘Stop it, come here and I’ll give you a sweet, stop it now or
I’ll give you a welt.’ The wee lad didn’t take a blind bit of notice. Then
she said, ‘Come here quick there’s Johnny Adair in a black taxi.’ The
wee lad quick as you like ran and crouched at the mother’s feet. When
I heard that I knew we were on top, we’d put the fear into them
[Catholics]. It was only a matter of time until they [the IRA] would
call it off. The UFF’s campaign was the single biggest factor in the
Provos calling their ceasefire. It would be true to say some of our lads
were disappointed. We’d gone so far but some of them wanted to go
the whole way, to finish it for good. As it is, we’ll just wait and see.
JOHN WHITE
John White (now in his 50s) is approximately 5’10”, well built and
balding. He presents as a sombre person, one who has been bowed down
by years of pressure. As a self-educated man John was the spokesperson
for the UDA for many years, mediating between the paramilitary and
political wings of the organisation. White bore the scars of having served
a life sentence in prison for murder, becoming very guarded in relation-

ships and suspicious of those outside his immediate acquaintance.
I had a reputation as a bit of a hard man when I was younger, so I

was expected to join the paramilitaries. In reality I was always very
quiet but I could handle myself if it came to it. I would never
normally have looked for trouble. I joined the UDA because I lived
in a UDA district. Nearly all the young men of my age were in the
UDA, but as far as I was concerned nobody was doing anything. The
IRA was murdering Protestants, Catholics, members of the security
forces, children. Bars and town centres were being bombed. You saw
it on television, people’s dismembered bodies just lying on the street
like so much charred meat. The loyalist paramilitaries were letting it
happen as far as we could see, they just weren’t hitting them
[IRA/Catholics] back. As I saw it then the IRA and Catholics were one
in the same, because if the Catholic community hadn’t sheltered and
supported the IRA, the IRA couldn’t have operated as they did. That
is what we all thought in those days. That’s what we were told and
that’s what we believed. Because I was regarded as a hard man I went
up in rank in the UDA very quickly. Everybody was asking, ‘When
are we going to hit back, when are we going to even the score?’ By
that stage I was a company commander in the UFF. The men in my
unit were good, they were politically motivated, dedicated loyalists.
In 1972/73 the British wanted out [of Northern Ireland]. The IRA
were committing sickening atrocities to prove that the law had
broken down under British rule, and that the continuing British
administration was untenable.
We were at a state of war. There was no mistaking that, the Shankill
Road where I lived was a war zone by any criteria. That was the funny
thing about the Northern Ireland conflict, it was localised. The
Malone Road just a couple of miles away could have been south
London. But there was no mistaking that the Shankill was at war,
and that we had our war dead. The men in my [UFF] unit were
enraged by everything that was happening. I was angry, I was angry
almost beyond control. The IRA were killing our people and ruining
the entire country, and nobody was doing anything. The men were
pressing me to get things done. I went to the leadership to get some
action, but they spent most of their time in meetings, talking about
doing something. The men increasingly looked to me, ‘What are we
going to do?’ Everything was going in one direction. Everybody
expected me to give the lead, I was the commander. I wanted to give
John White 91
the IRA some of their own medicine, I wanted to sicken them for a
change. Then in June 1973 six Protestant old age pensioners were
murdered in Railway Street, Portadown. Republicans had been
responsible. I still remember their names and ages. Dinah Campbell
was 62, Elizabeth Craigmile 76, Elizabeth Palmer 60, Robert Scott 72,
Francis Campbell 70 and Nan Davis 60. I remember reading their
names over and over again in the Belfast Telegraph. Those old people
were killed by republicans because they were Protestant. I can
remember shaking with rage and shouting at the paper. It was almost
as if I had some sort of emotional connection with those people, and
I memorised their names and ages in the knowledge that I was going
to do something about it. I just couldn’t walk away from that, I felt
a deep obligation to act. If my sense of attachment to my people had
been more ambivalent, or if I’d been indifferent, I wouldn’t have
joined the paramilitaries in the first place. I became involved because
of the victims. I wanted to let the IRA know that if they gave us
victims, then we in turn would give them victims. As I saw it, if they
suffered as we suffered, they’d stop, because normal human beings
can’t tolerate that. I thought that they’ll want to bring an end to it
when it’s their own people getting killed. Those murders touched
something inside me. Who were they going to go for next, the old
people of the Shankill, my parents? It wasn’t just the war any more,
it was my war. I knew that I’d have to hit back, it was personal now.
The men in my unit all felt the same way, we had had enough.
Somebody was going to pay a terrible price for the IRA’s actions. I
knew that my life had changed and that I was going to kill someone
because of what the IRA had done to innocent people in my
community. There was no disincentive for the IRA, they were
bombing their way into a united Ireland. The British had to
understand that if they pulled out of Northern Ireland, they would
be leaving a war behind them. It was up to the loyalist paramilitaries
to demonstrate that. We wanted to kill IRA men and republicans,
but of course none of us knew who they were. As for sectarian
murder, the IRA had given us the lead in that, so if innocent
Protestants were murdered, innocent Catholics were fair game. Those
were the rules and that was the nature of the war in Northern Ireland.
The IRA had written the rules, and they viewed everyone as a
potential target. Car bombs don’t discriminate, they killed innocent
Catholics and Protestants. The IRA was so fanatic they had no
hesitation in killing their own [Catholics]. That’s what we were up
against. Determined, ruthless terrorism without compassion and
humanity. To fight that effectively you have to become as ruthless as

the enemy, you have to put the fear into them. You have to
demonstrate your capacity for violence is equal to or even greater
than theirs. The loyalists felt betrayed and abandoned by the British
security forces who were almost completely ineffective in fighting
the IRA. We knew from our own sources that the army had been told
not to take on the IRA. They had been given the role of containment,
‘pending political resolution’. We took that to mean containment
pending a British withdrawal. It was obvious that the IRA were
winning the war against the British, and we calculated that the next
stage of the war would be between Protestants and Catholics in
Northern Ireland. From where we were sitting that war had already
started. Then on 21 June 1973 a mentally subnormal Protestant boy,
David Walker [16], was abducted from his place of employment in
Belfast and murdered by the IRA. I was totally sickened by that, they’d
started to murder subnormal children because they were Protestant.
Men in my unit telephoned me totally incensed. What were we going
to do about it? When I walked down the road people looked at me
expecting me to do something because of who I was and the position
I held. I felt as if I was letting my own people down, because I hadn’t
taken action. We hadn’t hit back. We were the hard men of the UDA,
the IRA were killing Protestants all around us, and everybody
expected us to act. When you are surrounded by those sets of expec-
tations, when people are willing you on like that it becomes like an
irresistible force, and you almost feel compelled to act. You want to
do it, and everyone in your social world expects you to, so you do it.
All of that pressure was mounting so I decided to do something big.
The IRA had terrorised the Protestant community and I was
determined to terrorise the Catholic community. That was the
mission that I set myself, and that became the most important thing
in my life. The adrenaline rush took over. The only thing that
mattered, the only thing I could think about was the mission. I was
on course to kill, it was only a question of who. Obviously I would
have liked to kill an IRA man, but if it couldn’t be that it was going
to be a Catholic, and the more prominent he was the better. I wanted
people to notice this one. As I saw it then I was a loyalist paramili-
tary with an obligation to attack and kill a Catholic. Catholics had
countenanced the IRA’s murder of my people, and now I was going
to make one or more of them pay the price. And I intended to keep
on doing that until I was caught or killed. We had people out looking
for a suitable target. Eventually I got word. Paddy Wilson, a Catholic
John White 93
SDLP politician, had been located in Belfast. The minute I received

that telephone call Paddy Wilson was dead. It was my intention to
go for a ‘spectacular’, I wanted to strike fear into the Catholic
community and the IRA. With all the killing and murder of
Protestants I had lost it, I was angry beyond my control. We had all
been sickened by IRA atrocities and murders, now I took it upon
myself to sicken the Catholic community. And that was down to me
and people like me because there was nobody else. The police and the
army had proved themselves useless. As far as we were concerned
they weren’t defending Ulster any more, they were only getting in
our way. Every loyalist they arrested and put in prison was worth ten
of them, because we were the ones willing to do the fighting.
Even in those days police infiltration and informers were rampant.
If a UDA man left his house with a weapon he was almost bound to
get caught. Everybody knew everybody’s business and that meant
that the police knew. A lot of people took the view that the loyalists
and the police were on the same side, but the fact is that they were
giving us [the UDA] real problems. So I decided not to take a gun for
the mission, because the police were arresting our men carrying guns
all over the place. The police had good intelligence on the loyalist
community and it seemed that every time a gun was moved one of
us would be arrested and charged with possession. That’s three years
in prison, if you were lucky. So, I took a carving knife instead. We
located Senator Wilson and his lady friend and I killed them. I stabbed
Wilson 32 times and his lady friend 19 times. I was detached from all
of that, like I was on automatic pilot. I had programmed myself to kill,
and to commit an atrocity and that’s what I did. I’d felt at the time
that that would help to stop it, if Catholics and the IRA knew the
terrible price which would have to be paid for their violence.
In a statement issued after the murders ‘Captain Black’ of the UFF
claimed that it had been responsible stating: ‘Tonight we got Senator
Paddy Wilson and a lady friend. Their bodies are lying on the
Hightown Road [Belfast], after the IRA murdered a retarded boy. We
are not going to stand by after what they [the IRA] have done to us
over the past four years. There will be more deaths in reprisal.’
We meant every word of that, if the IRA were going to kill
Protestants, then we were going to kill Catholics. Everyone in my
community understood that and I was regarded as something of a
folk hero, particularly by the paramilitary people.
We all accepted that we were at war, and in a war situation a
soldier’s job is to kill the enemy or his host community, just as they
were killing ours. I would have been a driving force in paramilitary

loyalism, and if anything I couldn’t understand why people were so
complacent. I’d no remorse for what I did. I was a soldier and I
accepted the consequences. But I did regret killing that Protestant
woman. Because of who she was with I assumed she was a Catholic.
By the mid-1970s I was becoming disillusioned because so few of us
[paramilitary loyalists] were really active. I must have been one of
the most frequently arrested loyalists in Northern Ireland, once, twice,
sometimes three times a week. I was beaten up and badly beaten up
very often, but I never complained and I never made a statement.
Everything was going downhill in those days, we weren’t winning,
we were loosing. The Shankill was like a war zone and a lot of people
had been killed. Nearly all the young men were involved [in the
loyalist paramilitaries] but there was no leadership and no strategy.
Protestants were being bombed and murdered and nobody was
doing anything about it. But as far as I was concerned they were my
people who were being killed, and for me that was personal. That’s
why I memorised all the names of those old age pensioners, because
they all meant something to me. They weren’t just statistics that you
could forget about. I remember that John McLaughlin [of the Peace
People] said at my trial that I had been misled by community leaders,
but he was wrong. I did what I did because my people were being
murdered. They [the IRA] had their soldiers and we [the loyalists]
had ours, and when the killing starts the whole thing just escalates.
If Catholics start killing Protestants, Protestants will kill Catholics.
When the killing starts it takes on a momentum of its own, and there
are always those ‘ready to do the business’ on behalf of their
community. Our biggest problem was the police and the army, they
had virtually closed us down.
The IRA were better organised and equipped. The year I went to
prison [1978] the IRA killed 62 people, the UDA had retaliated by
killing two. We had completely lost the plot. A lot of that was down
to the police and special branch. They had amassed a frightening
amount of intelligence on us, closing down nearly all of our
operations. Men, and good men, were getting arrested left, right and
centre for possession of arms, or as they were going on a mission.
You couldn’t move a gun on the Shankill without getting caught.
It was apparent to us that the police and the army were concen-
trating on the loyalists, while the IRA could do whatever they wanted.
Half the young men in the Shankill were in Long Kesh. Every day
bus loads of young women were being driven down the Shankill to
John White 95
see their men in the Kesh. Eventually you became affected by the
sadness of it all. The Shankill Road was wrecked and run down,
everybody lived in fear, and everywhere you looked you saw people’s
lives ruined. That’s what the IRA did for my community.
When I was arrested for the murder of Paddy Wilson the police
had changed tactics. This time they were using psychology. I was
interviewed consistently from early morning well into the night for
three solid days. If anything the beatings were better because you
were mentally alert and you could use your hatred for the police to
defy them. But when the police were being friendly toward you they
had you in a double bind. That was confusing, they were the enemy,
but they were giving you cups of tea and enquiring about your family.
After three days and nights of that I was so disorientated I’d probably
have confessed to anything.
I served my sentence in the UDA compounds in Long Kesh. That
was just like going home. I knew most of the people there, some of
them I hadn’t seen for years. They were mostly ordinary, decent,
good men, who would go out of their way to do you a good turn.
Most of those men would never have seen the inside of a prison, if
the IRA hadn’t started the war. Thousands of lives ruined and for
what? I spent my time in the compounds getting an education, and
graduated with a BA with Honours and an Advanced Diploma in
Criminology. Getting an education gave me a different perspective
on life, and I became very interested in psychology, and in under-
standing why people do what they do. I started to read about history
and politics and came to realise that there would have to be a political
resolution of the conflict. The war had got us nowhere, that was
basically an exercise in about how much one community could
damage the other. I made a statement when I was released from Long
Kesh in which I said ‘Most of those who have passed through Ulster’s
jails would have not found themselves inside but for the political
environment.’ That is a fact. The motivation which led to my actions
did not dissipate in prison. It has been a matter of redirecting that
motivation, through democratic politics. I went on to become
chairman of the Ulster Democratic Party and worked very closely
with the leadership, Gary McMichael and Davy Adams. We were
heavily involved in the talks process following the Belfast Agreement,
as a pro-agreement party. We canvassed for seats in the Northern
Ireland Assembly but to our great surprise we didn’t gain a single
seat. We were basically a pro-agreement party with an increasingly
disillusioned unionist, anti-agreement electorate.
That meant that the UDP, and by inference the UDA, were without
a political voice, or political influence. That placed the UDP in a very
strained position with the UDA, as we could no longer represent
them politically. Given the importance of the role of the UDA/UFF
in a political resolution of the conflict we expected to be given an
‘executive’ involvement in the Assembly, that would at least have
kept the UDA on board in what was meant to be an all inclusive
process. The UDP as a political party was disbanded last year, as it
had lost all credibility. Former members of the UDP have now
regrouped under the name of the Ulster Political Research Group,
which has a larger military [UDA/UFF] representation. Without
political representation the danger is that the UDA/UFF will drift
back to exclusively military control and that could see an increase in
military activity. The UDA–UVF loyalist feud in 2001 was in part a
symptom of precisely that. As things stand the UDA is a loose
cannon, and that’s dangerous. But that’s being allowed to continue.
5 Phase Two:
The 1980s UDA/UFF – from
Infiltration to Reorganisation
‘TERRY’
‘Terry’ (now in his 40s) is smallish in stature, about 5’7” tall with a
receding hairline. A sullen and defensive façade gave way to a ready sense
of humour as we became better acquainted. An unexceptional person, Terry
is immensely proud of his loyalist working-class heritage. He claims that
there are thousands of young loyalists just like him, who given the chance
would do exactly as he did.
As a child I had two older brothers and I can remember playing with
them. Later on when I went to school it wasn’t so bad because they
were already there and they looked out for me. My mother was
always a very kind person, and she still is. She couldn’t see a dog go
hungry. But I suppose I had a special relationship with my father. He
worked but when he wasn’t at work he spent all the time he could
with us. Mum used to complain about ‘all the boys together’. I think
she felt a bit out of it at times because she was the only female in an
all-male household. Dad used to play football with us in the street,
or we’d go up to Woodvale Park and play up there. I was just a wee
lad without a worry or a care in the world, but all of that changed.
I was about seven or eight when it happened. The police raided
our house looking for a gun. I’d never seen anything like it before.
Armed policemen wrecked the house looking for a gun. My mother
was hysterical and she was hitting out at police officers who
eventually restrained her, but she still struggled and screamed her
head off. Neighbours came into the house and tried to stop the police
from searching. More police arrived and arrested them for riotous
behaviour. It was all just chaos, men tried to stop the searching. I
can remember this big police officer saying to one of the men, ‘Just
mind your own fucking business’, then he hit him in the stomach,
and the man bent over in two. Another police officer kicked him to
the floor and then dragged him out by the feet. Suddenly a police
officer shouted, ‘I’ve got it’, and he held this revolver up. It had been
97
98 Phase Two: The 1980s
wrapped in an old kitchen towel, and I knew that was one of our
towels. The room just went quiet. After all the commotion, just this
eerie silence, with the flashing blue lights of the police Land-Rovers
shining through the front window. I was scared before but now I was
really frightened, I knew that this was something serious, although
I didn’t understand why. My father was arrested, they charged him
with possession of firearms. While he was being handcuffed I could
see the tears in his eyes and I knew that he didn’t want to look at
me. Mum was very angry and shouted at him over and over again,
‘How could you do this to us, how could you do it?’ My Da just kept
his head down as he was taken out of the house. The men were
saying, ‘All the best Joey’, ‘Good luck Joey’, ‘We’ll be up to see you.’
All of that was very traumatic. My world fell apart that night. Nothing
was going to be the same again.
Suddenly Da was gone, just like that. I would have been about
eight years of age. I can remember crying myself to sleep when
nobody could hear me. I was nervous all the time, there was a
mixture of anger and nervousness that I’d never known before. I
became angry every time I saw a policeman, but at the same time I
was scared of them. I didn’t want them coming for me. Those were
all big emotions for a wee lad.
Our mum took it bad. She spent a lot of time by herself. We [‘Terry’
and his brothers] were angry at her because of the way she had
screamed at him [their father]. We were angry because he had been
taken away, but she was there so she ‘got it’. I suppose we started
playing up and she just let us away with it. I lost interest in school
and began to ‘mitch’ [truant]. We didn’t know it at the time but Mum
had been pregnant and we got a baby sister. After some time a friend
of my Da’s took us up to prison, one son at a time, once a month.
That was exciting and I looked forward to it, getting away from the
estate and into the countryside. I looked forward to seeing my Da
again, but the visits made it worse in a way, because I hated walking
away from him and leaving him in that place [Long Kesh]. By that
stage there was another man on the scene, and we moved house
from the Woodvale to the Ballysillan. I had to change primary school,
and I hated the new school. My two eldest brothers were moved in
with our grandparents, they each took one brother. That was another
trauma for me because I had been close to my brothers.
I started rebelling in school, taking time off, and I took no interest
in learning. I started getting into trouble all the time and getting
punished. They called me ‘disruptive’. If you didn’t show an interest
‘Terry’ 99
in school then teachers just let you get on with it, so I spent most of
my time in primary school staring out the window, thinking about
all the things that had happened.
I hated my stepfather at that time. I resented the fact that he was
trying to take my Da’s place. If he went to give me a clip on the ear
for something I did I would shout, ‘Who do you think you are, you’re
not my Da’, and things like that. As soon as I found out what
annoyed him, that’s what I would do. Looking back at it now I know
he wasn’t a bad man, and he was doing his best. There weren’t many
men who would have taken on the responsibility for kids like he did.
When I was eleven or twelve I started to learn about politics, and
I always thought back to Da. A labour government had got into
power and there was a lot of talk about a united Ireland. ‘Protestants
were going to loose their identity, the Protestant culture would be
wiped out, Protestants would have to leave their houses and their
country for Scotland and the mainland.’ I was just a kid and that
was scary stuff. All my family were loyalist, my school was loyalist,
my estate was loyalist, the road I lived on was loyalist. Where I had
lived, in the Woodvale, we had come under fire from IRA gunmen
in the Ardoyne nearly every night. There was a great hatred of
Catholics because of what the IRA was doing. It was all ‘Brits out’
with them, but we were British, and we weren’t going anywhere.
Now that I understood the situation I realised what my Da ‘was
about’, and I felt proud to be his son.
All I knew about republicans and the IRA was that they were killing
my people [Protestants], coming into my area and shooting them, or
blowing them up in car bombs in Belfast. Around that time a friend
of my father’s, Bucky McCullough, was shot dead by the INLA. I’d
known Bucky because of my Da, and I’d really liked him. I felt very
sad about that and I thought of his wife left alone to bring up the
children. Around that time [circa 1981] I made up my mind to join
the loyalist paramilitaries, at the earliest opportunity. I had my mind
made up I was going to get one of those bastards [IRA men].
I went to the Boys’ Model Secondary School [Belfast] and I loved
it. I was good at sports, and they really encouraged sport there. They
had teams for everything. I was in the football team, and I was a
runner, high jumper and sprinter. I wasn’t that big but I was light
and fast. The teachers took an interest in you there and there was
no favouritism, everyone was encouraged to learn. I ended up with
a City and Guilds in three subjects when I left school at 16. I went
straight into a YTP [government-sponsored Youth Training
Programme] in motor maintenance. I don’t know why I picked that

because I had no real interest in cars then.
I can remember during my time at the YTP they organised us into
a football team. A match was arranged between us and a YTP team
from the [Catholic] Falls Road. Fighting broke out, it was just a free-
for-all really. One of the fellas in the Falls Road team shouted at one
of our lads, ‘Come on you Orange bastard.’ The guy in our team
shouted back, ‘I’m not an Orange bastard, I’m a Fenian [Catholic]
bastard.’ That stopped him in his tracks and then our guy smacked
him in the face. I was on my knees laughing. They had assumed that
we were all Prods. They couldn’t understand how we could have
Catholics in our team.
After that it was just casual employment. I got involved in a lot of
sectarian rioting and ended up in Hydebank [Young Offenders
Centre]. The first week I was in E1, the reception wing. That was a
short, sharp shock. There were brown and white tiles on the floor,
and you weren’t allowed to put your foot on a brown tile. If you did
that you were sent to the cells for punishment. But after that it was
easy for me, because they had a gym and plenty of sport. The loyalists
in Hydebank really bonded together and we didn’t take any nonsense
from the republican prisoners.
I’d started going out with girls and drinking from about the age of
twelve. I rebelled a lot I suppose and I really hated the police. I was
sent back to Hydebank for assaulting police after they tried to arrest
me during a riot.
Eventually I got employment in a community resource centre and
I really loved that. I enjoyed contact with the people, especially the
old people, and I got on well with everyone. I had really good
workmates there, Protestant and Catholic. I’d nothing against
ordinary Catholics, we worked well together and we played football
together. I wasn’t one of those loyalists who thought if the IRA killed
one of ours [a British/Protestant person], right, let’s get one of theirs
[a Catholic]. I wasn’t sectarian in that sense. My quarrel was with
republicans and the IRA. They were the ones who posed a threat to
my people, not ordinary Catholics.
I started living with my wife from about the age of 18. She had
our first child around that time. She’d always wanted a child. Money
was really tight in those days and she had it rough enough. ‘Sandra’
would have been a loyalist, but she wouldn’t have supported the
paramilitaries. She caught on to the fact that I was ‘involved’ because
there were always men calling to the door, for this or that. It became
‘Terry’ 101
a source of tension between us. But I was proud to be in the UDA, I

have always been proud of that. Yes, I knew there were problems
[corruption] but most of the men were good men who were in the
organisation for all the right reasons.
During the 1980s the UDA’s military capacity was virtually
redundant but at my age then I couldn’t understand it. We were the
largest paramilitary organisation in Northern Ireland but we didn’t
have a military capability? It was obvious to us that some of the
leaders were doing very nicely out of it. The big cars, continental
holidays, the lifestyle, but nobody talked about that because these
were powerful men. People who spoke out were ‘seen to’ [disciplined,
knee-capped, etc.]. So nobody said anything about that side of it.
We’d grown up with that. All of that was just normal to us, that’s
just the way things were.
I was in the —— Belfast UDA. I asked my CO why we couldn’t be
more active, do more ‘hits’. He told me that the brigadier had said,
‘If we have one good hit a year, I’m quite satisfied with that.’ We
were fighting a war, and all he wanted was one good hit a year!
To me that guy should have been removed, because all he did was
get in the way of the younger men who wanted to take the war to
the IRA. That sort of leadership is dangerous, not only in its own
right, but because it sets the tone for the battalion. If you have a
burnt out and apathetic leadership, that infects the volunteers. The
men will always take their lead from the guys in charge. They are
the role models if you like. I’ve been in meetings where missions
were being discussed, and 25 year olds, who should have been at the
peak of their [military] efficiency, were saying, ‘Oh give that to the
younger ones, it’s a young man’s game.’ [There was actually an ‘age
convention’ within the ranks of the UDA [and paramilitaries more
generally] in that the younger men undertook the riskier missions.
The reason for this was, quite simply, that if you were given a life
sentence, effectively 20 years at the age of 20, you could get out of
prison at the age of 40, with a reasonable portion of your life left to
live [hopefully], whereas a man of 50 might well spend the rest of his
entire life in prison, possibly dying behind bars. However, ‘Terry’ is
quite right, 25 year olds fall well outside the application of the age
convention.]
They were 25 year old ‘armchair generals’ who’d never seen action,
and all they wanted to do was to direct younger men into offensive
operations that they themselves had no experience of. And that was
on the very odd occasion when operations [against the IRA] were
discussed at all. There was one [UFF] company in the Shankill [Road
in Belfast] doing ten times as much as our entire battalion. That
would have been around 1990. There was something badly wrong
with all of that. But somehow those things never got discussed. I had
wanted to be part of a counter-terrorist organisation that would take
on republicans and the IRA, but the UDA had become more like a
social club. I couldn’t make any sense of it.
In spite of all of that I still had a total loyalty to the UDA, and to
the other young volunteers like myself, in particular. As it turned out
my two brothers went on to join the UVF. The man who asked me
to join the UDA in the first instance was a well respected man in our
area. I was very flattered and proud that he went out of his way to
ask me to join. I was keen to volunteer for anything that was going.
At first I drove from A to B transporting things, guns, ammunition.
I took people I didn’t know to safe houses, and then I collected people
from safe houses or other locations and brought them back to [UDA]
headquarters, or just back into the area. Sometimes the men in
question were ‘hot’, either on the run or having completed a mission.
There was a lot of trouble during the 1980s when the loyalist
prisoners were protesting for segregation. The prisoners were being
beaten and abused by prison officers because of their protest. The
screws were giving our men [UDA prisoners] a hard time, so we gave
them a hard time. Prison officers’ houses were petrol bombed and
shot at. We wanted them out of our areas because of what they were
doing to our prisoners.
Things hotted up around the time of the Anglo-Irish Agreement.
Politically it didn’t mean anything to me, it didn’t change anything
as far as I was concerned. There was really serious rioting in all loyalist
areas, hot and heavy, day in, day out. It wasn’t just a paramilitary
thing, everybody was on the streets.
The commander at that time had everyone out [who were
members of the UDA] and because the ordinary people respected
him, they came out as well. Everyone had something to do, even the
old people had a job. It could have been surveillance, robberies,
offensive operations, or you could have been a ‘runner’ taking
messages. He [the commander] made sure that everyone had their
part to play and that made you feel useful. In the middle of all that
there was a change in the command structure, new people took over.
The military side of the [UDA] operation nearly lapsed altogether
largely because the new commanders had little or no interest in that.
Our battalion went out almost completely on its own, we weren’t
‘Terry’ 103
taking orders from the main UDA command any more. The new CO
ruled through fear. We knew that he was anti-republican and there
were rumours about who he had and hadn’t killed. But it was widely
accepted that he had killed quite a few [republicans/Catholics]. A lot
of people in the area hated him but I found him OK. Once he helped
me out and gave me money to pay a fine. If you were ever really hard
up and you went to him he would ‘see you right’. But there were a
lot of people who thought that he was out of control and eventually
the UDA gave orders to have him shot. Shortly after that our battalion
rejoined the mainstream UDA.
Before long I volunteered to ‘go for the lot’ [to become a gunman
for the UDA]. We would go up to the forest at the old glen. There
was lots of dense tree cover. We more or less trained ourselves with
.9 mil pistols, and stirling sub-machine guns, which weren’t great.
There were 28 rounds in a magazine and it would only take seconds
to fire them, but compared to an AK they were obsolete. The noise
would have scared you more than anything else if you weren’t used
to them. There was one time we were firing and an army helicopter
was hovering directly over us. We just kept on firing because they
couldn’t see us with the tree cover, and we knew that they couldn’t
hear us, not even with the stirlings.
There was this time I went to a [UDA] meeting and the CO said to
me, ‘Look we’ve got a bike and a driver, we need a gunman.’ Soldiers
had been killed the week before and we wanted to ‘return the serve’.
It was to be a ‘drive by’ in the [republican] Ardoyne. We knew that
any young guy in that area would be IRA, Sinn Fein, or at least an IRA
supporter. The idea was you would do a drive by, select a target and
shoot him. The CO asked me, ‘Are you up to it?’ I just said, ‘No
problem.’ I was in a new unit and we were anxious to prove ourselves.
It was a super bike, really beautiful, 500 cc or something. We went
into the Ardoyne and cruised the area. The problem was there was a
Gaelic football match on the TV that night so nobody was on the
streets, they were all at home watching TV. They all watched RTE
[Irish television]. The only young fella we came across was this guy
standing outside his front door nursing a baby. The kid was squealing
its head off. The driver slowed down approaching him but I took my
hand off his shoulder and pointed my finger forward twice to drive
on. That guy will probably never know that his kid saved his life. I
was really frustrated, I was ‘keyed up’ to do the business, pumping
with adrenalin but we couldn’t hang around the Ardoyne any more,
it was becoming too obvious. On the way out of the Ardoyne we
stopped beside a police Land-Rover at traffic lights. I was about to

pump a couple of shots at the police, but then I thought that the
driver might have thought it was the police shooting at us, and he’d
put his hands up or something. That wouldn’t have been anything
to do with the UDA, that would have been personal between me and
the police.
Everybody was waiting for us when we got back. They knew from
our faces that the mission hadn’t been successful, so they just went
back into the club. We were worried that they would think that we’d
chickened out. It seemed incredible that we couldn’t find anyone in
the Ardoyne, but that’s what happened. I think that’s partly why I
wanted to shoot at the police, to prove that we were willing to do the
business. We hid the [stolen] bike so as we could repeat the operation
but the police found it.
The next Sunday I went to a [UDA] meeting. The CO said, There’s
a hit on tonight, are you game?’ I was still anxious to prove myself,
particularly after the last time. So I looked him straight in the eyes
and said, ‘Definitely, no problem.’ We were acting on good intelli-
gence. The INLA had shot a young Protestant in a video shop on the
Crumlin Road. UFF intelligence had located him. That was good
enough for me. He had killed on of ‘ours’, so I’d no problem with
killing him. He was living in a [religiously] mixed area in the country
in an isolated house [intelligence sources withheld] and he was
identified by ——. It was a wide open, fairly isolated location, near
Lisburn. I was over the moon about it because this was an INLA
gunman. If I’d killed someone in the Ardoyne I would have been
fairly sure that he would have been connected [to the republican
paramilitaries] but I couldn’t have been sure. I’d no wish to kill
ordinary Catholics, so if I’d shot someone and it turned out that he
was an innocent Catholic, despite the odds, I don’t know how I’d
have felt about that.
I suppose I could have said that I was acting under orders. Some
people show remorse after they kill, especially if it was an innocent
man, so I don’t know how that would have gone. I would normally
show compassion, but I always wanted a target, I wanted to get one
of them for everything that they had done to us. And now I had my
chance, and it wasn’t random. This was in identified republican target
and I just wanted him dead.
The team, three of us, went to the safe house. Another team had
taken over a house and held the family hostage. They took the family
car and drove it to where we were at the safe house. The driver got
‘Terry’ 105
out leaving the keys in the ignition for us. He had parked just a
couple of houses away, and we gave him time to leave the scene. It
had been agreed that neither team should see who was in the other
team in case someone was forced into talking during interrogation.
Another team brought the ‘gear’ [guns, ammunition, clothes and
boiler suits]. They came in through the back entry and left the gear
in the outside toilet. The bin was knocked onto its side to let us know
that they had delivered. We changed all our clothes and quickly
checked the guns. We could see that the bullets were in place so it
was go, the mission was on. We drove through Belfast and out to the
target’s home. There was a ‘For Sale’ sign outside which suggested
that he knew we were on to him. We parked the car in a nearby lane
and made our way to the house. We could see that there were security
locks on the windows, so we knew that the doors would have been
secured as well. Either the guy was well trained or he expected
trouble. We decided to lie in wait outside for 45 minutes to allow
him to come out, if he didn’t we would force entry. The difficulty
with that was we knew he was probably armed, so that would mean
a gun fight, and he knew the house, we didn’t. UFF intelligence
should have provided us with some idea of the layout, but they
didn’t, there probably hadn’t been time. After about ten minutes he
came out from his front door where the car was parked. That’s where
we were waiting for him. We grabbed him and pushed him up against
the front wall of the house, and then stood back with our guns
trained on him. We simultaneously tried to open up with the pistol
and the stirling. I waited for the loud cracks from the stirling but
there was just a series of clicks. I pulled back on the gun several times
clearing it for fire but just the clicks. The revolver was the same,
‘Sammy’ was standing there clicking away with the gun pointed
straight at the target’s head. The guy [the INLA man] had been
shouting, ‘Please don’t shoot me, please don’t shoot me’, but then
he caught on that our guns wouldn’t fire. He took to his heels and
ran out of there, I shouted after him, ‘You’re one gifted bastard, you
should be dead.’
The driver had been told to come for us when he heard the
shooting. He had been waiting for so long he was actually watching
what had been happening, so almost as soon as the target ran the
car came flying into the gravel driveway. We just jumped into the
car. The driver put his foot flat down and we screeched out into the
middle of the road. He did a handbrake turn and we were on the
road out of there at high speed. I knew that we were travelling down
a country lane at very high speed but I had already begun to examine
the stirling to find out why it hadn’t fired. The next thing I knew we
were skidding hard on gravel. There was a great bump and we were
thrown about the car like puppets, then we crashed into the tree. I
was a bit stunned and I looked at the other two. ‘Sammy’ had injured
his neck and he was obviously in pain. I told him, ‘Run like fuck, get
the fuck out of here.’ The driver was slouched in his seat with his
head on the horn. I thought that I was going to have to carry him
out of there. Unfortunately he was middle aged and quite big. I
grabbed his hair and pulled his head back. His body was limp, his
head rolled back as if his neck was broken and I just assumed he was
dead. I ran after ‘Sammy’ and it didn’t take long to catch up with
him. Every time he took a step forward the pain shot through him.
I took his good arm and pushed him forward. He said, ‘No it’s too
sore.’ I said, ‘Look we’ve got to get the fuck out of here, do you want
to spend the next 15 years in prison?’ We came across a deserted farm
house. We assumed it would be occupied so I left ‘Sammy’ sitting on
a ditch while I went in to take the family hostage if necessary. I knew
the gun wouldn’t fire, but they weren’t to know that. I knocked on
the front door hard and stood for a full minute. There was no answer.
I went around the back and looked in the kitchen window, there was
no sign of life. There was a pantry off the kitchen with a small
window. I smashed that in completely with the butt of the stirling
and climbed through. I walked through the house checking there
was no one there but it was deserted. I opened the front door, taking
it off the latch, and went out to help ‘Sammy’ back in. I got him in
and up to the main bedroom and ran back down the stairs to board
up the broken window and sweep up the glass. With the car not far
away I knew the police and the army would be searching for us. Sure
enough about 20 minutes later we could hear sirens in the distance
heading toward us. Before long two police Land-Rovers swept into the
driveway. We heard all the doors open and close and the sound of the
police officers’ boots as they jumped onto the gravel.
They knocked on the door three or four times, and then they
began checking all the doors and windows. I had only just got the
window boarded up in time, that would have been a dead giveaway.
Only minutes after that an army helicopter arrived circling overhead.
It must have been directly above the bedroom we were in because the
noise was deafening, then it moved off. We heard more vehicles
arriving, Land-Rovers or trucks, and we could hear the English accents
of soldiers shouting orders. We were completely surrounded by the
‘Terry’ 107
police and army, we had guns that wouldn’t fire, and we had a
fucking helicopter flying about six feet above our heads. I looked
over at ‘Sammy’ and shook my head as if to say ‘We’ve had it.’
‘Sammy’ nodded in agreement. Then there was a commotion, more
doors opening and closing and incredibly they started to leave. We
could hear vehicle after vehicle drive off. We couldn’t believe our
luck. After about half an hour I crawled over to the window and used
a hand mirror to look out because I was convinced that it was a trap
and they were lying waiting for us to show ourselves or break cover.
Everything appeared clear. I used the mirror to look through all the
upstairs windows. Then I looked out directly. There was no one there.
The operation was being shadowed by a back-up UDA team who
were in the area. But that was very long-arm stuff. If the mission
went wrong, or we were apprehended, it was their job to report back.
So we knew that by then the UDA would know what was happening.
There was a telephone in the house so I rang headquarters to make
sure the hostages were released, and that the men got away before
they identified the house through the car registration. I was told that
the team holding the family hostage had escaped just in time. They
were being driven away as the police cars came flying down the street.
We were still full of adrenalin. We found clothes in the house that
fitted us so we burnt all the clothes that we wore during the mission.
They had one of those big Aga ranges in the kitchen so everything
went into that with sticks and firelighters. That was to get rid of the
forensic evidence. We told the UDA boys at headquarters where we
were. We used a secure number. They told us that they had two cars
in the area awaiting instruction. There was just one driver in each
car to avoid undue attention. But the army had the entire area
cordoned off. Eventually the police and the army called off the search
and we were picked up. It was a Transit painter’s van filled with cans
of paint, brushes and ladders. We were given paint-splattered white
coats to wear. We splattered paint onto our clothes and shoes not
covered by the coats. Then we put paint on our hands, faces and
hair. The driver looked at us and laughed, ‘Do you think you’d fool
14 Int. [14th Intelligence] like that? Wet paint all over you and dry
paint on your coats!’ We splattered the coats as well. That had been
well thought out, I would have fooled myself. The driver took us
straight to the safe house.
When we walked in much to my surprise our own driver was
already there. He was just knocked out and when he came round he
flagged a car down. ‘John’ had been covered in blood from the gash
in his forehead. He told the wee girl in the car that he was walking
down the road when a motorbike hit him. She obviously took pity
on him and went right out of her way to drive him into Belfast. She
dropped him off at the top of the street where the safe house was.
Shortly after that the CO came into the house and debriefed us. By
that time we had examined the guns. They had been seriously
doctored. All the bullets had several ‘strike marks’ and the barrels
were jammed. Those guns had been fixed so as they’d never fire. As
it turned out the police had been lying in wait for us further down
the road. That was in the middle of quiet country but a UDA man
monitoring the operation had seen a joint army/police barricade
further down the road we would have had to drive down. They were
heavily armed with weapons drawn, obviously waiting for someone,
and believe me in that part of the country we [the UDA active service
unit] were the only thing that was happening. Then the UDA man
noticed an army helicopter sitting in lowland two fields away. It was
obvious that whoever they wanted, and that would have been us,
had no mission of escaping from that lot. An SAS patrol couldn’t
have got past them. The police had obviously known in advance
about the operation and they had set the trap. The fact that they
hadn’t apprehended us on the way to the hit meant that they had
wanted us to kill the INLA man before they arrested us. It seemed
that one branch of the security forces had wanted him dead, but
another didn’t, and they made sure the guns were doctored.
Alternatively the guns may have been doctored before they knew
who they were to be used on. There was something very scary about
the whole thing. We were being used like pawns in some game. It
was a set-up from the start, they knew all about every move that we
made. A short time after that the brigadier sent for me. I thought
that there was going to be a full-scale UDA investigation over
everything that had gone wrong – why had not just one gun, but
both guns not fired? Had they been doctored by UDA men, UDA
men who were agents for the security forces, or the security forces
themselves? How had the police and the army known about the ‘op’
[operation]? Did they want the INLA man killed as well? All those
things were racing through my mind but I was well ahead of myself.
The brigadier’s mind was on other things.
I had undertaken that mission because I was a loyalist and a UDA
man. I had risked getting shot, killed in a car accident, interrogation
and life imprisonment. I had burned all my clothes, and they were
my good clothes as I wanted to look respectable, not to draw
‘Terry’ 109
attention to myself. Shoes, socks, underwear, trousers, shirt, jacket,

about £150 worth.
I met the brigadier in a local bar. He was surrounded by the usual
‘heavies’. Then he said, ‘I suppose you’ll be looking to get paid for
what you did?’ In all honesty payment had never entered my head.
You simply wouldn’t have done that for money. I was so taken aback
I didn’t say anything for a minute. He glared at me angrily. They he
pulled a £20 note out of his shirt pocket and placed it on the table
between us. ‘There’s twenty quid,’ he said, then he reached over and
took the money back. He put the money back in his shirt pocket and
said, ‘I’ll just hang on to that in the meantime.’ ‘That will cover your
“dues”’ [UDA membership payments]. He got up and left and I just sat
there, probably with my mouth open. I couldn’t believe any of that.
A short time after that I was arrested and taken to Castlereagh
[interrogation centre]. My father rang the brigadier to let him know.
I was a UDA man under his command so my father thought that
that was the right thing to do. He said, ‘I thought you’d want to
know that “Terry” was arrested this morning.’ The brigadier didn’t
let him finish the sentence. He shouted down the phone, ‘I don’t
care what the fuck he’s done this time, we’re not paying him’ [UDA
prisoners’ benefits]. Money was the last thing on my Da’s mind. He
thought that the brigadier might just have been concerned that one
of his men had been arrested. But all the brigadier was worried about
was that he might have to pay me out of the funds which he
collected, which were specifically intended to meet the costs of
prisoners’ welfare. I just hope that fucking bastard reads this. Maybe
then he’ll realise just what a cunt he was.
About a year after that I was taken to Castlereagh barracks. They
didn’t know where I was living, because I was sharing a house with
my girlfriend in the university area. They went to my mother’s house,
and to my brothers and my grandparents, but nobody told them
where I was. I went to the CO and told him that the police wanted
to interview me. He told me to turn myself in because it was only a
matter of time before they got me and that would ‘go down better’.
I was interviewed by two RUC officers in Castlereagh, they were
casually dressed in jeans and sweaters. This one policeman stared at
me, he said, ‘You don’t fit.’ I said, ‘Thanks very much.’ He said, ‘No
that worries me.’ They had obviously some image in their heads about
what a UDA man looked like and apparently I didn’t match it. But as
far as I was concerned I was exactly the same as the other UDA men
that I knew. They wanted me to turn informer and offered me £500.
They told me about a dog that had come in at 100–1 that day and that
they could provide me with a bookie’s docket that I could show my
friends to account for how I got the money. When they realised that
I wasn’t playing ball, they said, ‘Thank fuck, you’re saving us money.
We’ve got all the touts [informers] we need in the UDA, you boys
can’t make a move that we don’t know about. We just let you off the
lead every now and again but as you know we make sure you don’t
do any harm.’ I didn’t change my expression but I just thought, ‘Jesus
Christ who’s running us, the UDA or the RUC?’
The one thing that really threw me was when they told me this.
About a year before I was involved in an incident. RUC Land-Rovers
had moved into our area and went into a derelict house apparently
to search it. There were uniformed officers, and two guys in boiler
suits. They all went into the house and came back about an hour
later, minus the guys in the boiler suits. We reckoned it was an RUC
surveillance and monitoring operation of our area. Later that night
I went out with a stirling and fired a couple of bursts at the house.
That was just to let them know that we [the UFF] knew where they
were. That was in —— Street. It was pitch black, I was on a solo
mission, no one knew I was there.
The two RUC men said, ‘“Terry”, do you remember that night in
—— Street about a year ago? You came that close to having your
head blown clean off.’ Now that fucking freaked me out. Nobody
knew about that. I hadn’t been charged with that, and yet the police
knew all about it. Those guys could tell you the last time you shit. It
was like a big rigged game, and they [the security forces] were running
it. That totally freaked me out. And that was before they told me
about some of the other things I’d been involved in. It was obvious
that the RUC knew more about the UDA than the UDA did. You
wouldn’t have trusted your own dog after that.
I still stayed with the organisation after that but I didn’t volunteer
to become active again, not after that. You could say that I became
a bit paranoid, but who wouldn’t have been after that. I couldn’t
believe the extent of the infiltration, none of us could. That was the
problem, we couldn’t believe it because we didn’t want to believe
that our own people were setting us up. I became more involved in
prisoners’ welfare, and that was very disillusioning as well. It would
have been around the late 1980s. The UDA had always promised the
men ‘If you get caught and go to prison we’ll take care of you and
your family.’ But the men and their families were getting to feel
worthless, that they were just a liability to the organisation. The men
‘Terry’ 111
would ask for a pair of trainers or for some money for their families
at Christmas, but it just wasn’t there, nobody gave a shit. Just as long
as the leadership got their money, nothing else mattered. If the
prisoners got anything at all it was pathetic. And these were men
who were willing to ‘do the business’ for the UDA and the loyalist
people. One young prisoner was terminally ill. His mother was
looking after her terminally ill husband, and another son who was
also terminally ill, at home, and they got fuck all. I went to my
brigadier about that and I said, ‘Look, either that young fella and his
family get some help today, or I’ll call to see you tomorrow, and I’ll
kick your fucking head in.’ Now I had risked getting myself shot by
doing that, but I felt I’d no choice. Despite all the protests from the
grassroots volunteers the brigadier refused to pay the prisoners or
help their families. Eventually it was west Belfast [UDA] who picked
up the bill and paid the prisoners and their families, even though
they weren’t from west Belfast.
There would be [UDA] meetings around that time and the young
guys would be talking about [military] operations. Everybody would
be half asleep and then someone mentioned money, and suddenly
ears pricked up and they [the leadership] would have been all for
that. They didn’t care about military operations, it was all self-gain.
It would have been around 1990 that the new leadership emerged
in west Belfast. That didn’t begin to affect north Belfast [UDA] until
about 1996. All the self-gain and criminality within the old
leaderships started to get removed. Suddenly the money that had
been due to the west Belfast prisoners and their families was paid.
Then west Belfast [UDA] started to pay for other prisoners who
weren’t being looked after [by other UDA regional commands]. But
the fact that the prisoners hadn’t been looked after for so long meant
that we lost a lot of our best men. When they got out they had no
loyalty to the organisation. The UDA had deserted them, so they
deserted the UDA.
But now it was like suddenly prisoners were number one, the top
priority. The prisoners’ [and families’] weekly allowance was doubled.
If one prisoner got new clothes all [UDA] prisoners got new clothes.
All of that made a tremendous difference to the prisoners.
They felt wanted, and they felt a part of the organisation again. The
morale lifted completely. If the prisoners had asked for money or
clothes before that they were made to feel like charity cases. But now
they felt respected and valued because of what they had done for
the UDA. That’s why the UDP [the UDA’s political wing] did so badly
during the elections. So many of the men and their families felt
deserted by the UDA, because the UDA had abandoned them in their
hour of need [during imprisonment]. The UVF had looked after their
prisoners properly and that’s why the PUP [the UVF’s political wing]
got the electoral support that took them into the Assembly. The men
had willingly given the UDA their loyalty, and volunteered to give
their all, but when they got caught the UDA walked away. All of that
changed under the new leadership [in the late 1980s], and that
change started in west Belfast.
‘JACKIE’
‘Jackie’ (now in his 40s) is a small but physically fit man, who is very
quick in everything he does. A cup of tea would be produced from nowhere,
or a lit cigarette lighter would be offered as I fumbled for the packet. I grew
to like Jackie in a short space of time and it was reciprocal. He clearly felt
that he had me ‘sussed’, assuring me that he knew ‘where I was coming
from’ on several occasions. If there was anything I needed in the UDA H
Block, ‘Jackie’ made sure I got it.
I really can’t remember any problems growing up at home. There

were five of us, Mum, Dad, and I had an older brother and sister and
there was me. I would have looked up to my big brother, we were
always pretty close. Those were good happy times. I had a strong sense
of belonging to my family and they looked after me, we all cared
about each other. I went to a primary school in the Shankill area and
I suppose my main memory would be playing football. Me and my
mates, we never stopped playing football. We couldn’t wait to get out
of class to get at the ball. I made good friends in primary school, we
were all local. Some of them are good friends even to this day.
The teachers in those days would have taken an interest in you,
they tried to get you involved in things. I got to be good at painting
and drawing and I was a fairly good reader.
I transferred to the Cairnmartin [secondary school] when I was
about eleven. At first I just lost interest. All these hundreds of boys
walking about the place. I just felt lost. I ‘mitched’ [truanted] for
most of the first year so I suppose I blew it. I attended during the
second and third year, but during the last two years [fourth and fifth
form] I just didn’t bother. The teachers just let you go your own way,
if you didn’t want to attend or work for exams that was fine by them.
I knew that I had a good brain but I just didn’t use it. I regret that now
‘Jackie’ 113
of course. A lot of my friends would have been the same. They were
fairly bright guys but they ended up working in shops or factories
because they had no qualifications. You never do get a second
chance, do you?
I left school at 16 and got a job, apprentice bricklaying and I
enjoyed that, working out of doors. I held that job for five years right
up to the time of my conviction. I was arrested in 1994 and charged
on two counts of attempted murder.
I can remember [1981] standing with my friends near waste ground
off North Howard Street. That’s where the army dumped burning or
burnt out cars and buses which had been set alight by Catholic
rioters. I can remember that that was exciting but I didn’t really
understand. I just thought that those Catholics are really fucking
mad about something. Later on I can remember rioting between the
people on the [Protestant] Shankill and the [Catholic] Falls Roads. I
would have been about ten or eleven. I was standing behind big lads
who were throwing stones. I can remember trying to make sense of
it all. I knew that there was something wrong on ‘the other side’ but
I hadn’t a clue what is was. But I knew not to get caught ‘over there’
[on the Catholic side], because if they caught you, you weren’t
walking home!
Although it hadn’t affected me directly I’d always been aware of
the troubles, that was ‘my inheritance’, my ‘normality’. The army in
the town [Belfast], barricades closing off the centre, the searches
going in and out, and the bombs. The town had a worrying
atmosphere. The IRA wanted to bomb us [Protestants] out of
Northern Ireland. They were bombing and killing all over the place,
and the authorities let them get away with it. There was a lot of anger
in my [loyalist] community. Nobody was safe and nobody could live
in peace with those bastards [the IRA] destroying the country, and
they were getting away with it.
I can remember a lot of really terrible atrocities and I couldn’t
understand the mentality of people who could do that. After all it was
their country too. From an early age I wanted to do something, I
wanted to fight back. Me and a few friends decided to form a ‘wee
click’ [a group] of junior UDA. We were very young, only 14 or 15 so
they let us join. Looking back at it now I think they only let us join
so as they [older UDA men] could keep an eye on us. We were
involved in some rioting but we were kept under tight control.
The UDA didn’t have a good reputation in those days. We were
seen as idiots or ‘stick men’ [because the UDA walked down the
Shankill carrying sticks in the early 1970s]. We just weren’t held in

high regard, and we had very little influence in the area. The UVF at
that time was better armed and organised. It was a territorial thing
I suppose, if you lived in one area you joined the UVF, and then the
next street up would have been UDA. Most of my friends were UDA
men, and I didn’t know anybody in the UVF, so I joined the UDA.
—— would have been in control of the UDA west Belfast in those
days [late 1970s, early 1980s], ‘Jimmy’ was second in command. He
was a classic hard man, a criminal. He ruled the organisation by
physical force and everybody was scared of him. He had a nice house
and all the clothes and the jewellery. The UDA held collections all
over Northern Ireland, both to buy guns and to look after the
prisoners. ‘Jimmy’ didn’t give a fuck about the prisoners or the guns,
his only concern was with his bank balance. There was a big meeting
one time, and UDA commanders came to Belfast from Derry,
Portadown, Newry, all over the place. Local UDA men put them up
[gave them overnight accommodation]. ‘Jimmy’ appointed a Belfast
commander to attend the meeting, and he made a big deal about
giving him a fiver. He said, ‘Take those boys out for a drink tonight
and make sure they have a good time.’ That was £5 to entertain about
50 senior UDA men. ‘Jimmy’ was a fucking joke.
Because of the corruption the UDA really didn’t have any guns at
that stage [early 1980s], just some rifles, shotguns and handguns. I
remember one night I was up in my room, I would have been about
15, and a friend whistled up to me. He was wearing a long coat and
the next thing I knew he produced what looked like a very powerful
rifle. I ran down the stairs and we went into my hut at the back of
the house. I used that hut as my den. My Da had fixed it up for me.
I had my own TV out there, table, chairs and home brew. ‘Alec’ and
I went into the hut and he showed me the gun. It was an AK47,
absolutely beautiful, in mint condition. I was only UDA so I’d never
seen one of those. ‘Alec’s’ brother was in the UVF and he had the
gun in the house and ‘Alec’ had smuggled it out. I ran out and got
some of my other UDA mates and we all gathered around the table
with the AK. We dismantled it and reassembled it so as we’d know
how to use it if we ever got the chance to use it. The next thing I
knew was ‘Alec’s’ brother shouted from the back entry, ‘Have you
seen “Alec”?’ I shouted back, ‘No, I haven’t seen him in days.’ We
waited until he was well away and ‘Alec’ bolted [ran] back to his
house with the gun under his coat. I heard that his [‘Alec’s’] brother
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gave him a slap for that but that’s as far as it went. The UVF knew
nothing about it.
‘Jimmy’ was the sort of guy that, if you knew he was walking down
the street you’d go in the opposite direction, he was an evil fucker,
none of us young ones liked him one iota. At that time the UDA was
virtually inactive on the military front. There was corruption and
there were informers all over the place. The informers would have
been paid by the police or the army. As soon as someone was given
a gun, they’d be arrested. A car could drive out on a mission, and
before they’d even got out of the Shankill the police and army were
all over them. There was no shortage of dead keen, good, purely
politically motivated loyalist volunteers, dying to take on the
republicans, but they were held back and betrayed by their own
leadership. By that stage I’d had enough and I just left the UDA. But
as it turns out ‘Jimmy’ got what was coming to him [he was shot
dead by the UDA].
The Stevens Enquiry was probably the biggest revelation of all.
Stevens was an investigation into alleged collusion between the
security forces and the loyalist paramilitaries. There was collusion
alright, the supreme commander of the UFF [the military wing of
the UDA] was working for British Army intelligence. British intelli-
gence had effectively been in control of the UFF all that time. So it
was no wonder the UDA weren’t going anywhere [conducting a
military campaign], in that presumably anything we did was
sanctioned by the bloody British Army. We should have had a
regimental status. In the event that was the best thing that ever
happened to the UDA. There was a top to bottom root and branch
reorganisation. All the criminal elements, and men who were not
100 per cent were removed, and a new leadership was formed. These
were guys who had a political and military vision. It wasn’t about
Prods and Taigs [Catholics] this time. These guys [the UDA/UFF
leadership] were out to get known republicans and IRA men. The
mission statement was ‘Take the war to the enemy’, and the enemy
was the IRA/Sinn Fein.
The first time I was in the UDA I was involved in one mission.
This was before the new leadership took over, and this will give you
an idea of what we were up against.
I was walking up the street when these guys came over, they were
senior UDA. They told me they wanted me to rejoin to undertake a
specific mission. By this stage the UDA were a laughing stock, all
they were doing was knee-capping their own [Protestants], so I was
reluctant to become reinvolved. I had my job and I was earning good

money and things generally were going well. Also my family were
respectable people with no paramilitary links. The last thing they
would have wanted was a son or brother in the UDA. That hadn’t
concerned me when I was 14 or 15 but it did now that I was older.
I said to the most senior UDA officer, ‘What’s wrong, is “Jimmy”
running short of cash?’ I’d half expected a thump on the head, but
he just looked kind of embarrassed. He said, ‘Look there is a war
going on. We’re UDA but we’re purely political, we want to kill
republicans and we want your help.’ He told me that they had good
intelligence about an INLA man [republican terrorist] living in a pre-
dominantly Protestant part of Belfast. The INLA man was living with
a Protestant girl who was unaware of his paramilitary connections.
The UDA men said that they had actually read hard evidence given
to them by the UVF that this guy was an active member of the INLA,
and that he was using the girl as cover to live in that area and gather
intelligence. There was one very obvious question I never thought to
ask at that time. If the UVF had the hard evidence, why didn’t they
act upon it? At that time the UVF was much better armed and trained
than the UDA. Alarm bells should have been ringing by that stage,
but I suppose the prospect of actually getting an INLA man was all I
could think about. This was a real mission, a chance to actually get
one of these bastards. He said that the INLA man was a ‘Jack the Lad’,
who fancied himself, and took virtually no security precautions. The
UVF had apparently been watching him for weeks.
At that time I’d really had it with the UDA, and the corrupt
leadership who sat around and took money from kids. But this was
different, this was the real thing, this was an opportunity to do what
I’d joined the organisation to do in the first instance. But typically
I hadn’t been trained in guns, and I told them that. As it turned out
they wanted me as the driver so I agreed. I walked out of that bar
with my heart thumping in my mouth, this was it, and there was no
going back.
The organisation [UDA] located a safe house close to where the
INLA man lived, just two streets away. We were going to ‘hit him’ at
tea time because we knew that he was always in the house then. We
had watched him and we knew that he didn’t take any security
precautions, he never looked around to see if he was being watched
or followed, and he never even checked under his car for possible
bombs. The night of the hit we had someone watching the house
from a car, and he was to flash his lights, once for ‘He’s in’, or three
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times for ‘He’s not there, the hit’s off.’ We had undertaken practice
runs to the house, but with other people.
The night of the hit there was to be three of us meeting at the safe
house. There was me, the driver, the gunman and a back-up gunman.
The organisation [the UDA] obviously wanted this guy dead. The
guns were to be there for collection. I was the first to arrive at the
house at 5.00 p.m. exactly, the next man arrived at 5.05 p.m. and
the next at 5.10 p.m. We’d never met before. The senior guy was
older and he was an experienced operator, but the other guy like me
hadn’t been ‘blooded’ [involved in a killing]. We were dying to go and
do the business [kill the INLA man] but the older guy sensed
something wrong. There was a corner shop at the end of the street,
a silver Ford Granada was parked outside with these two big guys in
the front seat. ‘Sam’ [the older man] said, ‘Wait, I want to check this
out.’ I just wanted to go, and I thought he was paranoid. I said, ‘For
fuck’s sake they probably just went in to get a paper or cigarettes.’
‘Sam’ just said, ‘Look I’m in charge here, if you end up dead, or
serving life [for attempted murder], it’s down to me, so you do what
the fuck I tell you.’ The men in the Ford had visual sight of the front
of the house. I’d parked the car just on down the street so if we
moved they’d see us. I still thought that it was a coincidence, that
they were just two ordinary guys. Time passed as if it was suspended,
I just wanted the car to drive off so as we could get the job done.
‘Jackie’ the other young man was the same. After an hour the two
men in the white Granada were still there but I wanted to carry on
with the mission anyway. ‘Jackie’ and I just wanted to go for it. The
next thing ‘Sam’ says, ‘Abort the mission, we’re out of here. Leave the
guns, the car everything. You two get out the back now, I’ll follow you
out, just lose yourselves.’
Knowing what I know now, I realise that ‘Sam’ could have saved
my life, or that at least he saved me from serving life imprisonment
at that time. That was obviously a set-up, those guys in the Granada
were Special Branch, army or army intelligence. They would have
had three units [cars] involved and they would have taken us out
going in for the hit or after we’d killed him [the INLA man]. It just
depended on whether they had wanted him dead or not. I just can’t
believe how naive I was; why did the UVF give us, with our
reputation, the intelligence? The UDA and the UVF were deadly rivals
at the time. Did they know it was a set-up, and did they set us up?
Or could it have been someone in our own organisation. It could
have gone right to the top, but we didn’t realise that until after the
Stevens Enquiry. When I started to put two and two together it scared
the fuck out of me. What the hell’s going on here? It was probably
only sheer luck that there was an experienced man on that mission,
and it was his experience that saved us. That was it, that was me out
of the UDA. What chance did you have [as the UDA volunteer]? The
organisation was corrupt at one level with the criminal activity, but
even if you got as far as taking a mission [to kill republican terrorists]
you were stitched up by informers or police and army agents. The
only loyalist organisation operating half effectively at that time [early
1980s] was the UVF. At that time the UDA had lost its way
completely. There were highly motivated political volunteers, no
shortage of them, but they were betrayed by a criminal and corrupt
leadership. I was sickened by the whole thing.
In 1990 there was a big recruitment drive within the UDA. They
started to recruit young people, 16–18 year olds. But they also
wanted older people who had disassociated themselves back in. Some
of these people were forced back in reluctantly, because they were
good men who didn’t want to know about the corruption or
criminality. At first we thought that the UDA was ‘going military’
again and they were marshalling the troops, but it was the same old
leadership. All they wanted to do was make the men attend weekly
meetings so as they could collect [membership] dues from them.
That was money that should have been used to buy guns, and to
look after prisoners and their families, but the leaders used it for
personal gain.
A big meeting [of UDA members] was convened in west Belfast
around late 1990, if I’m right. The generals were busy dividing up
the funds, deciding who got what. But there was something going on,
there was a lot of whispering in the teams among the younger men.
Then two hooded men came into the room, with .9 mil automatics.
They went over to the generals and told them to sit down. They
motioned for chairs to be placed in a line. Some of the younger men
positioned the chairs and the hooded guys moved in closer to the
generals pointing the guns close to their heads until they had sat
down. At first the generals had appeared bemused, as if they thought
it was a joke, but by now they knew it was serious. One of the
generals was still trying to assert his authority and said, ‘Now look
here I’m the UDA commander of ——.’ One of the hooded gunmen
went up to him, pointed the gun at his face and then discharged
three shots in quick succession straight over his head. Then the
gunman said, ‘Your presence is no longer welcome. If you don’t leave
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voluntarily, you won’t leave the building.’ More shots were fired over
their heads. By this stage all they wanted to do was to leave that
meeting alive. They agreed to stand down, they knew it was over for
them. The so called ‘generals’ had been nothing more than corrupt
and self-seeking criminals. They had all but destroyed the military
capability of the UDA, and they had betrayed hundreds of young
politically motivated volunteers who had genuinely joined the organ-
isation [the UDA] to fight republicans and the IRA. I wondered how
many of our men were in prison, informed on or stitched up by those
bastards. Those guys [the generals] would have sold their own
grannies for a price.
Casings had fallen to the floor during the shooting, so we picked
them all up and gave them to this guy to dispose of. If someone had
heard the shooting and telephoned the police there could have been
a raid, and the casings could have been used to identify the gun, and
to provide evidence. Another guy took the guns away to a safe house.
That was all pre-arranged, within minutes of the shooting the
building was clean.
The guys who did the shooting called us to order. They said that
they were making way for a new, young leadership, with political
and military vision. There was going to be a new military strategy.
Then one of the guys who was still hooded came right up close to the
assembled crowd and said, ‘We’ve got a new mission statement.’ The
room fell quiet. ‘From now on this is going to determine everything
we do.’ ‘Take the war to the IRA.’ The place erupted, men cheered
and clapped and then everybody stamped on the floor, it was
deafening. It was what everybody had been waiting for, a new
military command who would take over. It felt good to be a part of
that but I was still dubious about getting directly involved. I was still
spooked because of what had happened before.
Within the next few months the organisation was transformed.
There were weekly meetings in social clubs and discos. We were all
informed about work that was going on [UDA military activity]. All
the money that was collected in dues and by the [UDA] clubs was
being spent on operations, guns and prisoners.
We knew what was happening because we saw the guns coming
in, and we knew that money was going to prisoners and their
families. The police still had good intelligence, they knew that we
were getting the stuff [guns] so they raided the clubs more often, but
they could never find anything. Planning and organisation went
into everything right down to the last detail. After all those years in
the wilderness the UDA was becoming a professional military

operation. Operations were expensive, a hit [killing] could cost £3,000
to £4,000 to set up. You had to buy a car, guns and clothes. Some of
the men were unemployed so they couldn’t afford to buy clothes
every time. After a mission everything was destroyed, car, clothes,
anything that could leave a trace of evidence. The leadership told
us, ‘You sacrifice for us, we appreciate your sacrifice, and in return
we’ll give you all the support that we can.’ The old leadership only
wanted money, the new leadership wanted dedication. The whole
feeling of the organisation changed by the week and you felt a part
of something that was important. Being a UDA man wasn’t
something you were ashamed of any more. Now it had meaning.
Anyone directly involved had respect for each other. Even attitudes
in the community changed towards us. We [the UDA/UFF] started
to attract high-calibre volunteers again, purely politically motivated
people who wanted to have a military involvement. UFF missions
were being carried out almost on a weekly basis. There were high-
level operations going on that they [the leadership] couldn’t tell us
[the volunteers] about, but we knew it was going on anyway. It was
about a year and a half later that I got reinvolved.
The AGMs started to get convened monthly because there was so
much going on. I remember being at one of them when AK47s, SA80s
and Armalites were produced. They [the leadership] said, ‘Pass them
around, feel them, let everybody have a go – that’s where your
money’s going.’ All of that made you feel more a part of it [the UFF].
What you did was valued, you were given respect, and you, everyone
was included. Someone was holding an AK and he snapped a
magazine into it. He’d obviously used one before. Someone shouted,
‘Let it rip’, then someone else shouted, ‘No, keep it for the Provos.’
Everyone cheered. The word got around about all of that and we
were attracting more good young men. The sort of people [loyalists]
who would have gone to the UVF before started coming to us. The
whole ethos of the organisation had changed beyond recognition. A
whole new infrastructure was being set up.
At that time my involvement wasn’t mainstream. I would have
transported things [guns, clothes, money] to safe houses, and given
people lifts here and there. I progressed to carrying guns about the
city [Belfast], handguns, stirling sub-machine guns and pistols, but
not AKs. The AKs were still very valuable then and they would have
been transported by older experienced volunteers for specific
missions. We had guns ‘bedded in’ [kept safe] all over the place at
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strategic locations. They were ‘left sleeping’ until needed. You were
never too far away from guns.
Discipline became very important. Volunteers weren’t allowed to
draw any attention to themselves. You weren’t allowed to become
involved in fights, bar fights, domestics [domestic violence], or
anything criminal that would involve the police. At the extreme you
would be ‘stood down’ [ordered on leave]. But you would always
have been told that it wasn’t personal, it was business and in the
wider interest of the men [other volunteers] and the organisation.
Sometimes those guys [the men disciplined] were your mates so you
didn’t enjoy doing that. But if they kept their heads down for a period
of time and proved themselves they were allowed back in.
Around 1992 there was a recruitment drive within the UFF. They
needed more men to go military. Individual teams met and those
people who were willing to become further involved were asked to
stay behind. If you stayed behind you were asked which category
you wished to be considered for. There was ‘going for the lot’
[gunman], driver, intelligence, providing safe houses for guns or men
on the run, a transporter [guns/bombs], etc. I volunteered to be a
driver, category A. That meant I would transport gunmen on
missions. In the light of my past experience I had two reservations:
a) that I would only work through identified [UFF] members, who I
trusted, and b) that I would go about my normal business and not
openly associate with them [UDA/UFF men]. I was what was referred
to as a ‘sleeper’, they knew I was ‘up for it’ [i.e. military action].
Everybody shook hands with me and I left.
Within a short time after that I was called in for a briefing. The
identified UFF members met with me personally and briefed me
about the mission. I felt comfortable with it all. The target was to be
a known republican/IRA man who got a lift to work with a friend in
the middle of republican west Belfast.
He had been spotted standing in the same place at the same time,
waiting for his lift, by UFF intelligence people. He left himself wide
open, standing at the same time at the same place every morning. We
couldn’t believe our luck.
It was arranged for the next morning. I was to pick up a car and
drive it to a safe house where I would meet the gunman. I didn’t
know who he was but I was assured that he was ‘good’. I was to do
all of this and just go on to work for 8.00 a.m. as usual. I was to meet
the gunman at the safe house at 7.00 a.m. and drive him to the
target’s location for a hit at 7.30 a.m., dump the car and catch a bus
to work. Everything was to look perfectly normal. I was there for 7.00
a.m., but by 7.30 a.m. the gunman hadn’t appeared so I aborted the
mission and reported back [to the UFF] by phone and went on to
work. The UFF called in the gunman. A member of his family had
taken ill and was hospitalised through the night, so that was genuine
enough. The mission was now to go ahead the next morning. The
[UFF] leadership wanted this guy [the republican target] dead.
It was the same arrangement, I would drive to the safe house at
seven, pick up the gunman and go. When I got to the house two
senior UFF men were there to supervise the operation. But once again
the gunman failed to turn up. It may or may not have been the same
man, I don’t know. The route had been already ‘scouted’ and it was
clear, there was nothing to suggest a security force presence, and the
target was moving into position, we knew all of that from UFF intel-
ligence who were monitoring the operation. The UFF men ‘A’ and
‘B’ decided to undertake the ‘op’ themselves. The car had been
bought, it was sitting clean, we had the intelligence and everything
was in place, and this was a prime target. It was decided the mission
was on. ‘A’ and ‘B’ started arguing about who would do it, ‘I’ll do it’,
‘No I’ll do it’, ‘You’re too valuable to the organisation’, ‘No, I’ve got
more experience.’ I’d never seen anything like this before. Usually the
senior man told the lower rank what to do and that was that. They
started using strong language and finally ‘A’ said, ‘Look I’ll do this,
you do the next.’ That’s what they agreed to. It was that argument
that convinced me that I was with the right people. As it turned out
though, ——, the first choice of gunman, turned up so we proceeded
with the mission.
That guy [the republican target] was the luckiest man in Belfast. We
drove out fast to where he was standing and parked just a short
distance from him. —— [the gunman] who was already hooded got
out his revolver. He got out of the car and walked up to the target.
The Provo must have thought that it was his own side [the IRA]
playing a trick on him. He was actually standing there smiling. It
probably never occurred to him that the loyalists [UDA/UFF] had the
intelligence or the capacity to mount this type of operation in the
middle of republican turf [territory].
—— pointed the gun directly at the target’s forehead. There was a
deep thud, but no shot. The target had just frozen, the colour drained
from his face. There was a whole series of deep thuds but no shots
were fired. He raised the gun high over his head. At first I thought
he was going to use it to batter the target to death, but then he just
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lowered it and pushed it into his trouser belt. He turned and walked
back to the car. By this time a passing black taxi had become
suspicious and tried to block the path of our car. —— leaned out of
the window and pointed the gun directly at the taxi driver’s head. He
just sped off like hell. We all went back to the safe house, changed
and burnt the clothes we had been wearing. We checked the gun.
Someone had stored it somewhere damp, or it had got wet somehow.
The rounds were stuck in the chamber. Each cartridge had been struck
twice. OK we failed to kill the target on that occasion, but as the
leader said, ‘That scared the shit clean out of him. I wanted him to
take that back to his brigade. He has the scent of death on him, and
that’s what we want those bastards to smell. They’ll look at each
other and wonder, who’s next? The operation was fully consistent
with our mission statement, therefore the operation was successful.’
That was the trick, even when you failed it was a success, you were
made to feel that you couldn’t go wrong. And we couldn’t go wrong.
That was just the start of it.
This one night I got a call. It was from the UFF, ‘There’s a mission
on tonight, can you come in?’ I knew the people concerned and I
didn’t want to let them down so I said ‘Yes.’ Actually it didn’t suit me
at all so I asked, ‘How long will it take?’ The contact said, ‘One hour
max.’ I was taking my wife to a christening party that night so if it
was just going to be an hour that meant I could take her to the venue,
and then go back to her after ‘the business’. They called to my house
very quickly after that. I said, ‘Listen, give me five minutes to leave
my wife off at a party and I’ll be back and ready to go.’ There was a
lot of consternation about that in that it broke with procedures. The
mission is considered as having commenced the minute the team
meet. I said, ‘Come on lads, three minutes, I’m taking her to a
christening party a couple of streets away.’ They reluctantly agreed.
I went into the wife and told her that I’d drop her off and then join
her in about an hour. She was well put out. ‘Why do you always have
to ruin everything? What’s the excuse this time?’ I told her that an
old friend from school was in a bit of trouble and that he’d asked to
see me. I said, ‘Look if I was in trouble he’d do it for me.’ She stamped
out of the kitchen past the front room where the two UFF guys were.
I saw them laughing, they were married as well. I tried to pacify her
driving her round to the party but she wasn’t having any of it. I was
in for a couple of days of the silent treatment.
The car we were using had been lifted [stolen] from an old
pensioner we knew. He kept the car at the back of his house and he
hardly ever used it. He hardly ever ventured out at all. We [the UFF]
had used that car on two previous occasions. Even if the police traced
the car they couldn’t get him for anything. He was well past anything
like that. The car was an old banger with scratches and dents. It was
perfect for the area we were going into [republican west Belfast]. Even
if we had to leave it parked somewhere no self-respecting joy-rider
would touch it.
It was to be a grenade attack on the home of a very prominent
republican. He lived in Norfolk Drive which was a cul de sac facing
Andersonstown police station. It was a very big police station anyway.
There would have been remote control TV and constant surveillance
from the station because they came under [republican/IRA] attack
so often. This guy [the prominent republican] was all ‘Ban the RUC’
but he made bloody sure that he lived close to a police station for his
own protection. That complicated things for us: number one it was
a police station, number two it was a ‘hot’ station. The police would
have been in a constant state of high alert and police cars could have
been scrambled within minutes, even less.
We were using South African grenades. They were very reliable
and much better than the Russian grenades we’d used previously.
You could select the timing of grenades to suit the job: 3, 5, 7, 9 or
11 seconds. We chose 7 seconds. We went in to ‘scout’ the area. It was
late on in a summer evening but there was no one about. We parked
the car around the corner from the target’s house. There was a large
hedge blocking off both exits of the drive. We drove in and parked
around the corner from the house to be attacked. ‘A’ got out of the
car, without the grenade, to make sure everything was clear before
he went in to attack. He came back and got into the car. He reached
for the grenade in the glove compartment and I said, ‘The mission’s
off.’ ‘A’ said, ‘Look I’ve just checked it, it’s clear, I’m going in.’ I turned
the driver’s mirror towards him to let him see the house directly
behind us. ‘You see that house directly facing this road?’ ‘A’ twisted
the mirror round. ‘Landing window. Do you see a woman’s
silhouette?’ ‘Well, that house has got the best strategic vantage point
for ——’s [the target’s] house. I’ll bet you a pound to a penny that
she’s one of these vigilante bastards who would let it be known that
there was suspicious activity in the area.’ ‘A’ looked again, ‘You’re
right definitely, she’s right up at the window looking directly at us.
Let’s get the fuck out of here.’ I drove very slowly from where we
were parked, just nice and easy, nice and relaxed so as not to draw
attention to ourselves. When we got back to headquarters the air was
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heavy with disappointment. Nobody said anything because they

understood, it just hadn’t worked out. They had all been outside
waiting to hear the explosion, but when nothing happened they
knew that the mission hadn’t ‘gone down’. There was disappoint-
ment because we had good intelligence and he was a prime target.
We wanted to go for the brigade staff of the IRA, and their families,
just as they had gone for our leadership and their families. It was the
strategy of ‘taking the war to them’ [the IRA].
The next night we went in again only this time we parked facing
the [suspected] IRA woman’s house, and I was carrying an AK47 on
my knees. If she had appeared at any stage of the mission she would
have been taken out, no problem. Same again, ‘A’ got out of the car
and walked past the target’s house. It was all clear, just some old fella
out clipping away at his hedge. ‘A’ came back, took the grenade and
went down and threw it at the target’s house. As he came running
around the corner there was this huge explosion. This guy came
lurching around the corner with a half full pint of Harp in his hand.
He was stumbling toward us gathering speed when he fell on to our
bonnet. I looked down to see where he had come from, I could see
a gap in the hedge. There must have been a bar or a club behind it,
so it made sense.
Now that was all actually very important. It fitted and it made
sense. An alternative scenario may have been that this was an IRA
man acting drunk who had got us to stop in an area where we were
completely vulnerable to gun attack or capture. We weren’t carrying
enough arms that we could have fought our way out, not with just
one grenade and an AK. Every time I think of the two young soldiers
who were mobbed and killed by the IRA at Milltown cemetery I think
back to that incident. We were unarmed and on active service in
republican west Belfast, bandit country, and it was bloody dangerous.
In a split second I had to decide whether that guy was genuinely
drunk, or whether he was IRA. As far as I was concerned there was
an IRA gunwoman behind us anyway. The pint glass had the sort of
handle you only get in bars, and the hole in the hedge, those two
things assured me that it was normal. When that guy had first
staggered around the corner, my initial instinct said ‘trap’. I came
that close to just putting my foot down and driving the car over him,
because had that been an IRA trap we’d have been dead. The other
thing at the back of my mind was that we [UFF] had used that ploy
before too. Someone would play the drunk during a mission to avoid
undue attention. In Belfast everybody just dismisses a drunk, you
actually lower your defences and laugh. So when I first saw that guy
I didn’t think, ‘drunk’, I thought, ‘IRA’. —— [the target] wrote in his
autobiography that the loyalists had attacked him that night using
a Vauxhall Cavalier. That was factually incorrect. We had used a small
four-door car, dark in colour.
The next day —— was on the news. He was rattled, you could see
it in his face and you could hear it in his voice. He said that a ‘loyalist
death squad’ had mounted a ‘sectarian attack’ on his home. How
many sectarian murders had been sanctioned by him? How many
people, men, women and children, had been killed by IRA bombs
on his orders? The bottom line was we were giving them some of
their own medicine. We didn’t expect them to like it, any more than
we liked it. If we hadn’t made them accountable, made them suffer
as we had suffered, their war would have gone on for another 30
years. Because quite simply they were allowed to get away with it. It
took the loyalists 20 years to get off their knees and start hitting back.
That’s where we discovered that we were actually better at it
[terrorism/counter-terrorism] than they [the IRA] were.
6 Phase Three:
The Mid-1980s UDA/UFF –
Travelling Gunmen and
the Selective Strategy
‘GARY’
‘Gary’ (now in his 50s) is approximately 5’10”, well built with a physical
presence and an aloof air of authority. He was one to dispense with the
niceties in order to concentrate on business. ‘Gary’ studied me perhaps
more than I studied him, clearly making up his own mind as to my
motivations. As a countryman he had the sort of genuineness which often
alludes city dwellers, a basic belief in the goodness in life which invariably
leads to disappointment.
Yes, I come from a country area, a country town, a village really. We

were all very close knit. There were only —— houses in our estate,
everybody was related. My own family, mother, father, brother, sister,
we were all very, very close. I was the eldest child in my family. It
was a good family, we were never in any sort of trouble. I would have
been very secure as a child.
I have one sister who is just a year younger and a brother who is
seven years younger so he was the baby, but we got on very well. Just
the usual ups and downs of family life but no real problems
whatsoever. I remember primary school right from the very start. I
went to the old school as it was then, it closed down maybe after a
year. We attended it and then we were moved to what was termed
‘the new school’. Primary school was great. I can remember being
caned, that’s one of the things that always stands out about primary
school. I remember getting the stick, in those days they took the
stick to you but having said that I don’t remember what I did but I
probably deserved it. Nothing stands out as being overly bad or
worrying about primary school, except Miss Brown – the one that
caned me. I met her in later years and there was no problem, I had
no animosity towards her whatever. It was just one of those things,
it was the done thing then.
127
128 Phase Three: The Mid-1980s
It was a small country area, everybody knew everybody and

everybody seemed to get on very well. There was a sense of
belonging, of being a part of a community.
I went to a local secondary school here in —— and that was OK.
That was until the later years when I was maybe 15. At that time
everyone was mitching school and I was no different. I was taking
time off school and I can’t really put it down to any particular reason.
It was just the done thing at that time, everybody just sort of hung
out and didn’t go. As a result of that I had to leave school without
proper qualifications, and that is something I regret now but it’s just
one of those things.
I never became involved [in the loyalist paramilitaries], well at
least not at first. I was a member of the security forces – UDR. I joined
the UDR [the Ulster Defence Regiment was one of the largest
regiments in the British Army]. When I left school I went into a
factory as an apprentice sheet metal worker and did two years of an
apprenticeship, then I joined the UDR in 1979 part time. I was part
time for six months before I gave up my apprenticeship and joined
the UDR full time. I joined in 1979 and came out of it in late 1986.
It wasn’t until some time after that that I became involved in the
paramilitaries.
When I first joined the UDR locally here, everybody knew
everybody. It was very close knit. It was more like a club than an
actual army outfit as such. I then transferred to full time and I was
based in Antrim and it was quiet, not a lot happened. You weren’t
really involved in the troubles. The highlight would have been maybe
a robbery where you were sent out in response. There weren’t a lot of
people being shot at or injured or killed or anything else. We decided
at that time to transfer, and there were 30 of us who applied for a
block transfer to Armagh. Almost the whole platoon went to Armagh.
We realised that there was a big battalion of UDR men based in
Antrim/Lisburn but really that wasn’t where the trouble was. There
was a lot of trouble in County Armagh, Armagh City running right
into south Armagh. The troops [UDR] weren’t on the ground but it
was up to us to back up the regular army and police. You were given
the option whether to go, or not to go, but nearly our whole platoon
decided to move.
Most of us wanted to be involved. We wanted to be where the
trouble was, to be able to react to the violence. We just weren’t seeing
any action in Lisburn/Antrim. We weren’t doing what we were
trained to do in Antrim and Lisburn, it wasn’t happening. Yes, there
‘Gary’ 129
were people killed in Antrim and Lisburn but those were isolated
incidents. It wasn’t happening on a daily or even on a weekly basis,
but in Armagh it was, and that was the main motivation. I remember
one particular fella he was a guy called —— and he opted not to go
to Armagh. He got himself a cushy wee job in Ballykinler in the army
and he actually turned ‘good living’. He was a very, very close friend
and he got this cushy wee job and we never saw him again for a
couple of years. He had met a girl and he married her and they were
secure and happy. We were all in the thick of the troubles as we
thought and he was in this cushy wee job. He bought a house in —
— in Dunmurry. As it ended up he was followed home by the Provos.
They had spotted him coming out of Ballykinler [a British Army
base]. He could have been anybody, he could have been a cleaner
coming out of the camp. They followed the car, targeted the car and
saw where he lived. The next night they knocked on the door and
his wife answered. By that time both of them had turned ‘good
living’. Not long married and, ‘Is the boss in?’ —— he was lying with
his slippers on. He had a gun in the house but he didn’t even take
the gun to the door. He went to the door and they just shot him
dead. That brought it home to us. There we were sort of in at the
deep end in Armagh and here’s this guy who had actually got a cushy
number, supposedly secure and safe, and he was dead. That had a
profound impact on me because he was a close personal friend.
In Armagh we had seen quite a few serious incidents and were
involved in incidents and maybe that was the start of it, maybe that
was the start of the road I was to go down. You know the feeling that
something isn’t right. Here was a guy who had a safe secure job. He
didn’t even wear a uniform most of the time, but he was dead and
we were alive. We enjoyed the work far better in Armagh, because
you had to be careful, you were in the middle of it and there were
incidents happening on a daily basis. Somebody getting shot,
somebody being wounded. I can remember a particular incident
where a UDR patrol was blown up in Blackwatertown. I wasn’t on it
but I had friends who were. What happened was two Provisional IRA
men lay, seemingly for days, and watched for a UDR patrol driving
by. As they drove by the Provos let off their landmine and blew one
of the Land-Rovers up. The UDR men were very seriously injured but
I don’t remember anyone being killed. What sticks out about it is
how they made their escape. There was a police patrol in the area
and they had seen them [two IRA men] coming down around the
hill. The police opened fire on them and they thought they had shot
both of them dead. The two Provos were lying dead as far as the
police were concerned. The UDR men had been blown up, they didn’t
know what was going on. The police thought they had been attacked
because they thought the bomb had gone off early, before they had
driven into it. When they heard the explosion they jumped out of
their Land-Rovers and here’s these two guys coming running down
the hill with balaclavas, and in fact I think they had crash helmets
on as well. The police, they opened up and supposedly shot the two
of them. The farmers and the locals started to come out and the next
thing one of the IRA men stood up and said, ‘I haven’t been hit.’
There wasn’t anything the police could do about it because everybody
was there. He [the policeman] was taken to court and he was found
guilty of attempted murder. That convinced me that conventional
‘soft’ policing hadn’t a mission against hard, ruthless terrorism.
Well, it was all building up, the more and more that I saw up there
[Armagh]. I remember another guy being shot dead, a guy called —
—. We weren’t in Armagh long and he was a major or a captain in
the UDR and he was shot dead. The impression I had was increasingly
people were being shot or bombed, on a daily or weekly basis. They
were being shot, blown up and mutilated and the security forces
knew the people who were doing it. They knew them all by name,
and they knew where they lived. We just went through the same
thing where houses were hit [searched] after the incident, they [the
suspects] were arrested for their seven days and then they were
released. That’s what was affecting me, we knew, everybody knew
what was going on, everybody knew who they were but there was
nothing we could do. The only one success that I can think of was
when the police actually shot one of them dead. Even when that
went to court there was talk that he [the police officer] was going to
get done [charged] for attempted murder, because there was no proof
that it was the accused man who actually set the bomb off. He was
admitting that he was there, but he claimed that it wasn’t him who
did it. He blamed his mate who was dead. As it ended up he [the IRA
man] was found guilty.
I remember another very very serious incident and it was probably
to be the changing point in my life. On New Year’s Eve 1985 the
police and army were patrolling Armagh city itself. The police went
out for one hour and the UDR went out for the other hour. This was
to go on for the whole night. The UDR had been out on the streets,
patrolling and they had returned to the station. They were out from
11 o’clock to 12 o’clock and I was there on this one. The police patrol
‘Gary’ 131
went out into the street that the UDR had just come in from when
an explosion went off. The next thing we knew shots were being
fired all over the place.
At that stage we would have thought it was the IRA as part of their
attack. We reacted right away and went out into the street. We met
a policeman coming towards us and as it turned out it was him firing
the shots into the air. Two of his colleagues had been blown to pieces,
one was dead and one was very seriously injured. Minutes earlier we
had walked past that bomb. The bomb was in a litter bin and it could
just as easily have been us. But on that particular occasion the IRA
didn’t want to kill UDR men, they wanted to kill policemen. That’s
the only explanation for it, the police were regarded as a better target.
At that stage the army had better equipment to block remote control
signals [used to detonate bombs]. Some of us thought that might
have been what saved the UDR patrol. The Provos may have thought
that we had the better blocking equipment as well. When we got
there there was one policeman dead, obviously dead, and another
one very seriously injured, lying blown to pieces. The third police
officer had lost control and had just opened up and was firing shots
everywhere. There was no sign of who had set the bomb off. It had
been detonated 200–300 yards up the street and they [the IRA] had
disappeared, they were well away. It was New Year’s Eve and I can
remember we were there the whole night. I can remember the
ambulance arriving and the second policeman dying on the way to
hospital. So there were two policemen blown to pieces. I can
remember being there the whole night. I can remember the
policeman’s wife. The policeman who died on the scene was from
Portadown. I can remember his wife arriving on the scene and her
wanting to go to hold him. She was hysterical, pleading with us, and
hitting us trying to get to him. I remember one of the men, big Sam,
coming over to me and saying, ‘For fuck’s sake, how fucking much
of this are we meant to take?’ Sam was a big man, one of the toughest
men I had ever known, and there he was in the middle of the street
with tears rolling down his cheeks, half choking. We couldn’t let her
go in case his body was booby-trapped. He was lying just maybe 100
yards from her and I remember standing and saying to myself, ‘You
know we’re wasting our time here, what’s the point, what is the point
in all this? The politicians are wrong. We [the UDR and army] know
who they are. Why can’t we go in and take the war to them? Take
them out.’ Because the security forces at that stage had the resources
to stop it if they [the politicians] had wanted. If we had been allowed
to do it. We knew who they were, we had the intelligence and they
were simply no match for us in a straight fight. There was absolutely
no doubt about that, but our hands were tied at every turn. The IRA
were winning because they were being allowed to win.
I mean that was the whole thing of it, you were a walking target. I
was sorry for those young English soldiers from Birmingham or
Manchester, or God knows where. They were used as cannon fodder.
Walking around hard-line Provo areas waiting for a bullet in the back.
At least we were grown men, and in the last analysis it was our war. The
army wanted to help us but they couldn’t, they weren’t allowed to.
My personal view is that if the cuffs had been taken off the security
forces earlier there would have been no need for me and people like
me to become involved in the [loyalist] paramilitaries. If the security
forces had been given a chance, I gave the security forces a chance.
That was my way, that was my upbringing, a law and order
upbringing. We did abide by law and order and I joined the security
forces. A lot of my family had been in the security forces and that was
our way of doing it. But I found out after seven years in the security
forces that it just wasn’t working. I mean you were a walking target,
you were out there and you were walking about waiting for the attack
happening in the hope that you would be able to react to that attack.
But what I saw happening over and over again was you weren’t being
given the opportunity. The attacks were mounted from long range.
You weren’t being given the opportunity to return fire or to retaliate
in any way whatsoever, and it just wasn’t working. With the intelli-
gence at that time, we [the UDR] had the names of those who set
the bomb off, we knew who made the bombs, they [the army] knew
who made the bombs, they knew where they came from. It was after
that that I decided that enough was enough and a year later I
resigned, cut my contract with them [the UDR] and came out of it.
The only thing the UDR did effectively was to provide uniformed
targets for the IRA. It was just too easy for them. If they [the IRA]
had the guts to wear uniforms we would have wiped them out in an
afternoon. They preferred to hide behind walls and shoot some poor
bastard from a mile away. What chance does he have? The IRA could
kill at will and that’s precisely what they were doing.
I know that from a security forces’ point of view, from deep inside
the security forces. You know the intelligence is there, the
information was there, up-to-date information, I’m not saying they
knew everything but they knew quite a lot. At that particular time I
concluded it [the violence] was acceptable [to the government], it
‘Gary’ 133
was allowed to happen. At times you were told there is going to be

an attack in the next week, and you can guarantee that attack took
place within the next week, but there was nothing you could do
about it, you had to sit back and take it. There were maybe twelve
main players [IRA men] within Armagh city, they were the people
who were controlling everything, they where the people who were
doing everything, they were the operators. We knew everything
about them but the simple fact was you just weren’t allowed to react.
I know of people [UDR/army] getting in trouble for even stopping
them in the street. They would be accused of verbal abuse. I was
reprimanded myself just for stopping and searching people, known
IRA men. It seemed to be at that stage it was the security forces who
were coming under more and more pressure not to do this, not to do
that. I went to Armagh in 1983 and left in 1986. In the years that I
was there, you know seeing so many people killed, that hurt me, that
seriously hurt me. Going to funerals. When I was in Lisburn/Antrim
I had never been to a military funeral. In Armagh it was going to
funerals, being part of funerals, that’s all we seemed to do, it just
ended up as a waste of time. Why? What was the point in going about
there with a uniform on, with a gun, and not being able to use it?
Not being allowed to retaliate in any way to anything that was
happening. The information was there. I reached the conclusion that
it was just a complete and utter waste of time being a member of the
security forces, because it just simply wasn’t working, there were just
too many restrictions placed upon us and that’s when I got out.
In that area they [the IRA] were very successful. There were very
few people getting caught at that stage, with the exception of that
one incident in Blackwatertown where the police shot an IRA man,
and that was pot luck, pure luck. I can’t remember anything we did
that was successful, nobody was being caught, it simply just wasn’t
happening. We had been emasculated as men never mind as soldiers.
I can remember an incident when there was a search carried out
in Callenbridge estate and the UDR at that stage were responsible
for the cordon. The army search team was coming to do the search.
We were told before we went out which flat the stuff [guns,
ammunition or explosives] was in. We were told that it was a rifle
and that there would be hand grenades. As a sort of a cover they
started searching other flats, there were four flats searched. The stuff
was found in the right flat. It was all wrapped up in a carpet but the
flat belonged to a 70 year old woman. So then the question was, who
put it there? We knew who put it there. It was a 13 year old boy. So
you had a case where they couldn’t charge a 70 year old woman
because she was old and she didn’t know it was there and you had
another case where you couldn’t charge a 13 year old boy because he
was too young. The Provos were brilliant, they had it worked out to
a T. They were running rings round us. The stuff was there, the
security forces were able to get it, but still nobody was charged.
In 1985 around the time the Anglo-Irish Agreement was signed
there were a lot of things happening in the country. The security
forces, certainly the unit that we belonged to, were very disillusioned
with everything that had happened. I mean here you had the Anglo-
Irish Agreement being signed and Ulster’s sovereignty being signed
away, but people were still being killed and the bastards who were
responsible were getting away scot free. The IRA were getting
everything they wanted. They were being rewarded for killing people.
A number of good friends of mine resigned there and then. They
felt that it was the start of a sell out, in fact they thought it was a sell
out at that time. It was over and some people walked away from it,
right away, they resigned there and then. In my own head I had a lot
to think about. In the UDR you had security, the money was coming
in for your family. For me it wasn’t so much the Anglo-Irish
Agreement, it was what was happening. It was seeing people getting
killed, it was seeing the attacks happening, knowing that they would
happen, and not doing a thing about it. They were getting away with
it and to me that was wrong. Why should I walk about as a target,
why should I do it? It just wasn’t worth doing. If we could have
reacted to incidents it could have been stopped, but it wasn’t. The
political masters had decided that it should be allowed to continue.
We were to leave them alone. All that was happening was acceptable.
Murder and bombings were acceptable. This wouldn’t have been
tolerated for one minute in any other part of the United Kingdom.
The SAS and the Paras would have cleaned out the whole [IRA]
operation overnight, if this had been happening on the mainland.
But this was Northern Ireland, so it was acceptable. There was no
will to do it, definitely not, we were under orders to leave them [the
IRA] alone. The UDR and the army were dying to get stuck in but we
all just grew weary of the situation.
After that I got out off the security forces and then I became
involved with the UDA. With the UDA my military background was
a benefit, there was no doubt about that. I had the expertise, I had the
training and a lot of intelligence [i.e. about the IRA]. I put it to use and
quite quickly became involved with the military wing of the UDA.
‘Gary’ 135
You join the UDA, you don’t swear into the UFF. You join the UDA
to become military, once you become military you are automatically
UFF, if you know what I mean. It’s the military wing and you progress
up through it. It might work slightly different in other parts of the
country but that’s the way it certainly works here. You never take an
oath to join the UFF once you became military because you were
automatically UFF and really that’s the group I wanted to be with. I
became active [in targeting IRA and Sinn Fein members] and I worked
for quite a while with the Lisburn group who were a very good group,
they were very very active. Not just in Lisburn but all over the
country, working in different parts of the country, especially in rural
areas like County Down and County Armagh.
I was involved for quite a while at different levels [within the UFF]
and then in December 1989 we were caught in a rural area of County
Down. As it ended up I got 14 years and on appeal got it reduced to
ten years. One of my co-accused had quite a few charges at that time
and he got three life sentences, he is serving three life sentences.
He is still not out, but he should get out very very soon as part of
this early release scheme. He served his time in Magheraberry. He
was disowned by the paramilitaries because he implicated other
people. He named everybody and everything that he was supposed
to be involved in. That’s why he got the big sentences. He told the
police where he was going that night and what he was going to do.
The police didn’t know, they obviously knew that there was an
operation going down in the area but didn’t know exactly the name
of the person or anything else. Then our trial was run together with
another very famous trial which was the murder of ——. There were
a number of people, again from the Lisburn area. There was a UDR
man and another guy who had admitted supplying information to
the UDA, linking —— with the IRA. They were arrested in September,
our group wasn’t arrested until December. The reason why the two
trials came together was that you had the people who were arrested
in September admitting giving information, although they didn’t
name who they gave the information to. But they admitted giving
the information to the UDA which led to —— being killed. They
were supplying the intelligence to the UDA who were actually going
out and doing the operations and that’s the argument they tried to
use or did use during the trial.
At that particular time from about 1985 up until we were arrested
in December 1989 it was very, very strictly selected targets, known
IRA men. An example of it was when we were arrested in Dromara
Mountains half way between Dromara and Castlewellan. Now if it

had been a strategy of bringing fear to Catholics or just killing
Catholics you could go into the chapel in Lisburn any Saturday night,
there are hundreds of Catholics there. Why travel 30 miles away from
your home town? You know, at that particular time, it was my view,
and the view of everybody involved then, that it had to be very, very
strictly properly selected [IRA] targets. That’s what was happening
all over the country by the UDA/UFF. There were selected targets
being attacked. Between 1989 and the ceasefire the UFF took out 26
Sinn Fein/IRA men. It was selective and it was proactive. We had the
IRA on the run. It became very frustrating at times when it came on
the news that another ‘innocent Catholic’ had been killed because
in many cases we had good intelligence which convinced us that the
person was a suspected member of the IRA or an associate. There was
always something that linked him directly to the organisation but yet
it didn’t matter how high the profile was, how high the person was,
when it came out on the news at teatime this man was innocent.
And it annoyed me to a certain extent because I had seen it with my
own eyes when I was in the UDR.
Part of the whole thing then and even in later times was to put
the loyalists down as gangsters. To give the impression that they just
go out and shoot anybody. When people in the past have asked me
about that I have always asked, why? Why was I almost 20 miles
from my own house? There are Catholics living in the estate that I
live in. If it was just a fact of killing or hurting or damaging Catholics,
why would I leave my own estate or my own area? Why were people
caught 20 miles away from home, what’s the point? What would be
the point in it? From a security forces and government point of view
it was better and easier to say it’s an innocent Catholic and that we’re
thugs. You know it was just a whole thing of putting down loyalist
paramilitaries to give them no credit for what they were, and what
they were trying to do. And that was to neutralise the IRA. To hit
them so hard, the key players, that they’d stop their violence. They
didn’t call a ceasefire out of the goodness of their hearts. The IRA
has no heart. They called a ceasefire to avoid getting killed. My point
of view is if the security forces had been doing their job then there
would have been no need for people like me to become involved, or
lots and lots of other people who also joined the loyalist paramili-
taries for the same reason.
A lot of media stuff has come out where innocent Protestants were
directly labelled as UDA/UFF or UVF. A very recent example of it was
‘Gary’ 137
practically this time last year [1999] when —— was killed, and that
was during the ceasefire. That night on TV he was described as the
UFF commander in the area. He was just an ordinary fellow. So you
can be in the UDA and be one of thousands or whatever in the UDA,
so being in the UDA doesn’t mean any sort of military involvement.
A lot of people who joined the UDA joined a legal organisation. I
mean it was a legal organisation they swore into. It wasn’t until 1992
that it was outlawed, so prior to that the people that were joining
were joining a legal organisation.
Again unlike the IRA, I mean if you join the IRA you become a
soldier. The UDA is much more a community-based thing. The UDA
are very big in numbers but work at very different levels. People could
be involved with the UDA, and maybe in some cases not even sworn
in as a UDA man but involved with the UDA working at community
level, who would never be involved with any military side of things.
The military side of it was a very select group of people from each
area, you know you could have been in the UDA for 15 or 20 years
but never have seen a gun.
—— was well known in the community. He was in the Orange
Order, he ran the shop, he knew everybody. He was a Rangers fanatic,
he spent a lot of time in Scotland you know. To label him as a UFF
commander was total nonsense.
Another good example of press misrepresentation was when the
UVF went into a bar in Cappagh and shot three IRA men dead. It
was reported that they were totally innocent Catholics. They had
done absolutely nothing, they were there having a quiet pint. Mid-
Ulster UVF said no, it was an IRA meeting. What was interesting
about that was six months later when the war memorial went up
from the IRA they were honoured as members. They were on the role
of honour as volunteers who died in the ‘fight for freedom’, yet at
the time the IRA didn’t admit who they were. They said nothing at
the time, but the media claimed that they were innocent Catholics,
and that these thugs from a loyalist group had come in and killed
them just as they were enjoying a pint in a country bar. The fact of
the matter is it was an IRA meeting.
[The Cappagh ‘massacre’ actually does provide us with an
important example of how the loyalists’ paramilitary campaign was
stage managed, both by the Provisional IRA and the British media.
In what was referred to as a ‘military strike’ a UVF unit attacked
Boyle’s pub in Cappagh village, County Tyrone (March 1991) killing
four men. The UVF claimed that the attack ‘was not sectarian and
had been targeted at the command structure of the IRA’. The British
press almost universally claimed that the UVF had attacked ‘innocent
Catholics’ enjoying a ‘quiet drink’ in a country pub. The IRA did not
claim any of the victims as its members, and most significantly none
of the men were subsequently given a military funeral. (A military
(IRA) funeral is the traditional means by which the IRA honours its
dead, and this carries enormous importance in the mythology and
ritual of republicanism.) This served to reinforce the public perception
that the men killed at Cappagh had indeed been innocent Catholics.
However, one report in the Irish Times on the morning of the funerals
claimed that three of those killed at Cappagh were IRA members. On
that, a survivor of the scene commented: ‘Media reports said it was
about IRA membership, that that’s why they shot at us – it’s a joke –
how do you think that makes me feel – I’m not in the IRA.’
The UVF were roundly condemned for committing ‘yet another
random sectarian “massacre”’. Interestingly, days before the time of
writing a colleague had used the Cappagh incident as ‘evidence’ of
the loyalists’ ‘mindless sectarian murder campaign, killing four
innocent Catholics just out having a drink in a country bar’.
As it transpired almost a year later the IRA acknowledged that three
of those killed – John Quinn, Malcolm Nugent and Dwayne
O’Donnell – were in fact its members. (The fourth man killed,
Thomas Armstrong, was a civilian caught in crossfire.) The active
IRA volunteers in question had obviously been deliberately denied
a military funeral in the cause of depriving the loyalist paramilitaries
any claim to having a military legitimacy. However, the claim,
coming as it did almost a year later, was old news, and went largely
unnoticed as almost an academic point. (The fact that the men were
ever claimed at all may have had more to do with family and local
IRA pressure than ‘operational strategy’.)
The Provos’ strategy had served its purpose in the meantime, in
conspiring to maintain the caricature of the loyalist paramilitaries
as ‘mindless sectarian murderers’.
This leaves a real question mark as to how many IRA men were
actually killed, and not claimed, to instrumentally serve ‘the
movement’ even in death. All of this creates something of a further
credibility gap, as to whom the IRA may wish, or may not wish, to
claim as its own.]
In 1990 when we were imprisoned there was a big push for
segregation [between loyalists and republicans] inside the Crumlin
Road Prison. There was a lot of fighting between the two groups,
‘Gary’ 139
between the republican and loyalist groups. It started off very basic
and simple stuff like fighting and punching and throwing cups of
hot tea or water round each other. It then gradually got worse and
worse and then a very serious incident happened. A driver of a
republican visitors’ bus on its way to the Maze was attacked. Within
a week or two weeks of that the IRA smuggled a bomb into the
Crumlin Road Prison. They had placed it behind a radiator on our
wing and blew us up. I was part of that. I was in charge of UDA/UFF
prisoners in C Wing at that time. It was as well there weren’t more
of us on the wing or there would have been more killed. As it was,
two men were killed, one UVF guy —— and one UDA ——. They
were killed outright; a third man looked as if his throat had been
cut. In actual fact the metal had gone right into him and he died on
the Thursday after it. The prison service hadn’t a clue, they didn’t
know how it happened. They weren’t geared up for that type of thing,
that’s something that shouldn’t have happened. Nobody should be
able to get a bomb into a prison, but they [the IRA] had done it and
the bomb went off and the prison staff didn’t know how to cope.
Eventually they allowed the medical services in. We did what we
could to help each other. I was lucky I wasn’t injured, a slight ear
injury but shock more than anything else, but I was OK. We helped
each other as best we could. There was a big group of republican
prisoners on the wing at the time. When the news came on at ten
o’clock that night they said that one loyalist prisoner had been killed.
The place erupted, they all cheered, every single one of them had
been involved in it. Every one of them was part of the conspiracy to
murder loyalist prisoners. They all knew that the bomb had been
planted. They had actually called a meeting to plant the bomb, and
stood round the radiator while their spokesman gave a talk. The staff
saw this happening but it was a cover to plant the bomb in behind
the radiator. So everybody, every republican at that meeting,
everybody on C Wing knew what was happening and where the
bomb was placed. Just as we got into the dining hall the bomb went
off. —— was sitting watching TV just facing the radiator, he was
killed outright.
Up until then the most sort of serious thing that happened as part
of that campaign [for segregation] was, as I say, hot water being
thrown over somebody, which was serious enough in itself. But with
the bomb going off you know it was absolutely unbelievable. Nobody
could take it in, even after it had happened. Yes, we had been
preaching for a long time that something serious was going to
happen, the signs were there; in fact I wrote to Jim Molyneaux and
Paisley. Ian Paisley didn’t even answer my letter. Molyneaux’s office
did, they acknowledged it and said they would do what they could
to try to ensure that safety was brought into the jail, this was maybe
six months before the bomb went off. What angered me a wee bit
after it, when Paisley was on the news he said he had been contacted
by a prisoner warning that this was going to happen six months
before. What annoyed me so much about that was I thought at the
very least he should have answered the letter or contacted us when
we were making the claim that it was going to happen, but when it
did happen he used it as part of the publicity that came in the
aftermath after the bomb. It wasn’t very long after that the loyalist
prisoners boycotted the Free Presbyterian church in the Maze and
that was a part of it. Last month, November, was the anniversary of
the bomb and I read out a service to honour the dead. I still have
those words written down in a book from prison. A memorial service
was held, with prisoners from both UDA and UVF, in the Crumlin
Road after the bomb went off. It was the Sunday following the bomb.
It is almost as painful remembering the service as the actual night of
the bomb because of what happened. The night after the bomb
republicans were removed from the wing, forensically tested and
questioned by the police, but by mid-week they were moved back.
On the day of the actual service in C Wing yard we lined up in ranks.
It was an orderly sort of service and one of the guys read out a sort
of passage. As he started to read it they [IRA prisoners] threw cups of
tea round us from the cell windows. They threw piss, and they threw
shit and the men just stood and took it and carried on with the
service. But to me that was sick. You couldn’t even have your service,
your memorial service. They had been successful in their attack. They
had won on that occasion but they weren’t prepared to let the loyalist
prisoners have their say or have a wee bit of dignity and that hurt,
that still hurts. I’ll give you a copy of what was actually read out on
that day and it is the exact words which were read on that day. I
can’t remember exactly who wrote it, it was maybe —— who wrote
it, I’m not sure. The funny thing was, a week later there were still no
visits. We had no contact with our families. Within a short time the
visits started again. The visits were to be mixed with the republicans
and loyalists all going to the same visiting area. The staff were told
that there was just no way the loyalists could sit down again with
republicans in the visiting area and it wasn’t going to work. I was
one of the first brought down on a visit and I knew that it was a
‘Gary’ 141
tester to see what way we would react. I went down to visit my

mother and my wife and thankfully they had the sense not to bring
my children. As soon as I came in I told them I was OK; it was the
first contact I had had since the bomb. There was a lot of media hype
and I said, ‘Look I’m sorry about this but if a republican comes in
through that door there is going to be trouble. If trouble starts,
whatever you do get into the corner and stay out of it.’ Within a
couple of minutes another loyalist prisoner came in; thankfully he
was a big brute of a guy so I said, ‘That’s OK, at least there are two of
us.’ The next thing they brought a republican prisoner down and he
sat down and the two of us just attacked him. We beat him all over
the place, within seconds the riot squad was in and they battoned us
but the republican guy was quite badly hurt. We were taken to the
punishment cells and the doctor came in. He asked why we did it
and I said I couldn’t even remember doing it. We weren’t even
charged with it because they put it down to the effect of the bomb
going off. We just weren’t responsible for what was going on. They
kept that up for the whole day and the same incident kept repeating
itself. Every time two groups came into contact there was a fight, a
serious fight. Then the visiting arrangements were changed and there
were separate visiting areas so something good came out of it. But
there were a lot of people hurt to achieve that. The loyalists made
serious attempts to retaliate within the prison. I can’t go into the
details of it except to say that I know of at least three different
attempts to kill republican prisoners within the jail. That was before
the UVF actually fired a rocket into the dining hall being used by
the republican prisoners. It was an attempt to get revenge for the
bomb attack on behalf of both the loyalist paramilitary groups.
Shortly after that I moved to the Maze prison [originally named
Long Kesh]. I was over two and half years on remand before I was
moved. I ended up in the Maze where segregation was in operation
anyway so I was happy enough. On a very rare occasion you’d see
republicans when they were in the yard. There were very few
occasions when we actually bumped into each other. The conditions
in the Crumlin Road were so bad, and the protests continued and it
resulted in the wings just being completely wrecked. The UVF and
UDA completely destroyed the place and the remand prisoners ended
up down at the Maze and so the Crumlin Road was closed. So yes it
ended up as complete segregation, but it was conceded too late
because everybody was transferred to the Maze. The protests within
the Crumlin Road go right back to way early on but they go through
phases, there are maybe three years of serious disorder then maybe
a year when it settles down and then maybe another three years. The
period that we were involved was from sort of the beginning of 1990
up to 1993, 1994. It ended up the whole place [Crumlin Road Prison]
was just completely destroyed to a point were nobody could live in
it. Remand prisoners, republican and loyalist, ended up being sent
to the Maze where they had segregation anyway.
The people who were controlling the UFF had done their
homework. If the information wasn’t good or if they deemed it not
to be good it just wasn’t acted upon, it was just rubbished. To me,
from where I was sitting, this was happening throughout the country,
even in Tyrone and Armagh. There were UFF units operating there.
There were IRA/Sinn Fein councillors being killed, there were people
operating from Londonderry going into the south. There was a Sinn
Fein councillor shot in the Republic. What was happening as time
went on was that people [Catholics] weren’t getting shot unless they
were high profile. And I mean really high profile, actually linked to
Sinn Fein and the IRA. The media was still coming out with an
‘innocent Catholic victim’ but I know that it was strictly selective
targets, and we were taking out IRA men one by one.
The UFF had gone proactive, they had gone all-out. What they
were saying was we’ll match the IRA, everything they can do we can
do. The IRA couldn’t handle it because they were being terrorised
for a change. They had always advocated terrorism, when they were
the only ones who could use it. When the same tactics were turned
against them they couldn’t handle it. It’s the same with any bully, if
you stand up to him and give him a taste of his own medicine he’ll
run away or at least he’ll never touch you again.
Some people say that we were winning but how do you determine
winning? Certainly it had been proved over and over again that the
UFF had the resources, they had the manpower, people who were
willing to go out and carry out the attacks, and those people had the
ability and the determination to carry out the attacks successfully. I
wouldn’t go as far as to say winning because I don’t think anybody
really wins at the end of the day, I don’t think there can be any
winners in this type of war. The really sad thing is that the Official
IRA knew that nearly 30 years ago, in 1971 when they announced
their ceasefire and called for talks. But the Provisionals, they had
tasted blood and the bastards liked it, it gave them power and made
them feel like big men. It’s all a delusion. Sinn Fein have been given
power and ‘respect’ to stop them killing. They are actually treated
Michael Stone 143
like children with a mental defect and indulged, in order to save

lives. The sick part is they don’t see it, they actually don’t see it.
People like that will never be accepted by any decent society. But I
think they’ve got the message: if they go back to killing loyalists,
and the British more generally, this time the loyalists will take them
out. In any normal society that would be a job for the security forces,
but in Northern Ireland they weren’t allowed to take them on. It
didn’t matter what happened in Belfast, just don’t provoke bombs in
London. That’s why the loyalists were forced to get involved. If it
starts up again they [the IRA] will be surgically removed, like a cancer,
and they know it, and that’s why I’m optimistic that there will be
no return to open conflict. War doesn’t get anyone anywhere, in the
last analysis any conflict has to be resolved politically, through
dialogue not guns.
MICHAEL STONE
The circumstances of my first interview with Stone were somewhat uncon-

ventional. I was sitting talking to one of the men in a cell with my back
to the door. Stone, approaching me from behind, put me into a wrestling
neck lock. Realising it was Michael I had smiled instantly. My response
was studied by the man facing me, as unknown to me I had passed a
critical test. Had I acted with alarm, or resisted, my motivation and
intentions could have been called into question carrying fairly obvious
implications. Stone had learned from past experience to be mistrustful of
everyone whom he hadn’t personally vetted. In the event the interview
proceeded in an atmosphere of openness and trust. The outcome of that
particular trial could have been very different.
Michael Stone (now aged 40+) is a strikingly good-looking man who
has a charismatic personality. He lays claim to having been one of the
soldiers or travelling gunmen of the UDA/UFF, unwittingly providing a role
model for Johnny Adair. Intensely aware of the corruption and security
force infiltration which permeated the organisation during the 1980s Stone
usually operated alone on highly select intelligence. He was intimately
acquainted with some of the most dangerous loyalist paramilitaries in
Northern Ireland, some of whom operated with apparent impunity. (For
example see ‘Robin Jackson’, McKittrick et al., 2002.) Stone is now an
accomplished artist and writer.
As a child I was close to both my father and mother and they were
both very good to me. When I was about eleven my mother showed
me letters and correspondence belonging to my natural parents who

separated when I was about five months old. I didn’t find being told
about that traumatic or anything. In fact I felt lucky that I had the
parents I had, and that my aunt had adopted me and was now my
mother. Sometimes, when you’re lucky, fate works with you rather
than against you, and fate was to play a large part in my life. I had
four sisters and one brother and we all got on very well. We would
have looked out for each other. It was a very secure childhood and I
had a very strong sense of belonging to my family. When I was eleven
I moved out of primary school and into Lisnashara Secondary School.
That was in 1966, around the beginning of the troubles, but I must
admit I’d no interest in politics. My main interest around that time
was in girls and football. The first time I really became aware of the
troubles was when an uncle was put out of his home in Farrington
Gardens. Every single Protestant family in Farrington Gardens was
intimidated out by republicans. A crowd of Catholic women had
actually fought each other in the street to take illegal possession of
his home and its contents, he was never the same man after that.
I joined the army cadets at school. I became proficient in the use
of [deactivated] Lee Enfield 303s, Bren guns and Webly .45 revolvers.
Some of my Catholic friends wanted to join the cadet force as well
but their parents wouldn’t let them. At the time I couldn’t
understand that. We would go to Douglas in the Isle of Man with
the cadet force, and that was an enjoyable experience, living like
soldiers for two weeks. I enjoyed the ‘live-fire’ shooting practice on
the shooting ranges. It was during this period that I experienced true
camaraderie and literally felt proud to be British, proud to be wearing
the Queen’s uniform.
My parents were very involved with the church. We attended the
Anglican Church of Ireland. I went to Sunday school every week and
I attended church services. I was in the Boys’ Brigade and I was also
a choir boy, with the robes, the regalia of innocence! I can remember
attending the laborious confirmation classes and getting confirmed
by the bishop. One way and another as a youth my life revolved
around the church and its many functions within the Protestant
community.
Lisnashara was a Protestant school and there were no problems. I
breezed through school, academic qualifications were secondary to
hanging around with my mates and chatting up the girls. When I
was 14 I formed the ‘hole in the wall gang’. We used to meet literally
at a hole in a wall off the Lower Braniel Road. There would have been
Michael Stone 145
the odd fights or confrontations with rival gangs, but nothing too
heavy. Those were good days, George Best and Woodstock, the
swinging ’60s. My big sister was actually in the same class as George
Best in Lisnashara. Most of my money would have gone on clothes
such as DMs [Doctor Martin kicking boots] and blue Levi jeans and
jackets. [Doc Martin boots and Levi jeans were worn by all street
gangs, a uniform of sorts.] I left school when I was around 161⁄2. I
became a ‘hammer boy’ in the local shipyard [Harland & Wolf]. By
that time I was aware of republican violence, the murders and the no-
warning car bombs in Belfast. By that stage I would have regarded
myself as a loyalist, and I was working with other loyalists at the
blacksmith’s shop. I stayed there for about a year but I spent about
six months of that time in prison on a firearms related offence. I
knew that it was a dead end job. When I was 171⁄2 I was accepted to
the training school at the shipyard. I attended the tech [technical
college] on day release and in the evenings training to be a steel
worker and boiler maker. I did the first and second year of the City
and Guilds in shipbuilding. My father had served his apprenticeship
as a lad in the yard, he was a shop steward and it was expected that
I follow in his footsteps. But it wasn’t for me; I found it, well,
overrated.
I began to rebel in 1974 because I didn’t like the work and I became
pissed off. I became an apprentice plant fitter for several years. In
those days if you didn’t have a trade, or a particular skill, you were
a nobody. I eventually left home and got my own flat. By that time
I was working as a hod carrier and brick layer, the money was much
better and the hours more flexible than they were in the shipyard,
besides I preferred the outside life.
I became more and more aware of the troubles. You could hear
the gun battles across the city, rifle fire, then automatic fire
throughout the night. You’d turn the radio on the next day and it
would confirm your worst fears of death and destruction that were
always prefaced by ‘reports coming in’ on the news. Catholics began
to move out of our [Protestant] areas, and Protestants out of theirs.
There was a lot of intimidation on both sides. —— [a UDA leader in
the early 1970s] moved into our area. —— kept alsatians, and I had
an alsatian so we met and eventually became friends. One night —
— called the local [loyalist] Braniel Tartan Gang together [these would
have been young Protestant adolescents and men aged approximately
between 14 and 22]. He was recruiting for the UDA, and the meeting
was held in a local youth club. He said, ‘Right the war has started.
You’ve seen it on TV, the bombs and the bodies. We want volunteers
to join the UDA for the defence of this area.’ There were 50 of us
there at the beginning. —— said, ‘You can leave anytime you want.
We’re only interested in volunteers who want to join to fight for God
and Ulster.’ From 50 the numbers went down to about 30, then to
ten and eventually down to five who were prepared to kill or be killed
in defence of Ulster. The uniformed UDA men walked in and the
Ulster flag was draped over the table. We all stood to attention and
one by one we were sworn into the UDA. I had a Browning pistol in
my left hand, and a bible in my right as I swore allegiance to ‘God
and Ulster and the UDA’.
We started to do regular patrols of the area. Volunteers were armed
with ‘shipyard specials’, .45s or .9 mils which had been made secretly
by loyalist workers in the shipyard. The order came down from UDA
HQ, ‘Procure weapons in preparation for an armed conflict.’ We
decided to rob a blacksmith’s/gunsmith’s in Comber. I would have
been about 161⁄2. We burgled it. We only got five shotguns, .22 rifles,
Remmington pistols and 303 ammunition. We took it to a ‘hide’ on
the outskirts of the Braniel. Shortly after that my accomplice on the
shop raid decided to take a shotgun from the hide and parade around
the estate in a stupid act of bravado. Inevitably the police picked
him up and examined the gun. The serial number matched their list
of stolen gun numbers and he was taken to Castlereagh [interroga-
tion centre] for questioning. He was put under pressure and he
informed on me, but there were no hard feelings, he would only
have been about 16 too. I maintained in court that it wasn’t a
political offence, and that it had nothing to do with any paramili-
tary organisation. I claimed to have been criminally motivated and
that the guns were stolen for self-gain. Because it was treated as a
criminal offence I ended up with a six-month sentence which I
served on remand in Armagh and Long Kesh. My accomplice was
given a small fine. If it had been proven to be a political offence I
would have ended up doing between six and twelve years. The judge
was known to be sympathetic to loyalists. In the case that was heard
before mine this Catholic guy, who was just a wee lad, had accused
these two strapping big loyalists of assaulting him. These guys [the
loyalists] had just gone to court in jeans and T-shirts. The wee
Catholic came in all polished up in his suit. The loyalists had tattoos
all over their arms, UDA, UFF, so the judge turns round to the wee
Catholic and said, ‘What did you do to provoke them? I can’t see
that there’s a case to answer here. Case dismissed.’ And that was the
Michael Stone 147
end of that. So I’d a good idea that I was going to be OK. That was
the difference. My father and I fell out after that. He would have
been a loyalist with a small L, but he didn’t agree with what the
loyalist paramilitaries were doing.
By 1984 I had progressed into the UFF as an intelligence officer, I
wasn’t in an established active service unit. I was under the control
of the UDA/UFF, but I had a certain autonomy, and I could choose
from the targets and missions that were put my way. I knew that the
[loyalist] organisations had been infiltrated and that some of the
leaders were colluding with the police. We were losing men we
shouldn’t have lost. The police were getting high-grade intelligence
tip-offs about loyalist volunteers. A lot of the operations were set-
ups. The police would have known in advance about a particular
mission or raid, and men were being apprehended en route, or even
before they went out on missions. Generally I only accepted high-
profile targets, or men who I knew to be active republicans. There
was —— for example. We knew that he was a milkman who used his
milk rounds to monitor security force patrols in west Belfast so that
the IRA could kill them. —— was a political and a military target. I
shot him as he was starting his milk round on the Boucher Road
[Belfast]. He had a young assistant with him who we knew was a
member of Provisional IRA youth wing and I had been ordered to
take them both out. I looked at the kid but he was just too young. I
couldn’t bring myself to shoot him, so I drove away and left him
there, even though I was leaving a witness behind. Hitting IRA men
was one thing but 16 year olds, that was something else. I had a
detailed knowledge about forensic science. I’d attended a lot of the
big trials and I saw how people were caught out by traces of cordite.
After every mission I would take a bath and scrub myself, first with
medical alcohol then soap and water. I used cotton wool to remove
any traces of cordite residue from my nose and ears. On rural
missions when on foot I used to wear about six pairs of socks and
boots that were four sizes too big so that if the police found footprints
at the scene they’d think it was the giant yeti with size 14 feet, or a
very tall man. After I was sure that I was clinically clean I burned
everything that I had been wearing, boots, socks, underwear,
everything. Then I took a shower, shampooed my hair again and
washed thoroughly with body lotion. I had shot —— with a shot to
the body to immobilise him, and a fatal shot to the head to finish
it. 14th Intelligence [a British Army special operations unit] also used
that technique, 1 stun, 2 kill.
One day I got a call from this ‘freelance loyalist’ in mid-Ulster. Like
me, there were very few loyalist leaders he trusted. He said he had
something that might interest me. He worked between the UDA and
the UVF just doing what suited him. He was also connected with the
‘Ulster Resistance’. I knew a lot of men, some of the very hard men,
who were shit scared of him. Even the security forces were wary of
him, but he was always good to me. I travelled down to meet with
him. He took me into this barn, and such a sight greeted me. He had
all these munitions, guns, grenades and rocket launchers laid out on
top of bails of hay. He just said take whatever you like Michael, I
know you’ll put them to good use.
My wife hadn’t a clue about what I was involved in in my secret
life. Going out on a mission I would leave in the morning with a
trailer and building material. After the mission I’d rub mud cement
into my shoes, clothes and hands, this was to give her the impression
that I was working on site. Once she said to me, ‘You’re the most
boring man I know.’ Earlier that day I had been stalking —— [a well
known republican] 70 miles away in Londonderry. The only reason
he didn’t get shot dead was because he had a child with him when
he came into the ‘killing zone’. He was driving a burnt orange VW
Jetta. I couldn’t put a child through that. —— bought all his
newspapers in the same shop every morning. And I mean all the
papers, local, Irish and English. I had been watching him for days
and just when I had him ‘set up’ an army foot patrol came along. It
was back to surveillance, I knew that. His house faced the wall of the
Brandywell football stadium. I was told that he slept in a front
bedroom because he believed that the wall would prevent a frontal
attack. So this night I walked right across the Brandywell football
pitch with aluminium extension ladders. I was up the ladder peeping
over the top of the wall directly into his house, waiting for him,
nipping up and down that ladder for what seemed like an eternity
but the bedroom light was never turned on. With no confirmation
I had to abort the overall mission.
Another time I went up to Enniskillen to sanction [assassinate]
—— [a well known Sinn Fein/IRA member]. They [loyalists] weren’t
organised up there and the IRA were ‘ethnically cleansing’ Protestants
along the border. I had been up to Enniskillen and met with local
UFF men. We had undertaken surveillance and intelligence work and
everything was planned for a hit on 24 December. I was at home on
the 22nd when I got word that John McMichael [the UDA/UFF
leader], who I respected, had been assassinated by an IRA death
Michael Stone 149
squad. That was the third UDA/UVF leader who was to be killed by
the IRA. McKeague and Bingham had all been assassinated by the
IRA’s death squads. To say that this was getting personal was
something of an understatement. I’d liked them, I’d respected them
a lot. We’d shared the same vision of taking the war to the IRA, just
as they’d brought the war to us. I rang the UFF unit in Enniskillen
and told them what had happened. I told them that it was much
more important now and that the mission had to be successful. For
my own protection on active service I told them to have concrete
blocks and cushion covers ready for me on the 24th. I was going to
put the blocks in the boot of the car and sand-filled cushion covers
at the back window to make the car as bullet proof as possible for
my getaway. We used wooden blocks on the rear of the car to raise
the suspension so as the car wouldn’t look back-heavy, to look level
and perfectly normal. The police had their training HQ in
Enniskillen, so my main concern was being shot at by some young
police recruit who was off duty at the time. I was determined to get
—— even if I had to drive the car over him. Anyway I decided to
approach on foot and to use a double-barrel shotgun hidden under
my coat for him, and a .45 to kill his minder or minders. I knew that
one person approaching them would not attract suspicion, because
people expect hit squads to have at least two people, one being a
back-up. UFF high-grade intelligence sources had informed me that
—— carried a .22 ‘star’ pistol which had been issued to him by the
security forces. He had been furious about that, because he wanted
a higher-calibre weapon, a .38 or a .45. Neither the RUC or the IRA
know that we [the UFF] knew that. As I say, we had the intelligence.
—— had been a [IRA] sniper and he knew all about guns. He knew
that you could pump nine .22 bullets into an attacker’s chest, and
that if he was determined he’d still get you. A .22 wouldn’t have
stopped me, bruised me yes but I had my chest covered just in case
[bullet-proof vest]. The chances were that —— was the only one
carrying [a weapon] so he was going down. I also knew that when a
gun is produced people freeze out of fear for a split second, and that
would give me sufficient time to shoot two or even three of them.
The chances were that the minders would panic and run after the
shotgun blast anyway. I was very confident about the whole thing,
and the only thing on my mind really was the fact that I wanted to
retaliate for my deceased comrades. I wanted that so badly it wasn’t
vengeance, it was justice I sought. I waited for —– in my car close to
the Sinn Fein office. One guy in a car wasn’t going to arouse any
suspicion. I was there for almost three hours when UFF men pulled
up in a car beside me. They told me that —— had been arrested for
possession of a firearm [AK47 rifle] that very morning. He was later
released on bail and crossed the border to the comparative safety of
the Republic. He was granted asylum, extradition back to Northern
Ireland was refused by the Republic because he claimed that he was
on Michael Stone’s death list. There’s no way that you can keep that
kind of operation secret for long. Before long everyone in Enniskillen
knew that loyalists had been up there to assassinate ——. He didn’t
like that and he wanted to leave a bloody legacy behind him. That
legacy was the Enniskillen Remembrance Day bomb. Before the assas-
sination attempt —— had been a really high-profile republican,
always on television and in the media. But nobody has heard about
him since. I think that he got the message.
The fact that I didn’t get —— was a particular disappointment to
me. Assassinating —— in his own right was important, but then he
was to be used as the bait in a much larger operation, Milltown. I’d
got the idea from the IRA. Sometime before that the IRA had killed
a police officer. His funeral was to be at Roselawn Cemetery. The IRA
had planned a two-stage operation, firstly take out an RUC member
then plant a large car bomb at the cemetery gates in an attempt to kill
members in the cortege. The car bomb’s detonator and booster charge
exploded but failed to ignite the 300 lb charge. Several mourners and
security force members were injured. That was in my mind for a long
time, and I just thought ‘Callous bastards.’ But it kept on coming
back to me, despite all the other stuff that was going on day and daily.
Then suddenly it came to me and I thought, why not carry out a
similar operation to that which they had attempted at Roselawn?
Where do you get large concentrations of IRA/Sinn Fein men? At
republican funerals. It would be possible to take out a number of key
players like —— and —— on one mission. Also a country funeral
could open up other options. They [the IRA] would have to travel
from Belfast and to do that they’d have to travel through our [loyalist
areas] territory. They could be ambushed or bombed en route, or on
the way back home. Or we could hit them at the funeral by planting
bombs or attack them directly by taking up sniping positions. It
opened up a whole range of possibilities, as it transpired a close-
quarters operation was my preferred course of action.
I was contacted by the UFF in Londonderry the following February
[1988]. They were planning a hit on a top republican IRA man. I
listened to their plan and I told them to count me in. I travelled up
Michael Stone 151
to meet them at Gulladuff, a townland I knew near Derry. The IRA

man was also a Sinn Fein councillor who travelled home for his
dinner after work, regularly leaving for council meetings before 7.00
p.m. I chose one of the local UFF men who was to be ‘blooded’ to
assist me on the operation. The plan was we would conceal ourselves
in the bushes of his laneway around 6.30 p.m. It was an isolated
rural area shrouded in darkness, it was good cover. The local UFF
acquired a Ruger pistol for me at my request. I had six rounds in the
chamber, and twelve further bullets on two ‘speed strips’, which
allowed you to reload quickly. —— [the UFF accomplice] was armed
with a Mark 5 Sterling sub-machine gun. The plan was for him to
fire several bursts into the car with the sub-machine gun and
immobilise the target then I’d go in to administer the coup de grâce
with the revolver. We made our way there cross-country tracking
several miles over fields. There was a lot of surveillance in the area
both by the army, the police and the IRA. So we had to find a route
which no one would expect. That was the night of the big storm
when trees were uprooted in Kew Gardens, with electricity supplies
disrupted all over the country. But for our purposes the bad weather
provided for additional cover. We were wearing dark blue boiler suits
and coats and we had blackened up our faces. Some time after we
had cut his telephone line we saw the car coming up the lane, it was
to be a basic ambush. We stepped out from a hedge and gate post
and I waited for the machine gun to open up and catch him in the
crossfire. When that didn’t happen I knew the gun had jammed. I
put two rounds through the driver’s window, he was screaming as
he rolled out of the car and into his fields. We pursued him, firing
again but he got away into the darkness. We made our way back to
the pick-up location and signalled for the getaway car and left the
scene at very high speed. Some distance away this car was dumped
and burnt, we transferred to another vehicle. (A year to the day after
my attack, the target was killed by the UVF. He was in the same car,
same lane. Better weaponry used. They left an AK47 at the scene.) We
got back to the safe house and several days later I went back to
Belfast. Later I learned that the target had reported the attack to the
police that night, but they refused to go out to his home for fear that
he was setting them up for the IRA. Until my arrest they didn’t
believe he’d been attacked.
For years everything had been building up. It started with La Mon
[a hotel bombed by the IRA near Belfast in which twelve Protestants
had died horrifically]. We had heard the explosion in the Braniel and
had gone up to see if we could help. There were bodies lying there
like lumps of meat, the smell of burning flesh, torsos lying there with
no arms or legs, human heads with exposed skulls and teeth. We
wanted to hit back and hit back hard but the leadership told us,
‘Don’t do anything, let the world condemn them for this!’ But the
IRA had exposed my people to this and they were going to pay the
price. Those people had been dog lovers on a night out. Then there
was Bloody Friday and all the other litany of IRA atrocities against the
British and the Ulster Protestants. I took it all personally. Then
Enniskillen. The loyalists down there told me —— gave them ‘the
finger’ [one finger gesture] after the bomb. Some members of the
loyalist leadership told me, ‘Don’t do anything, it’s bad enough press
for Sinn Fein, let the hare sit.’ But I had made my mind up, as far as
I was concerned —— was a dead man. He was head of the IRA’s
Northern Command and had given the order for the Enniskillen
massacre to be carried out.
Then there was Gibraltar. The SAS had shot dead three members
of an IRA ASU [active service unit], fortuitous would be an under-
statement as they had unwittingly helped in a plan to assassinate
Adams and McGuiness. I knew immediately that there would be a
massive republican funeral, and that it would be held at the
republican plot in Milltown Cemetery [Belfast]. I also knew that the
entire republican leadership would be there to honour their war dead.
Several days after the ‘Gib killings’ I informed a senior loyalist
paramilitary figure of my unit’s intentions and was officially given
the go-ahead. Days before the funeral we went up to reconnoitre
Milltown just to get a feel for the place. We could have used booby-
trap bombs which could have been detonated from a distance or
trip-wires, pressure plates, there were a number of devices available.
We undertook a surveillance of the whole area considering all the
options. Originally I decided that three of us would be involved in
the attack, then I thought that two of us would be less conspicuous.
But the more I studied the logistics of the mission, the more
dangerous it appeared. Eventually I decided to go alone.
Methodically ‘tooling up’ in the garden shed on the morning of
the funeral, I put the two guns and the seven grenades in place, with
40 extra rounds of ammunition in my coat pockets. Around 9.00
a.m. I kissed my wife goodbye, and I noticed the way she looked at
me. It must have been women’s intuition, she seemed to sense
something, but she just looked at me and said nothing. As I went to
work each morning I wouldn’t normally have kissed her goodbye as
Michael Stone 153
I’m a bit of a grumpy swine first thing in the mornings. I caught a

bus to the city hall. I had intended to get a black taxi up to Milltown,
but there were queues of republicans from all over Belfast going to
Milltown. The cemetery was only about a mile up the road so I
decided to walk some before hailing a cab on route. The targets I
wanted were standing close to the graves, ——, —— and ——. After
much deliberation I lobbed two grenades over the heads of the crowd
hoping that people would lie down in panic after the blasts, giving
me clear shots at the Sinn Fein/IRA targets. In the event the grenades
fell wide, and after the initial shock of the explosions part of the
crowd started coming towards me. I shouted to —— and ——, ‘Come
on and let’s be having you’, but by that stage they were cowering
behind headstones. I thought that they would lead the charge on
me. Irish patriots! Two paper tigers. I walked down towards the M1
where I was to rendezvous with my getaway car. I didn’t run from the
crowd but withdrew lobbing grenades at them, and then a few
random shots, they kept on coming but were unable to out-flank
me. When I got to the motorway there was no sign of my car, and
eventually the crowd caught up with me and I received a good
beating, in all honesty they tried to kill me, but as luck would have
it, it wasn’t my day to die. Well all’s fair in love and war and I’m not
complaining. Eventually the police arrived and I was bundled into
the back of a Land-Rover. I can remember that I was in bad shape, a
few teeth had been kicked in and I could hardly see because my eyes
were so badly swollen. The police kept slapping my face to stop me
from losing consciousness. Then it came over the police radio, ‘two
mourners have been killed at Milltown, many more injured’. One of
the police officers administering the slaps shouted at me, ‘You’ve
killed two people.’ I retorted sarcastically, ‘Brilliant …’
The conflict in Northern Ireland has been tragic, it should have
ended in the 1970s when the social reforms were put in place. But
just as long as the IRA were going for my people, I was going for
them. It was down to me and a lot of other people like me. We did
what we had to do.
7 Phase Four:
The 1990s – the Selective
Strategy and Retaliatory
Sectarian Murder
‘TOMMY’
‘Tommy’ (now in his 30s) is approximately 5’8” and lightly built. He is

an instantly likeable young man, both polite and respectful in conversa-
tion. He had worked for one of the most exclusive men’s fashion outlets in
Belfast, where he would not have been in the least out of place. ‘Tommy’
was one of the ‘new wave’ recruits who joined the UFF in 1989 largely due
to the selective targeting (of Sinn Fein/IRA) policy which was by then being
pursued by the organisation. As a member of Johnny Adair’s C Company
he was dedicated to the leadership, and totally committed to the war with
the IRA. ‘Tommy’s wife Karen had been completely unaware of his UFF
involvement until she was arrested and questioned by police following his
involvement in the Kennedy Way killings (Belfast, 1993).
I was born in Wilton Street on the Shankill Road. I had three sisters
and one brother, and I was born in the middle. I had an older brother
and sister, and two younger sisters. My family moved to a larger
house in Glencairn [Belfast] about a year after I was born. I’ve no
real memories of early childhood. I can’t remember P1, P2 or P3 or
who my teachers were, but I can remember P4, 5 and 6 [primary
school classes]. My earliest memory would have been of a sports day
at Argyle Primary School. The headmaster was called Bell. It was a
lovely sunny day in early summer and I can just remember enjoying
the sports and feeling really happy. I didn’t want that sports day to
end. I was into every kind of sport but my favourite was football, I
was football crazy. I was lucky to have so many friends in primary
school, and we all grew up together. I had friends in primary school
who are still my friends today. I enjoyed primary school, even the
teachers were friendly, and they did their best to teach you all they
could. I would have had good relationships with all my teachers. I
‘Tommy’ 155
was always about average in school, usually around the middle. My

reports would have read ‘Doing well’, ‘Has more to learn’. Even then
that one seemed a bit obvious, I mean it was primary school. When
I was in P7 I was sent to America for a six-week holiday. It was some
sort of cross-community scheme to promote mutual understanding,
so I was sent to live with a Catholic family for six weeks. There was
the mother and father and three sons, and they were good, kind
people. It was Mr and Mrs Benway, and the boys were called Chris,
Eric and George. They all went out of their way to make me feel at
home, and anything I wanted, within reason, I got. I was only eleven
but even at that age America was a real culture shock, after living in
the Shankill [the Shankill Road, Belfast]. Everything seemed ten times
bigger – the airport, the roads, the cars, the houses, the fields, the
shops, everything. They lived in a beach house in Massachusetts,
literally on the beach. A river ran past one side of the house where
the fresh water ran into the sea. So you could swim in either the salt
water or the fresh water. When it was really hot we’d swim in the
fresh water, because it was cooler. It was harder to swim in the fresh
water but that didn’t matter because you just wanted to get cooled
down. Coming from Belfast I’d never known heat like that before.
There was a tree by the river with overhanging branches and a rope
tied to it. We would run to the edge of the river bank and jump onto
the rope and splash into the river. For me at that age, that was just
magic. I got on really well with all the kids and we all had a fantastic
time that summer. Religion just didn’t come into it. There was just
one time around the end of the second week, the family all went to
chapel. They invited me in and told me that I would be very
welcome, but something told me not to go in. They just accepted
that, it was no problem. The father went in and did whatever he had
to do and then he came out five minutes later to sit in the car with
me. I thought that that was very decent of him. The house they lived
in was a mansion. It was just single storey above ground but there
was a huge basement with underground parking and a swimming
pool. It would have been about five or six times the size of my house.
Everyone there had speedboats, and all the houses had jetties
running out to sea for their boats. I spent a lot of time out at sea in
the boats and they were really fantastic, big powerful boats. We used
to race each other and we’d try to soak each other with the wake
from the boats. When there were big waves we’d surf, and that was
fantastic. As I say I was a good footballer and I was fairly fit, so I got
156 Phase Four: The 1990s
the hang of surfing very quickly. After a couple of weeks I was nearly
as good as the sons, and they really encouraged me. When the sun
was going down we’d have barbecues on the beach. The beach was
called ‘the spit’ and it was really beautiful to watch the sun going
down over the water. The barbecues were fantastic, even the smell
was fantastic. There would have been fresh sweetcorn, ribs, steak and
big pink prawns. I’d never tasted food like it. There were a few stray
dogs on the beach, who only seemed to come out at night and even
they got fed.
But it wasn’t all just beach life. They took me out for runs in the
car, and that was great too because the car was air-conditioned and
you were dead cool in the car while the outside temperature would
have been in the 90s. They took me to Boston a couple of times to
show me around and I enjoyed that too. If you wanted a drink or an
ice cream or a burger, it was never a problem. As I say they couldn’t
have been nicer to me. After six weeks I’d really got used to all of
that, and that lifestyle, but then it was back home to Belfast, and I
can tell you I really didn’t want to leave. But I was just eleven, and
when you are eleven you just do what you’re told and get on with
it. I can remember getting off the plane at Belfast and my heart sank,
even though the weather was good. The one time I was out of
Northern Ireland, they’d had a heatwave.
I went to the Boys’ Model Secondary School, and I didn’t like it
much, I don’t think that any of us did. There was a lot of truanting,
everybody did it, so I’d take time off as well. The result of that was I
didn’t do half as well academically as I should have. So I more or less
just drifted through school and sort of went through the motions.
There was an apathy about doing school work, but there was an
apathy about the teachers as well, nobody had their hearts in it. As
I say the only thing I really enjoyed in school was the football, and
most of my friends would have been the same. I just wanted to leave
school at the earliest opportunity, get a job and start earning money.
I started working for Parsons and Parsons [a Belfast clothing
company] when I was 16. I was told that it was a good job with
prospects but at the beginning I was only earning £42 per week. I’d
probably have been better off unemployed and claiming benefits,
after I paid tax, insurance and travelling, but that wasn’t part of my
culture, or my family’s culture. So I worked hard and always did more
than I was asked to do, to try to get ahead. In the beginning I was
working in ladies’ and gentlemen’s formal dress hire. I progressed
‘Tommy’ 157
from message boy to working in the stock rooms and eventually to

dealing directly with the public in the fitting rooms. I was with
Parsons and Parsons for about five and a half years and towards the
end I would have been earning about £200 a week, which wasn’t bad
really. There was a religiously mixed workforce in Parsons and
Parsons, but there was no bad feeling whatever. We were just ordinary
decent people trying to earn a living. We would go to the Slieve
Donard Hotel in Newcastle for the staff ‘dos’ and we all socialised
together and had a great time. That always provided us with the
gossip for months afterwards. There was one Catholic guy I got on
well with in particular and we’d have a pint together in Belfast on a
Saturday, before we went home to our respective areas.
I met my wife Karen when I was 19 and we just hit it off together
from the start. I’d been out with lots of girls before but with Karen
it was different, and she felt the same way. After a few months she
became pregnant. Now that hadn’t exactly been planned, but I
suppose a part of me was hoping that it would happen. I was
overjoyed when I found out about it and Karen couldn’t have been
happier. She’d always wanted to have a child and get married. We
were living in a small two-bedroom terraced house on the Alliance
Road, and our parents helped us, as much as they could, with
bedding and furniture. Karen had to give up work, so there was only
my salary. I worked hard fixing the house up, until we got it just the
way we wanted it, ready for the child.
Before 1989 the UDA would have had a bad reputation in the area.
A lot of the UDA leaders were doing very nicely out of it. Those guys
didn’t care about the loyalist cause, or any other cause for that matter,
their only interest was in how much they could make from the UDA.
Around 1989 we were aware that a new leadership was being formed.
You had people like ——, who made no bones about it, he and others
like him wanted to go for the IRA and Sinn Fein. Some of the UDA
leaders before the new leadership actually worked for the security
forces, and others had made deals with the IRA to leave them alone.
The new leadership was different, the IRA were actively trying to kill
them, and there had been repeated assassination attempts on them.
While the police had left the old leadership in peace, because of their
‘understandings’, the new leadership were arrested and taken to
Castlereagh [interrogation centre] all the time. The new leadership
transformed the morale within the UDA, and good men were joining
it again to take the war to the IRA and Sinn Fein. The IRA were still
bombing and murdering all over the place. As far as the police and
the army were concerned it was ‘an acceptable level of violence’. But
it wasn’t acceptable to us [loyalists]. We wanted to take them [the
IRA and Sinn Fein] on once and for all, to finish it. The IRA had been
there all my life killing civilians, police officers and soldiers, bombing
and devastating towns and cities. That’s what I grew up with, it was
what my entire generation had grown up with, and we’d just had
enough of it. I simply couldn’t understand how the Protestant and
British people in Northern Ireland had been so complacent for so
long. Who were these people [the IRA] anyway. It doesn’t take too
much to plant a bomb, or to shoot some poor guy in the back. The
UDA and the UFF post-1989 had a simple strategy to deal with them,
find out who they are and kill them, before they killed even more
innocent people. In the early 1990s there was a lot of talk about
collusion, and about intelligence being passed to the UDA and the
UVF by the army and security forces. Now I never directly
encountered anything like that, but it wouldn’t have surprised me,
because the security forces weren’t allowed to engage the IRA, so the
UDA and UFF were increasingly doing the job for them, ‘taking out’
known Sinn Fein/IRA operators. The way I saw it the UDA and the
UFF were becoming increasingly like a special forces operation for
the police and the army. Brian Nelson had been the head of UFF
intelligence and a British Army agent before he was arrested for
collusion in 1989. An MI5 officer in a Sunday Times report recently
called him a ‘patriot’ and a ‘hero’. The same MI5 officer complained
that he had been ‘shabbily’ treated by the authorities after his cover
was blown in 1989. So there you have an MI5 officer in the British
secret service calling the head of UFF intelligence ‘a patriot’. That
actually surprised people, but it shouldn’t have, because the British
security forces and the UFF have a common enemy, the IRA. I
personally think that when the loyalist paramilitaries started selective
targeting [of Sinn Fein/IRA], information could have been passed on
by the security forces, simply because the IRA were murdering police
officers and soldiers, and they wanted it stopped. And there is only
one way to stop IRA terrorists, and that’s by terrorising them,
terrorising the terrorists. To hold them responsible for everything
they do, the British or Protestant people get ‘hit’, they get ‘hit’. They
called it ‘returning the serve’, and the timing of that was very
important. The sooner it happened the better, so that everyone would
see and know why it happened. That was the reactive part, but it
had to be proactive as well. The IRA and Sinn Fein had to know that
they were being hunted for a change, the victimisers had to become
‘Tommy’ 159
the victims, the victims of their own violence. It’s just like they say:
live by the sword, die by the sword.
I suppose the event which changed my life was the murder of a
good friend of mine, William Thompson. He was older than me by
about five or six years but we were the best of mates. A crowd of us
would go away at weekends to a house which we would rent in the
country. Some of the boys had legally held shotguns, so we’d have
clay pigeon shooting, play cards and drink a few beers. We always
had a great time together and we really enjoyed each others company.
There was a lot of banter and good crack and we sparked off each
other. The IRA murdered Billy on the Crumlin Road just outside
Everton Girls’ School. He had been hit by nine bullets as he was
dropping a passenger off. His family arrived at the scene while the
police were still there with Billy’s body and they were completely
devastated when they saw what had happened to him. That was a
completely sectarian murder, Billy was killed because he was a
Protestant, period. I know for a fact that he had no involvement in
any loyalist paramilitary organisation, not even on the fringes. He
came from a good decent family and none of them would have been
involved in anything like that. The sad thing was Billy had only been
taxiing for a couple of weeks. He was an ordinary decent young
Protestant trying to make a living. He did his last run on the Shankill
Road at 11 o’clock at night, and then he did another two or three
hours in town [Belfast]. I was distraught when I heard that he’d been
murdered but they [the IRA] weren’t content with that. They went
on to claim that he was a sectarian murderer. They attempted to
justify what they had done by blackening his name after they had
killed him. That hurt his family almost as much as the murder itself
because those people wouldn’t ever have been involved in anything
like that. They had killed him and then tried to claim that he was a
legitimate target, so as far as I was concerned the IRA were legitimate
targets after that. Eventually I joined the UFF with the intention of
taking out IRA men, and I knew that that was the UFF strategy by the
1990s. The only exception to that was if the IRA killed innocent
Protestants, the UFF was prepared to kill innocent Catholics in
retaliation. It did that so as the wider Catholic community would
realise that if innocent Protestants were killed and if we couldn’t get
IRA men, then they would pay the price. What that effectively meant
was if the wider Catholic community wanted to be left in safety then
the IRA had to stop killing innocent Protestants and British people,
so it was up to the Catholic community to put pressure on the IRA.
Timing was very important in all of that. There was no point at all
in killing Catholics in retaliation six months after innocent
Protestants were killed, because that was seen and presented by the
media as random sectarian murder. The psychology in all of this was
important and the Catholic community had to learn that if they
countenanced the IRA’s murder of innocent Protestants, as they had
done for 20 years, they would suffer the consequences with an equal
brutality, and in very quick succession. The UFF really didn’t want to
get bogged down with that because our principal targets were IRA
men, but equally we couldn’t stand by as innocent Protestants and
other British citizens were being killed. The loyalists had been accused
of being mindless sectarian killers but it was always about
maintaining a balance of terror. But the wider public didn’t see it
that way because they couldn’t see the sequence in it. Too much time
lapsed between innocent Protestants being killed and ordinary
Catholics being killed because then it was seen as random, and not
as ‘a return of serve’ that had always been dependent upon, and
conditional upon, the murder of innocent Protestants, or British
citizens more generally, be it civilians, police or army personnel. Yes
hundreds of innocent Catholics were killed who never should have
been killed, but the IRA was responsible for that, because Catholics
were killed in retaliation for the murder of Protestants and British
citizens.
Karen had a very straightforward pregnancy but when it got close
to the birth I was frantic with worry. I didn’t show that outwardly
but that’s how it felt inside. I didn’t want her to have to go through
all of that pain and distress. Would she be alright? Would the child be
OK? But when Ryan was born we were both overjoyed, really over the
moon. I loved him and I felt responsible for him from the first minute
I saw him. By that time I was in the UDA because I saw the calibre of
the new men who were joining. Those men joined for one reason
and one reason only, to put the IRA out of business. Ironically in a way
Ryan’s being born pushed me further into the organisation. I’d known
nothing but trouble and murder and death all my life in Northern
Ireland, and the people truly responsible for that were the IRA. I didn’t
want Ryan to go through life as I had, and there was only one way to
achieve that, to eradicate the aggressor, to remove, or at the very least
to neutralise, the IRA. That’s when I decided to move to the military
side of the UFF. I became a member of an ASU based in Belfast. It was
very tight, very disciplined. But the changes [in the UDA/UFF] evolved
slowly, you didn’t get to be as professional as the Provos overnight.
‘Tommy’ 161
More and more recruits were coming in and it wasn’t like before, these
were high-calibre men. There was a small number of [UFF] ASUs but
they were very highly organised and very effective.
There is only a small number of men who are actually in an ASU,
but they depend on a lot of support players. You had to get clothes,
get transport, get guns, sometimes a backup car, get in, do the
business, get out, go to a safe house or safe houses, get cleaned [i.e.
forensically], get away and get an alibi. All of that involved a lot of
people and organisation, and more often than not you never knew
who they were, either before or afterwards. You entrusted your life
and liberty to strangers but we knew that none of those people would
let us down. The IRA knew that we were going after them, and that
we were going to hurt them. The IRA and the media portrayed us
[the UFF] as drunks and thugs, who celebrated our missions by going
back into the local bar and boasting about what we did. But that was
all lies, planned misrepresentation. When we were on active service
we didn’t drink, because if you weren’t 100 per cent you were a
liability both to yourself and more importantly to your unit. After a
mission I went back to Karen and Ryan and had a cup of tea, just as
if everything was normal. I just said to the boys, when you need me,
come and get me.
I remember the day of the Shankill bomb, everybody remembers
what they were doing or where they were that day. It was a bit like
the day President Kennedy was shot I suppose. Karen and I had been
out with baby Ryan to get coal, because we had nearly run out of
coal and the house had to be kept warm for Ryan. Shortly after we
got home a neighbour whose husband worked for the Belfast
Telegraph ran in to tell us that the Shankill had been bombed. The
Belfast Telegraph’s switchboard had picked up the news almost
immediately and her husband had phoned to make sure that she
was alright. I drove straight to the Shankill to see what I could do. It
didn’t take me long to realise that a bomb had been detonated. When
I arrived on the scene there were about 300 people standing shell-
shocked around what had been Frizzell’s fish shop. It was difficult
to get through the police lines to join the people who were trying to
help to get the people and the bodies out of the rubble. When I saw
what had actually happened I was gutted. There were bodies of men,
women and children lying in the rubble. Grown men were crying
with blood streaming from their hands from where they had been
frantically searching through the broken bricks and masonry. I just
can’t describe how I felt standing there, I think I was actually in
shock. Karen and Ryan could easily have been there, in that shop.
The IRA claimed that it was a strike against the UFF, that the UFF
were holding a meeting there. The reality was that it had been a
random bombing designed to turn the ordinary people away from
the UFF through murdering and terrorising them, men, women and
children. Of course what it actually achieved was the opposite of
that. The ordinary people had completely given up on the police
and the army in protecting them, they began increasingly to look to
us [the UFF]. We were inundated with young loyalist recruits but by
that stage we were only interested in quality not quantity, so we were
very selective. That was in October 1993, ‘Black October’, and the
Provos had ‘upped the anti’ big time. They started the ball rolling, it
was a war situation, and things had to be done. Karen would have
been just 20 and Ryan was about five months but that didn’t matter
at that time, I sent the word out, ‘I’m ready to move.’ The entire UFF
was mobilised, and we were all on standby and it was ‘watch this
space’. I sat and watched the television coverage of the bomb, and
the sadness of it all got to me, but more than that it was the hope-
lessness of it, as if these things happened and we’d just have to accept
it. I just thought, ‘Fuck that, these things only happen because the
IRA make them happen, so right we’ll go for the IRA and their
supporters. We’ll take the war to them for a change, just as they had
brought the war to us.’ By Sunday [the next day] I still hadn’t been
called and it was eating me up because I wanted to go for these
bastards and I didn’t want to waste any time in doing it. By mid-
afternoon still no one had sent for me so I went to a location in
Belfast and told certain people there, ‘Look I’m offering my services,
regardless [i.e. of what the mission is], you know where I am when
you need me.’ I didn’t understand the delay at the time but I know
now that all our [the UFF’s] IRA and republican targets moved south
[i.e. out of Northern Ireland]. They had disappeared overnight. The
IRA and republicans didn’t want to pay the price for what they did
to the Protestant civilians on the Shankill, but they were happy
enough to let ordinary Catholics take the retaliation, and the dogs
on the street could have told you that there would be retaliation.
On the Monday night I was collected and taken to a house in the
Village [an area of the Donegal Road in Belfast]. We drove past the
cleaning depot off Kennedy Way where we were to strike the next
day. They were going to drive past again to let me see the area for a
second time, but I said, ‘No I have it in my head.’ I’m like that, you
only have to show me something once and that’s it, I’ve got it. I said
‘Tommy’ 163
to the other two, ‘Look don’t worry, I’ll get you in and I’ll get you
back out, it’s not a problem.’ Then I asked them, ‘Are the targets IRA?’
One guy then said, ‘Look, were those women and wee children on
the Shankill UFF?’ Then he said, ‘Look, this is west Belfast they’re all
republicans or Sinn Fein supporters up here.’
Now I had been on two missions before where we’d been ‘tooled
up’ in IRA territory and we could have easily killed Catholics but we
didn’t, because we were after specific targets [i.e. IRA men]. I was
charged with the attempted murder of an IRA man in 1993. We drove
to his house, we were wearing masks and carrying guns, in the middle
of republican Belfast. His car wasn’t there and the house was clean
[empty] so we just aborted the mission and drove straight out of
there. On another occasion we were going for the IRA quartermaster
in the Ardoyne [off the Antrim Road in Belfast] and that was the
same story, we couldn’t get him, our selected target, so it was out of
there, just abort the mission.
But this was different, this was the aftermath of the Shankill bomb,
and if the IRA were prepared to murder our people, we were similarly
prepared to murder people within its host community. The only
difference was we [‘Tommy’s unit] weren’t prepared to murder
women and children.
I got up at 6.30 sharp on the Tuesday morning and I made sure
not to wake Karen getting out of bed. I made a cup of tea and left the
house. I pushed the car down the street before I started it, again, so
as not to wake Karen. I drove out to the Village and parked just a
couple of streets away from the safe house. I walked over to the safe
house, the door was unlatched and I just went in. There was a girl
called Wendy already in the house, and she shouldn’t have been
there. The house was to have been left empty for us. Then the other
two [the gunmen] walked in so she saw them as well. I was angry
about that but there was no point in shouting at her, because she
was just a loyalist trying to help us. What happened, happened, but
it was a serious breach of security, and in normal circumstances we
would have simply walked away and aborted the mission completely,
that would have been standard procedure for us. But these weren’t
normal circumstances, and we were determined to press on with the
attack and avenge the Shankill, regardless. We knew that we were
killing innocents, like for like, but we hadn’t started that, and we
had no choice because the ‘Ra’ [IRA] had gone to ground, so as we
couldn’t target them. I can’t explain how I cut off from that
[‘Tommy’s more characteristic sense of morality], but I did. I couldn’t
normally have killed ordinary people, who happened to be Catholics,

but I just felt pushed into it. If you weren’t prepared to be as ruthless
as them [the IRA] you were going to lose. I didn’t sit down and try
to work it out, I was completely driven by my instinct, I did it because
I had to do it, and it was as simple as that.
I drove the two gunmen to Kennedy Way and then to the depot.
One was carrying an AK47 and the other a Mach 10, with 20 rounds.
They were wearing DoE [Department of the Environment] coats to
blend in with their environment. They put on balaclavas and locked
and loaded the guns and walked into the yard were the workmen
where. There were about 12 or 15 men there in all and they were
standing around outside the office. The two gunmen opened fire,
just a burst from the AK and then the Mach 10. There were several
more bursts. One of the employees ran out of the yard, screaming,
waving his arms in the air. Blood was streaming out of one of his
hands where he must have been shot. I knew by that stage that some
of those employees were dead by now. [Two men were actually killed
and several more were seriously injured.] I was sitting outside the
yard and I was fairly fired up when I noticed a red Sierra pull up on
the opposite side of the road. I knew that he wasn’t security forces
or IRA, because he just looked like an insignificant nosy bastard, so
I ignored him. The two gunmen got back into the car, quite calm
and collected. I then did a U-turn on the road and drove away in the
direction we had arrived from. I drove away quickly but not fast
enough to draw attention to us. I looked in the mirror and fuck me
it was that red Sierra behind us. We had a backup car further behind
us and we radioed to it to push in right on our tail to lose the Sierra.
He pushed in, in front of the Sierra, forcing it to brake, then he
jammed on his brakes forcing the Sierra to stop dead. We lost them
in traffic after that. The two gunmen stayed down on the floor until
we got back to the Village. Then it was into the safe house. We
changed our clothes and dumped the gear [guns] and made our way
back to the Shankill. We got there just in time to see one of the
funerals going down the Shankill Road. [It had been the Morrison
family, Michael Morrison, Evelyn Baird (his partner) and their seven
year old daughter, Michelle.]
A short time after the shooting I was arrested and taken to
Castlereagh. I was questioned, and they were good, they used every
trick in the book. Then they told me that they were arresting Karen
as an accomplice to murder. About a day later they took me from
the interview room and down the corridor to the cells. They walked
Johnny Adair 165
me past another interview room and the door was three quarters
open. Two police officers were interviewing Karen and I could hear
that she was breaking her heart. I could only see her hands but I
recognised her voice and the engagement ring. I knew that they were
using psychology, there was nothing that they could charge her with
because she didn’t know anything about my involvement. They were
using Karen to get to me and I knew that, I knew it was all part of the
game plan, but knowing that didn’t help. On two further occasions
they walked me past that room and I could see that Karen was
becoming even more upset, they had her crying her eyes out. I had
been trained in anti-interrogation techniques, but I hadn’t been
trained how to handle that. They told me that all I had to do was
make a statement and they’d release Karen, and that she could go
home to look after Ryan. By that stage they had built up a very good
case against me and I knew that they knew that I had been involved.
It was shortly after that that I signed a statement and Karen was
released. The rest is just history, I’ve been in prison ever since [1993].*
JOHNNY ADAIR
Johnny Adair (now in his 40s) is one of the most striking men I have ever
met. 5’8”, muscle-bound, T-shirted, and bristling with physical energy, he
seemed perfectly at home in prison. He was obviously deeply suspicious of
me, as he would be of anyone beyond his control. Adair exuded a sense of
dangerousness and of raw power. There was a thinly veiled wildness about
him which in normal military circumstances would inspire the men but
profoundly concern the officers. But this was no conventional army, and
Adair controlled precisely those who should have constrained him,
ultimately in his and in his own family’s interests.
I always knew that something was wrong within the organisation

[UDA/UFF 1986–89]. Major atrocities were happening [perpetrated
by the IRA] and we weren’t being allowed to hit back. The leadership
then told us it wasn’t just about guns, there were political consider-
ations. I said, ‘Fuck, we’re the UFF, we’re about guns not fucking
politics.’ They would say, ‘Look, we know the way you feel, but the
time’s not right.’ So we [the UFF] sat around on our hands watching
the IRA doing just whatever they wanted, and getting away with it.
* ‘Tommy’ was released on 28 July 2000, under the early release provisions of
the Good Friday Agreement.

We knew that there was something badly wrong, but what could you
do about it? If you challenged the leadership you could have ended
up in a body bag in somebody’s wheelie bin. Then there was the
Stevens Enquiry which investigated police and loyalist collusion. As
it turned out the leader of the UFF was acting as an agent for the
security forces. The British [intelligence service] had to sanction
everything the UDA/UFF did. So the odd time they [the UFF] would
have been allowed to target some fucking IRA man the police and the
army couldn’t get, but who they [the British] wanted taken out. Those
were the crumbs off the table thrown to them [the UFF] to keep them
happy. The Stevens Enquiry was the best thing that ever happened
to the UDA/UFF. It removed leadership which had accepted suitcases
full of money from the British intelligence services to keep the UFF
out of the game. It took them out, removed them.
After that there was a major clean-up [within the UDA/UFF]. All
the criminal elements and men who might have been informers were
removed. They only kept people they knew inside out, people from
known families who had a history of loyalist involvement. The order
was given, ‘Everybody watch everybody else, for the good and safety
of membership.’ And that’s what they did. They [UFF] knew all about
each other’s movements and we checked in with each other all the
time. Just doing that brought them closer together and gave them a
sense of unity and purpose. The organisation and the war became
higher and higher priorities. They started to bond as an organisation
and that was going to be very important for the task which lay ahead.
The first task in front of them was intelligence, to build up the body
of intelligence upon the IRA and Sinn Fein. Sinn Fein and the IRA are
one and the same and everybody knows that. They want to be a
political movement and a terrorist organisation, but that’s impossible,
it’s a contradiction. The UDP for example, they’re completely separate
from the UFF. They can advise them, and they can act as persuaders
but they aren’t military and that’s the difference. Our [military]
brigade staff make all the operational decisions. The biggest mistake
IRA/Sinn Fein ever made was in taking their masks off. If you’re in a
terrorist organisation you can’t do that. You compromise yourself
and your organisation. You blow your cover completely and you
leave yourself exposed and vulnerable.
When they decided to do that they must have known it was over
[that the IRA’s military campaign was over]. There is some suggestion
that the leadership wanted to go political, and they wanted to go
political before they were killed, because that’s the way things were
Johnny Adair 167
going. Obviously they had a problem with their troops on the ground
because all those guys knew about were AKs and Semtex. They didn’t
give a damn about politics, for them it was just AKs and Semtex. So
it just might have been very clever, get them to take the masks off,
make them feel vulnerable as well, that concentrates the mind
wonderfully. I was always very curious about IRA strategy and tactics,
some of it was brilliant. The UFF actually adopted the IRA’s strategy
and tactics and used it against them. They knew just how good it
was because we’d been on the receiving end of it. But there were
huge contradictions in the IRA’s strategy. Like the hunger strikes. The
entire Roman Catholic population supported the hunger strikers. I
firmly believe the hunger strike was set up by the British to achieve
precisely that outcome. All they had to do was give the men [the
protesting prisoners] their own clothes, end of problem. American,
European and world opinion supported the protesters, and the IRA
had an unrivalled amount of support. If I had been an IRA
commander, and if those had been my men, I would have bombed
the London Underground, Birmingham, Liverpool, Manchester,
Newcastle, even Dublin. In military terms it was a gift, and I would
have pressed on to the full advantage. And what did the IRA do?
Practically nothing. There were only two outcomes after the hunger
strikes – total war, or a negotiated settlement, and that was going to
have to be within a partitionist framework [i.e. involving an IRA
acceptance of the legitimacy of the Northern Ireland state, and the
recognition that a united Ireland remained a longer-term aspiration].
By 1991 the UFF had got its act together. The UFF had collected
intelligence on a significant number of IRA men and women. They
were undertaking regular surveillance of them all over Northern
Ireland, and even in the Republic [of Ireland]. At first they [the UFF]
acted reactively, if a loyalist or member of the security forces was hit
the IRA was hit. Then they [the UFF] started operating proactively,
they began to target and hunt the [IRA] leadership. The UFF was for
the first time reversing the roles, and taking the war to the IRA. The
UFF were operational in the republican heartland of west Belfast. The
IRA were being rattled as never before. UFF men even let the IRA
know that they were there. They would set an IRA man up for a hit,
say using two cars. The IRA man would catch on, but then the ASU
would just drive off. It was like a calling card. Connolly House, the
IRA’s HQ in Andersonstown was hit three times in about a week.
They used grenades, rockets and AK47s. From 1990 to the ceasefires
26 IRA/Sinn Fein men were ‘taken out’.
There was one particular UFF unit, UFF 2nd Battalion C Company.
They had been very active. They were on the job 24 hours a day,
everyday. The men in C Company virtually lived with each other
and they became like a brotherhood. It would be true to say that
they would have been prepared to die for each other. They had one
mission in life and that was to put the IRA out of business. And they
took that mission very seriously. But there were funny times as well.
On one occasion the leader had given —— guns to hide until they
were needed. —— was an army fanatic and he was always reading
books about the SAS. He would actually call to your door to tell you
about some SAS exploit he’d read about. He called with the leader
on this particular night. The leader had guns which he wanted
hidden until they were needed. So he gave —— the guns to hide,
and as far as —— was concerned this was a great privilege. Anyway
if someone gives you guns to hide the chances are you’ll take them
home and hide them in your roof space, or put them under
floorboards. But not ——, he’d taken the guns halfway up the Black
Mountain and buried them in a field 20 paces away from a big
chestnut tree. This had been in the summertime and —— had taken
his bearings from the sun. The leader needed the guns urgently so
they took spades and travelled out to the field. By now of course it
was November and the cloud cover was thick and very dark, you
couldn’t even see the sun. After a couple of hours’ digging nothing
was found so they stopped because they had to attend a [loyalist]
funeral at one o’clock. After the funeral all the men went to a bar.
They were all dressed in their best suits and everything else. The
leader was desperate to get the guns, so he announced that —— [a
deceased loyalist leader] had buried £50,000 in a field, and that if
they could find it, it would be shared out equally. So these 50 men
all drove out to the field and in their best clothes, in the pouring
rain, began to dig for the buried money. They dug that field up until
it got too dark, but the guns were never found. They tell me that
some of the men still go out to dig in that field. The leader just lets
them carry on because some day they just might find the guns.
The IRA have wanted to kill me for years. I told you about the last
time when I was shot in Botanic Gardens.
The selective targeting of the IRA hurt them [the IRA], and it hurt
them badly. They decided that they wanted me killed, which in a
way was a measure of the UFF’s success against them.
Johnny Adair 169
Back in 1990 I was starting to come to the attention of the security

forces. I was arrested and questioned by the RUC. They offered me
money in an attempt to bribe me, but I was having nothing to do
with that. They told me that they could offer me protection and that
the IRA were out to kill me. They told me that the IRA could kill me
in my street, in my home, or while travelling to and from home, or
they could kill me at the [UDA/UFF] headquarters, or they could kill
me when I was taking my children to and from primary school. The
interesting thing was that the IRA went on to try to kill me at all
those locations. The first time was outside Berlin Street [UDA/UFF]
headquarters. Unknown to me two IRA men had had me under sur-
veillance. It was a nice warm sunny day and two men got out from
a car and they walked toward us. We [Johnny Adair and his
bodyguard] got into our car. We knew that they were there but we
didn’t think too much about it. They had no hoods on or anything
and they were just casually walking down the footpath. The next
thing I saw was the glint of an AK47 being pulled out from under
this guy’s coat, his associate pulled out a handgun. I thought I knew
the tactic they would use: immobilise me and the car with the AK,
and then it would be one to the head at point-blank range with the
handgun. Those guys were cool, professional. Instead of spraying the
car with automatic fire like a hot head this guy clicked the AK into
single-shot mode. An AK47 will make a hole in metal the size of your
fist. This was obviously a top guy [IRA man]. He systematically riddled
the car, it was a white Vauxhall Carlton, and it was completely
riddled. There were gaping holes in the driver’s seat where I’d been
sitting. —— rolled out of the car and he was shot in the leg. I was
grazed on the side and on the left arm, but by rights I should have
been dead. Bullets had been coming in all around me. The Carlton
was big enough for me to wedge myself up under the steering wheel
and I just kept my body pressed down. The bullets that should have
got me were lodged in the engine block. Then the two IRA men just
walked away convinced that I couldn’t have lived through that. The
ironic thing was if they had sent some idiot who would just have
sprayed the car with AK automatic fire, I would have been killed.
The guys they sent were too professional for their own good. They
went by the book and they should have got me. The size of the car’s
cylinder block probably saved me.
A short time after that an IRA hit team was apprehended behind
my house. They had been sent from Andersonstown. As it happened
the police were undertaking surveillance of my movements and they
arrested them. They were charged with conspiracy to murder. They

[the IRA] hadn’t sent a couple of adolescents to get me. One of those
guys was 39 and the other one was 42. They were mature, seasoned
terrorists who had obviously done the business [killed] before.
Where I live, on the Shankill, is one of the most heavily policed
areas in Northern Ireland. Another IRA hit team was identified
targeting my house. The police gave chase. They were stopped and
caught in Brompton Park. They were carrying a shotgun and a Regur
rifle. Ballistics traced the gun and it had been used previously in the
murder of a UFF man.
On another occasion the intelligence service tried to kill me. 14th
Intelligence. They’re a special army unit, covert operations, SAS
trained and they’re good, they are very good. You could be talking
to one of them and you wouldn’t even know it. I’ve got security
cameras in my house, you walk past and a light goes on and the short
circuit TV bleeps. There were four of us in the front room, and we
were watching this really short fat guy, a nondescript, walking up
and down outside the house. We went out and called to this guy,
‘Why are you walking up and down here?’ He began to walk away
quickly, and we followed him shouting, ‘Hey, who are you?’ The guy
stopped and stooped over. The next thing his arm sweeps around
perfectly straight, for precision firing. My reaction was to jerk back
so fast I fell, and so I missed the bullet. It hit —— behind me but
lucky for him he had a chunky key ring attached to this belt, and
the bullet hit that, probably saving his life. The next thing we knew
cars came from everywhere, guys in civilian clothes, just a driver in
each car. 14th Int. Very quickly after that the police arrived, so
obviously they had to abort their mission. This wee short fat guy,
you would never have thought he was a soldier, never mind special
ops. That was the beauty of 14th Int. They blended in with the
environment. Nobody knew who the fuck they were. That taught us
lessons too, to use the most unlikely people in intelligence work.
Talking about the 14th Int., there was another occasion when a
lone female from the 14th Int. had been driving around the Shankill,
and then into the [republican] Ardoyne. A police SASU [special active
service unit] had followed her and assumed that she was going in
for a hit. As far as they were concerned she was probably a loyalist
gunwoman. Two undercover police cars which had been following
her rammed her car at Carlisle Circus. It was what they called a ‘hard
hit’. That would stun most people and we know because it’s
happened to our people. Anyway the police rammed her car at speed,
Johnny Adair 171
and these guys were good. Their uniforms were near enough all black
and they could almost pick any weapons they wanted from the RUC’s
armoury. Again like the SAS. Anyway they hit the 14th Int. girl’s car
and the first officer moved in holding his weapon high, pointing it
at the driver’s front window. She put her feet up on the dash, and
lowered her head and body right down on the seat. Using a high
calibre revolver she fired under the wheel grip of the steering wheel,
bang, bang, bang, bang. The police officer fell dead. As she was under
the dashboard level she didn’t provide the police with a target and
they weren’t about to find out if she had another firearm, or if she’d
reloaded. 14th Int. guys just arrived on the scene from nowhere and
she was out of there. The police couldn’t have stopped them
retrieving one of their own from a war-zone situation. The SASUs
were good, but they knew when to back off. As far as she was
concerned the un-uniformed police could have been Provos, or even
us, because she’d cruised the Shankill going past UDA/UFF
personnel’s homes. Had we been following her we might have
thought that she was a Provo, going back to the Ardoyne. But it
would have been highly unlikely, the Provo ASUs usually consisted
of two or three men. It just wasn’t their style, a lone female. So we’d
probably have assumed she was 14th Int. or some other British special
forces outfit, and we would have pulled back to surveillance status,
attacking only if we’d been attacked.
The police told me about another attempted hit. An IRA team had
set off from north Belfast to shoot me as I took my children to school.
Police intelligence had been on the case. Apparently the car the IRA
men were using had broken down and they found it abandoned as
they were making their way to Tennant Street [where the primary
school was located].
On another occasion the IRA took over a house opposite my house.
An old retired couple lived there and they were taken hostage. There
were two IRA men and they tied the old couple up. Fair enough they
told them that they wouldn’t be harmed, and that they were there
to kill Johnny Adair. One of the guys was carrying a grip. He was a
blond-haired baby-faced guy and they said that he was dead cool.
They produced two AKs from the grip and snapped in the magazines.
The front bedroom had two windows and they [the IRA men] each
went to a window and positioned themselves. They were there for
two hours but when I didn’t arrive they aborted the mission. After
that the old couple moved out, and I was sorry about that because
I’d liked them, and I knew that I was responsible for that. They told
me not to worry before they left, because they knew that there was
a war going on. They wished me good luck and they meant it. There
were tears in the old girl’s eyes.
That same house was then taken over by a loyalist couple. They
were loyalists but they had no connections with the paramilitaries.
They offered to keep a look out for anything suspicious in the street.
If there was anything odd going on they told me that they would
pull a blind down, ordinarily they just used the curtains. So every
time I went out, or came into the house, I’d look over to their house
to check the blinds. The IRA arrived and took over the house again.
It was another two-man team. This time one of the guys was a wee
fat man. After they had occupied the house the [loyalist] guy’s wife
got up to pull a blind, but the fat guy told her not to move. He was
a professional and she knew that he would have killed her. Then a
knock came on the door. It was a friend of the family, an off-duty
UDR who was with a friend of his. The IRA man told —— to bring
them into the house. The UDR man caught on to the set-up
immediately. He knew that the IRA men would search him, and that
they would find his legally held revolver, and that they’d kill him,
taking him for a loyalist paramilitary, or a member of the security
forces. He pulled his gun and fired a single shot into the air, and then
pointed the gun towards each of them in turn. The IRA guys
panicked. The AKs weren’t loaded. They were lying on the floor with
the magazines beside them. They [the IRA men] just ran straight out
of the house and down into Snugville Street where they hijacked a
car and made their escape.
Shortly after that I was arrested and charged with directing terrorist
operations. Policemen, who I thought I’d had friendly relations with,
had secretly tape-recorded our conversations and they were used in
evidence against me. Incredibly enough I had actually trusted police
officers, but I thought that they were just a couple of decent wee
men. They were uniform, not special branch, and to me they were
lightweights. It never occurred to me that two wee shits like that
could ever pose a threat to me. Obviously I’m not saying anything
about that. I would like to say, however, that I was very glad when
the IRA declared their ceasefire. They had a clear choice: stop the
killing or die. What did they get after 30 years? Nothing. We hadn’t
wanted the war in the first place, but some people weren’t prepared
to let them [the IRA] away with what they were doing. There was
going to be a heavy, heavy price to be paid for the pain and hurt
‘Gordon’ 173
they brought to my people, the Protestant and British people of

Northern Ireland and the United Kingdom.
‘GORDON’
‘Gordon’ (now in his 40s) was military, there was just no mistaking that.
Well built, approximately 6’ tall, and obviously very fit, he exuded that
special understated confidence of a soldier who is a master at his craft. He
may have been a UDA prisoner in the UFF wings of the Maze, but he could
as easily have been an SAS man operating undercover. ‘Gordon’ was so
self-contained the immediate environment he was in was largely irrelevant.
I knew that that had taken years of training, discipline and experience in
the field, where even the most hostile conditions can be utilised to personal
advantage. His current mission was getting through his sentence, and he
was using that time to train in preparation for the next.
I would have had a fairly ordinary family life. I would have been
close to both my parents, but it was nothing special. They were just
ordinary good parents. I got on very well with my brothers and
sisters. I would have been closest to my big sister, she always looked
out for me. My mother and father both worked and they were out
of the house a lot, so I’d play in the street or go to friends’ houses.
It was a very friendly community, everybody knew everybody else,
and you always had someone to go to for tea or whatever. I went to
Blackmountain Primary School, but I was no great academic. I can
remember playing rugby there. I was good at that. I enjoyed school
and being with my friends. The teachers were mostly fairly decent.
In secondary school there would have been the usual fights. When
I look at them now I have to laugh, ‘hard men’. Things change in life
don’t they? I had good relationships with nearly all the kids, but I
wouldn’t have been a leader or anything then, just average, part of
the crowd. I didn’t take school work seriously, very few of us did, so
I left before I had to sit the exams. I started work at 16 as a labourer
with a Belfast firm and that was hard, rough work.
I was always aware of the troubles, you couldn’t avoid them. I have
very early memories of being pulled out of [evacuated from] the New
Barnsley estate where we lived and that was frightening. The UDA
men came in lorries to evacuate us and we took just whatever we could
in the middle of a riot. I remember the expression on people’s faces,
everybody was frightened. There was lots of shouting and screaming
and you could see people’s silhouettes against the flames of burning
houses and cars. I remember the acrid smell of the smoke, the smell
of petrol and plastic. Every time I smell petrol or plastic it takes me
back to that. It’s like a part of you that doesn’t go away, you grow older
but it stays there and it stays the same. The army helped to put us up
in a local school. The beds were lined up like in a dormitory. I was
only a very young child but I knew that something terrible was
happening. I’d never seen my mother crying before, she’d do her best
to hide it, but I knew she was crying. A lot of the women were.
Eventually we were moved to a house at the bottom of the
Springmartin very close to the peace line. There was a lot of rioting,
and IRA gunfire coming in from the Catholic estates. I remember that
the army would come into the house and sometimes into my
bedroom. They would tell me to lie on the floor and they’d take up
positions at the window, or sometimes they’d take cover on the floor
beside me. It was hard to get to sleep some nights because you’d lie
in bed listening to the gunfire waiting for it to get closer. The army
were actually stationed at my school [Blackmountain Primary School].
There would be gunshots and gun-battles around the school. The
football pitch we had there was concrete and the army used it to land
and take off in their helicopters. At first we’d all run to the windows
to see them land and the soldiers jumping out, hitting the ground
running, but it got to be so frequent nobody bothered. I saw a lot of
wounded people and men running around with hankies over their
faces. One of the soldiers was killed just beside the school. They [the
IRA] tried to bomb the army barracks at the bottom of the
Springmartin. They couldn’t get close enough so they bombed a house
close to the barracks just a couple of houses down from us. We all
thought that we’d been bombed. The explosion was so loud you were
literally deafened. I remember that my heart was pounding so heavily
I thought that I was having some kind of an attack. My mother used
to give the army tea and sandwiches. The IRA would have killed you
for that. My mother has a photograph of her with the paras [para-
troopers]. One of them was killed, a guy called Sergeant Willetts. He
threw himself down over a bomb in an RUC station to save the lives
of other people. That photograph is very precious to my mother,
probably because as she sees it, he died for us. And I don’t mean just
loyalists, I mean for the people of Northern Ireland, Catholic and
Protestant. She’s shown me that photograph a lot over the years.
I always knew that the UDA and the UVF were there, but I didn’t
become involved in anything until I was 28. None of my family,
‘Gordon’ 175
father, brothers or sisters were involved. I came from a very

respectable family, people would have looked up to us.
I had my own business. I ran a newsagent’s shop through the day
and then I worked a night shift as a labourer. I had my own business,
my own car, a wife and three children. I have a child from a previous
marriage which failed. I married her because she was pregnant but I
didn’t love her, it just wasn’t there. Make no mistake I mightn’t have
loved her but I love the child, we’re very close. She’s a big girl of 16
now. With ‘Maggie’ it got to the stage were it was any reason to stay
away from the house, so the night shift suited me, for obvious reasons.
I suppose that there were two main reasons why I became involved.
My wife and our three children had gone into Belfast to shop. I was
just home from work and she’d left a note to tell me that, on the
kitchen table. I turned the radio on before making a cup of tea just
as the news was coming on. ‘A no-warning car bomb in Belfast.’ I
was frantic, it could have been my wife, my children, my parents,
you, me, anybody. Suddenly it became personal. Who the fuck were
these people bombing innocent civilians, Protestants, Catholics? It
didn’t matter a fuck to them. All of this coincided with what I knew
to be the new leadership within the UDA/UFF. I was always aware of
the corruption which had existed [within the loyalist paramilitaries]
previously, but now it was different. The new UDA/UFF leadership
was determined to take the war to the IRA. They were going after the
players [active IRA/Sinn Fein members]. My community had been
under attack from the IRA for over 20 years. Friends, and good friends
of mine, had been killed, some in the RUC and some in the UDR. I
thought to myself I have my own shop, my own house, my own car
but no matter how far up the ladder I went it was no good. I was a
product of the conflict, and I was a part of that conflict. Suddenly it
had touched me. It was a revelation like suddenly waking up and
realising these people could kill you or your family. When I saw the
no-warning car bombs going off again that was it, it could have been
my wife and my children, and that wasn’t on. I decided to join the
UDA as I knew they were doing something about it. The media talked
about all these innocent Catholics being killed, but they weren’t
innocent. There was specific targeting, they were known Sinn
Fein/IRA men, and the loyalists were acting on high-grade intelli-
gence and painstaking surveillance. The truth is there was a concerted
government/media conspiracy to delegitimise the loyalist paramili-
taries, and to present them as mindless sectarian murderers. Nothing
could have been further from the reality. They were going for violent
republicanism, Sinn Fein and the IRA. We’d had 20 years of being
terrorised, bombed, shot and murdered, and now we were determined
to go for broke, to put the IRA out of business.
The change of UDA/UFF leadership carried a lot of consequences,
now they were attracting high calibre volunteers, competent and
dedicated men who were willing to do the business. I firmly believed,
as did the other volunteers, that the war had to be taken to the IRA,
that we’d have to put them through what we’d been put through.
The strategy and tactics changed to taking on known republicans,
the IRA, and I was a part of that. I became part of UFF 2nd Battalion
C Company. We were all very close, like a family. There was a
dedicated leadership and we took our inspiration from that. The
leaders led from the front and we were never asked to do anything
which they hadn’t done themselves. These weren’t the sort of
armchair generals who had been in control before, they were in there
with us. The previous leader of the UFF had been a guy called Brian
Nelson. As it turned out he was being controlled and run by British
intelligence. That’s why the UFF was so comparatively inactive up
until 1989. Virtually everything had to be sanctioned by the British.
That’s why the men couldn’t operate, they were being held back. We
always had good high quality volunteers, no shortage of them, but
they were betrayed by the leadership. All of that changed in 1989.
Under the new leadership only a very small and select number of
men were active, but there were hundreds of men and women we
could call upon. Now we knew that the IRA were a formidable enemy
who had developed highly successful tactics and strategy. OK, so we
used precisely their strategy and tactics in our war against them. They
had gone for our leadership, so we decided to go for their leadership.
We reversed the roles; what they did to us, we now did to them. We
targeted both —— and ——, and they’ll never know how lucky they
were. Every time we set them [the IRA] up they, either the RUC, the
army or a foot patrol would arrive like clockwork. They were like a
sheet of cotton wool between us and them [the IRA].
We had good intelligence on known IRA men and women, and
we started hunting them. We undertook surveillance and we would
have ‘backtracked’ them [find out everything you could about them,
from a range of sources. This was actually a very elaborate and sophis-
ticated process details of which cannot be divulged]. We knew who
they were [Sinn Fein/IRA] even if they claimed their innocence. We
watched where they went, who they associated with, where they
lived, the relationships they had, their level of IRA contact, we even
‘Gordon’ 177
had full plans of their safe houses. Sometimes we let them know that
we were there. They would have been in the middle of the republican
heartland of Andersonstown and the next thing they knew the UFF
were behind them, they would go to run but we would have men in
front of them as well. That was psychological warfare, we were scaring
the shit out of them. They were being rattled as never before. We
didn’t even bother to wear masks, because we wanted them to know
who was on their case. We backtracked ——. He had been an IRA
commander in Londonderry and he had been responsible for attacks
on the police and the army. Ken Maginnis [UUP MP] had openly
called him an IRA man on television. To claim that we had no
information or intelligence is quite wrong, we had men who did
nothing else except collect intelligence. That was their full-time
occupation, and they were bloody good at it, both men and women.
As I progressed within the UFF I became a member of an ASU, and
we would work on a number of special projects at any one time.
Some were hot and some would have been passive, and that might
have changed depending upon a number of variables. Was he, or
she, active? Was access difficult? Was there security forces surveil-
lance? etc. So you just weren’t after one person at any given time.
We would even have picked up important information when we were
taken to Castlereagh [interrogation centre]. The police would have
told us about the IRA men they were holding, who was suspected of
what, who did what. But this wasn’t collusion because they were also
telling the IRA men about us. They hated the loyalists as much as
the IRA so if we wiped each other out that was fine by them. As far
as we were concerned the police were mercenaries. They just did
whatever they were told for money. But some of that was really high-
grade information.
We played the police along, getting as much information as we
could. So we didn’t mind going to Castlereagh, for us it was just
another intelligence-gathering mission. When we got released we’d
meet and debrief as soon as possible and put all the information
together, who had said what to whom, how many times it was said,
the disposition of the police officer when he said what he said, who
were the key players. It all went up on a blackboard, everything we
could remember, then that was all written up and then typed up on
computer as part of our intelligence database. Some of our younger
people were computer whizz-kids. I’d no idea how useful they could
be. We were building up a very clear picture of the IRA structure and
hierarchy in Northern Ireland, all of Northern Ireland. We had people
working all over the place, even in republican bars with tape recorders
tuning in on all the rumours and gossip, who was what, who was
doing what. That was one of the richest veins of information, there
was a lot of loose talk with drink taken, and no consideration given
to security. Just go into a republican area after an IRA operation and
everyone is talking about who did it, who the CO was, etc. That
taught us valuable lessons about our own security. We even let other
[loyalist] units claim our hits. We didn’t give a damn about who took
the credit, just as long as the job got done. Our information was first
rate, and a lot of it was committed to memory, who was who, where
he lived, the safe house, the colour of his car, the number of his car,
things the RUC had said about him. This business about
police/loyalist collusion was rubbish, sheer fabrication. Some loyalists
have claimed that we got information from the police and the army.
But those were loyalists arrested by the police and the army who said
that simply to get back at them. The police and the army were out
to get us, not to collude with us. UFF 2nd Battalion C Company were
totally loyal to each other, like brothers in a family committed to
each other and the cause in common purpose. Throughout all our
operations we have only lost one man and he is serving a life
sentence for the murder of an IRA man. As far as we’re concerned
that wasn’t a murder, that was a public service which could have
saved innocent lives. We didn’t regard ourselves as terrorists, we were
counter-terrorists. We were in the business of taking out the real
terrorists, the IRA. There never would have been a 2nd Battalion C
Company if Provisional IRA violence had stopped when it should
have, in 1971 when the true IRA, the Official IRA, declared their
ceasefire. The fact is the police knew who we were, but they couldn’t
prove it. We were too clever to provide them with any evidence.
Personal security and unit security were paramount. If we
compromised ourselves, we compromised the unit, and that was
unthinkable. I would have shot myself rather than compromise the
unit or the leadership.
One time we were targeting a known IRA man, he was [IRA] army
council. He decided when soldiers died, or when bombs went off, or
when England would get bombed. We tracked him down wearing
disguises. He had a personal assistant, and they drove about in two
different white cars. Although she was a female, to us she was a
legitimate target because she was actively helping him in what he
did. We had photographs of them, their houses, their cars, houses
they frequented, people they knew, who they associated with. All of
‘Gordon’ 179
this was cross-tabulated with existing data. We’d use long lens zoom
cameras, state of the art. You could zero in to see a scar on someone’s
face, a number plate, or even scratches on a car’s paintwork. We had
all that detail, we even had photographs of them being searched by
the army. The UFF leadership decided that these people should be
assassinated after some IRA atrocity, I can’t remember which one.
We set up operations in Andersonstown with a regular flow of people
in and out working shifts. In particular we wanted to monitor the
movements of the RUC and army in the area, identifying and
monitoring patterns of area security. We had him pinned down in the
middle of Andersonstown in what he thought was a safe house. The
ASU went up dressed as painters and decorators. We took over a
house facing the target’s house, holding the occupants hostage. This
was once again turning the tables. The IRA had used precisely this
tactic against loyalist leaders in attempted assassinations. Now it was
being turned upon them. There was a sort of poetic justice to it,
biblical, what so ever you sow, so will you reap. We told the occupants
that we were the IRA, and that we were going to kill a British soldier
on foot patrol, but I don’t think that they believed us. We were using
AK47s and we made sure that they saw them. We didn’t wear masks
or anything. Everything was meant to instil fear and to let them
know that we were assassins. We were replicating the tactics which
the IRA had used against us because we knew from personal
experience that they worked. As the leader said, ‘In this business you
need balls and brains.’ It was an inspirational leadership, it made
you feel 100 per cent. When you went out on a mission they’d wait
for you, and when you got back there was great relief. It was just the
fact that you got back safely without being killed or caught. The
mission was secondary; if you’d been successful, fine, but the
paramount concern was for the safety of the men in the unit. When
we got back safely there was a real sense of elation, it was like we
were untouchable, we couldn’t go wrong. We were taking on the IRA
in their heartland of republican west Belfast with apparent impunity.
We were there and they knew it and there wasn’t a thing they could
do about it, despite their best efforts.
They [the IRA] tried to kill our leader on four separate occasions.
Once they got him in his car, two IRA men at close range with two
AK47s riddled it. He had jammed himself up under the steering wheel
and escaped with a graze. That was just inconceivable. It the UFF
had gone after a Provo with a handgun in similar circumstances he’d
have been dead, bang, bang, no problem, he’s out of it. I said to him
once, ‘You’ve got the luck.’ He said that luck had nothing to do with
it, things happen for a reason. I knew what he meant, I suppose we
all had a sense of that, that we were being looked after. Sure, the
UDA were involved in fund raising but all of the 100 per cent went
to buy guns, and guns were expensive. We only used the best
weapons: AK47s, RPG7s [rocket launchers] and Russian grenades.
When we got the RPG7 we used it three times in three months. The
UVF had an RPG7 and they used it once in three years, and that was
the difference.
My first wife wouldn’t have approved of what I was doing. I
suppose that was part of the problem. It suited me to be active in the
UFF, as it meant more time away from her. My second wife was a
loyalist, although she wasn’t involved in anything. But at least she
understood what I was doing. We have three young children and I
wanted the IRA off the streets for their sake, and for the sake of their
whole generation. I’d known nothing but conflict, and I’d just had
enough. The security forces had had 20 years to sort it out, but it was
as bad as ever. The IRA could act at will, there was no disincentive.
That’s where we came in. We knew that the IRA could ‘give it’, they’d
demonstrated that over 20 years. But as with all bullies we knew that
getting some of their own medicine was a different prospect
altogether. And that’s all we did, turn their own tactics against them,
because we knew what it was like.
That day when we targeted him [the IRA army council member]
we sat in a bedroom directly overlooking the house he was using.
He arrived at the house fairly early in the morning with his PA and
they were sitting ducks, but then we were informed that an army
foot patrol was moving in. We had two cars parked in the street
observing all movements and reporting back to us. We were standing
there watching the army who in turn were watching the IRA. We
waited until nearly 11.00 a.m. and then we decided to abort the
mission, it was just too risky. A soldier or one of us could have been
killed. That’s how they were saved. We also knew that an army sweep
was due. We knew from our intelligence that the army were dropped
off at Black’s Road and that they then did their sweep up to Connolly
House, where they would be picked up. We knew that they would
have been in the area around that time.
Then we told the occupants who we were, UFF 2nd Battalion C
Company. I said to the woman, ‘You were right love, we weren’t IRA
at all, we’re here to kill the IRA.’ We then named our targets and
pointed out the house they were in, and then the room they were in.
‘Gordon’ 181
‘Tell them we were here, tell them who we are, and tell them they
won’t be so lucky the next time.’ All of that was designed to put fear
into them, to let them know that they were being targeted and
targeted by professionals using IRA tactics.
We were picked up [arrested] shortly after that and taken to
Castlereagh and all the police were laughing. Other police officers
had interviewed —— and his PA after the attempted hit and then
they told us that they were shitting themselves. They told us that
we had taken them completely by surprise by going into the middle
of the IRA’s heartland and almost taking out the man. Then the police
told them that it was only the army presence that had saved them.
They told us, ‘If you’re trying to scare the shit out of Sinn Fein/IRA,
it’s working.’ That was music to our ears, it was confirmation that
our strategy was working. It was what we had always believed, they
could dish it out [violence] but they couldn’t take it. We had learned
the IRA’s secret, if you were prepared to be totally ruthless, and if
you had the strategy and the tactics, it was easy.
By now they knew that we knew that and make no mistake, that
had them worried.
On another occasion we located one of ——’s safe houses and we
bombed it. We knew it was empty but again we wanted them to know
that we were on the case. It was like a calling card.
The RPG7 is a phenomenal weapon. We knew when the IRA used
Connolly House [Sinn Fein HQ] for interviews and interrogations.
It was being hit a lot by the police so we knew that the IRA were
using it, and then we did all our own surveillance. We decided to
attack it with a rocket. A Sinn Fein/IRA man would open the office
every morning and we decided to get him first, at their HQ. We had
these bright green Russian grenades, but none of us understood
Russian so we couldn’t read the instructions. We knew some of the
grenades could be booby-trapped and we didn’t know if the ‘6’
stamped into the metal on the side was a 6 or a 9; it could have been
either depending on how you held it, so you’d either 6 seconds or 9
seconds to get away, but none of us were too anxious to pull a pin
and find out. Anyway we sprayed those grenades black and set one
under rubbish beside the front gate of Connolly House and attached
wire to the pin. We waited but the Sinn Fein man was late and it was
a wee cleaner who arrived first. Because she just walked up the street
and pushed the gate open from the footpath it was too fast for us to
do anything. We just watched horrified as the gate was flung open.
Thank God the grenade didn’t go off.
A few days later we went back to Connolly House with the RPG7
and the AK47s. We knew that a Sinn Fein/IRA meeting was about to
take place. We hit Connolly House with a rocket and then sprayed
it with the AK47s. There was quite a lot of damage but no one was
killed. We knew that Sinn Fein would have to repair Connolly House,
their prestigious headquarters, because the evidence of the rocket
damage and the bullet holes caused by the AKs would have been an
embarrassment to them. We also knew that the IRA would only use
their own people to undertake the work. They always kept things in
the family, a bit like the Mafia. We maintained a regular surveillance
until the plasterers started working, then we went up with the AKs.
We shot and wounded three of them. That meant that within eleven
days C Company alone, never mind the battalion, had hit Connolly
House three times. But again these operations were about instilling
fear. To let them know that we could attack, and even rocket attack,
the IRA HQ in republican west Belfast any time we wanted. The sheer
symbolism of that was very important. The blowback from an RPG7
is about a 30-foot flame, that took the very paint clean off our car.
A few days after that we went to ——’s house [known to be a Sinn
Fein/IRA member]. —— wasn’t there but he had decorators in
painting the place. We knew —— and again we knew that he would
only call upon his own kind [Sinn Fein/IRA] to work for him. The
decision was taken to hit them both, and that’s what happened. Once
again this was strategic, designed to instil fear into the IRA leadership.
Then the UFF issued a statement on Friday (April 1993) which
threatened direct and draconian retaliation if more Protestant towns
were bombed. At that time predominantly Protestant towns were
being bombed and wrecked all over Northern Ireland. That same
Saturday the IRA bombed and totally devastated Coleraine [a largely
Protestant town in the north of the province]. The IRA knew that
the UFF would retaliate and that their own community would suffer
the consequences of that, but the IRA didn’t give a fuck. But it wasn’t
like the old days any more when loyalists would get into an endless
debate about what to do and eventually did nothing. No, we had
learned from the IRA and turned their tactics back on them. Within
a short time after Coleraine a bookies in an IRA stronghold of the
Oldpark [Road, Belfast] was attacked with assault rifles and grenades.
There were three dead and 54 injured. We took absolutely no pleasure
in that but the IRA had to learn that it would suffer the consequences
of IRA violence, and that the retaliation would be swift and every
‘Alan’ 183
bit as brutal as IRA terrorism. Tragic as it was, the Oldpark strike was
strategically necessary.
I saw myself as a loyalist and a soldier. I would do it all over again,
but if I’d had the chance I would have started when I was younger.
I firmly believe that it was the loyalist paramilitaries and their new
strategy that brought the IRA to the talks table. Its leadership was
frightened and they wanted peace before they were killed, and that’s
what was going to happen to them. We were going from strength to
strength, getting better and more confident with every day that
passed. For the first time ever it was the IRA on the run. We all had
a strong conviction that we were winning. We had the guns, the
men, the strategy, the tactics and most important of all the
leadership. As far as we were concerned they [Sinn Fein/IRA] would
either declare a ceasefire or we’d kill them. When the IRA declared
their ceasefire there was actually a sense of loss. We’d lost our mission,
the mission which had brought us all together and became the most
important thing in all of our lives. I’m glad it’s over. We are fully
committed to the peace process and we don’t want violence back on
our streets. But to be honest with you a part of me misses all of that.
I’ve never felt more alive than when I was on active service with C
Company. I think we all feel the same way.
‘ALAN’
‘Alan’ (now in his 40s) was one of the most atypical men I encountered in
the UDA/UFF prison wings. I had been sitting in the recreation area writing
up notes, when he walked in and enquired as if surprised, ‘Is nobody looking
after you? Can I offer you tea or coffee, or something to eat maybe?’ This
contradicted the macho culture of the UDA prisoners to such an extent I
was actually shocked. ‘Alan’ was an extremely pleasant, mild-mannered
man, with obvious sincerity and authenticity. Almost middle class in
appearance, and in bearing, his was perhaps the most tragic of all the
backgrounds I was to encounter.
I would have had a very happy childhood. My mother gave birth to

me late in life, she would have been nearly 40. So I suppose I hadn’t
really been planned, not that she ever said that to me. That meant
that there was a considerable age gap between me and my two
brothers and sisters. We were a very close family, we would have done
everything together, go out for runs [car outings] on a Saturday or
Sunday. I was very secure as a child, I would have felt loved. Because
my sisters were so much older it was actually like having three

mothers. My sisters spoiled me, they did everything for me, made
my bed, cleaned my shoes, everything. If there was anything I wanted
they got it. I got on well with my brothers as well. They would have
protected me, so nobody ever picked on me in school. We would
have been a Christian family and went to church regularly. I had
always attended Sunday School as a child. I suppose we could have
been classed as a respectable family. My family wouldn’t have had
anything to do with the loyalist paramilitaries. Don’t ask me why I
turned out to be so different. I had a good, happy childhood; there
was nothing about my childhood that caused me to do what I did
[murder]. I’d had friends in school who were abused and neglected,
and they would get into trouble a lot, but the problem was they were
angry and unhappy people. So I know about that, about bad
childhoods and people turning to crime. But it just wasn’t like that
with me, I was a happy child with lots of friends. I never broke the
law before this [Alan’s murder conviction]. As far as I’m concerned
it [the murder] was political and that was that. There was a war going
on with the IRA, it affected my community, and it affected me so I
joined [the UFF]. We were all in exactly the same boat, we wanted the
IRA dead, and we were all prepared to do just whatever was necessary.
We weren’t taking this [IRA violence] any more.
I enjoyed school but I was no academic. I would have got on well
with my friends in school, some of them are still my friends even
after all this time. My parents would have taken an interest in my
education, homework and that, but I really had no time for it. From
a very early age I developed an almost obsessive interest in cars. I
always wanted to drive, that was my ambition. If you could drive
and you had a car you were free, you could go just wherever you
wanted. At least that’s what I thought. All that led to my wanting to
become a car mechanic, to work with cars. I knew that you didn’t
need an education for that, so I didn’t see much point in studying.
I regret that now of course, because I think that I could have done
well if I’d only applied myself, but I’d really no interest then and all
my friends were the same. Going to university would never have
entered our heads, that was for clever people.
I’d never been political in any sense of the word. I have only ever
voted once, and then I voted for Ian Paisley, not because I liked him
or his politics, but simply because I just knew that he was a loyalist.
I got a job as a motor mechanic and I enjoyed that because of my
interest in cars. I was brought up to respect people and their property.
‘Alan’ 185
I’d never broken the law. My car was kept in good order, and I made
sure that it was taxed and insured and that the tyres had good treads.
I was just a hard-working guy looking after my wife and [three]
children. It was a good life, we would have taken a drink at the
weekends, and we enjoyed ourselves. My wife was a good mother to
the children, and I did my best to be a good father. I have always
loved my children, we were all very close as a family.
I suppose we had been living in a bubble where we lived [i.e.
insulated from the realities of the Northern Ireland conflict]. We
knew all about the trouble, the violence and the killing but it never
really affected us, we just got on with our lives thinking or maybe
pretending that everything was normal. Then it happened. There
was a guy I knew in our estate, he was a Protestant businessman. He
traded with the police and the security forces, but he was just an
ordinary man going about his business. He wasn’t connected to
anything [the security forces or the paramilitaries]. The IRA came
into our estate and killed him while he was going about his business.
They claimed that he was a legitimate target because he was dealing
with the security forces, but he was just an ordinary man going about
his work. He was killed because he was a Protestant. They put a bomb
in his car, and blew him to pieces. He lived just around the corner
from me, I knew him and his wife and children very well. It was the
sheer brutality, the carnage, the viciousness of it. They just came in
and killed him. His wife was emotionally devastated, the shock and
the pain of that nearly killed her, it was written all over her face. I just
knew that she’d never get over that. The children were blown apart
as well, they couldn’t comprehend the sheer viciousness of what had
happened to them. At first I was just heart sorry about it all. But then
when I read in the paper that the IRA had regarded him as a
legitimate target, and that they didn’t admit, but claimed responsi-
bility for it. The bastards were proud of it. That bomb could have as
easily killed his children. They had come into my estate, killed an
innocent man, devastated a family, and they were proud of it. That’s
when the grief I felt for him and his family turned to anger, big time.
Who the fuck were these people? What sort of hypocrisy was it that
when they committed a sectarian murder, they could claim it was
legitimate? I became more and more obsessed with it, and more and
more angry. This area [‘Alan’s housing estate] was peaceful, my
community were decent, good people who minded their own
business and just got along as best they could. The trouble had been
something that happened down in Belfast, we never dreamed that it
would come to us. It’s hard to explain: suddenly there was a trauma,
we just couldn’t believe what had happened. It was a big thing, a
really big thing, it was all anybody talked about. Ours was a mixed
estate, Protestants and Catholics, and there had never been any
trouble. Then that happened, and people started to ask, ‘Was he set
up, who set him up?’ Now we had policemen and prison officers in
my estate. These were people in my community, people I knew well.
I had grown up with them, and we had all gone to school together.
But now they were all in danger. Any of them could be killed any
time. That’s when it hit me, there’s a war going on here and you and
your community are a part of it, whether you like it or not. I don’t
know if it’s a territorial thing or what, but they [the IRA] brought the
war to me, by killing an innocent man in my community, and I had
to do something about it. It’s not something you think about or
question, you just know that you have to act. No matter what
anybody else thinks, you feel it, you don’t think it, you feel it, and
you know that you have to do something. I’ve thought about that a
lot over the years, did I make a mistake by becoming involved [with
the UFF]? But I can tell you now, I had no choice. I was compelled
to do what I did. When I say to you it was my destiny, that’s not
overstating the case, that’s just exactly the way it feels. When the
IRA came into my world my fate was sealed, it’s all just history. I
talked to my own family about what had happened and they told
me that all we could do was pray for the family and pray for peace
in Northern Ireland. Now by this stage I knew that I was well beyond
that, it was becoming personal. I looked at my children, and I
thought about his wife and what they must be going through. It
became almost obsessive, ‘Who the fuck do they think they are,
coming into my community and killing innocent family men?’ Then
there was all the republican propaganda about discrimination and
oppression. They lived in first-class British council houses, claimed
British benefits, and killed British citizens. Hypocrisy. Protestant
civilians as legitimate targets, hypocrisy. After the Civil War in the
south about 15 per cent of the population was Protestant. It’s now
about 2 per cent. In Ulster 35 per cent of the population was Catholic,
that’s now about 45 per cent and growing. What does that say about
so-called oppression? Catholics prospered in Protestant Ulster, while
Protestants fled Catholic Ireland. But you never heard about that.
I was about 30 when I got involved [joined the UFF]. I felt that I’d
absolutely no choice, that as I saw it I’d have to stand up and defend
my community against the IRA. The police and the army had had
‘Alan’ 187
their chance, they had 20 years to put an end to it [IRA violence] but
it was as bad as ever. The IRA could target and kill innocent
Protestants at will, but this time it affected me, it had reached out and
touched me and my community. I was 30 years of age and I’d never
been involved in anything illegal, not so much as a parking ticket. I
was a friendly, easy-going guy, good neighbours and a lot of good
mates. I hadn’t an enemy in the world, but suddenly I had now, the
IRA, and I wanted to kill them for what they did, for everything they
did. I went to the library and read up on all the atrocities, La Mon,
a kennel club function bombed and burned to hell, bodies burned
beyond recognition. The newly married man who ran back into the
flames to save his wife, but never came back, the Abercorn, Oxford
Street, Bloody Friday, the Shankill bombs. The mass murder of
innocent civilians, regarded as legitimate targets by the IRA. 1989
and it was still going on. I was angry, enraged, my wife noticed and
asked me, ‘What’s wrong?’ How could I explain it to her? How could
I tell her that I’d made up my mind that I had to kill IRA men?
I went to a loyalist bar close to us and talked to some people there.
I told them that I wanted to join, and explained why. They were UDA,
and they said, ‘Look we’re all in the same boat, we all feel the same
way.’ I told them that I didn’t want to fuck about, I wanted to kill
known IRA men. I said that I’d absolutely no interest in ordinary
Catholics, because they’d done nothing against me or my community.
They told me that the UFF were going selective, that they had a
deliberate policy of targeting IRA men. They told me that I would be
contacted by ‘A’ and that he was UFF. They warned me, ‘If you’re not
serious don’t fuck around with this guy.’ ‘A’ [the UFF contact]
telephoned a couple of days later and we met in the same bar. I didn’t
recognise any of the faces in the bar as I walked in. They were
obviously UFF men, and these were serious-looking people. ‘A’
questioned me for about an hour. They had obviously checked me
out. ‘A’ said, ‘We know you’re from a Christian family son, are you
absolutely certain you can handle what you’re getting into?’ ‘A’ would
have been in his 50s and you just knew that he’d seen action. He
wasn’t what I’d expected. He exuded an air of authority. It was obvious
that the men respected him. I was reassured by that, these weren’t
just young guys going at the thing half cocked. These guys were in for
the long haul [until a cessation of hostilities by the respective loyalist
and republican groups]. I told him that I couldn’t live with myself
without doing something. He knew exactly where I was coming from.
He looked directly into my eyes and just nodded his head. I knew
that he’d been there. ‘A’ explained a bit about their [UFF] intelligence
operations, and I was impressed, but I was only told what I needed to
know at that time. I was sworn in later that night.
There were various meetings after that, then I was given weapons
training, pistols, rifles and AKs. I enjoyed all of that because these
were people who felt exactly the same as me, they saw the IRA as the
enemy and they were committed to taking the war to them. I’d lived
all my life in Belfast without realising that that underground loyalist
culture existed. I immediately felt a part of it, it was like finding a
new family. They were good men. As far as I was concerned these
people were patriots.
A short time after that I went operational. UFF intelligence had
located one of the IRA men who had been responsible for the murder
in my estate. I couldn’t believe my luck. I was being given the
opportunity to get one of the men responsible for murdering an
innocent man in my community. There was a poetic justice to it. I
felt no compunction whatever. This guy wasn’t an innocent Catholic,
this guy was an IRA sectarian murderer, who was going to be put
down before he killed again. On the night in question we moved in,
four men in two cars. I was the hitter, I was carrying the gun in the
back seat of the second car. We toured the area to make sure that
there were no security forces around. They were small terraced
houses, two up and down, and they all looked identical. The guys in
the first car had been to the house several times before, and had
watched our man over a period of weeks. We knew that he sat in his
front room so a hit would be relatively easy. The first car did a dry run
up and down the street. They flashed their lights on the way back
up which meant that the target was in place, and that the hit was
on. We drove down the street slowly so as not to attract attention,
we parked very close to his house and I just got out leaving the door
open. I double-checked the number of the house as I passed the front
door, saw the target and opened fire. By this time the driver had
mounted the kerb so I just spun around, jumped into the car and we
were out of there, fast. We drove from there to waste ground with
lots of tree cover and dumped the car. Motorcycles were waiting to
take us from there to where we would dump the clothes and the
guns, and clean up to avoid anything which could provide forensic
evidence. Everything had gone well and the IRA had got a taste of
their own medicine and I felt good about that. We were still in the
safe house when we got the word. We had hit the wrong man. We
had got the right house, the right number, but it had been the wrong
‘Alan’ 189
street. We’d been given the wrong street. But we were acting upon the
good intelligence which we had been given. I had been given every
assurance that the target was IRA. The elation I had felt, the high
from it disappeared. I just thought to myself, ‘You stupid bastard,
what have you done?’ The guys I was with said, ‘Look, Alan, don’t
worry, it happens.’ That was OK for them, they hadn’t pulled the
trigger. They hadn’t killed an innocent man. But what do you do?
Someone had made a genuine mistake. It wasn’t like we were pro-
fessionals. But in the last analysis it was down to me, I’d pulled the
trigger on an innocent man and I knew that that was going to be
with me for the rest of my life. I was furious about that and I let my
[UFF] CO know all about it. I’ve thought a lot about all of that in
here [H Block 7]. Maybe what happened was in someone’s interests.
An innocent Catholic was killed, putting fear into the Catholic
community. A Provo knows just how close he came to being killed,
so he goes on the run and that’s him neutralised. But the clever part
may have been, he’s had the shit scared out of him, and he carries
that fear like an infection with him back to the organisation [the
IRA]. That’s the sort of psychological warfare that would fit with what
was happening in those days. We [the UFF] were involved in that,
putting the fear into them [the IRA]. But I wasn’t into playing mind
games, I hadn’t wanted to kill an innocent Catholic for any reason,
tactical or otherwise. The guy who we were going to kill lived in the
house with the same number in the next street. The police apparently
paid him a visit and told him how lucky he was. He moved out the
next day, we never heard about him again. He probably moved south.
As I rationalised it, now there were two innocent men dead, because
of the IRA. I would never have attempted to retaliate if the IRA hadn’t
murdered a member of my community. I was arrested by the police
and questioned in Castlereagh barracks.
They needed a confession from me to convict me, but there was
no way that I was going to talk. They did their best, the interrogation
went on for ever but they couldn’t make me talk. That’s when the
dirty tricks came into it. They told me that they had arrested my
wife, and that they regarded her as an accomplice. But my wife knew
nothing about it, she had no idea that I was involved. ‘Sandra’ was
a soft sort of woman, and I knew that she couldn’t handle a
prolonged interrogation. They [the police] told me that they had
arrested her, and I told them that they shouldn’t have wasted their
time, because she was innocent, and that there was nothing for her
to tell them. Which was true as far as she was concerned. By the
second day it was obvious that the police were using her [‘Alan’s
wife] to put pressure on me. And it was, because I couldn’t stand the
thought of her being roughed up. I knew that just being arrested was
enough for her. When ‘Sandra’ is very nervous or frightened she’ll roll
up the end on her jumper or blouse, at her waist and pull down on
it. She just crumples it up and pulls it down over and over again.
When she does that I know to treat her very carefully, because she’s
so nervous. She has always done that, even as a child. The police
came into my cell and asked ‘“Alan”, when your wife is nervous does
she crumple her jumper up and pull at it?’ I said ‘Yes’. And they said,
‘Well she must have something to hide, because she’s doing it now.’
My interrogation was almost a secondary issue now, I was really
worried about her. The police came back into the cell some time later,
and by now I knew that they were going to get me, through using
her. They said, ‘“Alan”, we showed your wife photographs of your
handiwork [the dead man’s body]. He was on a slab in the morgue
with a wooden block under his head. We forced her to look at it and
describe it to us. You know what, “Alan”? She was sick all over the
place.’ It wasn’t long after that that I confessed, even though I knew
it was going to mean a life sentence in prison. But I couldn’t put her
through more of that. I made a deal with them: if I gave them a full
confession they’d release her, and that’s what happened. I confessed
and she was released. They [the police] blackmailed me, and it
worked. It transpired that my co-accused, who had been ‘running
me’ [as a senior UFF officer] had been working for the police. The
whole thing had been a set-up; apparently we were never meant to
get the IRA man. My wife took it all very badly. She came up to see
me while I was on remand [in prison], and it was fairly obvious that
she was hitting the drink hard. Her hands and sometimes her whole
body trembled. We had always enjoyed a drink but not like that. She
just couldn’t handle it, the trauma of it all had just pushed her over
the edge. She was turning into an alcoholic if she wasn’t one already,
and it was my fault. I just hadn’t anticipated all the consequences
of what I did. I’d never intended to do anything like that to her, my
own wife and the mother of my children.
‘Sandra’ got so bad the social services took the three children into
care. That nearly killed me, that I had been responsible for having my
own children taken into a home. ‘Sandra’ just couldn’t forgive me for
that, so she put in for a separation and we’re divorced now. We’re
divorced but we still care for each other. I went to see her the last
time I got parole and I hardly recognised her. She was in hospital
‘Alan’ 191
with jaundice and she was bright orange. I’ve seen people go yellow
before but I’ve never seen anyone go orange like that. She was very
frail, just skin and bone, lying there in that hospital bed. I couldn’t
help myself, the tears just welled up in my eyes. I just felt so helpless
standing there, and there wasn’t a thing that I could do about it, she
was just too far gone. Her liver has nearly had it, with the drink. The
doctor just said, ‘It doesn’t look good.’ It hit me like a freight train,
‘Christ, what have you done to her?’ Her family have been great and
they have stood by both of us. They got the kids out of care and they
foster them. That was a great weight off my shoulders, knowing that
the kids are OK. They visit me about once a fortnight, and I know
they’re happy and well cared for.
I’ve been in here [H Block 7 HMP Maze] for eight years now, and
some of my own brothers and sisters haven’t been up to see me.
They can’t forgive me for what I did. I write to them but they never
reply, not even a Christmas card. I’ve often thought about that, what
made me so different from them. I’ve known guys from broken
homes, or who had bad parents. I knew them in school. They walk
around with an anger inside them, just looking for trouble. But you
know it’s not that type who tends to get actively involved [i.e. as
gunmen in the paramilitaries]. They are more likely to be quiet easy
going fellas, the sort of guy you’d never expect. It’s the same with the
republicans, you’d pass them in the street and you’d never dream
that they were IRA.
It’s hard to explain why one person gets involved and another
person doesn’t. I think it’s when it becomes personal, somebody you
know gets murdered and click, you know you just can’t walk away
from it. Things can be happening all around you and still you can
manage to ignore it and just try to live a normal life. But then
suddenly something happens, it touches you and your world
changes, it’s like your number’s called and you do what you have to
do. Any of the men [loyalist paramilitaries] in here will tell you the
same thing.
What I did has caused a lot of suffering, my wife, my children, my
family, and I regret that. It was never my intention to hurt them.
And obviously the man I killed, and his family, I deeply regret that.
I’d never wanted to harm an innocent man. That was the last thing
I’d ever wanted to do. As far as I was concerned I was killing an IRA
man, and I would have had no regrets about that. Unfortunately it
didn’t work out that way, but it’s no good blaming anybody. In this
business people get hurt, shit happens. I’m certainly not going to do
a —— thing [a former loyalist prisoner who committed suicide while

suffering remorse]. The loyalists expressed remorse for the innocent
they killed and that’s genuine, we do suffer remorse. But not the IRA,
they have no concept of what remorse is. I just want to serve the rest
of my time, get out of here, and start a wee business. Cars or maybe
a warehouse somewhere. Maybe in time my family will understand,
but who knows? Maybe they’ll never understand. Twenty-five years
of murder and killing and where did it get them [the IRA]? Then they
offer us peace as if it’s a gift. That’s just too late for too many.
8 Phase Five:
The UDA/UFF 1993 –
the Shankill Bomb and
the Greysteel Massacre
The Greysteel Raid, in UDA/UFF terms, was an act of retaliation,

following an IRA bomb on the Shankill Road on the 23 October 1993.
Nine Protestant civilians were killed including two schoolgirls aged
seven and twelve. In the Greysteel massacre which followed on 30
October 1993, seven people were murdered, including a Protestant,
while an eighth person died later. Nineteen others were injured, all
adults.
This final section, Phase five, will have a different presentational
format, in order to concentrate upon the operation and all its terrible
consequences. This is in the interests of personal anonymity, given
the limited number of men involved, and the high-profile nature of
the atrocity.
COMBATANT A
I joined the UDA when I was 16. I admired the UDA because they
were hitting back and Sinn Fein/IRA men were being killed. The other
reason I joined up was out of sheer boredom, there was nothing else
to do. A lot of my friends joined for that reason as well, simply
because it gave them something to do.
At first I was with the Loyalist Prisoners’ Aid [in the UDA]. We
would have gone around the bars and clubs collecting for the
prisoners. Two UDA guys in their 30s swore me into the organisa-
tion. I got to know them very well, they were good guys. They really
cared for the people in their community and did a lot to help them.
When the IRA killed them I was traumatised. To me these guys [the
IRA] were just the personification of evil, and there they were fully
supported by the Catholics in murdering Protestants. To me they
[Catholics and the IRA] were all the same. They wanted to drive us
out of their country. It’s hard to describe the impact that those
killings had upon me. Going to the funerals, seeing the distress, the
193
194 Phase Five: Shankill and Greysteel
pain and hurt in people’s faces, their bodies being lowered into the
ground. I can remember thinking, ‘Jesus, this is for real.’ I can recall
controlling my emotions, almost pushing them out of me. I took a
deep breath and tensed every muscle in my body. I can remember
thinking, ‘I’m steeling myself.’ That’s the first thing I thought about
when my commander told me about Greysteel. There was something
about that. I knew immediately that it was going to be big.
When I heard about the Shankill bombing the first thing I thought
was, ‘Right, what are we [the UDA] going to do?’ That hadn’t been
provoked. The loyalists hadn’t done anything to deserve a massive
no-warning car bomb in the middle of the [ultra-loyalist] Shankill
Road, where civilians and children were bound to be killed. We [a
different UFF unit] coincidentally had an operation planned for that
week. We were going after a well-known republican. We had
undertaken good surveillance and our intelligence had identified an
exact pattern in his movements. Belfast [UFF brigade staff] told us
to hold fire, that we might be getting another mission. A rendezvous
was arranged for the next day. We were told that republican Belfast
had closed down nobody was coming out at night, everybody had
gone to ground. They [republicans] were all waiting for the UFF strike.
The [UFF] brigade staff wanted to hit back where it wouldn’t be
expected. As far as the UFF were concerned the IRA’s Shankill bomb
was a sectarian hit, killing ten innocent Protestants. They wanted to
retaliate with a big hit preferably on a republican target, in a
republican area. However, if Catholics were killed as well, that was
to be regarded as collateral damage. As luck would have it we had
already undertaken surveillance of the Greysteel bar, for our own
purposes. We knew that the IRA used it, and we had heard that high-
level republican ex-prisoners used it. Those boys had been found
guilty of murder, no-warning car bombs, the whole heap. So as far
as we were concerned it was a legitimate republican target. Anyone
who used that bar would have known that it was a republican bar.
The IRA had used that bar for meetings, so either the punters knew
that that was a republican bar or they were as mentally challenged
as the people I worked with in Gransha [the psychiatric hospital in
Londonderry].
I watched Gerry Adams in the [IRA] Colour Party at Begley’s funeral
[the Shankill bomber] and I thought that was another joke. 150,000
Catholics had voted for a man who was honouring an IRA man for
killing ten innocent Protestants on the Shankill Road. There were
scenes of adoration for that mass murderer. I totally identified with
Combatant A 195
that [British Army] squaddie who shot Copeland, the Commanding

Officer of the IRA in the Ardoyne [north Belfast]. He [the soldier] had
been in a Land-Rover driving past Begley’s house, Copeland was
standing outside it, and the soldier just opened up. He wounded him.
Copeland has just been awarded massive damages [financial com-
pensation] for that in the courts. The soldier was charged with
attempted murder, but the soldier had been absolutely right in doing
that. That’s what the army should have been doing instead of just
walking around republican areas providing targets for the IRA. That
soldier obviously felt the same way I did. He was sick of the hypocrisy
and the double standards, he just wanted to go in and take them out.
Later that day I was called in by my [UFF] commander. The order
had come from Belfast, ‘Hit Greysteel and hit it hard.’ They wanted
a spectacular. The Belfast brigade staff had wanted to hit the
IRA/republicans/Catholics somewhere where they wouldn’t expect it.
A number of targets had been considered but Greysteel would be the
one eventually selected. Just about every UFF unit in Northern Ireland
was on active service alert. I can remember feeling excited and
privileged that I was one of the people chosen to exact revenge for
the Shankill bomb. We drove to Greysteel and parked outside the
bar. We drove from Derry in a ‘clean’ car to pick up the getaway car
in Limavady. It had been purchased for the hit. The Derry UDA
wouldn’t use stolen cars. We bought them, usually in Ballymena.
Earlier that day we’d tested the guns in a local forest. We were using
an AK47, a Browning .9 mil pistol and a shotgun. That afternoon we
undertook a reconnaissance of the bar to check out the security
system, and the blind spots of the security camera. We checked out
the lounge and the bar, and decided that the lounge was a better bet.
We knew the place was a republican stronghold because there were
tricolours on every other lamp post, and every single 12th of July
they would stone the loyalist Orange parade as they walked through.
Everything happened so fast. We carried the weapons on our knees
in the car for speed, and we knew exactly what we were going to do.
Two of us would go into the lounge and open fire. The third man
with a shotgun would make sure that nobody ran in from the bar. I
opened up using automatic fire and finished the magazine. I had
two magazines taped together for speed [speed strips], so I reloaded
with the other magazine. I used single-shot fire with that. The .9 mil
jammed after one round had been fired. The .9 mil was to have been
used for selective shooting. I must have used about 50 rounds, it was
all over in less than a minute. The bodies and blood were everywhere.
Then we were out of there and back on the road. The mission had
been completely successful, payback.
I’ve heard some loyalists talk about remorse, but I’ve no remorse
about that. I was a soldier carrying out my orders, and that was that.
Of course I would have preferred it if they had all been known IRA
men. But I’ve no regrets about what went down. I don’t know what
I’ll feel like in ten years’ time, but I’ve never felt remorse about what
I did. We were using IRA tactics against the IRA and the republican
community. It was Old Testament justice, an eye for an eye, a tooth
for a tooth. We weren’t letting them [the IRA] get away with it any
more. This time we had the initiative, we were taking the war to them.
COMBATANT B
Me and a few of my friends eventually joined [the UVF] but that was
to provide us with a cover more than anything else. We formed our
own unit and saved up all our money to buy guns. We didn’t go on
holiday, all of our money went into buying guns and guns were
expensive. Unlike the IRA we didn’t have friends in America, or in
the south [Irish Republic], we didn’t have friends anywhere.
Eventually the UVF caught on to the fact that we were going solo,
and they didn’t like that. They [the local UVF] had their wee deal
with the IRA so the last thing they wanted was us shooting them
[IRA men]. We all received death threats and we couldn’t go into the
local bars any more without being attacked. The local [UVF]
commander could only operate on a Thursday night, because that
was the only night in the week that his girlfriend let him out. You
would be shitting yourself every Thursday night in case a [UVF] active
service unit came for you. Looking back at it now I should have shot
one of them [the UVF men] and that would have stopped it. But the
fact of the matter was I didn’t join up to shoot Prods, it was the IRA
I was after. I was sickened by the state of the UVF in Londonderry.
They hated us because we showed them up to be what they were, a
bunch of drunken cowards. Eventually there were about 15 men in
our unit. We had bought shotguns and .9 mil pistols. After about a
year we decided to approach the UDA. We knew that the UDA had
reorganised and we also knew that they were targeting the right
people [IRA/Sinn Fein]. They [the UDA] were very wary of us at first
but eventually they took us on board. The north
Antrim/Londonderry UDA had a good track record and they had a
history of taking out hard targets [IRA/Sinn Fein]. They [the UDA
Combatant B 197
men] were a much higher calibre than the UVF boys that we had
been running with. Out of the 15 men in our unit a number of us
volunteered to go active because we all wanted to do the business
[kill IRA/Sinn Fein personnel]. The other men in the unit were
backup, they would undertake intelligence, surveillance, move guns
and provide safe houses. They were all good men, but they had no
taste for actually doing the business [killing]. We had good intelli-
gence and we were targeting a known IRA man. Our boys had been
watching him for weeks and he had no idea that we were on to him,
because he took absolutely no security precautions. He was wide
open but we had a major problem. None of the four of us could drive,
and we needed a driver to hit this guy, so all of that fell through, just
because we didn’t have a driver. After that I learned to drive myself,
to ensure that we [the UFF] wouldn’t be caught out like that again.
We volunteered for all that was going. We were doing something
different every week, training, moving weapons, intelligence, sur-
veillance, targeting. Nobody in Londonderry knew about us, we were
a tight cell. But even so there was still a high attrition rate and quite
a few of our men were arrested, and it was difficult to replace them
with men of the same calibre. We just didn’t want ordinary
volunteers, we wanted men with the capacity to become professional
counter-terrorists. As well as that we only accepted men who we
trusted. We were very selective but that’s the only way we stayed
alive and out of prison. After the Shankill bomb, and after the UFF’s
warning, everyone waited for the UDA to retaliate on a massive scale.
Belfast had closed down. Republicans in Belfast either went to ground
or got out of the place. All the [nationalist/republican] bars were
empty and they were even afraid to attend their [Catholic] churches.
Even though the churches were virtually empty there was a heavy
police presence around every one of them to prevent loyalist attacks.
The Belfast UDA/UFF were desperate to retaliate, but they couldn’t
find a target. Even if they [the UDA/UFF] did locate a target they
couldn’t have attacked it because the police were all over them. The
streets in Belfast were empty apart from the army and police patrols
which were everywhere.
At that time there were only three loyalist brigades which were
really active, the 2nd Battalion [UFF] in Belfast, the UVF in mid-Ulster,
and us in north Antrim/Londonderry. The Shankill Road bomb had
been in UDA territory, so it was up to the UDA/UFF to retaliate. I’m
quite sure that the mid-Ulster UVF would have taken action if
requested to do so [by the UDA/UFF] but that wasn’t an issue. It was
down to us [north Antrim/Londonderry UDA/UFF], it was going to

be our party. The police would have realised that, so everything that
moved in north Antrim, or more particularly Londonderry, was
stopped, questioned and searched. We knew that there would be a
state of high alert, and the security forces had enough personnel to
saturate the whole area, as they had done in Belfast, because those
were the only three hot spots, Londonderry, mid-Ulster and Belfast.
I had been charged with murder and attempted murder before, so
I half expected that I would be under surveillance, but I didn’t see
anything suspicious. Once about two years ago I walked out through
my front door and turned the corner to see a Range Rover parked
there. These two guys were in the back with headsets on and I saw
them snatching them off before I passed. I stared in at them through
the window and they just nodded at me, and then tried to ignore
me, but they knew that I had caught them out.
Then there was Greysteel. I was called in by my commander on the
Wednesday. They weren’t using my unit, just me and men from other
units. That struck me as very odd, why not use an existing unit who
were used to working as a team? By that time they [the UFF] had
taught me how to drive, and as it turned out I was good at it. The guy
who taught me had been a rally driver and I learned all the tricks of
the trade from him. Just as long as I was in a fast car, I wasn’t too
worried about the police. I was only told that something was going
down on Saturday and to be ready, so I guessed they needed a driver.
I volunteered immediately, I didn’t know what was going down, and
I didn’t want to know. The fewer people who knew about a mission
the better. I must admit that I was curious but at the end of the day
it didn’t matter. If I could help a UFF ASU on a mission I was going
to be there. I was told that it was going to be the Rising Sun Bar in
Greysteel, at 3.00 p.m. that Saturday afternoon. As soon as I heard
that it clicked, we were to retaliate for the Shankill Road bomb. I
knew immediately that this was going to be serious, that I would be
taking part in a mass murder. I knew that Greysteel was a republican
stronghold so I hoped that IRA men would be killed. Whether they
would be claimed [i.e. by the IRA] or not was a different story, but I
also knew that there’d be civilians. But there was no going back, I’d
volunteered, the mission was ‘go’ and I was a part of it, so that was
that. Then I reasoned that Protestant children and women had been
killed in the Shankill. There was simply no way we [the UFF] could
let that go, and everybody knew that. Everyone in Northern Ireland
was waiting for the UDA/UFF strike. The IRA knew that full well
Combatant B 199
before they ever planted that bomb. But no matter how I rationalised
it I was still very uneasy that civilians would be killed. I hadn’t joined
the UFF to kill ordinary Catholics, I wanted the hard targets, the IRA.
I was to drive the ‘scout’ car. My job was to drive about 100 yards in
front of the ‘attack’ vehicle. It was my own car so that if I was stopped
by the security forces, or at a checkpoint, I could produce ID and
papers to prove that the car was mine. If I saw anything suspicious
I was to tap the brake three times to warn the others so as they could
turn off to the right or the left and escape. I would simply drive on
allowing them to abort the mission, and as far as anyone would be
concerned I’d be legitimate. I picked up —— and —— and then —
— at previously arranged locations in Londonderry. The four of us
were in my car, which was a Skoda. I had her set up and she was fast
and a good handler despite what anyone says. We drove out to
Ballykelly where —— was to pick up the other car. That was to be
the hot car which they [——, —— and ——] would use for the actual
mission. The car was to be left in Ballykelly by another UFF unit. The
four of us were driving out to Ballykelly when we saw a mixed police
and army road block at Maydown which we had to drive through.
We all knew that four young men in a car in that area was bound to
look suspicious so we fully expected to be stopped and questioned.
But to our amazement the police waved us on through. In the circum-
stances none of us thought that we would ever get through that road
block. —— was wearing a boiler suit rolled down to the waist, so
even if they only looked into the car we’d had it. Even if they didn’t
notice that, if we had been stopped and questioned, the mission
would have been aborted, because they would have connected us
immediately with a UFF revenge mission. After all, I was using my
own car, so they would have taken my number and all of our names.
The police would have put two and two together very quickly.
The plan was we would drop —— off at the ‘hot car’ in Ballykelly,
and then the three of us would drive to the forest in my car to where
the guns were hidden. —— would follow us in the hot car and then
drive the two ‘hitters’ [gunmen] down to Greysteel.
By the time —— got to the forest where the guns were hidden, we
had already been there for about 10 or 15 minutes. A car had passed
him while we were in the forest and slowed right down to take a
close look, because it must have looked suspicious two cars parked
there with just one man. It transpired that the driver of that car
reported suspicious activity in the forest, and presumably he gave a
description of our two cars. There really weren’t that many Skodas
in Londonderry so that could have been important.
—— and —— got into the back seats with the guns on their knees,
—— was the driver. We had a final briefing and then we set off. We
drove down the forest road and on to the main road. I drove past
the Rising Sun in Greysteel and I watched —— pull into the car park
in his car. I was to drive to an agreed location about half a mile away.
—— and the boys were to drive out to meet me after the hit and we’d
lose their car because the police would have a description of it. All
that shooting was going on but I didn’t hear a thing and I was just
half a mile away. I was beginning to think that something had gone
wrong because I expected to hear the AK. The next thing I saw was
—— flying around the corner in the car. It was obvious that the hit
had been a success because —— and —— were very excited, they
looked jubilant and they couldn’t stop smiling. It was like that after
a mission if you were successful, you’d done it, and you hadn’t been
killed or arrested, and you’d done the business. In stark contrast to
—— and ——, looked almost serene. You would have thought that
he’d just returned from the movies. But there was no mistaking the
fact that —— and —— had just seen action. We poured a gallon of
petrol over the car we had used for the hit and left an incendiary
device under it, to blow it up. As it turned out in all that excitement
they had forgotten to wind the windows down, as they were
supposed to, so the car didn’t half burn at all. There was no oxygen
to burn the inside of the car. I was very nervous, they had all done
their bit, but now it was up to me, my job was to transport them
safely away from the scene. I was the driver, and I was responsible for
all of them, and my job was only beginning. We [the UFF] had always
been told to plan the escape, even before planning the operation.
The escape was always the most important part of the job. That’s
why I had been so well trained as a driver, escape was crucial. We
piled into the car and I took off fast. We were on a narrow country
road doing nearly 80 mph when we passed two police cars speeding
from the other direction, obviously heading for Greysteel. We were
so close to each other on that narrow road that I actually clipped the
wing mirror of the second car. I had a fixed wing mirror, but the
police car must have had a retractable mirror which retracted upon
impact, otherwise both mirrors would have been smashed. After
about ten seconds a third police car passed us speeding towards
Greysteel. I was actually driving on main beam, and I didn’t dip
Combatant B 201
because I have poor eyesight in the dark. I didn’t even realise that
until after the third police car passed us, then I dipped.
I dropped —— and —— off at a wood outside Eglinton. They were
to hide the weapons and stay in the wood that night, and I was to
pick them up at 6.30 a.m. the next morning. I left —— off at a bar
in the Waterside. We had UDA men there who would testify that
he’d been there all night. On the way to the bar we passed a police
Land-Rover on the other side of the road and they slowed down,
watching us. Once again we though that we’d had it. I watched them
in my rear-view mirror convinced that they’d turn and pursue us,
but no, they just drove on down the road.
They [the police] hit my mother’s house at 5.30 a.m. the next
morning. I’d been living at home until the Wednesday of that week,
so they knew where to find me. I was just about to leave my
girlfriend’s house to pick the boys [—— and——] up at 6.00 a.m.
when they [the police] arrived. There had been nothing whatsoever
to connect me to Greysteel, and yet within hours they’re at my front
door. The police raided 15 houses that night. That was a massive
operation which required organisation and logistics, but it was
obvious that they were prepared for it. The Londonderry police had
everything under control, everything was in place, as if they expected
it. After I was arrested they were supremely confident and they were
smiling to themselves. You can always tell when the police know, or
when they’re feeling about in the dark, and those police officers knew
that they had me for Greysteel.
The police who arrested me just said over and over again, ‘Just tell
the truth and you’ll be OK.’ It was the same when I got to Gough
Barracks, ‘Just tell the truth and you’ll be OK.’ I knew that they were
keeping something from me, that they knew it was me. I was
transferred down to Castlereagh interrogation centre for questioning,
and it was the same there. The police were really confident. I’d been
in Castlereagh before on two previous occasions but I hadn’t talked.
They [the police] had hit me before, and burst my lip, they even
squeezed my testicles, because they knew that they would have to
force me to talk. There was none of that this time. I heard squeals and
someone crying out for mercy in a cell up the corridor and the police
said, ‘Those officers will have to interview you next if you don’t talk.’
I wouldn’t have minded a beating so much, that would have been
better than the mind games they were playing. I was taken to the
toilet later and I glimpsed into a room going past. There were two
officers sitting at a table with a tape recorder. They looked away,
embarrassed. They had been playing tapes of heavy interrogation in

an attempt to frighten me. The difference was this time they knew
that they had me, and I knew it as well, so eventually I did talk.
The police didn’t produce fingerprint evidence at my trial. My
fingerprints would have been all over the car. I had also used a torch
and a folding spade which were in the boot of the car and my finger-
prints would have been on those as well. That was standard police
work, that was the sort of evidence you gather before you arrest
someone and charge them. But they didn’t have to bother with that
because they knew exactly who we were. You don’t need evidence to
convict people when you know what they did, because armed with
that knowledge you can make them confess. We carried out the
Greysteel attack because we were soldiers and those were our orders,
but I know that we have all felt remorse because of what we did. If
they had been all IRA men in that bar, no problem, but they were
civilians and that was different. Nine Protestant civilians, including
four children, had been killed by the IRA in the Shankill bomb the
week before, and everyone knew that there would be terrible
retaliation in kind. That was tactically necessary, and justified, to
bring an end to it. The loyalists had to demonstrate that they would
hit back and replicate IRA strategy and ruthlessness every time that
the Protestant and British community got hit. So in one way I don’t
regret what happened, but I deeply regret the fact that I was a part
of it. But the fact is it was going to happen, the UDA/UFF were bound
to retaliate, and if it hadn’t been me it would have been someone
else like me, at least as I was then.
COMBATANT C
The UFF were determined to take out IRA and Sinn Fein people,
because they had brought the war to us [Protestants/British], so now
we were taking the war to them. The UFF had good intelligence on
known IRA men, and those were the men we wanted. We had no
interest whatever in killing ordinary Catholics. Just before the murder
my unit had been stalking a Provo ‘godfather’ for three days in a row.
Whenever there was a Provo ‘hit’, it was always his house they went
to for the debriefing so we knew that he was high up in the organ-
isation [the IRA]. Then the order came from Belfast to suspend all
current operations because we had to act upon intelligence about a
known player [an IRA man]. Now that really pissed me off because I
really wanted to kill the Provo who we had been stalking. He was a
Combatant C 203
brave age [old] but he was a bad man, who was in it [IRA terrorism]
up to his neck. But Belfast was running the show, and they decided
who lived and who died. They said that they had the intelligence,
but the fact was that we had our own intelligence which was better
than theirs.
When they [UFF] told me about the hit I naturally assumed that
they were going to use my unit. But my unit weren’t to be used. They
said that they wanted fresh men blooded. That was all wrong. When
you work as part of a team you know the other men. You know their
strengths and weaknesses and you can almost anticipate what they
will do in a given situation. All that is part of your professionalism.
Men who are unknown to each other simply don’t act as a team.
We were told by them [the UFF] that it was an IRA target, and that
it would be in IRA territory. Now I knew Greysteel and I knew that
it was a republican town alright. There were tricolours hanging off
all the street lights and IRA slogans all over the place. So I was fairly
sure that there would be IRA men in the bar.
When you are given a mission you get pumped up. The risks don’t
matter any more. The most important thing in the world is the
mission, the mission becomes the absolute priority. There was a guy
I knew once, another UFF man. A Provo had come into the killing
zone where the UFF had him set up. ‘Billy’ was informed about this
by two men in his unit, but at that time they had no ‘clean’ car ready
to undertake the mission. They had the guns, they had the target
but they didn’t have a ‘clean’ car. So he said, ‘Fuck it, we’ll use my
car.’ Now logically speaking that was absolutely crazy, sheer madness.
Republicans or the police could have traced him down through the
car. But I understood that perfectly because that’s the way it is when
you’re on a mission. It doesn’t matter about the risk, or the danger,
or the common sense. The only thing in your life at that time of
any real importance is the mission. Anything that gets in your way
gets killed. It locks into some instinct in you and you become
absolutely ruthless. It becomes personal between you and them, you
and the mission.
A new unit was set up comprising of myself and two new guys. In
my own unit we were always itching to go. If there was anything
going down we wanted to be a part of it. We had all wanted to do a
lot more than we were allowed to. We all thought the same way and
we looked out for each other. So being part of a new unit felt strange.
Operations took a lot of time in both planning and preparation.
You had to undertake surveillance and intelligence work and that
could involve a lot of people and organisation. After an operation

there would have been a lot of police surveillance and there would
be a very heavy police and army presence in the loyalist estates with
road blocks and searches. So it was always harder to move after an
operation had been carried out.
We had hidden the guns to be used for the hit in a local forest and
we had been out firing them the night before to make sure that they
were in perfect working order. That was a standard procedure by now.
The guns were checked and fired the night before a hit and then
hidden by members of the same unit. No one else would know where
the guns were so if anything did go wrong you’d know it was
someone in the team. Those precautions were necessary because of
the security forces’ infiltration of the UDA/UFF which had gone on
before. We’d lost a lot of men that way, but that would have been
mainly in Belfast. My brigade had always been fairly ‘clean’. I think
that that was because in a rural community everybody knew
everything about everybody else. Also in Londonderry there was
none of the criminality or corruption that had taken place in Belfast.
The UDA/UFF had respect in the community in Londonderry,
because the Protestants felt so oppressed and excluded.
We met at the car which we were to use for the mission. It had
been left for us in a remote forest location. People would have
thought that the car belonged to a man out walking his dog in the
forest. We were all pumped up and excited and ready to go. I turned
the key in the ignition and it just went click, and then a series of
clicks. A car drove past us slowing down as it passed. I got out and
opened the boot to pretend that I was changing a tyre, because three
men sitting in a forest road was bound to look suspicious. The car
would still have had us in sight when it turned and drove back down
the road toward us. I didn’t even look at the driver, I just knelt down
beside the front tyre and started to change it. Now I’m very suspicious
and I didn’t like any of that. We had a car that wouldn’t start, and
we had been spotted in suspicious circumstances and we hadn’t even
got off the ground. After the car had disappeared around a bend I
went back to the boot where I found a pick axe handle. I opened up
the bonnet and I hit the starter motor several good cracks. I got back
into the car and turned the ignition and this time she started. We
went into the forest and got the guns, they were exactly how we left
them. We had used very fine invisible thread and tied it to each of
the guns. If they had been tampered with in any way the thread
would have been broken, but that wouldn’t have been visible to the
Combatant C 205
naked eye. But we knew what we were looking for. There was an
AK47 [assault rifle] loaded with spare magazines on a speed strip [for
rapid reloading], a Browning [.9 mil automatic pistol] and a shotgun.
By this time I had every confidence in the other two. They were both
dedicated loyalists ready to do the business. I’d seen them practice
with the guns and they were both good, they were well trained men.
—— in particular could really use the AK, and you could tell that he
wanted to use it for real. It took us about 15 minutes to get the guns
and get back to the car. We discussed the mission for the final time,
shook hands and started driving towards the target area.
When we got to the target area everything happened very quickly.
From a military viewpoint it was a very successful strike. —— and —
— jumped out of the car and went into the target area with the guns.
When the gunfire started everyone ran for cover. I heard the AK on
automatic fire but I only heard one shot from the Browning, so I
knew that ——’s gun had jammed. But —— was doing the business.
I hate to say this now but there was a sense of glory in it all. All your
senses are on full alert and it’s like you feel really alive for the first
time. I heard the shouts and screams coming from the target area,
but at that time I just thought, ‘Payback, you’re getting a taste of your
own medicine.’ I was standing outside the car aiming the shotgun at
anything that moved. I was circling the car with my back to it, turning
around about every five seconds. At that time I felt proud to be a part
of that. I felt proud of the other two because they were my comrades,
and they were doing the business. All those emotions were there,
excitement, the buzz, the high, the feeling of comradeship. We were
the UFF and we were taking the war to the enemy.
We were soldiers under orders and we had to carry them out, and
that’s precisely what we did. But some time after that, when I realised
that we had actually killed, all my sense of justification and
conviction of the rightness of what we did faded away. I was
consumed with rage after the sectarian murders of Protestants, and
I was proud to take part in the inevitable retaliation. But all that
slipped away and I became consumed with remorse. The loyalists
were right to hit back, we had to hit back, but when I realised that I
had actually been involved, me personally, in a killing, the world
changed. I had been pushed to the point where I felt that I had to
hit back, but I hadn’t thought about the consequences of actually
doing it. The minute that first bullet hit I knew that I’d never be the
same again. It was like losing your innocence to know that life was
so cheap, and that it could be taken away in a split second. And when
you’ve been a part of that you never quite see the world in the same
light again. I became seriously suicidal, and I couldn’t sleep any more.
Being a part of Greysteel literally nearly killed me. [‘C’ was later
‘saved’ through an evangelical religious conversion.]
COMBATANT D
I progressed into the military side a lot more quickly than I had
expected. They were a different calibre of men altogether on the
military side. The UDA/UFF reorganised in 1989/90 and the younger
people began to take over. The old guard had virtually ran the organ-
isation as a sort of loyalist old boys’ remembrance association. But
all of that was changing. The new leadership wanted to take the war
to the IRA, and that suited me fine. I felt that it was about time that
the loyalists got off their knees and started taking out Provos. A lot
of people felt that it was up to the security forces, the police and the
army, to take on the IRA but they’d had 25 years in which to do it,
and it became increasingly obvious that the political will wasn’t there
to defeat the IRA. They were being allowed to get away with it. They
could do just whatever they wanted in Northern Ireland just as long
as they didn’t bomb London.
Greysteel seemed very rushed after the Shankill bomb. The UFF all
over Northern Ireland were in a state of high alert. The Belfast UFF,
and in particular the 2nd Battalion C Company had been very active
in the early 1990s. They were targeting the IRA and Sinn Fein all
over Northern Ireland, and IRA men were being killed. North
Antrim/Londonderry UDA/UFF had been quite successful also, and
quite a few IRA men had moved south well away from north Antrim.
A lot of IRA men were killed in north Antrim, including the IRA’s CO.
We were the second most active UFF command in Northern
Ireland and we had quite a few good operators, both in Londonderry
and north Antrim. We [north Antrim/Londonderry UFF] had a fair
idea that we would be chosen to retaliate for the Shankill. I was
picked up by a UFF unit on the Wednesday of that week, and driven
to a secret location in the middle of the country. I was told that there
was going to be a serious attack that week, and that a team was being
put together. I was driven out to an arms dump in a forest after that.
There was a sawn-off shotgun, an AK47 and a Browning pistol. I was
to be one of the gunmen with the pistol which was to be used to
finish people off. —— was the main shooter with the AK, and ——
was to keep the getaway car safe, with the shotgun. We tested the
Combatant D 207
guns, and they all fired perfectly except the Browning. The Browning
jammed after two shots, and I had to clear it. I didn’t fire the gun
again until that night when I was only able to get one shot off before
it jammed again. Then it seemed to clear itself. So that was it, we
were to be the three gunmen for the mission. We were to have a
driver in a ‘clean’ car for our escape but we didn’t know who he was.
We were just told that he was good, and that he’d get us out of there
fast. But we hadn’t a clue where we’d be getting away from. We were
all surprised that a new team was being specially put together for the
operation. The existing teams were highly professional and proven
in combat. So all of that seemed strange. We weren’t told that the
target was the Rising Sun bar in Greysteel until the morning of the
mission. —— was to be our driver and he was to pick us up in Derry.
We were to drop —— off to collect the car which was to be used for
the hit and then we were all to meet at the arms dump in the forest,
with the ‘scout’ car and the ‘attack’ car. The four of us were in the car
driving out of Derry actually heading in the direction of Greysteel.
The police and the army were obviously in a state of high alert, and
they were all over the place. I thought that the four of us in the car
in Londonderry at that time was just asking for it, it would have
looked too suspicious. We were driving down the road when we saw
the joint police and army checkpoint at Maydown. We knew that if
we stopped the car and turned to drive away the police would have
been on to us. So we’d no choice, we had to drive straight into the
police checkpoint. ——, the driver, would have been a ‘face’ [known
to the police]. He’d been arrested before on charges of murder, and
attempted murder, and he was the driver. As well as that, —— drove
a Skoda and he was using his own car to transport us. The police
obviously knew that he was a loyalist paramilitary and if they knew
that, they’d know the sort of car he drove. And believe me there
weren’t that many Skodas in Londonderry. On top of that —— had
a boiler suit on, rolled down to the waist ready for action. So you
had a known loyalist driving three men around in his car, and one
of them was wearing a boiler suit. None of us thought that we had
a chance in hell of getting through that checkpoint but incredibly the
police just waved us on through. We couldn’t believe our luck. We
drove straight to the hit car and dropped —— off, and then headed
to the forest for the guns. We went in to retrieve the guns and by
the time we got back —— had arrived. —— was the driver, so the hit
was on. We were following —— in the scout car. He drove straight
past Greysteel, and we pulled in fast right outside the Rising Sun bar.
We went into the bar with the boiler suits and masks. It was
Halloween so some of the customers actually smiled at us. They
thought that we were in fancy dress playing a Halloween prank. We
were pointing our guns directly at them when someone said, ‘That’s
a sick joke boys.’ They had no conception of what was about to go
down. —— was meant to shout, ‘Remember the Shankill’ or
something like that but instead he said, ‘Trick or treat’ and then he
opened up with the AK, and I opened up with the Browning, but it
jammed after just one round. The funny thing was everything just
seemed to go white. —— was firing the AK but I didn’t hear any
noise. The bodies of the dead and wounded were hitting the floor,
but there was no red blood, everything was white, and things seemed
to happen in slow motion. People must have been shouting and
screaming but I didn’t hear any noise. It was like one of those scenes
from a Christmas opera, dramatic movements and gestures that were
out of place in the real world. After —— finished the shooting we
ran back to the car. —— was standing there with the shotgun ready
to go. The car doors were lying open for us. We drove out to where
we were to meet —— at his car. The other two were very elated, no
doubt with the adrenaline rush, but I was really quite quiet. I suppose
that was because my gun jammed so I’d failed to carry out the job
as I was meant to. We threw petrol over the car we had used for the
raid, then threw an incendiary device under it. We piled into ——’s
car and we were out of there fast. There was a lot of activity and you
could hear all the sirens from the main road. —— drove us out. We
came to a fork in the road and —— turned right when he should
have turned left. He’s got bad eyesight at night but maybe that’s what
saved us. Two police cars passed us on the opposite side of the road
driving back down towards Greysteel. ——’s wing mirror actually hit
the wing mirror of the second police car. I turned right around
waiting for them, or at least the police car we hit, to stop, turn and
come after us. Then a third police car passed us and just drove on as
well. Once again we couldn’t believe our luck.
—— and I were dropped off in a small wood outside Londonderry.
We were to bury the guns and stay there overnight. —— was to
collect us again at 6.30 a.m. the next morning. By this stage —— and
I were both spooked. We heard leaves rustle in the dark and, although
we didn’t say anything to each other at the time, we both thought
that it was the SAS and that they were going to kill us. As it turned
out it was a couple of old cows that had made the noise. We made
our own way back into Londonderry after —— failed to turn up.
Combatant D 209
Because of all that had happened I was paranoid. I thought that there
were policemen in every car I saw. I was convinced that they [the
security forces] were on to us, that they knew about everything that
had gone down. I remember the police detective who interviewed
me after the arrest. He just kept saying, ‘Tell us the truth, and you’ll
be alright’, ‘Tell us the truth and you’ll be alright.’ I was absolutely
convinced that they knew everything, that they knew about the
entire operation.
Conclusion
THE PRIMACY OF POLITICS 1994–2000
Since 1994 the UDA has been an organisation in transition. Following

the ceasefires of that year the organisation brought its killing
completely to an end, as during 1995 the grouping worked toward
a political resolution of the conflict. The UDA was represented by
the UDP, whose leadership was comprised of two elected politicians,
David Adams and Gary McMichael, and its chairman John White.
All three men made commendable contributions to the talks process
which preceded the Good Friday Agreement in 1998, and the
formation of the Belfast Assembly later that year. The UDP was a pro-
agreement party, however the UDA as a whole were divided along
anti- and pro-agreement opinion. This issue was brought to a head
prior to the referendum in 1998 when UDA/UFF prisoners in the
Maze voted for an anti-agreement stance. This could have rendered
the UDP’s political position untenable, posing a threat to the peace
process itself. Realising the gravity of the situation the then Secretary
of State for Northern Ireland, Mo Mowlam, took the unprecedented
step of visiting the UDA prisoners in their H Block, in HMP Maze.
She argued the case for the agreement and incredibly persuaded the
prisoners into a further vote, which was this time pro-agreement.
However, this change was more influenced by Mowlam’s independ-
ence of spirit and contempt for convention than her alacrity in
political argument. In the event Mowlam’s intervention had saved
the day for the UDP and possibly even the peace process. The UDP
went on to win two seats in the Assembly elections which should
have marked the beginning of the politicisation of the UDA, but it
didn’t. Very uneasy relationships existed between personalities,
politics and paramilitarism. Politicians McMichael and Adams
remained aloof from the UDA and became increasingly dismissive
of the brigadiers. White who had the link role mediated between
those with a thinly veiled mutual contempt. Meanwhile the
grassroots membership, the critical mass in all of this, became all but
ignored. The infrastructure necessary to sustain a political party was
almost completely absent. Rather, the military and political loyalty
of the volunteers was assumed, as policies were pursued without
210
Conclusion 211
discussion and often against the wishes of ordinary UDA men on the
ground.
The UDA had ‘gone political’ without the inclusion, participation,
education and mandate of the volunteers who remained broadly
anti-agreement. The consequences of this political inactivity,
assumption and apathy were realised in 2000 when the UDP failed
to gain even a single seat in the Assembly elections. Adding insult to
injury the UDP had failed to formally register candidates for inclusion
in the Assembly elections, a potentially critical issue which was to
become academic given the lack of electoral support.
THE PRIMACY OF PARAMILITARISM 2000–2002
It simply is not possible to write a contemporary history of the

UDA/UFF without including Adair. His role was central in the UDA’s
return to paramilitarism. Adair’s record in the pre-1994 conflict has
been described in the main body of the text, both directly and
through inference. He, uniquely among the paramilitary loyalists,
made the transition from being a loyalist icon in 1994 to becoming
one of the most hated loyalist figures in Northern Ireland by 2002.
Adair was imprisoned for 16 years in 1995 charged with directing
UFF terrorism. He was released under the early release (of political
prisoners) provisions of the Good Friday Agreement in July 2000.
However, Adair’s reintegration into peaceful society was always going
to be problematic as he was a product of history, and that history
had been saturated in bloody conflict.
Adair’s antecedents
When the war ended with the ceasefires of 1994 Adair was substan-
tially displaced as his raison d’être was removed. He had been at the
nerve centre of the UFF’s campaign and for years this became pivotal
to his role in life. When occupying this position he had the respect
and even adoration of his men, and his ego didn’t suffer as a
consequence. Surrounded by supporters his perception of being the
unquestioned leader was further consolidated day by day in a rarefied
social context with tenuous connections to everyday reality. Adair
has been described as a Maine type character, even by his enemies.
Clearly comparisons between Maine, a British colonel and war hero,
and Adair are unsustainable in all but one respect, the difficulties
experienced in adjusting to peace. Blair Maine, a fellow Ulsterman
who had lived only miles away from Adair, was the founder of the
212 Conclusion
SAS during the Second World War. Maine was an outstanding soldier
who routinely defied death in acts of bravado which became the stuff
of legend. He too had lived for the war, it had defined who he was,
becoming central to his identity and purpose in life. Predictably Maine
could not adjust to civilian life, missing the excitement, the adrenalin
flow, the comradeship, but most crucially, the sense of mission.
Many soldiers returning from the war found everything in peace-
time comparatively meaningless, pointless and trivial. Adair
experienced the same frustration as one who had been similarly
driven by conflict, in a world where only the current mission has
any real significance. In war the mission is something which absorbs
men to the point where nothing else matters. It becomes personal
and all-consuming as if locking into some primitive instinct in which
meaningful reality becomes reduced to you and the mission. Men
become blind to logic and to normal morality, because such consid-
erations can detract from the mission and the absolute necessity of
its success. The mission must be achieved, regardless of the risks,
getting caught or killed and despite the collateral damage,
underlining the priority which it must be afforded.
This is the delusional world in which a soldier operates, where the
normal rules don’t apply. It is experienced both by the individual
and the group (company or regiment), becoming mutually re-
inforced, acculturated and ritualised. It develops into a form of
military counter-culture in which civilian life becomes despised as
routine and boring, because the soldier’s world is special, something
which is outside ordinary experience.
In this world killing the enemy (or even killing per se) becomes a
means of status enhancement, precisely the act of greatest taboo in
normal peace-time society. As a result of war, a state of conflict can
be internalised, becoming an internally experienced reality which
the soldiers may consciously or subconsciously wish to replicate in
the external world. This can result in a state of paranoia and a psy-
chological scenario in which, when the individual is not fighting or
involved in conflict, he has a sense of being vulnerable to danger. In
this case the soldier may create conflicts in the outer world to meet
the expectations of an internally experienced ‘reality’. So Blair Maine
would drink and get into fights to actualise or replicate in the real
world his internally experienced conflictual reality. Adair was
similarly driven to replicate conflicts, only these were to be on a
much grander scale.
Conclusion 213
The loyalist feud

While still involved in my research in the Maze I overheard Adair
comment of the UVF, ‘They look down their noses at us.’ He looked
at me to gauge my reaction and my expression was grim in the
knowledge that there would be further trouble. Adair had been an
admirer of Billy Wright and the mid-Ulster UVF before the ceasefires,
and he compared this highly active loyalist unit with his own C
Company. (Wright and his unit claimed to have decimated the IRA
in mid-Ulster and East Tyrone [Anderson, 2002].) After the ceasefires
Wright had retained a militant posture causing him to be stood down
by the UVF. Wright subsequently formed the Loyalist Volunteer Force
(LVF) as a breakaway faction within the UVF resulting in a deadly
acrimony between these two organisations. Adair claimed that the
UFF had more in common with the LVF and openly formed alliances
with them. This relationship was further consolidated following
Wright’s murder as a prisoner in HMP Maze in bizarre and extra-
ordinary circumstances (Anderson, 2002). He was shot dead by an
INLA prisoner in Britain’s highest security prison in circumstances
which clearly suggested collusion between the intelligence services,
sections of the prison service, and the INLA (Anderson, 2002).
Following this Adair was instrumental in having the remaining LVF
prisoners accommodated with the UDA’s H Block. This increasing
alliance between the UFF and LVF was clearly seen as a threat to the
UVF, as perhaps it was intended.
This was brought to a head in the summer of 2001 when the
UDA/UFF organised a massive show of strength by marching down
the Shankill Road in Belfast. This is an area of domicile for both the
UDA and UVF. In an act of calculated provocation some of the
marchers carried LVF flags and banners. Sporadic fighting broke out
between members of the parade and groups of UVF men. Later that
afternoon the Rex pub on the Shankill Road, frequented by UVF
members and regarded as a UVF bar, was attacked by a lone UFF
gunman. Shots were fired into the premises narrowly missing
customers. Within days the UVF retaliated by shooting dead two
men while they were sitting in a car in west Belfast. One of the men,
Jackie Coulter, was UDA; however the other, Bobby Mahood, was
associated with the UVF. Again within days the UFF retaliated by
shooting dead Sam Rocket, also associated with the UVF.
The events which took place after that marked the beginning of
the end for Johnny Adair. Over 600 families, not aligned to
214 Conclusion
C Company or the UDA, were forced to flee from their homes in the
lower Shankill. Children, some still in their nightclothes, were
bundled into cars and driven to wherever there was a floor to sleep
on. Those who had claimed to protect the Protestant and loyalist
community were now the persecutors of that same community, as
the Shankill was split in two between UDA and UVF factions.
Divisions in the community ran so deep some of the local primary
schools were forced to reallocate classes upon the basis of families’
affiliation to the UDA or UVF. The intervention of the army was
required to restore civil order and to prevent further killing. Adair
had been blinded by his mission against the UVF, quite prepared to
overlook the fact that the collateral damage on this occasion was
innocent Protestant families. The human misery and distress caused
to so many loyalist men, women and children was not lost upon
some members of C Company, many of whom began to question
the motivation of the leadership.
Following the height of the feud in 2001 the Shankill C Company
and the UDA staged a festival in the lower Shankill. It ended with a
volley of rounds from AK47s shortly after which Adair was arrested
and reimprisoned – on the grounds of breaking the conditions of his
early release. Adair was reported as saying that going back to prison
at that time probably saved his life. The worst of the feud was over
but a legacy of interfactional hatred remained.
Adair was released back into the community in the summer of
2002. John White’s association with Adair appeared to become closer
throughout that year. This was studied by the UDA’s other brigadiers
who felt that overall control of the organisation was becoming too
centralised, from Belfast and the Shankill. This was particularly true
with media coverage which centred on White and Adair, to the
exclusion of other elements of the UDA. Previously cordial relation-
ships became strained as the mainstream UDA took a step back from
both John White and C Company. Adair became increasingly
arrogant and dismissive of the UDA’s brigadiers in what were pro-
gressively brief encounters. The more the brigadiers distanced
themselves from White, the more he moved towards Adair, in a rela-
tionship configuration which seemed to be inevitable. Further to
this, John’s office was across the road from the Adair family home,
and he appeared to spend more and more time there. As the UDA
became fragmented into C Company and the mainstream UDA,
things moved well beyond the point were simply being in White’s
company was a guarantee of trustworthiness within the UDA.
Conclusion 215
These divisions within the organisation posed personal problems

in that my research activity was strongly identified with both White
and C Company, which hadn’t been a problem, that is prior to the
UDA/UFF feud. The mainstream UDA, the UVF/RHC and just about
everyone else had blamed the feud on Adair and elements within C
Company. While this unit assumed an air of ultra confidence and
elitism its position was becoming increasingly isolated and desperate.
There was a further and deeply disconcerting dimension to all of
this. It was widely held that Adair had become involved in drug-
dealing, extortion, money-laundering and prostitution. While the
mainstream UDA did not have an unblemished record in many of
these areas, the organisation’s involvement in prostitution was widely
regarded as a step too far. The claim that there was no contradiction
between being a drug-dealer and a patriot was also called into
question by the political and non-criminal elements of both C
Company and the UDA, who clearly viewed these claims as mutually
exclusive. It appeared to many that Adair had become heavily
involved in precisely the criminal and self-serving activities he was
instrumental in eradicating in the organisation a decade earlier.
White was also accused of dealing in drugs but as one who worked
closely with him over many years I have no direct knowledge of this.
Throughout the year 2002 relationships between the leadership
of the mainstream UDA and C Company became more fractious with
each accusing the other of criminality, claiming for themselves
political legitimacy. In mid-2002 William ‘Winkie’ Dodds, the UDA’s
brigadier in the lower Shankill, was ousted, in what was seen as the
beginning of C Company’s attempt to gain control of the organ-
isation. By this time the leadership of the mainstream UDA had
calculated that Adair was planning a coup d’état within the organ-
isation with a view to assuming overall command. While Adair
undoubtedly had still retained support in C Company and within
elements of the mainstream UDA, the largely localised, federal and
democratic structure of the organisation would have rendered any
centralised dictatorial leadership untenable.
In November 2002 Steven Warnock, an LVF member with links to
Adair, was shot dead. The east Belfast UDA were held responsible and
Jim Grey, its brigadier, was shot in the face in an attempted murder
bid by the LVF. Both Adair and White attended Steven Warnock’s
funeral which was construed as their taking sides with the LVF against
the mainstream UDA. In December Jonathan Stewart, the nephew
of the disposed Winkie Dodds, was shot dead in a killing attributed
216 Conclusion
to C Company. In January 2003 Roy Breen, a UDA man with links

to Adair, was shot dead by the south Belfast battalion of the organ-
isation. C Company and the mainstream UDA were now effectively
at a state of war. Later in January Adair was reimprisoned accused of
breaking the terms of his licence by his alleged dealing in drugs,
money-laundering, extortion and prostitution. Many observers, once
again, took the view that this state intervention had saved Adair’s
life, but this time that was almost certainly accurate. In February
John Gregg, the brigadier of the UDA’s south east Antrim Brigade,
was shot dead by elements within C Company. Another UDA man,
Robert Carson, who was travelling with Gregg was also killed. Gregg
had been imprisoned for staging an assassination attempt upon Gerry
Adams in 1986 which had been foiled by the security forces. This
had afforded him a hero’s status within loyalism, as he progressed
to become a well-liked and respected leader. He had been asked on
a television documentary if he had any regrets about his role in
attempting to kill Adams, his reply was notoriously, ‘Only that I
didn’t kill him.’ Gregg’s death seemed to have achieved the
impossible when at his funeral the mainstream UDA, the UVF/RHC
and LVF united in mourning in a massive display of loyalist unity.
Shortly after Gregg’s funeral, in early February 2003 factions of
the mainstream UDA attacked Adair’s lower Shankill powerbase in
Boundary Way. Massively overwhelmed, C Company supporters
offered a futile resistance in hand-to-hand fighting, but most of the
unit had already departed the area. Many had been shocked by
Gregg’s murder, while others had no wish to fight those whom they
regarded as comrades. The police and army intervened, and a convoy
of some 20 cars was escorted out of the lower Shankill to Larne
harbour, en route to Scotland. John White, Gina Adair and the Adair
children were among the refugees, who also included the remnants
of what had been the once proud and defiant C Company. The group
had fled so quickly they left behind Adair’s two alsatian dogs, who
were filmed running around the streets in obvious confusion and
distress. This poignant imagery prompted enquiries from around the
world by those concerned for the welfare of the dogs. (They were
subsequently looked after by Adair’s extended family.)
THE NEW POLITICAL IMPERATIVE 2003
The events of 2001–3 had traumatised the UDA and occasioned the
most significant debates ever to have taken place within the organ-
Conclusion 217
isation regarding its role, function and future. This in turn led to a
root and branch reorganisation and an almost complete change in
the prevailing philosophy, as for a second time the UDA moved
towards the primacy of politics. Crucially this quiet but steady
revolution within the UDA has been from the bottom up, fully
involving the grassroots membership. The political advisers to the
UDA, the Ulster Political Research Group, now have an executive
committee compromising of politicians and community workers and
those with a genuine concern for the working-class loyalist
communities they represent. For the first time in history, the UDA
and the UPRG now have the coherency, organisation and vision to
offer effective leadership to a people who desperately need it.
A significant part of this process of change will be for the UDA to
develop insights into its own history, and to gain an understanding
of the nature of the flame which has kept it alive throughout long,
desperate and turbulent years. The organisation needs to learn from
its combatants and the political prisoners who were involved in the
conflict, because they have defined what the UDA was and they will
determine what it will become.
This book was commenced in 1998 arising from a conversation in

Castle Buildings, Stormont. It was largely finished by the year 2000,
and would have remained unpublished but for a chance encounter
with Marie Smyth in 2002, in what was another twist of fate.
Colin Crawford
July 2003
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Index
Compiled by Stephanie Johnson
Adair, Johnny xii, 18–19, 89, 143, attacks on Protestants 52–4,

154, 165–73, 211–16 67, 69
Adams, David 95, 210 sectarian attacks by UDA/UFF
Adams, Gerry 36, 37, 152, 194, 216 xviii, 7, 32–5, 43–5, 70–71,
America xi, xiv, 21, 31, 34, 43, 155, 91–3, 194
196 opposition to 16, 42, 104, 136,
Antrim 128–9, 133, 198, 206 163, 199
Ardoyne 55–6, 71, 99, 103, 104 ceasefire 42, 49, 136–7, 142, 178,
Armagh 128–30, 133, 135, 142, 146 183, 210, 213
army 5, 11, 106–7, 128–34, 214, 216 civil war 3–4, 5
14th Intelligence 147, 170–71 Collins, Michael 3–4
intelligence 117, 176 Connolly House 181–2
patrols 179, 197, 204, 207 crime, within loyalist paramilitaries
protecting Protestants 67–8, xii, 16, 32
82–3, 174 within UDA/UFF 26–8, 36, 39,
and UDA/UFF 22, 29, 57, 157–8 71, 83–4, 111, 215–16
collusion 44–5, 178 Crumlin Road prison 71, 138–42
infiltration 37, 115
see also police; security forces Democratic Unionist Party (DUP)
xiii
B Specials 22–3, 53 Devlin, Bernadette 36
‘balance of terror’ 33, 45, 49, 160 direct rule xi, 34
Belfast Agreement see Good Friday Dodds, William 215
Agreement Downing Street Declaration (1993)
Bloody Friday 152, 187 48
Bloody Sunday xiii, 33
bombs 29, 81, 131–2, 158, 161, 178, Easter Rising (1916) 1
182 education of UDA/UFF volunteers
see also IRA; terrorism; violence xvi, 65–6, 79–80, 99, 112–13,
156, 184
C Company (UDA) xii, 38, 176, Enniskillen 148–50, 152
178, 182, 213–16
Camp Council (prison) 12–13 finances xv, 26–7, 57, 109–11, 114,
Carron, Owen 36 118–19, 180
Castlereagh 60, 75, 109, 157, 164, Forces Research Unit 30, 44, 45
177, 181, 189, 201
Catholicism xii–xiii, 1–3, 5, 23 gangsterism xiii, xv, 16, 39, 136
and IRA 5–6, 20, 35, 74–6, 83, Good Friday Agreement (1998)
100, 138, 159–60 xi–xii, xiv, 4, 95, 165, 210–11
as defenders of Catholicism 7, Great Britain 1–2, 6–7, 23–4, 31, 32,
38, 54, 60 144
and Protestantism 6, 55–6, 81, and IRA 34, 91, 143, 152, 160,
88, 100, 113, 144–5, 186 173, 178, 186
attacked by Protestants xiii, 5 Gregg, John 216
221
222 Index
Greysteel massacre xviii, 193–5, and Sinn Fein 4, 166, 181–2

198–203 strategy 167, 176
guns see weapons security forces xviii, 46, 185–6
and UDA 28, 30, 101, 115, 119,
Home Rule 1, 2 149, 160
Hydebank (Young Offenders selective targeting of IRA 32,
Centre) 73, 100 63, 103, 135–6, 180–82, 199
intelligence 38, 49
ideology 6–8, 24 ‘taking the war to the IRA’
independence, Irish 1–3, 4, 7 37, 125–6, 175–9, 188, 196,
informers 27, 60, 109, 115, 166 206
intelligence 47, 116, 143 retaliation of violence 91, 153,
UDA/UFF 104, 147, 166, 197 158, 160, 179, 197–8, 202
on IRA 37–8, 43–5, 121–2, 125, and UFF 160–63, 170, 182, 184,
136, 149, 176–9, 188–9, 202–3 188
intelligence services 5, 42 selective targeting of IRA 89,
British 29, 30, 40, 45, 115, 121–2, 142, 148, 150, 154, 168
170–71 intelligence 38, 44–5, 166–7
collusion with UDA/UFF 38, ‘taking the war to the IRA’
43, 115, 158, 166, 213 37, 42–3
security forces 37–8, 43–5, 94,
and UVF 58, 137–8, 149, 213
119, 132, 147, 170
violence 33–5, 184
Irish Army 3, 21, 47
weapons 21–2, 53, 56, 167
Irish Free State 3
Irish Republican Brotherhood (IRB)
Irish National Liberation Army
1
(INLA) 70, 99, 104, 108,
Irish Republican Socialist Party
116–17, 213
(IRSP) 12
Irish Republican Army (IRA),
Official 1–4, 5, 12, 21, 142, 178
Lisburn 24, 128–9, 133, 135, 136
Irish Republican Army (IRA),
Provisional 147, 177, 183 Long Kesh 10–13, 94–5, 98, 141,
see also Sinn Fein 146
bombs 61, 139, 150–51, 161–2, see also Maze
185, 193 loyalism xviii, 5, 99, 172, 216
and British Army 83, 92, 129–34 and Catholicism 6, 7, 37, 49, 76
and Catholicism 6–7, 38, 60, 69, and Great Britain 6, 34
74–5, 90, 99, 100, 193 and IRA 20–24, 29, 38, 48–9, 52,
and loyalist paramilitaries xiii, 57, 143, 205
24, 136 paramilitaries 6–7, 15–16, 26, 34,
and media 31, 137, 161 48–9, 94, 175, 183, 211
police, targeted xviii, 28, 131, and security forces 36, 38
150 and police 93, 147, 166, 178
and politics xii, 4–5, 6, 20, 48, and politics xi–xiii, 2, 6, 184, 217
166–7 and republicanism 57, 115,
prisoners 2, 12, 32, 86, 88, 125–6, 145
139–40 in prison 12, 71–2, 84, 100,
Protestants, targeted 47, 52–6, 59, 138–41
91–4, 99, 151–2 and violence 8, 33–5, 46, 157
and security forces 28, 43, 45, Loyalist Volunteer Force (LVF) 213,
147, 151, 158 215, 216
Index 223
Maginn, Laughlin 37–8, 43 infiltration 36, 39–40, 93, 110,

Maze (prison) 17, 139, 141–2, 173, 115, 143, 147, 204
210, 213 see also army; RUC; security forces
see also Long Kesh prison service 2, 10–14, 32, 71–3,
McGuinness, Martin 36, 37, 152 84–7, 100–102, 111, 138–41,
McMichael, Gary 95, 210 213
McMichael, John 148–9 Progressive Unionist Party (PUP) xi,
McSwiney, Terence 2, 32 15, 112
media 34, 141, 160 Protestantism 2–4
and IRA 31, 54, 82, 137–8, 175 and Catholicism 52–6, 69, 81,
and UDA 28, 31, 37, 136–8, 161, 100, 144–5, 186
214 and IRA 63, 91–4, 148, 151–2,
militarism xi–xiii, 49 159–60, 173, 185
military strategy of UDA/UFF and UDA/UFF 115, 136, 182, 204,
28–30, 34, 36, 39, 49, 111 214
Molyneaux, Jim 140
money see finances Red Hand Commando (RHC) 7, 12,
Morley, David 12 215, 216
Mowlam, Mo xii, xiv, 210 religion see Catholicism;
Protestantism
nationalism xi, 5, 23, 25, 50 republicanism xi, 5, 30
Nelson, Brian 30, 44–5, 63, 158, 176 see also Irish Republican Army
Northern Ireland Assembly xi, (IRA)
xiv–xv, 4, 95, 112, 210–11 and Great Britain 23, 186
see also politics ideology 6, 7
and IRA 3, 6, 22, 57, 99, 150
O’Donnell, Kevin 44 and loyalism xi, xiv, 24, 29, 57,
Orangeism xii–xiii, 88, 100, 137, 115
195 in prison 12, 71–2, 84, 100,
138–41
Paisley, Ian xiii, 140, 184 targeted by UDA/UFF 37–8, 49,
paramilitaries xi, 5–8, 12–13, 32, 44 115–16, 124–6, 147, 176, 194,
loyalist xv, 15–16, 94, 99, 132, 197–8
136, 183–4, 211 sectarian killings xviii, 91, 99
collusion with security forces and terrorism 30, 34–5, 42, 44,
xvii, 36, 115 116
and Great Britain 7, 20 riots 52, 55, 69, 102, 113, 173–4
see also IRA; UDA; UFF; UVF Roy, Herbert 52–4
peace process 5, 13, 48, 183, 210 Royal Irish Constabulary 2, 3
police 5, 57, 100, 170–71 see also police
and army 128, 130, 186–7, 216 Royal Ulster Constabulary (RUC)
targeted by IRA xviii, 22, 59 40, 124, 171, 174, 176
patrols 108, 151, 197, 199, 204, and IRA 28, 44, 175
207 and UDA/UFF 29, 109–10, 149,
and politics xiii 169, 178, 179
and UDA/UFF 23, 60, 94, 119, see also police
121, 171, 198
arrested 157, 165, 172, 181, sectarian killings 5, 21,27
189–90, 201–2, 209 by IRA 32, 46, 59, 91, 126,
collusion 166, 177–8 159–60, 175, 185, 188
224 Index
sectarian killings continued IRA 4, 20–22, 34, 44, 91, 126,

by loyalist paramilitaries 7, 16, 142, 183
46, 91, 126, 137–8, 175 and security forces 29, 30, 42,
UDA/UFF 32–9, 45, 47, 159–60 130
of Catholics 32–7, 38, 45, 91, UDA/UFF 24, 29, 37, 47, 60, 126,
100, 137–8, 159–60 158, 183, 211
of Protestants 32, 59, 91, 159–60, training, military 28–30, 41, 57, 81,
175, 185, 205 103, 188
security forces 198 Tyrie, Andy 24, 29, 37, 46–7, 60–61
collusion with loyalist paramili-
taries xvii, 36–8, 42–5 Ulster Defence Association (UDA)
UDA/UFF xviii, 115, 157, 158, xvii, 5, 23, 68–9, 80–81, 90,
166 109, 173–4, see also Ulster
infiltration of UDA/UFF 27, Freedom Fighters
29–30, 37, 39–44, 108, 110, C Company 213–16
204 and Catholicism xviii, 27, 32–7,
opposition to IRA xiii, 45, 92, 46–7, 94
131–3, 143, 180, 185, 206 crime
targeted by IRA 6, 32, 46, 59, 147 on behalf of UDA 71, 83–4
and politics xiii, 131, 136 within UDA xv, 26–28, 36, 39,
204, 215
see also army; police
finances 25–7, 76
Shankill Road 51, 57, 64, 70, 77,
and Great Britain 22, 34
155, 170
image 30–31, 113–14
bombed by IRA 20, 81–2, 161–3,
and IRA 42, 61–3, 102, 148–9
187, 193–8, 206, 208
intelligence 38, 49, , 135, 197
and Catholics 52–3, 74, 113
retaliation 46–8, 63, 94, 165,
and UDA/UFF 57, 59, 61, 114,
197
213–14
selective targeting of IRA/Sinn
violence 90, 94–5, 113
Fein 29, 32, 36, 154, 158, 187,
Sinn Fein 6, 152 196–7
and IRA xii, 2, 4, 37, 166, 181–2 ‘taking the war to the IRA’
and politics xii, 4, 42, 142–3, 166 37, 157, 175, 206
and security forces 45, 158, 181 junior wing 82, 113
and UDA/UFF 25, 32, 36–8, 49, leadership 16, 24–5, 29, 33, 101,
103, 136, 148–54, 181, 202 183, 215
see also Irish Republican Army corrupt 26–7, 30, 36–7, 111,
(IRA) 114–16, 118–19, 157, 166
Social Democratic and Labour Party replaced 30, 38–9, 102, 120,
(SDLP) 38, 93 157, 175–6
Spence, Gusty 12, 15 and media 28, 31
Stevens Enquiry (1989) 30, 36, 43, and police 60, 110, 135, 166, 178
115, 118, 166 infiltration 27–8, 36–7, 143
see also security forces, collusion and politics xi–xii, xiv, 27, 32, 34,
with loyalist paramilitaries 96, 210–11, 217
Stone, Michael 37, 143–53 prisoners 12, 15, 17–19, 86–8,
Stormont 34 111, 139–41, 183, 193, 210
welfare 26, 111
terrorism xi–xv, xix, 5, 8, 48 and Protestantism 22, 30, 136
counter- 29, 102, 126, 178, 197 defence of 24, 36
Index 225
sectarian killing of Catholics structure 25, 39

xviii, 27, 32–7, 46–7, 94 violence 8, 34–5, 211
and security forces xviii, 30 volunteers 8, 16, 41, 120–21, 135,
collusion 38–9, 42–4 154, 186
infiltration 27–9, 33, 39–40, training 28–30
118 Ulster Political Research Group
strategy 9, 34–6, 38, 101–2, 108, (UPRG) xii, 96, 217
115, 119–20, 134–7 Ulster Unionist Party (UUP) xii, xiii,
structure 24–5, 102, 120 177
terrorism 34, 37, 48 Ulster Volunteer Force (UVF) xv, 5,
training 28–30 7, 57, 118, 136
and UVF xii, 117, 213–15 and IRA 58, 63, 137–9, 196
violence 8, 33–5 and politics xi, 15, 112
volunteers 16, 25, 30, 33, 39–41, and prison 12, 15, 112, 139–41
176, 211 and security forces 2–3, 158
recruiting 58, 118, 145–6, 154, and UDA/UFF 32, 36, 39, 58, 114,
160–61, 187 16, 197, 213–16
war xiv, 4, 6, 7, 19, 32 feud xii, 96, 117
weapons 20–21, 25–6, 58, 180 volunteers 69, 102, 120, 196–7
welfare of community 26, 111, weapons 21, 180
119, 137, 179, 193 unionism xi–xiv, 2, 5, 20, 23, 50,
Ulster Defence Regiment (UDR) 37, 57, 95
128–34, 135–6, 172, 175
Ulster Democratic Party (UDP) xii, vigilantes 67, 80, 81
xiv–xv, 15, 42, 95–6, 111, 166, violence xiv, xvi–xvii, 8, 35, 50, 91
210–11 IRA 22, 33–4, 133, 136, 157–8,
Ulster Freedom Fighters (UFF) xi, 181–3
xvii, 6, 7, 71, 161, 213
intelligence 48, 104, 147, 149, Warnock, Steven 215
166–7, 177, 188, 194 weapons 98
from security forces 38, 43, army 83, 133
115, IRA 21–2, 53, 56, 167
and IRA 43–4, 48, 90, 142, 148, loyalist paramilitaries 80, 148,
160–62, 165 152–3
retaliation 198, 202 UDA/UFF 41, 57–9, 93,
selective targeting 36–8, 44–5, 89, 119–21, 124, 164, 181–2
121–4, 136, 150–51, 180–82, Greysteel massacre 195–6,
187–91, 198–9 204–7
leadership 16, 33, 38, 41, 90, 142, lack of 20–21, 56, 70–71,
166, 175–6 114
and politics 4, 42, 96, 165, 166 obtaining 25–6, 146
prisoners 12, 15, 17 training 29, 103, 188
and Protestantism 136–7, 182 Westland Defence Association
sectarian killing of Catholics (WDA) 55, 56
xviii, 33–6, 45, 159 Westland Estate 55–6, 57, 61
and security forces White, John xii, xv, 15–18, 89–96,
collusion 38, 42, 115, 158 210, 214–16
infiltration 39–41, 44, 166 Wilson, Harold 22
strategy 9, 34, 38–9, 159–61, 167, Wilson, Paddy 92–3, 95
194 Wright, Billy 213

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Inside the UDA

Volunteers and Violence

Foreword by Marie Smyth

Distributed in the Republic of Ireland and Northern Ireland by

Copyright © Colin Crawford 2003

The right of Colin Crawford to be identified as the author of

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

ISBN 0 7453 2107 0 hardback

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

Designed and produced for Pluto Press by

1 Introduction to the Conflict in Northern Ireland 1

2 Researching the UDA 10

3 The UDA/UFF: History, Organisation and Structure 20

5 Phase Two: The 1980s UDA/UFF – from Infiltration to

6 Phase Three: The Mid-1980s UDA/UFF –

7 Phase Four: The 1990s – the Selective Strategy and

8 Phase Five: The UDA/UFF 1993 – the Shankill Bomb

ASU active service unit.

In the context of a growing global interest in non-state military actors,

replaced with an interim organisation, the Ulster Political Research

MILITARISM VERSUS POLITICS

The first tension, between militarism and politics, is between those

be worse than the violence emanating from the Catholic community.

stances, the accident of birth into a loyalist community? Would we,

PRO- VERSUS ANTI-AGREEMENT

exclusion – albeit democratic – of the UDP from the Assembly is

CRIME VERSUS POLITICAL IDEALS

The final tension within and between loyalist paramilitaries is related

arms and in some instances to kill or to attempt to do so.

For those not immediately threatened by violence … commitments

suffering to move their own agenda, politicians invoke the

Kleinman and Kleinman describe stories of trauma as ‘the currency,

understanding of relationships between the security forces and the

Such [a] history is especially difficult because increasingly the

and inarticulate, and thus, almost always beyond analytical reach.

while there is now a massive literature on antistate terrorism, state

It is only through improving our understanding of the experience

Marie Smyth is CEO of the Institute for Conflict Research in Northern

800 YEARS OF TROUBLED HISTORY

Relationships between Britain and Ireland have been historically

of the Indian Army was placed in command of the UVF, the

THE ROLES OF THE IRA AND OF THE UDA/UFF IN THE

The IRA’s 1922 war in Ireland was manifestly political, as a war of

the general, the social and political context as determined by the

enjoins a somewhat harsher reality, without the possibility of earthly

an intensity of human emotion and passion which is experienced

THE PROBATION SERVICE, LONG KESH AND POLITICAL

My family owned several businesses and properties in Belfast and I

terrible fate during my absence from Northern Ireland. One of the

tional criminal incarceration. There was very limited prisoner–prison

on the Camp Council’s agenda, and a Downtown Welfare Office was

1 Reconviction rates. The reconviction rates for special category or

2 Criminalisation. My research established that criminalisation

In 1979 the findings of the research were published in the media,

would stand in direct contradiction to the more conventional

My earlier research and publication was concerned with scientific

A BRIEF HISTORY OF THE UDA/UFF

military commitment. As Bowyer Bell comments of British attitudes

Fair or not, it was accurate to say that no one in Britain wanted an

The Ulster Defence Association is an umbrella organisation, which

war against the enemies of the union, or if it was a defence

Supreme Commander UDA

Political UDA’s Inner Council Representing Military

1994 27 12 38