STREETS by Gil Jackman
        			A Short Story of Northern Ireland

Belfast in the early seventies was a place where your religion was known by the street you lived in.  Strangely enough, and until they were told differently by the men of violence, most of the people managed to live together amicably enough.
One rain-drenched morning a worried Prod had phoned Tennent Street Police Station, situated on the Shankill side of the Crumlin.  His Catholic neighbours, friends of many years, had been threatened by a para-military loyalist group. 
Twenty minutes later a sergeant and six marines walked down the street in relaxed formation, SLRs held casually on their hips with barrels pointing at the sullen clouds lying low on the rooftops of the joyless city.  They belonged to the Reconnaissance Troop of 45 Commando, Royal Marines, and they stopped at the Catholic house.
The sergeant knocked on the door while his men entered the tiny garden and took up defensive positions behind the wall, facing outwards to the street.  The door opened hesitantly and the sergeant entered alone.  Inside he found a couple in their middle thirties, with three small children.  All were frightened except for the youngest child, who was only two and knew nothing of violence and threats.  
The sergeant was told that a truck was coming to take them to friends in Dungannon but they did not know what time it would come.
‘We’ll stay with you for as long as it takes,’ the sergeant said in a gentle voice.  ‘All night if necessary.’
It was a long day and an even longer evening.  At 2100hrs the front sentries reported a large gang approaching down the street from the Crumlin Road end.
The sergeant went out with the rest of his men, leaving the rear sentry in place.  He halted at the gate, his men spreading out on either side.  As the crowd drew closer he could see no weapons but did not doubt for a moment that some were concealed amongst the group.
The ringleaders formed a tight semi‑circle before the gate.
‘Why don’t you go away, soldiers, and leave the Fenians to us,’ one of them cried.
‘Yes,’ agreed another.  ‘This is a Protestant street, and we don’t want no Pope worshippers in it.’
‘How many of you actually live here?’ asked the sergeant quietly.  No one replied and he smiled coldly.  ‘None.  I thought not.  You have no business here and I suggest you return to your own homes, in your own streets.’
‘And if we don’t, soldier?’ snarled a thin‑faced youth.
‘If you call me soldier again I’ll get annoyed,’ the sergeant was of average height and medium build, yet there was an air of confidence about him that was not missed on the vigilantes.  ‘We are Royal Marines, not soldiers, and we’re here until these people decide to move.  We will stay and protect them until they go.  If you have not left this street within the next five minutes, you will be forcibly removed.’
Their decision was helped by the appearance of a vehicle patrol at the Crumlin end.  
The woman prepared supper for the seven marines, although the sergeant told her it was not necessary, that a hot meal would be brought for them later.
‘It is the least we can do, sergeant,’ she said simply.  ‘Please allow me.’
At 2300hrs another crowd converged on the house, this time from the heart of the Ardoyne, the Catholic ghetto at the far end of the street.  They stopped some distance away and the sergeant could make out a tall man in the centre of the group.  He recognised him from intelligence photos of known IRA men.
The sergeant handed his rifle back and went forward alone.  He halted ten yards away.  The tall man held a hand up and the crowd stopped with him.
‘What do you want?’ the sergeant asked in his soft voice, unusual for a Liverpudlian whose accent was distinct.
‘You know what we want,’ the tall man replied.  ‘We’ve come to protect our own.’
‘That’s why we’re here.  It’s our job.’
‘Like shit,’ growled a broad man standing next to the leader.  ‘Seven of youse against a crowd of bloody Prods.’
‘We have weapons,’ the sergeant pointed out reasonably.
The tall man turned back, staring fixedly at the sergeant. ‘We don’t want trouble if we can avoid it.  It would not help those poor folk in there.’
‘No, it would not,’ the Royal Marine said evenly.  ‘And there will be none, if you leave it to us.  We have a radio, and in minutes we can have a lot more troops here.  There is a truck coming to take these people out, and we will remain with them until it comes.  You have my word.’
‘I’ll take your word then, sergeant,’ the IRA man told him.  ‘And I’ll hold you to it.  Remember that.’
For a long moment they regarded each other.  They did not “hardeye”, but merely looked into each other’s eyes, and seemed satisfied at what they saw there.
‘My name is Jackman, Mr Mulvaney,’ the sergeant told him.  It was not the done thing to let the other side know your name, but by naming the other man, he was evening things, and the other was aware of this.
The tall man smiled without humour and dipped his head.  He turned on his heels and the crowd, that could so easily have become a mob, was gone within minutes.  The marines walked backward to the house. 
At 0600 the removal truck turned up and the loading began.  No explanation was given for their tardiness, and in the way of the Irish none was called for.  Half the patrol stood watch while the others helped the family load.
Their thanks drifted back down the street, but the marines heard only the sobs of the woman and her children as they left their home for good.  The sergeant thought the future held no hope for people such as these, pawns always in the name of religion and the greater God of politics.
 
Their second meeting was a few months later, on the day that many would say was the main cause of escalating a minor squabble into open warfare.
On the 1st of June 1970, yet another English blunder was made when the politicians allowed the Orange bands to march down the Crumlin Road to commemorate their hero King Billy.  It was a deadly insult to the Catholics at such a sensitive time.
Down each side road along the Crumlin army vehicles and barricades stood to keep the factions apart and prevent trouble.  Unfortunately they were not placed far enough from the Crumlin to stop the mobs from throwing missiles onto the marchers.
45’s Recce Troop was kept busy, with six open Landrovers on the move constantly.  Each contained six marines, with a sergeant or corporal next to the driver as vehicle commander.  Their task was to patrol the perimeters of the march and report on likely trouble situations back to Headquarters.
Two streets from the Commando HQ in Flax Street Mill, a 3 ton Army lorry blocked off a road.  A young man with the cheek and bravado of five pints of Guinness under his belt slipped past the soldiers at the low barricades and pulled himself onto the roof of the cab.  He produced a Tricolour and proceeded to wave it aloft to the approval and cheers of the crowd.
An incautious squaddy tried to reach him and received a kick in the face for his efforts, to the further delight of the crowd.  So it remained for some time, the Army helpless to do anything, and the hostile crowd badgering and growing all the time.
One of the Recce vehicles with a sergeant in the command seat drove slowly down the road and cut through the crowd.
‘Are youse going to shoot the poor sod, now?’ yelled one of the tricolour waver’s supporters, and this began a further tirade of abuse, but they were careful to keep their distance from the weapons trained on them from the back of the Rover.
The sergeant left the vehicle accompanied by two marines, one with a heavy coil of climbing rope.  Each Recce vehicle carried one along with a pannier of climbing equipment, for all Reconnaissance members were trained climbers and parachutists.
The sergeant spoke softly and his two marines grinned.  They moved to the rear of the truck, ignoring the soldiers who stepped out of their way.  They shook out the rope and together flicked it over the canopy.
‘What d’you think you’re doing, sergeant?’ an Army lieutenant appeared at his elbow.  ‘You have no authority here, and I order you to...’
A cold look made him take an involuntary step back, and the Recce sergeant brushed past him.
‘Go,’ he shouted, and the two marines shot forward towards the front of the truck, the rope trailing above them.
The soldiers stood back open mouthed, and the crowd was silent.  The only sound was of the approaching march, fifes and drums skirling and thumping.  And the hero of the people of course, still prancing on top of the truck, screaming Republican songs and throwing the Irish flag from side to side.
He was still in full voice as the rope caught his ankles in mid‑prance and whipped his legs from under him.  He bounced on the windscreen and slid in a heap to the ground, dazed but otherwise unhurt.
‘All yours, lads,’ one of the marines told the gaping soldiers.  ‘Try and take charge of him this time, eh?’  His mate finished coiling the rope and they returned to their Landrover.  No move was made as the vehicle reversed, the driver spinning the wheel left then right so they faced back down the street.
They had only changed into second when they saw the mob.  The entire width of the road was filled with people.  They were not moving, and their very stillness caused unease in the six marines.
‘What do we do now, Sarge?’ the driver asked.
‘Put your head between your legs and kiss your arse goodbye,’ came a cryptic suggestion from the back.
‘Can’t turn around, Sarge,’ another voice from behind.  ‘They’ve blocked us off.’
As the crowd at the top became aware of the second group blocking off the end of the road, they also became a dense mass spreading from pavement to pavement.
‘Face out and to the rear,’ the command came from the front seat.  ‘We’re going through fast, so get ready to beat them off as they close in.  Use your butts and be prepared to fire if they show a weapon.  Start slowly, Thomo, and stay in first gear, then floor it when I say so, and don’t stop for God’s sake.’
The driver nodded and revved the engine, then let the clutch out slowly.  The men in the back gripped their rifles tightly.
‘Stop,’ the sergeant called as they began to roll forward.  He was staring at the tall man in the front of the crowd.  He stood up, his Sterling down by his feet.
There was tension as the two men stared at each other, and gradually the noise of the mob died away, and an unnatural silence lay over the street.  There were only two players in the game now; the marines and civilians were mere spectators.
Suddenly it was over.  The tall man moved his hands out to the sides and his people fell back towards the pavements.  The sergeant was not a religious man, he’d had to fight the results of it too many times in different countries, but it seemed not unlike the parting of the Red Sea.
Within seconds there was a path through the crowd, wide enough for a Landrover to pass.
‘It’s a trap,’ said the driver.
‘No, Thomo,’ the man beside him replied.  ‘No, I don’t think so.  I know that man, I trust him.  Drive on.’
The driver shrugged and released the clutch.  They moved slowly through the silent crowd, sensing their hostility but accepting their stillness.  As they passed, a brief glance was exchanged between the tall man and the sergeant.  
It was enough, and as the vehicle gained pace and accelerated through the gears, the sergeant relaxed against his seat.  Acknowledgement had been given with that glance, and a debt had been repaid.
Until the next time.

The sergeant saw Toibin Mulvaney only once after that.  On BBC news when he was arrested under Section 14 of the Northern Ireland (Emergency Provisions) Act, 1978.  A few months later he went on trial and was given a life sentence as head of the Belfast Brigade.
He died in prison.
I know – I was that sergeant of marines.  Mulvaney was the kind of man I wouldn't have minded representing the minority people of Northern Ireland, instead of some of the ones who did make their way into the assembly.  The irony was that I was an Irish Catholic from Liverpool, once even an altar boy, and my people were from down south.
Mores the pity!