Almost one death, but two Types of fear

There were all types of death in a police or militarised state and some can be put down as murder. Just as there are two types of fear which are the opposite of each other.

I always told myself that I would never use my blog to make a political statement, but after being touched by the death of a 5 year old Palestinian child, Inas Shawket, I have allowed it just this once. There has not been a day or night gone by when I do not think of this innocent child at least once.

First though the story below took place during my time on the streets in Northern Ireland, William is my middle name, and this extract is from my story. The Dunce at the back of the Class [soldier on] It is a true account of what actually took place in my life at the age of 23.

While William’s mortar platoon was in the house at the bus station, there was an orphan boy no older than fourteen.  He was autistic, and although not clever he had a heart of gold.  He would do anything for the mortar platoon and lived between the police station on Divis Road and the mortar platoon house.  On patrol one morning, the section had found him on the side of the road.  He had a bullet hole in his forehead with a note pinned to his coat, “British Sympathiser.”  Before the police and the press got there, the note was taken from his coat. William never knew who took it.  But it made no difference.  The boy was known to be a Catholic, and the press built up the story that it was another sectarian murder.

The only time that William felt real fear in Northern Ireland was during a disturbance in the Falls Road area of Belfast.  It was at a weekend when there was a large riot taking place just off the Falls Road.  Their section, with another, pulled up on the outskirts of the trouble in a back street.  The two sections debussed, and Shinner told William to stay with the vehicle with the other driver, as guards.  The other radio operator went with the sections as they headed towards the end of the street.

William was sitting in the back of the Land Rover behind the front seat, looking out through the back.  It had been only a few minutes since the others left for the disturbance when a child appeared.  He was no older than fifteen and may have been as young as twelve.  He put one foot on the tow bar of the Land Rover and stared at William with a wicked smile on his face.  In his hand, he held a Molotov cocktail, basically a petrol bomb, with the wick already lit.  Where he came from or how he passed the security forces, William had no idea?

In his young Irish accent, he stated, “I am going to throw this at you, soldier, and watch you burn.”

Calmly, William cocked his 7.62 FN rifle and held the end of the barrel inches away from the boy’s eyes.  He had taken off the safety catch with his thumb and took the first pressure of the trigger.  Trying to keep his voice level, he said, “Then let’s see if I burn or you die, it’s your choice.”

It seemed as though they remained in that position for many minutes, but in reality it was probably no more than a few seconds before the boy dropped his arm.

“Throw it away from us, lad.  You are too young to die.”

He threw it to his right, and William watched the bottle smash in the middle of the road.  Only moments later Shinner came back with the two sections, but William had already lowered his weapon.  The boy was now looking really scared, surrounded by twelve agitated Paratroopers.  Shinner looked at the boy and then at the petrol burning in the road, and asked, “What the hell happened, Spike?  We’ve only been gone ten minutes.  Who threw that?”

William looked at the boy, who still looked terrified, and answered, “He’s long gone, Shinner.”

The boy ran away, and the sections climbed into the vehicles.

They were soon on the way back to barracks.  William took the magazine off his rifle and was removing the round from the chamber while Jimmy watched him.  Back at the barracks, Jimmy asked what the live round was all about.  It was not normal to make a weapon “ready” – by pulling back and releasing the cocking lever so that a round went from the magazine into the chamber ready to be fired the moment the trigger was squeezed – except on direct orders or if under fire.  William told him what had happened, and asked, “What would you have done, Jimmy?”

Jimmy just put his hand on William’s shoulder and answered, “It was the right decision, but a tough one.”  They never talked about it again, out of respect for each other, and neither William nor any of the rest of his section ever experienced anything like it again.  William, however, had nightmares about it for a long time afterwards.

In fact, very much later when William was at home on leave and his father was discussing the province with his mother, William related the story, mainly because his father was making it sound so easy for the army.

One of his brothers asked, “What would you have done if the boy hadn’t dropped the cocktail or tried to throw it?”

Without thinking about it, William replied, “I would have squeezed the trigger.”

His father said in his mocking voice, “That would have been murder, you stupid boy.”

William replied, “Yes, you’re probably right, but I would still have been alive to do the time.  One other thing,” and now William was speaking aggressively, “Don’t ever call me a stupid boy again.”  Once again William had closed the mouth of his mocking father.

This is not in the story

In those few moments that the young boy and me were looking at each other I saw the real expression of fear for the first time. Realisation had hit the boy that he was at a point in his young life where he knew that his next movement would most probably be his last. At that point he knew it was not the same as when he and his friends throw stones, bottles and lumps of metal at us.  He knew that this time we were not going to drive on and forget about him.

I am in no doubt that he saw the fear in my eyes; it was not the fear of my imminent death. There was not a bats chance in hell that I was about to die, because it was me holding the instant death. The fear in my eyes was from the knowledge that if this young boy never did exactly as I had asked I would squeeze the trigger. Yes it would have been murder and hard to prove self defence, but I would still be alive to go to prison if convicted. It was the only time my father had ever said anything about me or my life that was honest.

A point I would like to make is, that from beginning to end I was never in any danger of losing my life. The irony was that the boy was a Catholic and he was the reason I was in N Ireland, to protect him from the Protestant Unionists, my own countrymen. If I had been the stupid boy my father called me, I would never have shown the boy mercy and allowed him a second chance.

That was the way the British Special Forces treated children, that threw stones and bottles at who they think were the oppressors. They were driven by loyalty to parents in their fight for equality and freedom.

The picture below is how the Israeli Defence Force do the same task when controlling stone throwing children. Then Israel has the nerve to say to the world and believe the lie, that they are Gods chosen. Well I hope sincerely that he is not my god, because his eyes must be closed.

ISRAEL'S Netanyahu's cabinet backs bill to jail stone throwers for up to 20 years.

But for killing a Palestinian 5 year old child by an Israeli, not so much as a caution.

Be well Ian.