Alex McCroryreflecting on the 40th anniversary of Bobby Sands. 

I have posted this story before, however, on Bobby's anniversary I am immediately transported back in time.

I had a visit on that Friday afternoon with my family. All week we had been receiving reports of Bobby's impending death. Sadly, despite our best efforts, we had failed to save our comrade from the inevitable outcome of his long hunger strike. We knew he would not step back from the brink, even when faced with his own extinction. Bobby valued some things more than life itself. We were looking over the precipice and into the abyss.

On the visit my mother signaled that she had smuggled something in, which lifted my spirits. I expected a large cigar shaped package of tobacco wrapped in layers of clingfilm, that I would put up my backside at the first opportunity. This was not an easy task as in those days each individual prisoner had a screw escort that stood only feet away watching his every move. But human nature being what it is, some screws simply became bored or embarrassed by their intrusive behaviour. All that was needed was a momentary lapse of concentration to do the business. A package could be handed over and secreted away in seconds on a good day. But this was not a good day.

The screw did not take his eyes of me for a minute. Every job has a jobsworth; a guy who goes beyond the call of duty. I began to panic as the clock ran down on the half-hour visiting time. With some urgency, I told my mother to pass me the package whenever the visit ended. Because prisoners went on visits in batches meant that several would all finish together creating a lot of activity and movement; kissing, hugging and handshakes. That was my last chance, and I was determined to succeed come what may.

Tobacco was important for the morale of smokers, and for general morale. When smokers were in good form then it benefited the non-smokers as well. Like any addict, a smoker is hard to stick when deprived of the chemical reactions of the drug. Therefore, to get tobacco back onto the wing was a test of character and resolve. Those that failed were not viewed in the best of light.

But even more important than tobacco were the comms dealing with important matters to do with the hunger strike. Lines of communication had been developed so that it was possible to send out a comm in the morning and receive a reply in the afternoon. Although there were handpicked couriers for the most sensitive comms, in theory, any family could be asked to smuggle one in. It was so nerve wrecking that many families refused to do it because they feared the consequences. However, my mother was prominent in the National H-Block campaign, therefore, I carried many comms in and out of the prison. They were secreted in my mouth and foreskin, and on occasion in my back passage. Necessity is the mother of all invention.

When the visit was called to a halt, my mother passed the package across the table. It was done quick so the screw did not see it happen, or so I thought. I held it in my clenched fist and, as she hugged me, I slid it up my arse on the screw's blind side. I kissed my her said my goodbyes. As I walked out of the visiting room, I felt relieved it was all over. I looked forward to a H-Block roll-up over the lunch break, as well as treating my comrades to the same. But, at that moment, disaster struck. My escort asked to speak to the PO (Principal Officer), and I knew my goose was cooked.

The screw said he suspected I had contraband on my person. I made no reply. Instead of going back to the wing, I was sent to the boards (the punishment block). There I was taken into a cell and forced to squat naked over a mirror. One screw put on plastic gloves and spread my bum cheeks apart. This was not unusual. I had learned to block out my emotions whenever I was being violated. My private parts were not so private anymore.

I was kept on the boards until Tuesday morning. Around 7.30am the orderly came to the cell door and whispered that Bobby Sands had died in the early hours. I sat down on the mattress despondent. When the breakfast came, I could not look at it. All I wanted was to be returned to the wing to be with the rest of the lads. I needed to be with my comrades at that moment in time. Around 11.30am the van arrived to bring me back to H-4. I was never more grateful.

Bobby's death shocked us all. As we struggled to come to terms with its emotional impact, some of the screws joked and laughed about it. The bastards could not fathom why a young man had sacrificed his life for political beliefs. They never did understand what made us tick. We were worlds apart, the oppressor and the oppressed.

Alec McCrory 
is a former blanketman.

The Terrible Whisper That Bobby Sands Had Died

Alex McCroryreflecting on the 40th anniversary of Bobby Sands. 

I have posted this story before, however, on Bobby's anniversary I am immediately transported back in time.

I had a visit on that Friday afternoon with my family. All week we had been receiving reports of Bobby's impending death. Sadly, despite our best efforts, we had failed to save our comrade from the inevitable outcome of his long hunger strike. We knew he would not step back from the brink, even when faced with his own extinction. Bobby valued some things more than life itself. We were looking over the precipice and into the abyss.

On the visit my mother signaled that she had smuggled something in, which lifted my spirits. I expected a large cigar shaped package of tobacco wrapped in layers of clingfilm, that I would put up my backside at the first opportunity. This was not an easy task as in those days each individual prisoner had a screw escort that stood only feet away watching his every move. But human nature being what it is, some screws simply became bored or embarrassed by their intrusive behaviour. All that was needed was a momentary lapse of concentration to do the business. A package could be handed over and secreted away in seconds on a good day. But this was not a good day.

The screw did not take his eyes of me for a minute. Every job has a jobsworth; a guy who goes beyond the call of duty. I began to panic as the clock ran down on the half-hour visiting time. With some urgency, I told my mother to pass me the package whenever the visit ended. Because prisoners went on visits in batches meant that several would all finish together creating a lot of activity and movement; kissing, hugging and handshakes. That was my last chance, and I was determined to succeed come what may.

Tobacco was important for the morale of smokers, and for general morale. When smokers were in good form then it benefited the non-smokers as well. Like any addict, a smoker is hard to stick when deprived of the chemical reactions of the drug. Therefore, to get tobacco back onto the wing was a test of character and resolve. Those that failed were not viewed in the best of light.

But even more important than tobacco were the comms dealing with important matters to do with the hunger strike. Lines of communication had been developed so that it was possible to send out a comm in the morning and receive a reply in the afternoon. Although there were handpicked couriers for the most sensitive comms, in theory, any family could be asked to smuggle one in. It was so nerve wrecking that many families refused to do it because they feared the consequences. However, my mother was prominent in the National H-Block campaign, therefore, I carried many comms in and out of the prison. They were secreted in my mouth and foreskin, and on occasion in my back passage. Necessity is the mother of all invention.

When the visit was called to a halt, my mother passed the package across the table. It was done quick so the screw did not see it happen, or so I thought. I held it in my clenched fist and, as she hugged me, I slid it up my arse on the screw's blind side. I kissed my her said my goodbyes. As I walked out of the visiting room, I felt relieved it was all over. I looked forward to a H-Block roll-up over the lunch break, as well as treating my comrades to the same. But, at that moment, disaster struck. My escort asked to speak to the PO (Principal Officer), and I knew my goose was cooked.

The screw said he suspected I had contraband on my person. I made no reply. Instead of going back to the wing, I was sent to the boards (the punishment block). There I was taken into a cell and forced to squat naked over a mirror. One screw put on plastic gloves and spread my bum cheeks apart. This was not unusual. I had learned to block out my emotions whenever I was being violated. My private parts were not so private anymore.

I was kept on the boards until Tuesday morning. Around 7.30am the orderly came to the cell door and whispered that Bobby Sands had died in the early hours. I sat down on the mattress despondent. When the breakfast came, I could not look at it. All I wanted was to be returned to the wing to be with the rest of the lads. I needed to be with my comrades at that moment in time. Around 11.30am the van arrived to bring me back to H-4. I was never more grateful.

Bobby's death shocked us all. As we struggled to come to terms with its emotional impact, some of the screws joked and laughed about it. The bastards could not fathom why a young man had sacrificed his life for political beliefs. They never did understand what made us tick. We were worlds apart, the oppressor and the oppressed.

Alec McCrory 
is a former blanketman.

3 comments:

  1. I find this very evocative. The loneliest place in the world that morning for a blanketman had to be the boards.

    ReplyDelete
  2. This article is itself a valuable historical document. Thanks for sharing it with us

    ReplyDelete
  3. Brilliant article, the debate that has opened in TPQ this past week has been invaluable. To Alex mc Crory best wishes as to what lyes ahead for you . Dia dhaoibh

    ReplyDelete