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| Gerard Hucker Moyna |
Many conflict killings were attributed to Hucker, not all of them accurately so according to some of his former comrades who nevertheless acknowledge his operational efficiency in close quarter situations. Seemingly, the legend he grew into within physical force republicanism acquired a life of its own which some in the media were to prone to amplify and others to repeat.
Caught in 1984 he received a ten year sentence, and for a time while was on the red book in the H Blocks, which meant he spent only a short time on each of the wings. It was always enjoyable to see him arrive because he he had excellent bullshit antennae. The Kool-Aid crowd tended to give him a wide berth. He breezed through jail as if he hadn't a care in the world. An intelligent guy but one who never picked up a book. Uniquely for the H Blocks his cell was a book free zone. He kept abreast of events through the radio which he played constantly.
A raconteur and wit, he once said that a certain SF councillor must be the bravest man alive. When asked to explain, his reasoning was simple: Every night he sits in terror that the IRA will kill him for being such a coward. Anybody that can survive that one day after another has to be brave.
One famous Hucker line was crafted outside the prison in the wake of an IRA operation which went wrong. The intended target was supposedly a prison officer by the name of Davy Long. Sitting in a bar when he heard what happened Hucker quipped to his drinking companion, I see the IRA shot Davy Wrong.That was typical Hucker, equipped with a wit that he would deliver with relish when venting his low tolerance for Sinn Feiners.
He had come into the H blocks at a time when within the Republican Movement the Blanketmen were being eclipsed by the Banquet men. In his view, Sinn Fein, was a hiding place for those who did not want to go to jail so avoided the IRA. He did not share the view of Bobby Sands that everybody had their part to play, big or small, feeling that the IRA was being played by Sinn Fein with its ever growing pool of careerists. Trying to persuade him that armed struggle alone was never going to go far was never the most successful of ventures.
I would run into him on the outside occasionally. One Sunday morning I chanced across him on the Whiterock Road not too long after the first IRA ceasefire of 1994. He told me he had been gripped on the orders of the leadership, When he turned up for the meeting he was asked to place a hood over his head. He refused, telling his interlocuters the most he would do was face the wall. His resentment was down to a feeling on his part that the people talking to him had previously sworn to prevent any sell out and now here they were standing behind him in a darkened bedroom feeling his collar because he had openly stated his opposition to what he felt was a sell out.
He later became involved in the IPLO after which he moved into some of the other physical force republican groups. One one occasion in 1997 he sustained a serious hand injury when the detonator of the device he was ferrying through Belfast city centre exploded. It resulted in the loss of several fingers and a prison sentence in Portlaoise after he had arrived in Sligo Hospital to be treated for his wounds.
Hucker was immensely well got by his fellow operators. Even if they regarded him as a bit of a loose cannon, he was known to be a can-do-man; somebody who would deliver the operational goods. He was not so well got by leadership figures who would seek to undermine him in a bid to prevent his stature taking on proportions larger than they were comfortable dealing with.
My last encounter with him was on a Belfast bus as I was travelling to Twinbrook to visit my mother. On seeing him I jumped into the seat beside him. He had lost none of his acerbic wit or scepticism.
In April of last year, before the cortege set off for his final journey along the Falls Road, which he had traversed thousands of times, a volley of shots was fired over his coffin. He would have had it no other way.
I would run into him on the outside occasionally. One Sunday morning I chanced across him on the Whiterock Road not too long after the first IRA ceasefire of 1994. He told me he had been gripped on the orders of the leadership, When he turned up for the meeting he was asked to place a hood over his head. He refused, telling his interlocuters the most he would do was face the wall. His resentment was down to a feeling on his part that the people talking to him had previously sworn to prevent any sell out and now here they were standing behind him in a darkened bedroom feeling his collar because he had openly stated his opposition to what he felt was a sell out.
He later became involved in the IPLO after which he moved into some of the other physical force republican groups. One one occasion in 1997 he sustained a serious hand injury when the detonator of the device he was ferrying through Belfast city centre exploded. It resulted in the loss of several fingers and a prison sentence in Portlaoise after he had arrived in Sligo Hospital to be treated for his wounds.
Hucker was immensely well got by his fellow operators. Even if they regarded him as a bit of a loose cannon, he was known to be a can-do-man; somebody who would deliver the operational goods. He was not so well got by leadership figures who would seek to undermine him in a bid to prevent his stature taking on proportions larger than they were comfortable dealing with.
My last encounter with him was on a Belfast bus as I was travelling to Twinbrook to visit my mother. On seeing him I jumped into the seat beside him. He had lost none of his acerbic wit or scepticism.
In April of last year, before the cortege set off for his final journey along the Falls Road, which he had traversed thousands of times, a volley of shots was fired over his coffin. He would have had it no other way.
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