eye, and a photograph was quickly arranged with Mary’s granny, her mother, Mary and Sharon showing four generations in the family. We hardly saw Sharon, such was the queue to look after her.
I was warned that to visit the Derry side was dangerous and we were definitely not to take our car. Shortly after 8pm one summer evening, Mary and I walked across the bridge, up Carlisle Road, through Ferryquay Gate, heading for my brother Dickie’s flat in Pump Street. We were suddenly confronted by hundreds of youths, men and women running towards us. Bottles were being thrown and shots fired; we had walked straight into a riot. I grabbed Mary and pushed her into a doorway in front of Woolworth’s and we both got on our knees and crouched down as young men and women ran past us, some of them charging towards the Derry Walls, some up Pump Street, while others ran straight down Carlisle Road. Some of the youths wore masks and turned to engage the army with stones and bottles; others threw petrol bombs. Mary and I were right in the firing line and I decided that we should probably make a run for it, towards the soldiers, and identify ourselves so as not to be confused as rioters. Another couple who had sought safety beside us in the doorway also ran towards the soldiers, trying to explain to one soldier that they were simply trying to make their way home. Instead, the soldier in question beat both of them to the ground. Outraged, I ran out and was almost hit by a petrol bomb that exploded at my feet. I managed to jump over it and pulled Mary by the hand towards two soldiers who were standing on the corner near ‘The Diamond’, the shopping centre in the commercial heart of the city.
I shouted at the Corporal and complained about his colleague’s abuse of the young couple, who now lay bloody and battered outside Austin’s Store. He told me to ‘fuck off!’ and when I produced my MOD90 (military identity card) and ordered him to give me his name and number his colleague drew a baton and smashed me over the head with it and I fell to the ground; a ‘Brit’ was beating a fellow Brit because he assumed I was a republican rioter! The next thing I remember was Mary dragging me to the doorway of Austin’s. We eventually made our way back to the Waterside, where Mary’s father took me to the hospital. I received six stitches to my head and was told I was very lucky. Even after all these years I still bear the mark of that baton. The RUC, who were at the hospital most of the night taking the names and addresses of anyone admitted in order to connect them with the rioting, took my name and address, and before I knew it, I was to be charged with rioting.
I couldn’t phone anyone at the regiment, as they were all on leave, but went to the RUC station on Spencer Road the next day to make a statement. I met with an inspector who, despite expressing sympathy, told me I shouldn’t have been in the area and that being a soldier made it all the more serious. I was to be reported to the military police at Ebrington Barracks, who would pass on their report to my commanding officer at Bovington. I spent the next two weeks reading and hearing all about the British Army in Derry, the RUC, the thirteen people that had been murdered on Bloody Sunday, the IRA, a guy called Martin McGuinness, and Sinn Féin.
It was at this time that I discovered that Jim Wray, my classmate and friend, had been one of those murdered by the Parachute Regiment on Bloody Sunday. I felt sick for days, but worse still was when I found out that Seamus Cusack, my friend from Melmore, had also been shot dead in 1971. People were quite adamant that he had not been armed, was not a member of any organisation and had in fact been murdered. It all seemed insane to me; Derry had gone mad. I couldn’t wait to get out of the city and away to my new posting.
Back at Bovington, just before the intake returned for autumn 1972, a letter arrived from the military police at Ebrington Barracks addressed to the commanding officer. The chief clerk in the base called me to his office, closed the door and smiled, ‘Look what I got.’ As chief clerk it was his duty to open all mail addressed to the colonel. I pulled my chair closer to his desk as he opened the envelope. He read the letter, which had two documents attached to it, put it down and stared at me looking pensive. ‘I think you’re in trouble,’ he said. It was the report of my alleged rioting in Derry.
I explained to him what had actually happened and he went off to have a word with the colonel. This wasn’t a very good start to my new job, particularly as I hadn’t even met the colonel yet. As it happened, Colonel Green from the Royal Tank Regiment turned out to be very understanding and told me to forget about it and that he would have a word. In the time I served there it was Colonel Green who took me under his wing, mentored me and taught me how to respond to the trials and tribulations of being his assistant.
***
Mary was a great manager of our finances, and she was able to save enough for us to go back to Derry for Christmas. In early December we did some seasonal shopping and bought a large truck with bricks in it for Mark and a fluffy little teddy bear for Sharon. She was a little young for Christmas, but we promised one another that next year when she better understood the festival she would have a bigger present. Sharon was a lovely, happy baby, and had both of us wrapped around her little finger. Indeed, one night when she was a little restless Mary asked me to fetch the teddy bear to settle her down. But I refused, saying that ‘it will only spoil Christmas Day for her’.
On the morning of 16 December 1972, the day we were due to set off for Derry, tragedy struck our family. We had packed our cases and loaded the car the night before, ready for an early start. It was frosty that night but the house was warm and we all slept well. I rose first and went down to make Sharon a bottle while Mary got Mark and Sharon out of bed and dressed. I was standing by the cooker when I heard an almighty scream from upstairs. I dropped the kettle and ran to see what had happened. As I reached the doorway of Sharon’s little room, Mary was screaming at the top of her voice and shaking uncontrollably. I grabbed her by the waist to stop her. ‘Mary, for God’s sake what’s wrong?’ She turned and, with tears streaming down her face, pointed towards Sharon’s cot. I stepped past her and walked over to where my baby lay. I touched Sharon’s cold face and lifted her into my arms. She wasn’t breathing, so I laid her on the floor, tilted her head back and began giving her mouth to mouth resuscitation. Mary knelt beside me, rubbing the back of Sharon’s small, cold hand and whispering encouraging words, ‘That’s it, Willie! She’s moving! Keep going!’ After five minutes or so I knew in my heart what Mary didn’t want to believe. Sharon was dead. I lifted her tubby little body and carried her down the stairs.
‘Mary,’ I said, ‘run down the lane to John Sawyer’s house and ask them to phone a doctor’. Mary ran out of the front door and I could hear her screaming, ‘Please, somebody help us. Please help us.’ After a minute I checked Sharon’s pulse again but there was no sign of life. I lifted her onto the sofa and covered her with a baby blanket. She looked as though she was asleep. I burst into tears, dropped to my knees beside her, and, holding her tiny limp hand, began shouting at the Sacred Heart picture that hung above the fireplace, ‘No! Please God. No!’ Mary arrived back with Margaret Sawyer, John’s wife, who was a nurse at the local hospital. She pushed past me, went straight over to the sofa and checked Sharon for any signs of life. After checking the lifeless body, Margaret came over and put her arms around us saying, ‘I’m so sorry.’ Mary burst into tears and dropped to her knees shouting, ‘Oh God, no! Please don’t do this to me!’
A few minutes later the doctor arrived and began examining Sharon. With a big sigh he stood up. ‘I’m afraid the baby is dead,’ he said. Mary collapsed onto the floor again, in a near faint, and when she came around she began screaming. The doctor asked me to hold her while he gave her an injection to sedate her, and after a few minutes Mary was fast asleep.
‘Daddy, are we nearly ready?’ said Mark, tugging at my sleeve. Poor Mark, with all that was happening I had forgotten all about him. I lifted him onto my lap and tried to explain what had happened, but at two years of age he just didn’t understand. He walked over to the sofa, where he was used to seeing Sharon lie, bent down and kissed her saying, ‘There now, there now.’ I burst into tears.
Sometime later two police officers from Dorchester arrived and immediately started asking questions. Who discovered the baby’s body? Where was
