hiding. His old contacts book should go to some journalistic museum.
It is no exaggeration to say it but there were times, especially in the 1970s, when after dark some of the streets in Belfast were among the most dangerous places in the world. Apart from anything else, here was a journalist who took huge risks in asking the difficult questions.
In the end, as Dillon had always suspected, one day he would have to pack his typewriter and notebook and leave before they came for him. Even for veterans like him, the delicate balance between getting the story and not getting yourself killed was a daily and frequently exhausting calculation. Judging from this memoir, he got out just in time.
From the very beginning, there were two simultaneous and parallel wars ongoing in Northern Ireland; the visible one that was all over the tea-time news, and the invisible one that would sometimes emerge briefly, leaving behind tantalising fingerprints and glimpses of hidden agendas.
Here was a battlefield where the politicians ceded control to the spooks, where the state’s writ barely ran, and about which the less the good citizens of the liberal democracies were supposed to know, the sounder they were supposed to sleep in their beds at night. This was Dillon country and as he followed its mysterious trails, he was among the first to raise the deeply troubling question of the legality of the state’s dirty war.
At their very best, journalists are worker bees, hewers of information and carriers of facts, especially the very few who will not take no for an answer. They should be pains in the arse for any establishment, and Dillon was one. You’ll find him all over these chapters, the hack armed only with a pen and facing the high walls of official denial.
In his 1990 book The Dirty War, Dillon had opened the first ever window on the secret counter-insurgency war that the British state fought in Northern Ireland. This was a campaign drawn on classic Brigadier Frank ‘Kitsonian’ parameters that, even to this day, is still reluctant to give up some of its ghastly secrets.
Even today as more and more secret agents are uncovered and led out, blinking into the sunlight, or as veterans begin telling their stories for the first time, the visible extent of the dimensions of the secret war grow year by year. Perhaps the most extraordinary thing about the truth is that eventually, however long it takes, it will always come out.
But across thirty years, with its vast network of agents and intelligence agencies, the complete story of the dirty war remains to be told. Shoot-to-kill; the running of double agents; the manipulation of paramilitary killings; the secret importing of weaponry; the unexplained deaths; to this day the incident files remain bulging with unanswered questions.
Within that extraordinary hall of mirrors, it is to Dillon’s unique credit as a journalist that he was among the first to begin lifting the stones and looking underneath. It was difficult and dangerous work, even the journalistic establishments were timorous near this terrain and Dillon’s courage and dedication should be recognised.
Dillon was also the scribe who revealed to us some of the most deprived human animals who ever existed, in his 1989 book The Shankill Butchers. His telling of how a group of bog-standard, working-class men in a United Kingdom urban jungle could spend their evenings in drinking clubs featuring their unique floor show of the torture and throat-cutting of their Catholic neighbours still makes the blood run cold. In some places, such a group might constitute a club for playing darts or for pigeon racing, in Northern Ireland here was a club for the enjoyment of serial killing.
Lenny Murphy the Shankill butcher who slashed his victims’ throats; Michael Stone the loyalist paramilitary who attacked a funeral with hand grenades; Freddie Scappaticci the double agent in the Provisional Irish Republican Army, known by the codename Stakeknife: Dillon’s cast of villains across this memoir takes some equalling.
There are other chapters, too, on his childhood, his failed religious vocation and a tender memoir of his famous great-uncle, the artist Gerard Dillon.
Gerard’s brush left behind indelible images for us of his era, his great-nephew Martin’s pen has drawn hugely significant questions marks across another era. The artist with his colours, the artisan with his words, the Dillon DNA has hugely enriched us all.
Tom McGurk, August 2017
Prologue
Growing up in 1950s West Belfast, it was natural to feel trapped by the physical contours of the city and stories of its troubled past. In the Falls area, Black Mountain rose above the narrow, intersecting streets of Protestant and Catholic enclaves. A few years before I came into the world, the mountain offered nightly shelter for families hiding from German bombers pounding Belfast. The city being an industrial hub for the British war effort suffered terribly during the Blitz whereas the Nazis spared Dublin because it was neutral territory.
My grandfather, Patrick Dillon and his brother, John, fought bravely on the Normandy beaches, yet their sacrifice was somehow diminished in Protestants’ eyes because many Catholics throughout Ireland were branded as anti-British. That perception of Catholics was not entirely true but, like so much history in Ireland, myths trump facts. Interestingly, more Catholics than Protestants on the island fought and died in the ranks of the British Army in the Second World War. It is equally the case that there was profound anti-Britishness throughout Ireland, which Republicans transformed into a pro-Nazi mentality.
It was manifested in the refusal of the Dublin government to cede important ports to Britain to make it easier to defend Allied shipping in the Atlantic from German gunboats and submarines. Members of the IRA even met leading German military figures, convinced if Germany won the war the IRA would be considered a friend and ally. The most egregious example of pro-Nazi sentiment was the decision by Irish leader, Éamon de Valera, to open a condolences book at the German Legation in Dublin so people could express their regret at the death of Adolf Hitler.
In my youth, I knew little of the intricacies of the war period as they related to Ireland, yet I was familiar with my tribe’s attachment to Irish history. I refer to ‘Irish history’, and not ‘the history of Ireland’, to confirm that what I learned from an early age was either written or passed on orally by those defining themselves as Irish. In Belfast, you learned history sitting on your grandmother’s knee, or in my case from the De La Salle Brothers in St Finian’s primary school on the Falls Road, where my fellow pupils included Gerry Adams, a future IRA leader.
In St Finian’s, the past was a potent recounting of Ireland’s brutal colonization by the British. Tales of the slaughter of men, women and children, ordered by English generals like Oliver Cromwell, made Irish rebels of old and IRA gunmen of the twentieth century seem god-like and heroic. Built into the narrative was an understanding the Northern Ireland State was illegal, and its institutions, especially the judiciary, as well as the Royal Ulster Constabulary and its paramilitary force, the B-Specials, were mechanisms for oppression.
Our eyes were directed towards ‘The South’ as the finest example of how people lived in freedom. Some Catholics from my grandparents’ era referred to that part of the island as ‘The Free State’, which was its official title after independence from Britain in 1921. It remained within the British Commonwealth until 1937 when it was declared a sovereign nation with the Gaelic title, Éire. In 1947, it became the Republic of Ireland, but most Northern Protestants continued to call it Éire as though in doing so they were reinforcing the point it was Irish and separate from British-controlled Northern Ireland. In my childhood, I never heard a Protestant refer to it as anything other than Éire or ‘The South’. Calling it ‘The Republic of Ireland’ or the ‘Irish Republic’ was taboo among many Protestants. ‘The South’ was shorthand for a political perception that the South and the North were equal entities, which of course was silly, given the fact that Northern Ireland comprised only six of the island’s thirty-two counties and was not a sovereign state. Power over it lay with successive London governments. It was, therefore, hardly surprising Northern Ireland’s children were confused when the other part of the island was treated to a variety of names. As a child, I imagined the border separating the two parts of the country had to be so high no one could see over it.
Being a newly created state, the Republic of Ireland was not as wealthy as Northern Ireland,