The Irish War is officially a part of history, but not for Finnean Whelan, an IRA veteran of almost 40 years. British Intelligence has produced evidence that he is the mastermind behind a conspiracy to assassinate the First Minister of Northern Ireland. Finn is protected in his exile in the United States after having worked for the CIA. Consequently, British Intelligence has come up with a plan to lure Finn back into their jurisdiction, Northern Ireland, by revealing the identity of the man who is ultimately responsible for the killing of Finn’s wife, Shauna.

Here they hope not only to apprehend him, but also lead them to another conspirator, Martin Sheehan, who hides in the Northern provinces. For Whelan this is not only a mission of revenge, but marks the beginning of a journey into the past and the return to the one true love: Ireland.

The Bleeding Hills, Wilfried F. Voss’ newest novel, is skillfully divided into three time lines; they keep the reader glued to the story by providing some surprising twists and turns. The first time line describes the life of Finnean Whelan and his first contact with the Irish Republican Army in the late 1960s. The second line is set in the presence and it portrays Whelan’s journey to Northern Ireland where he intends to accomplish his final plot. The third time line is dedicated to the activities of British Intelligence Services, namely the MI5, attempting to apprehend Whelan and his co-conspirator, Martin Sheehan. All time lines come together in the end and they make for some intriguing twists.

Wilfried F. Voss has cleverly weaved real events of recent Irish history, namely the Irish Troubles, into the life story of Finnean Whelan. They are, just to name a few examples, the events of Bloody Sunday, and the murder of Captain Robert Nairac, an officer with the British Army. The historical facts have been thoroughly investigated, but the author also takes some liberties for interpretation; these interpretations are, nevertheless, based on his meticulous research.

One theory, for instance, is that Captain Robert Nairac was the victim of child abuse at Ampleforth College in England, which, consequently, caused Nairac’s violent behavior during the Irish Troubles. Another interesting theory is based on the claim that British Intelligence Services, even to the present day, are instrumental in a plot to disrupt the peace process in Northern Ireland. Whether or not these claims are true is of no consequence; The Bleeding Hills is not only entertaining, but it also effectively tickles the reader’s mind to learn more about recent Irish history.

Reviews

Using the yarns of the past and the present, violence and love, deceit and honesty, The Bleeding Hills is a tale woven like an Irish sweater. It is a well crafted page-turner that keeps the reader in suspense with unexpected twists throughout. This story is about more than just a the Irish Troubles and espionage; it is personalized through Finn exploring his triumphs and retrospective regrets. What is truly impressive is the author’s skill at exploring the larger issue of civil conflicts–how individuals become involved and how governments perpetuate–without being obvious or sacrificing any of the story at hand.
An outstanding story that is a must read. – Paul Dolan Iubito

Great novel! The story line is captivating and the characters are believable. The author incorporated events of recent Irish history, but he also addresses political issues such as the current MI5 involvement in Northern Ireland. His views may be pro-Irish, but they are nevertheless in favor of present day British policies. All this is skillfully mingled with a real-life story with all the right elements – love, romance, suspense, and humor. – L. Pierro-Pulsifer

Although the story here is fictional, I felt the historical research portrayed in The Bleeding Hills was very well done. Voss has achieved weaving the three time lines portrayed in the story together with interesting twists and turns (that I was not expecting) into a solid and, I think, fair rendition of the Irish Troubles from a personal point of view – that of Finnean Whelan. The story of Finnean Whelan and his love of Ireland is both exciting and touching – a good read for anyone interested in the Irish Troubles with a touch of excitement and mystery included. – Y. Campbell

More Background Information

The Boys of Barr Na Sraide
I first heard the song The Boys of Barr Na Sraide in Ireland on the small isle of Inishbofin off the coast of Galway. My wife’s grandmother was born here and she immigrated to the United States in the early 1920s. We had visitied Paddy Joe and Regina King, some distant cousins of my wife’s. Their son, Peadar (the Irish version of Peter), had shown me a CD by Colm O’Donnell, Farewell to Evening Dances, which he was very fond of and I share that feeling now. The title of Colm O’Donnell’s CD is taken from the song The Hill of Knacknashee, another sentimental and lyrical ballad on the CD. I shamelessly copied the idea and took a line out of The Boys of Barr Na Sraide, the line that goes “And when the hills were bleeding and rifles were aflame…”, to use it as the title for my book “The Bleeding Hills“. Read the author’s post.

March 7, 2009 – Terror Returns to Northern Ireland
Isn’t it ironic – The storyline of my novel-in-the-making “The Bleeding Hills” invokes the possibility of a plot to assassinate the First Minister of Northern Ireland, an idea that could have been viewed as somewhat preposterous. Yesterday, March 7, 2009,  two British soldiers were killed and four others, among them two pizza delivery men, were wounded in what is the first major terrorist attack in the province for over a decade. The shootings occurred at the Massereene army base in Antrim, 16 miles north of Belfast, at 9.40pm. Nobody has yet claimed responsibility for the attack but security sources said the incident was undoubtedly the work of dissident organisations opposed to the peace settlement. In my novel I refer to the so-called Real IRA as the force behind the assassination plot. The Real Irish Republican Army was founded in October 1997 by former members of the Provisional IRA, who were dissatisfied with the direction of the Irish peace process, especially the position of Sinn Fein. Read the author’s post.

British Undercover Operations in Northern Ireland
Yet again the idea behind my book “The Bleeding Hills” has been strikingly confirmed by the the latest attack on British soldiers on March 7th. In my blog entry – and my book – I refer specifically to the operations of the so-called Real IRA and, ironically, the RIRA has claimed responsibility for the attacks. However, one comment in the first report of the attacks caught my attention, since my book also addresses British undercover operations in Northern Ireland. Northern Ireland’s chief constable, Sir Hugh Orde, had confirmed that undercover British army troops were on paramilitary surveillance duties in Northern Ireland. In my mind I had started another blog entry, complaining that British officials are inexplicably unable to learn from past mistakes, but I have been pre-empted (if I may say so) by somebody more competent to talk about such affairs. Read the author’s post.

Bloody Sunday – January 30, 1972
I have often criticized the lack of good literature explaining the events of Bloody Sunday untainted and comprehensible. I have been faced with the same dilemma, now that I am in the middle of writing chapter four of my novel “The Bleeding Hills“, where Bloody Sunday takes center stage. For the record, I am not looking down on those who were present at Bloody Sunday and wrote a book about it. An atrocity like this should be a part of a well recorded history, but I also believe that, in order to spark the interest of future generations, you need to start with the basics and these basics should, first of all, not be politically tainted; consequently they will lose credibility. In regards to comprehensiveness of recorded history, it does not help to confuse the newcomer to Irish history by frequently referring to Unionists, Republicans, Loyalists, MRF, SAS, MI5, MI6, Real IRA, Continuity IRA, RUC, Provisional IRA, INLA, NICRA, Saville, Widgery, MP, PM, etc., etc., without providing a comprehensible reference. The majority of books and web sites I found on the subject were written by experts for experts, having only their own indulgence in mind. What a waste of resources and what a waste to make it so difficult for our children to understand history! Read the author’s post.

The Bloody Sunday Inquiry
The story line behind my novel “The Bleeding Hills” would not be complete without a look into the two inquiries of Bloody Sunday, the Widgery Report of 1972 and the official Bloody Sunday Inquiry initiated in 1998. The Widgery Tribual was held in the immediate aftermath of the events of Bloody Sunday; it was set up to look into the events. This was conducted by Lord Chief Justice Widgery. The report was widely criticized as a whitewash. Even though the judges of the official Bloody Sunday Inquiry retired on November 23, 2004, there has been no measurable result to this day. Statements regarding a possible publication of the Inquiry’s Report have been modified from year to year. The current statement on the Wikipedia web site is that the publication “was expected at the end of 2007, or possibly early 2008.” – Note: This blog entry was written on March 22, 2009. Read the author’s post.

Robert Nairac – Hero, Butcher, Homosexual…?
During the research for my book “The Bleeding Hills” I stumbled upon the intriguing story of one charismatic character, British Captain Robert Nairac, an undercover agent active during the Irish troubles (For more references see the hyperlinks at the end of this article). While Irish republicans consider him a butcher, and the British Army calls him a war hero, they all share the view that “he was strange” – to use a mild expression. First of all, after studying various articles on the life and death of Robert Nairac, I have come to the conclusion that Nairac was driven by a death wish, a point that may not be disputed by many of those who knew him. My next conclusion may be, however, far more controversial. After applying a simple method of studying behavioral patterns and comparing it to recent as well as historical cases, I have come to the personal conclusion that Captain Robert Nairac was either gay and/or the victim of sexual abuse during his childhood. Read the author’s post.

For more author’s posts see http://www.frogenyozurt.com/my-novels/the-bleeding-hills/.

Banner and Crosses carried by the families of the Bloody Sunday victims on the annual commemoration march.

More than twelve years after the hearings started, and after numerous delays, the Saville Report addressing the findings of the events of Bloody Sunday will finally be released tomorrow.

Also today I found an article in The Guardian which represents the most critical account of British handling of the affair I have ever read in an English newspaper. It bluntly addresses the cover-up by British troops that continues to this day.

In my novel The Bleeding Hills I refer to the British Army’s poor handling of the situation during and after the events of Bloody Sunday, and my views are definitely not shared by British militaries. Nevertheless, I feel great satisfaction that my views are confirmed by the Guardian’s reporter, Richard Norton-Tayler.

And there is yet another aspect in my novel that is being confirmed in the article, namely the different handling of the affair by the new conservative government. I raise the point that a conservative government will change Great Britain’s course on achieving lasting peace in Northern Ireland, and it will change it dramatically. In fact, I predict that, in the long run, a conservative British government will challenge the validity of the Good Friday agreement and thus fuel violence in the Northern Provinces again.

The Guardian article also refers to the justice secretary Kenneth Clarke complaining about costs and timeline of the Saville report, and the tone used indicates to me a very critical view not limited to expenses. Yes, the inquiry took longer than expected, and the continued delays angered many. The most important aspect, however, is finding the truth, and it seems the truth will not sit well with British conservatives and militaries. In all consequence, they will criticize every aspect that comes with the report.

Bloody Sunday: Amnesia among troops, inflammatory claims by officers

Source: Guardian.co.uk, Sunday 13 June 2010

A week after Bloody Sunday, Field Marshal Michael Carver, chief of the defence staff, met soldiers from 1 Para. He told them they would be supported if they had acted in good faith and if they told the truth at the Widgery tribunal. If they did not, “God help them”, Carver told the soldiers.

They did not tell the truth to Widgery. No disciplinary action was taken against them even though that inquiry, accepted as a whitewash (the secretary to the tribunal said Widgery would “pile up the case against the deceased”, according to declassified documents) concluded that firing by some soldiers “bordered on the reckless”.

Nor did the soldiers tell the truth, years later, to the Saville inquiry. By then they had long since left the army. Most – though not all – fell back on their lawyers’ advice, blocking questions with the refrain “I can’t remember”.

Read the full article…

Advertisement

The Bleeding Hills

A Novel by Wilfried F. Voss

I have fought a good fight,
I have finished my course,
I have kept the faith.
- 2 Timothy iv. 7

The Irish War is officially a part of history, but not for Finnean Whelan, an IRA veteran of almost 40 years. British Intelligence has produced evidence that he is the mastermind behind a conspiracy to assassinate the First Minister of Northern Ireland. For Whelan this is not only a mission of revenge, but marks the beginning of a journey into the past and the return to the one true love: Ireland. [More...]

The Bleeding Hills is available at Amazon.Com, Amazon.co.uk, Barnes & Nobel, and any other good bookstore.

The Bleeding Hills - A Novel by Wilfried F. Voss

During the research for my novel The Bleeding Hills I found information on British Captain Robert Nairac whose behavioral patterns during the Irish Troubles can only be described as bizarre, to use a mild expression. I have posted two articles on Nairac on this blog, Robert Nairac – Hero, Butcher, Homosexual…? and Robert Nairac – Supplement to previous entry. I understand that my assessment that Nairac was gay is provocative to those who are unable to accept homosexuality as a different form of lifestyle, and I had to learn to live with criticism.

It is an unfortunate situation, though, that comments not agreeing with my assessment of Captain Robert Nairac’s sexual orientation are harsh to the degree of unfairness, and they are usually insulting, which indicates to me that the commenters are unable, if not incompetent, to contribute solid facts that would contradict my writings. The only solution out of their dilemma is plain rudeness. All they offer are unsubstantiated opinions.

In earlier days I would re-engage into more research on the topic just to learn that my previous research activities on the subject of Robert Nairac, even though he is not the central part of my novel, were thorough. At the same time, nobody who ever criticized my research has been able to prove me wrong. The information I found on Robert Nairac is primarily from English and Irish newspapers and through books written on the subject. I found further information, including a personal testimony, on sexual abuse at Ampleforth College during the time when Nairac was a student there. The speculation that Nairac may have been one of the victims is not out of this world, considering his self-destructive behavior as recorded by the previously mentioned newspapers.

These days I am familiar with the pattern of the criticism and the insult that comes with it, and I use these comments to post them here on my blog. The language of the comments speaks for itself.

April 28, 2010:

Comment:
“Nothing that you’ve grubbed up, googled or just plain guessed at constitutes research in any meaningful sense. Trawling through blogs written by embittered ex-squaddies and republican sympathisers certainly doesn’t, nor does regurgitating damaging hearsay.

For your information, there is absolutely nothing that anyone has ever said or written which suggests that Nairac was abused as a child, at Ampleforth or anywhere else. Your assertion that abuse occurred at Ampleforth, and Nairac was at Ampleforth (although not at the time of the abuse), and therefore Nairac was abused is typically specious. Even an apprentice in his first week on a local newspaper would know that you can’t get away with that kind of post hoc ergo propter hoc rationalisation. But then, I suspect, such a person would know a lot more about writing than you do.

Robert Nairac was a valiant soldier who died in tragic circumstances, and he and his long-suffering family deserve better than to have individuals like you making prurient, pseudo-psychological claims about his private life. Nor, for your information, do you have the moral right to distort the facts in the interest of your (presumably vanity-published) “novel”.

Following one of the links on this site, I note that you are putting together another masterwork, entitled American Male Prostitute. Might I suggest that you direct a little of that “research” towards yourself, and your own fantasy life?”

Response:
“It is funny, but every comment that does not agree with my view is harsh to a degree of unfairness, and they are usually rude, which indicates to me that the commenter is unable to contribute solid facts that would contradict my writings. The only solution out of their dilemma is plain rudeness. My research on the subject of Robert Nairac, even though he is not the central part of my novel, was thorough, and nobody who ever criticized my research has been able to prove me wrong.

I do encourage comments on my work, may they agree with my view or not, but I will not give in to unsubstantiated opinions.”

April 29, 2010:

Comment:
“Your “research” as you call it, is no more than a rehashing of other men’s work and (usually tendentious) opinions. Anyone who knows anything about this subject would recognise the sensationalist articles, no-check blogs, republican propaganda-pieces, and shameful would-be novelisations that you’ve drawn your conclusions from. There’s nothing remotely original about any of it. It’s not a question of not agreeing with your “view”, because the regurgitation of hearsay and rumour does not constitute a view.

There are two respectable sources on Nairac’s life, namely John Parker’s Death of a Hero and Martin Dillon’s The Dirty War. Both writers employ professional journalistic methodology. They have talked to primary sources, remained personally objective, and where facts cannot be established, they have said so. Learn from them.

Your blundering pseudo-psychology (Freddy Mercury? Elton John? Please) would be harmless if it didn’t involve real people and their families. Can’t you see how offensive your comments are? Are you surprised that people get angry when they see people like you, with their glib, shallow, second-hand opinions, trying to make a fast buck out of these tragic events?”

Response:
“Ray,
I have both books, that of John Parker and Martin Dillon, in my book shelf. I also own “War Without Honour: True Story of Military Intelligence in Northern Ireland” by Fred Holroyd and Nick Burbridge. Other sources I used were English and Irish newspapers.
Let me, for a moment, ignore your insulting tone and ask you: In what way are my comments offensive? I would like to learn your view on gay rights, because your comments point toward a despicable discrimination of homosexuals, and that may be the root of your anger.
Regards,
Wilfried”

Comment:
“You should know that Fred Holroyd’s account of events in NI has long been discredited for more reasons than there are time to go into here.

I have absolutely no problem with gay people or gay rights, and if Nairac was gay (which Martin Dillon suggests, and which many people have believed for some time), then that’s fine by me too. As ever, your pseudo-psychology is a mile wide of the mark.

What I find offensive is your crude fixation with Nairac’s sexuality, and the way you use it to try and generate publicity for yourself and your “novel”. If you can’t see that a headline like “Robert Nairac – Hero, Butcher, Homosexual” is crass and sensationalist, then there’s no more to be said. For your information, no reputable source suggests that Nairac ever “butchered” anyone, and Dillon comprehensively refutes all such claims.”

Response:
“Ray,
I thank you for confirming that my assertion that Nairac was gay is valid. As to the reputation of Fred Holroyd let me state that my research activities do not exclude any sources that may not be pleasing to either side in the conflict. I engage into thorough research and when finished I form an opinion.
You have the right to disagree with my marketing techniques. I only wished you had expressed your concern a bit more to the point and, after all, I wished you kept a professional tone. You should be aware that your accusatory style only damages your credibility.
I consider this matter closed.
Regards,
Wilfried”

The news came in yesterday, March 2nd, 2010. Let me quote from RTE News:

“Former Northern Ireland First Minister Ian Paisley will not seek re-election in the forthcoming general election. The 83-year-old founder and ex-leader of the Democratic Unionist Party is to relinquish the North Antrim seat he first won in 1970. Mr Paisley announced his decision to stand down in his local constituency paper, the Ballymena Guardian.

Famed for his firebrand oratory, Mr Paisley was a founding member of the Free Presbyterian Church in Ireland in 1951. His evangelical theology heavily influenced his political views and throughout the Troubles he forthrightly denounced Catholicism and the papacy.

During the conflict he was a fierce critic of power-sharing with nationalists and of the Republic of Ireland having a say in Northern Ireland’s affairs. But in his later political life, the one-time cheer-leader for hardline unionism underwent somewhat of a political conversion which finally saw him enter office with his long-time enemy, Sinn Féin.

Mr Paisley stood down as First Minister in 2008. He was replaced by his long-time DUP deputy leader, Peter Robinson.”

Ref: http://www.rte.ie/news/2010/0302/nipolitics.html

Ian Richard Kyle Paisley was born on April 6, 1926 in Armagh, County Armagh in Northern Ireland. Even though one of his recent accomplishments was assuming the duty as First Minister of Northern Ireland from May 2007 to June 2008, history will mainly remember him as a militant Protestant leader in a sectarian conflict that divided Northern Ireland. When the conflict gained intensity during the 1960′s Paisley used his ability to combine the language of biblical certainty with that of politics at a time when many Protestants grew increasingly concerned about their constitutional superiority over the Catholic population. His ideological message, a combination of militant anti-Catholicism and militant unionism, and his active involvement in the oppression of the Catholic minority unnecessarily prolonged the Irish Troubles even at times when the people of Northern Ireland became increasingly tired of violence. By the time of the Good Friday Agreement on April 10, 1998, Paisley had already lost touch with the people he claimed to represent, and his election as First Minister of Northern Ireland was more or less a symbolic act to satisfy the remaining radical Protestant elements. He resigned the post after only twelve months, may it be due to his age, or the inability to function as a leader in times of peace. I will never blame anybody for being old, but I will blame anybody who maintains old ideas and ideologies that reflect a blatant inability of learning from experience.

Advertisement

The Bleeding Hills

A Novel by Wilfried F. Voss

I have fought a good fight,
I have finished my course,
I have kept the faith.
- 2 Timothy iv. 7

The Irish War is officially a part of history, but not for Finnean Whelan, an IRA veteran of almost 40 years. British Intelligence has produced evidence that he is the mastermind behind a conspiracy to assassinate the First Minister of Northern Ireland. For Whelan this is not only a mission of revenge, but marks the beginning of a journey into the past and the return to the one true love: Ireland. [More...]

The Bleeding Hills is available at Amazon.Com, Amazon.co.uk, Barnes & Nobel, and any other good bookstore.

Product Description

Few outside the security services have heard of 14 Company. As deadly as the SAS yet more secret, the Operators of 14 Company are Britain’s most effective weapon against international terrorism. For every bomb that goes off 14 Company prevent twelve. The selection process is the most physically, intellectually and emotionally demanding anywhere in the world. Trained to operate under cover, Operators have at their disposal an arsenal of techniques and weapons unmatched by any other UK government or military agency. This is the true story of one Operator and of some of the most hair-raising military operations ever conducted on the streets of Britain.

Review

My reason to buy this book was the hope that it would contribute interesting insights for my research on the Irish Troubles. To put it in a nut-shell: I hope the author didn’t quit his day job over writing this book. What caught my attention was the sub-title “On the streets with Britain’s most secret service,” which proves yet again how important, but also how terribly misleading a title can be.

Little did I know how immature the writer deals with a serious topic like the Irish Troubles. The book starts with “Standby, standby. Zero, Oscar. I have Bravo 1 foxtrot from Alpha 2 towards Charlie 2,” and it doesn’t get much better from there. There is not much to say other than reading this book was a huge waste of my time.

Books:

A History of Ireland
by Mike Cronin

Highly recommended! I like that it’s, compared to many other works on Ireland, actually readable and entertaining. If you need a relatively quick overview on the history of Ireland (the tile of the book doesn’t lie!) this is the one I recommend.

The Operators
by James Rennie

To put it in a nut-shell: I hope the author didn’t quit his day job over writing this book. What caught my attention was the sub-title “On the streets with Britain’s most secret service”. Little did I know how immature the writer deals with a serious topic like the Irish Troubles. The book starts with “Standby, standby. Zero, Oscar. I have Bravo 1 foxtrot from Alpha 2 towards Charlie 2″ and it doesn’t get much better from there. Reading this book was a huge waste of my time.

The Irish War
by Tony Geraghty

Here we go again: Another book with misleading title and misleading sub-title, “The hidden conflict between the IRA and British Intelligence”. I have to admit, I found some valuable information here, but I also could not muster to read the book to the end. I am an advocate for intriguing literature, even when it comes to serious issues like the Irish War. However, the writing style is mind-numbingly boring and there is absolutely no visible structure in the book. The author jumps from topic to topic without any visible connection. Until this day I have no clue what drove Mr. Garaghty to write this book.

Secret Hero: The life and mysterious death of Captain Robert Nairac
by John Parker

Yet another really bad book. The life and death of Captain Robert Nairac is one of the most compelling stories related to the Irish troubles, regardless of which side you’re on. That being said, it is a pity, that the author fails to live up to the vast potential of this particular topic, especially considering that he tried to glorify the memory of Captain Nairac – as the title implies.

The Ultras
by Eoin McNamee

This is a novel that is supposed to depict the life of Captain Robet Nairac. I made it to page 8 and gave up. Enough said.

Sorry, I hate to be that negative, but I really do enjoy reading a good book. It seems to me now that there aren’t too many good ones out there, and if they are, they are hard to find. After buying and reading too many bad books on the Irish War I gave up and concentrated on Online resources as listed below.

Online Resources:

14 Company

Bloody Sunday

Bloody Sunday Inquiry

British Army Satellite Equipment

Government of Ireland Act 1920

Inverness County

IRA Actions in 1970s

Irish History

MI5 & MI6

Misc.

Port of Belfast

Real IRA

Robert Bunting

Robert Nairac

SAS

Sean Mac Stiofain

Shannon Airport

St. Patrick Cemetary

Advertisement

The Bleeding Hills

A Novel by Wilfried F. Voss

I have fought a good fight,
I have finished my course,
I have kept the faith.
- 2 Timothy iv. 7

The Irish War is officially a part of history, but not for Finnean Whelan, an IRA veteran of almost 40 years. British Intelligence has produced evidence that he is the mastermind behind a conspiracy to assassinate the First Minister of Northern Ireland. For Whelan this is not only a mission of revenge, but marks the beginning of a journey into the past and the return to the one true love: Ireland. [More...]

The Bleeding Hills is available at Amazon.Com, Amazon.co.uk, Barnes & Nobel, and any other good bookstore.

Published by
Copperhill Media Corporation
158 Log Plain Road
Greenfield, MA 01301

USA

Copyright © 2009 by Copperhill Media Corporation, Greenfield, Massachusetts

Published by
Copperhill Media Corporation
158 Log Plain Road
Greenfield, MA 01301

USA

Copyright © 2009 by Copperhill Media Corporation, Greenfield, Massachusetts

The band had left the small stage in a hurry, not waiting for the applause to subside, tiptoeing through the jungle of cables, microphones, speakers, and instruments, rushing over to the bar at the far end of the pub, yearning for a beer during their well-deserved break. Then, unexpectedly, all remaining lights went out, leaving the room in utter darkness for a fleeting moment until a single beam of light emerged from the ceiling, focusing on the young man they had left behind. He sat in an antique, wooden chair in the center of the stage with his eyes closed and his head down as if meditating. His arms covered his instrument, the Uilleann pipe.

His long, brown hair was neatly parted and bound into a ponytail. The bright Red Sox T-shirt, a tribute to a local passion, was in piercing contrast to his otherwise plain clothing, the dark brown corduroy trousers and black shoes. The small set of bellows was wrapped between his waist and right arm. The three drones – tenor, baritone, and bass – lay across his right thigh. The presence of another set of three regulators, as any expert would notice, revealed the musician’s impressive talent.

Oblivious of his surroundings, the young man did not move, did not attempt to play or even respond to the presence of his audience. After a few calls from several tables, addressed to those in the audience still engaged in whispers and giggles, the room grew quiet and, slowly, the young man came to life, opened his eyes, straightened his posture, and used his right elbow to begin moving the bellows, pumping air into the pipe bag.

Finn had read about the young musician’s exceptional talent and, sitting in a dark corner alone with his drink, unnoticed by most of the patrons, had been waiting expectantly in anticipation of a performance that involved his favorite musical instrument with its sweet tone and the wide range of notes.

The first song was simple and light, yet enchanting, over the constant background of the drones accompanying the tune of the chanter, as is characteristic of the national bagpipe of Ireland.

Finn relaxed, closed his eyes, and let his mind wander, preparing himself for a journey back into time, to a place he had not seen in nearly three decades. Shortly thereafter he saw himself, a boy of fourteen, sitting on the top of a grassy knoll on a bright and warm Sunday morning, the wind swirling his hair, looking down on the Whelan farm in the far distance, so far away that all the sheep appeared like little white dots on a large, colorful painting. The dark blue ocean was quiet, and from where he was sitting, he could even see the beautiful beaches of Inch.

Sunday was his only day off from farm work, and he would spend his time reading, sitting on a rock, or lying in the grass until the daylight faded. Being aware that he might spend hours without food, Mother Whelan would not let him leave without a basket full of homemade brown bread, butter, and milk.

As on every Sunday morning he had been to church, and after Mass, he would spend an hour or two in the priest’s library, where he was offered tea while reading newspapers with passionate intensity, keenly absorbing every little detail. At times the study was supplemented by lessons on Irish history or the current status of the Irish Republic in cases where the young man lacked the background information on the topic about which he was reading.

When he had finished his readings, he had a choice of one book from the library’s extensive selection, which was to be returned the following Sunday. These were usually works by Jonathan Swift, James Joyce, Oscar Wilde, William Butler Yeats, or, on occasion, even English literature such as Winston Churchill’s “The River War.”

“You need to know the enemy’s thinking,” Father Connelly, a stern Republican, assured him on more than one occasion. “The enemy’s greatest mistake is their view – based on downright ignorance, I might say – that the Republican movement is nonexistent.”

Father Connelly was famous for his colorful Sunday night speeches at the local pub where an exclusive group of local farmers, Brendan Whelan being one of them, gathered in the back room to discuss the Irish situation, especially that of Northern Ireland.

The general sense of the discussions was that the violence in Northern Ireland was committed against Republicans, and not, as it should be, by Republicans.

“The Republican movement has no real policies,” Father Connelly once announced during one of his speeches. “We are talking a great deal about fighting for the freedom of Ireland, but we do not succeed. What will it take, what disaster must happen? How many lives will it take before we officially prove our position?”

Finn was only an innocent bystander in those discussions, torn between listening to the heated arguments and the Sunday night sessions at the pub in front. He remembered one night where the party went to a nearby barn, where they inspected a new shipment of Thompson submachine guns, stored in their wooden boxes, oiled and ready for use.

It was the first time in his young life that he had seen such weapons, and at the time he was unable to grasp their use. Ironically, only a few years later he would be an expert with any weaponry, including the legendary AK-47, and there would be no doubt about his understanding of their use and the reasons behind it.

His thoughts were quickly drawn in a different direction as the music turned to another piece in a faster tempo as the musician’s fingers went flying rapidly over the chanter, producing an occasional staccato by working the chanter’s bottom hole with his knee. He was now accompanied by another band member sitting on a white plastic chair to his left, a glass of Guinness positioned on the floor in front of him, lifting the music with his bodhrán, the traditional Irish drum, and creating surprisingly intricate rhythms.

Finn let his mind flow wherever it wanted to take him and after only a few seconds he was a young man of seventeen entering Durty McCarthy’s, a pub near the town of Cahersiveen in the county of Kerry, only a few miles away from the house where his mother had lived. It was late afternoon on a Friday. The pub was packed and filled with smoke, and a session was about to start.

Durty McCarthy’s provided him with reasonable accommodations after a long day’s journey from home. He had learned of his true heritage only a few days before, and he needed to reflect as well as learn more. The events of the preceding days had profoundly changed his life, and little did he know that it was only the beginning. Before that day his life held no print or plan, but that was about to change.

He distinctly remembered the first time he noticed the publican’s daughter Shauna staring at him. She was a beautiful girl with brown hair and green eyes, dressed in a kitchen apron, wearing rubber gloves and rubber boots. Even then, just like it had so many years earlier, his heart raced. The love he felt for Shauna began right then and it had never died.

He remembered her face as a mixture of surprise and immense joy when he asked her to marry him and follow him to live in the Northern provinces, where he would use his skills to fight for the Irish cause. Only a few months later they were married in the large garden behind the McCarthy’s house in the same niche that was now the place of her grave.

Suddenly the musicians turned to a piece of greater complexity and darkness, emphasized by an enigmatic beating of the bodhrán, requiring the highest level of skill and concentration. The young man playing the Uilleann pipe had closed his eyes. His body moved in the rhythm of the music, and his wrists frantically worked the drones and regulators.

Finn began to have visions of bloody bodies leaving bloody traces on the ground as they were drawn away from the view of the shooters, screaming all around him, left and right, from the injured as well as those who tried to help them. He saw people carrying the dead body of a young boy, a priest walking in front of them, waving a white, bloodstained handkerchief at the soldiers with the red berets who, without mercy, kept shooting at them.

Finn squinted his eyes and struggled to fight off the negative images. This was neither the time nor the place for such dark memories. His attempt was defeated by similar images full of screaming and yelling and the deafening sound of continuous shooting. He saw Shauna’s bloody body on the floor. He could not handle the expression of disbelief on her beautiful face while he was struck with shock, trying to find a way to get her out of harm’s way. Still, after all these years, he could clearly feel the intense pain of leaving her and being dragged away from her unconscious body.

He was surprised by the energy it took to fight off the images and force his mind to turn to more pleasant memories.

He finally found himself amid a cold autumn thunderstorm, rolling thunder and lightning in the distance, riding on the pony he had taken from his foster father’s stable in the early morning. There was no money to afford a saddle or reins; he would merely rely on his physical strength and skill. He knew Brendan Whelan would be angry with him, but he also knew the man’s great heart. He would understand and forgive him.

Horse and rider went striding down the hill, eventually reaching the beaches of Inch, where he steered the horse into the shallow waters. He kicked his bare feet into the horse’s flanks and together they went flying over the water. He felt the freezing rain hitting his face and his clothes turning soaking wet, but he didn’t care. He enjoyed the flight through the darkness, the lightning, and the noise.

He clung closer to the horse’s neck, desperately holding on to the mane with both hands.

“C’mon, laddy,” he yelled into the pony’s ear. “You can go faster than that!”

He could feel the animal’s body stretch under him, lengthening the strides.

“Yee-haw!” he screeched, stretching out his left arm with a closed fist high into the dark skies. His exaltation grew with every stride.

He had hoped to make it to the other side of the bay, but all of a sudden he felt his body slip, and his heart started racing. Trying to slow the horse, he adjusted his body into an upright position, and while he tried to use both hands to pull on the mane, he was caught in a massive gust. He felt like he had hit a roadblock. His upper body pushed off the horse, his feet high in the air, both arms stretched wide, he tumbled through the air, and after a less than perfect somersault, landed flat on his back, slumping into the cold and salty water.

There he lay for a few moments, stunned, trying to comprehend what had just happened, and then he burst out into thunderous, unrestrained laughter. He stood up slowly, stiff, pushing one arm into his back, water mixed with sand running from his hair and clothes, and then he limped toward the horse patiently waiting in the distance.

The music ended with the sole voice of the bass drone, gently and gradually subsiding into silence, followed by a thunder of applause. Finn slowly opened his eyes, a smile of satisfaction grew on his face, and in his mind he thanked the young man for bringing back memories of the one true love, Ireland.

He knew he would be back soon. There had been rumors, whispers, and signals that he could not ignore. He did not know when, but it would be soon. He did not know how, but he was willing to comply and finish his course.

The Bleeding Hills
By Wilfried F. Voss

Published by
Copperhill Media Corporation
158 Log Plain Road
Greenfield, MA 01301

USA

Copyright © 2009 by Copperhill Media Corporation, Greenfield, Massachusetts

Chapter 1

The Place I Grew A Man

The man who entered my house shortly before midnight last night was remarkably particular about the information he was to share with me, what was acceptable to write, and, most importantly, what was not.

“It is of paramount importance that you change names and locations,” he told me. “It must be beyond a doubt that your story is based solely on your imagination. Any name, location, or event must be fictional and must not depict any living person or real event in the past or present. There are people dear to me, and I do not want to cause them any harm.”

On the sensitive yet unavoidable subject of the IRA, the Irish Republican Army, he said, “I cannot and will not comment on the operations of the IRA, nor will I admit any affiliation with them. I understand the presence of the IRA plays an essential part in the line of events, but references to them and their activities, as well as those of the British Intelligence services, must be entirely based on your own research.”

“Take some liberties,” he added.

In the same spirit, he had outlined the terms and conditions of this late night meeting in meticulous detail.

“Did you get the tea?” were his first words the moment he entered the kitchen. One of the conditions was the supply of good Irish tea, preferably Barry’s.

“Yes,” I answered. “Everything is in place as requested.”

The kettle stood steaming on top of the gas stove. On the counter beside it, the tin teapot my wife and I had bought in Ireland during our honeymoon was filled with boiling water. There was also a box of loose tea and a spoon. It is important to my Irish-American wife to keep an endless supply of Barry’s tea in the house. According to her Irish-born grandmother, while there is tea, there is hope, and we honor her motto on a daily basis.

“A bottle of Jameson’s,” I said while pointing to the setup on the kitchen table, which included two teacups and a sifter covering one of them.

“Milk and sandwiches, also as requested.”

He was visibly pleased.

“Well, I’ve come to the right place then,” he said with a satisfied smile on his face. “I don’t mean to rush, but let’s not waste valuable time. Put away your notebook and let’s get going. There is a lot to tell and hardly enough time to do it.”

Another condition of our agreement was there would be no written record of this meeting.

“I pray you have a good memory,” he had told me, and I had assured him he could count on it.

The water kettle started whistling.

“May I?” he asked, pointing to the tea, boiling water, and tin-pot.

“Please, be at home.”

He continued with the necessary and familiar procedure of preparing the tea, emptying the hot water from the teapot into the sink, carefully scooping four spoons of tea from the box, one after the other, dropping them into the teapot, and then pouring the boiling water.

There was an awkward but short period of stalled conversation while we waited for the tea to brew for the appropriate two minutes.

Then he finally broke the silence.

“I do apologize for this Interview with the Vampire atmosphere,” he said in a serious manner, “but I swear to the mighty Lord that I am a regular human being with a tight schedule and I have no intentions to bite you…”

“My wife, my kids, and I appreciate that.”

“…though some people in British Intelligence might think I have the supernatural power to disappear one instant and show up the next moment someplace else.”

He took the teapot and the sifter and carefully filled both cups on the kitchen table. I watched curiously as a cautious gush of milk made it into his cup, followed by a generous shot of Jameson.

He looked at me. “Just my version of Irish tea. I hate coffee. How do you like yours?”

“Just plain, please. No additions,” I answered.

“I’m a purist,” I couldn’t help to add. I grinned, but he didn’t seem to notice.

With the teacup in his hand, taking an occasional, cautious sip, he walked back and forth in our small kitchen, deep in thought about how to begin the story he was about to share with me. It also provided me a chance to watch him for a few moments. After all, the memories of our first meeting were a bit blurred.

He was roughly six feet tall. The blond haircut, neatly trimmed to a quarter-inch length, gave him a defined military appearance. The muscular, lean body added to that impression.

Yet, the faint smell of an expensive aftershave and the clean-shaven face emphasized his distinctly gentleman-like features. His clothing was well suited for the cold nights of the New England fall. He wore a vintage chambray shirt under a dark green wool sweater and dark charcoal corduroys. All in all, he would have easily passed as a model for an L.L. Bean catalog.

I guessed his age to be somewhere in the mid-fifties, and even though his hair showed the first signs of gray around the temples, his face had a remarkably boyish look. One could easily imagine what he had looked like in his early twenties. The most striking feature, though, were his pale green eyes.

His voice was clear, and he spoke with a slight Irish accent. His choice of words seemed sometimes Americanized, suggesting to me that he had spent a considerable portion of his life on the American continent. I also had the feeling that he could drop the accent in an instant when the circumstances required it.

I had first met him in the Boston region less than two weeks ago. Initially I thought we had met just by chance. In retrospect, I am not so sure anymore if our first encounter was pure coincidence, or, more likely, that he was specifically looking for someone like me.

I had won fifth place in a short story writing contest. The prize did not include any money, just a lousy book on marketing a novel plus free access to a writers’ conference in Westborough, just outside of Boston. The trip to Boston was not a tremendous thrill since we lived in Dublin, New Hampshire, only two hours away by car.

Before we bought our house we had looked at a much larger property in Vermont for almost the same price, but my wife could not resist the temptation of living in Dublin.

At the conference I had the opportunity to meet other writers and, more importantly, publishers. Writing short stories doesn’t make a living, and I was on the search for material to write a novel of some sort. At that time, I was officially enduring a writer’s block.

The question of how exactly a publisher would be of any help in such a hopeless situation must remain unanswered. They are not interested in mere talent or brilliant ideas and the odds are discouraging, even if you are able to present a written work. The fellow authors I met, including the wannabes, were just full of themselves, and I began to question their view of real life on planet Earth. By the end of the day, I wasn’t one iota closer to a book deal than I was when I arrived.

It was time to drown my disappointment in a few beers. Fortunately the Marriott, where my wife had made reservations for me, had an Irish pub by the name of “Fitzwilliam’s.” It was a crowded place, but I conquered one of the few empty stools at the bar, discovered they had Smithwick’s on tap, and ordered Bangers ‘n Mash from the menu. Bob the bartender was very able. He was of Asian descent and he had a nametag attached to his black vest. I never had to endure an empty glass, which gradually improved not only my mood, but even invoked a rarely encountered eagerness to mingle in a place far away from home and family.

The memories of that night remain vague. After drinking more beers than I can usually handle, I don’t exactly recall the details of how I got into the conversation with an Irish lad. I remember telling him about the day’s misery and he turned out to be a devoted listener. When we parted, he mentioned he might have a true story for me and that he would call me, but the next morning I was convinced that it was all part of an alcohol-induced dream mixed with wishful thinking.

A few days later when he called, I realized it had not been a dream. We talked for about half an hour during which he laid out his terms and conditions. I agreed willingly because he had aroused my curiosity. After all, drunk or not, I never give away my home address or phone number to strangers.

I was cautious and thought about sending my wife and kids to my in-laws the day we would meet again. As if reading my mind, he insisted, “I’d prefer this to be a private meeting, just you and I.”

Several days later I received another, much shorter phone call to set up the exact meeting date and time. A female voice, with what was most probably an Irish accent, told me there was fresh lobster for sale at the Boston Harbor fish market tomorrow night.

“The best time for pick-up is between 23:30 hours and midnight,” she said. There was no time to respond or ask questions. She hung up immediately after she had delivered the message. No good-bye. Nothing.

I am not sure if a venue like the Boston Harbor fish market in fact exists. It very well may, but for the purpose of setting up the meeting it didn’t matter.

Nevertheless, there I was, alone with my mysterious friend who had suddenly stopped the pacing and spoke without looking at me.

“My name is Finnean Michael Whelan. I was born in the Republic of Ireland on a farm near Annascaul on the Dingle Peninsula in the year of The Lord 1952. For nearly forty years, I was involved in what some people call an unnecessary war. Respectfully, I disagree.”

Then he turned toward me. “But I am not here to make political statements. I have fought my fight, and I have finished my course. I leave it to the politicians to finish what began a long time ago, and I am not one of them. I am here to make a final statement, in memory of the lads who laughed with me, to sing of their deeds and praise them while I can.”

He noticed my confusion. “Bear with me,” he said.

“I am also the direct product of a conflict that has lasted for several hundreds of years,” he continued. “My mother was raped by a constable of the RUC when she was visiting her parents in Derry, in Northern Island. You know about the RUC?”

I nodded, “Yes.”

The Royal Ulster Constabulary, the official police force in Northern Ireland between 1922 and 2001, has repeatedly been accused of following a shoot-to-kill policy. Suspects were deliberately killed without intent or attempt to arrest them. The list of accusations is long, including one-sided policing and discrimination directed against the Catholic minority.

Although the RUC was officially dissolved in 2001, the only real transformation was a name change to Police Service of Northern Ireland, as if a different name could ever clear their responsibility for past wrongdoing.

“As I said, the rape and thus my birth made me a direct result of the conflict,” he continued. “While my mother was dark-haired, I was born with a full set of blond hair, which explains my first name. Finnean is Gaelic and it means fair-haired.”

He took yet another sip from the cup and started pacing again while he resumed his monologue.

“My actions in a younger life, during the period known as ‘The Troubles’, have caused the deaths of many people, most of them Protestants, some of them Catholic, and the Catholics I killed were traitors. They deserved to die for their treason, and I pray they burn in hell where I may join them. There it will be my pleasure to increase their pain. However, still, I do hope, when the time comes, I will meet St. Peter at heaven’s gate, and he will say, ‘Hey, Finn, what took you so long?’”

Again, he stopped and looked at me, “Well, you know the saying about the Irish coming to heaven?”

It took me only a second to think about the answer. “May you arrive in heaven five minutes before the devil knows you’re dead?”

“Yes, that’s the one. So, St. Peter would tell me, ‘The devil – you knew her as Margaret Thatcher – has sent her most ruthless servant, Ian Paisley, to come after you. Do I feel a draft here? You’d best come in quickly and let’s close the gate.’ ”

He turned toward the kitchen door and yelled, “Sorry, Ian! It was getting just a bit chilly here and with today’s energy costs, you know… Have a nice death!”

For a moment, it seemed like he wanted to spit at the door. Then realized where he was, and, remembering his polite manners, showed respect to his host’s courtesy.

I couldn’t help but comment. “But Ian Paisley was the First Minister of Northern Island.”

He looked straight at me with a mirthless smile. “And Margaret Thatcher was Prime Minister of Great Britain. A great man, whose name escapes me at this very moment, once said that freedom is the right to be wrong, but not to do wrong. Both have committed a great deal of wrongdoing in the name of freedom.”

He shook his head. “Nevertheless, enough about politics. As I said, politics are not my strong suit. I leave that to people like Gerry Adams and Martin McGuiness. Not that I agree with either one of them, but it looks as if talking counts more than fighting these days.”

He noticed our empty cups, and he went for the teapot, filled both cups carefully, and added milk and Jameson for himself.

“Well, back to my story,” he said. He picked up his cup, wrapped his hands around it, and resumed his pacing.

“The place I grew a man was the farm of Brendan and Mary Whelan. My mother spent most of her pregnancy at their place. The rest of her family was told that she was taking care of a distant cousin who was sick. After she gave birth to me, she went back home to her family in Cahersiveen, in the county of Kerry.

“I was officially declared an orphan, and the Whelans were assigned as my foster parents. They were good people, and they treated me well. My mother’s husband had provided the financial means to help them raise me properly.

“He also left strict instructions that they were not allowed to reveal my true identity and they had to maintain that my parents had died in a car accident. They kept their side of the deal until their very deaths, and even after I was confronted with the truth, I never told them I knew.”

It seemed he had sunken into memories of his childhood days as he closed his eyes for a few moments, and then he just stood there with his head slightly bent downward.

I sat at the kitchen table enjoying a delicious cup of tea and listening to my new friend. I had to admit that the man taking his strides back and forth in my kitchen had already managed to fascinate me a great deal. At that very moment, slowly and surely, I began to realize with delight that I was only at the beginning of an adventure tour into another time and dimension, and I already enjoyed the ride.

I also had questions on my mind, and I deemed this was the right time to throw in the most burning of them.

“Did you ever meet your mother?” I asked him.

It appeared I had interrupted his thoughts, and he didn’t answer immediately. He shook his head.

“No,” he answered very calmly. “She was already dead when I found out. I have only a photo of her, which is now in a safe place. I don’t carry it with me. It was given to me by someone special to me.”

“Who was that?” I asked.

“My brother,” he said.

Andy had finished his shower, shaved, and put on some good cologne. His hair was still damp when he went down the stairs toward the pub. It was already decently filled, and a session was in progress at the table in the far corner.

He noticed two fiddles, a guitar, an accordion, an Uilleann pipe, and a bodhrán. They had just finished “The Bell Harbour,” and, without a noticeable break, continued with “The Ivy Leaf.”

Also sitting with them was his father with a full glass of beer in his hand. When he saw his son, he gestured at him to take a chair beside him. He nodded to the musicians, and both Ryan McCarthy and his son Andrew patiently waited for the song to end.

It was a rare occasion that the publican would join a session, and as soon as they had finished the last song, the players held on to their instruments and looked at Ryan in anticipation. Even beyond Cahersiveen and the county of Kerry, he was famous for his clear and strong voice. Whatever his performance would be that night, the musicians were prepared to follow his lead.

Ryan McCarthy waited a few moments until he was sure he had the undivided attention of the expecting crowd in front of him.

“Tonight,” he finally said, “I will take the opportunity, and sing a song in remembrance of all those who fought for the freedom of this proud nation, and, most certainly, there is no song better suited than ‘The Boys of Barr Na Sráide.’ ”

A murmur of excitement filled the room, and the musicians laid down their instruments. This next song would be performed a capella.

Ryan’s eyes scanned through the room. “I see, we have a good number of tourists from America here tonight, and, so you can enjoy the song to its full extent, I will explain a few things.”

He took a sip from his beer and continued.

“The song I am about to sing is based on a poem by Sigerson Clifford, who was born here in Cahersiveen, and it tells the story of the boys of Barr Na Sráide – Top Street – who hunted for the wren.

“You see, on the 26th day of December, we celebrate the first Christian martyr, Saint Stephen. However, the tradition of St. Stephen’s Day long predates Christian rituals. It is also known as Lá an Dreoilín, the day of the wren.

“Birds like the wren have a long tradition in Irish mythology. Druids used their flight patterns as auguries. Mysteriously, the wren also had a reputation for treachery, and it is blamed for betraying St. Stephen.

“This explains why the wren was hunted on St. Stephen’s Day and nailed to a pole. There it would serve to head what we call the Mummers Parade. People dress in strange clothing. They wear masks or straw suits and march accompanied by musicians. In some areas of Ireland, they call them the Mummers, and in others they call them the Wrenboys.”

He glanced around the room, making certain he still had everybody’s attention.

“Be assured, these days the wren survives. It is only used in rhymes and the name of the day.”

He paused briefly to take another sip.

“Through the lyrics of the song,” he continued, “Sigerson Clifford not only captures the essence of our town, Cahersiveen, as it climbs the mountains and looks upon the sea.

“He also remembers his boyhood friends, when they were children, and when they grew up to fight for the freedom of our country, to fight the Black and Tans, and up to the civil war.

“As all of us know, the Irish problem went on beyond the civil war, and it ended just a few years ago, but that does not mean that this song lost its meaning.”

He pointed into the room. “I know in America you observe Memorial Day to remember your freedom fighters, your soldiers, and it is a good tradition to remember those who died for the freedom of others.”

A confirming murmur filled the room.

“It may not be a popular view,” he said after silence was restored again, “and some of you will not agree with what I have to say, but tonight I take the liberty to salute all of our freedom fighters, including those of the Irish Republican Army, who fought a good fight, who finished their course, and who have kept the faith.

“Despite their negative image in the world, the folks who fought with the Irish Republican Army were mostly ordinary people. They were no different in their ways than those people assembled by George Washington as he went to fight the British Empire.

“They were not fanatics and not terrorists, only honest people with all their shortcomings who continued to fight for the freedom of our countrymen in the Northern provinces of this island, our Ireland.

“Without their efforts, our Catholic brothers and sisters would not be able to enjoy the freedom they have today.”

He lifted his glass toward his audience that listened to him with fascination.

“So, I am left to sing their deeds and to praise them while I can, those boys of Barr na Sráide, who hunted for the wren.”

The room was still, not a word was spoken, and all eyes were on the man sitting in his chair as he put his glass to the floor. They watched as he closed his eyes, as he summoned his thoughts, and straightened his posture. Then, with a strong and clear voice, he began singing, and he sang of the boys of Barr na Sráide, who hunted for the wren.

The boys of Barr na Sráide
by Sigorson Clifford

O the town it climbs the mountain and looks upon the sea
And sleeping time or waking time ’tis there I long to be
To walk again that kindly street, the place I grew a man
With the boys of Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wren

With cudgels stout we roamed about to hunt for the dreoilín.
We searched for birds in every furze from Letter to Dooneen
We sang for joy beneath the sky; life held no print or plan
And we boys in Barr na Sráide went hunting for the wren

And when the hills were bleeding and the rifles were aflame
To the rebel homes of Kerry those Saxon strangers came
But the men who dared the Auxies and who fought the Black and Tans
Were the boys in Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wren

So here’s a toast to them tonight, those lads who laughed with me
By the groves of Carhan River or the slopes of Beenatee
John Dawley and Batt Andy and the Sheehans Con and Dan
And the boys of Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wren

But now they toil on foreign soil where they have gone their way
Deep in the heart of London town or over in Broadway
And I am left to sing their deeds and to praise them while I can
Those boys of Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wren

And when the wheel of life runs down and when peace comes over me
O lay me down in that old town between the hills and sea
I’ll take my sleep in those green fields the place my life began
Where the boys of Barr na Sráide went hunting for the wren

———————————–

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The band had left the small stage in a hurry, not waiting for the applause to subside, tiptoeing through the jungle of cables, microphones, speakers, and instruments, rushing over to the bar at the far end of the pub, yearning for a beer during their well-deserved break. Then, unexpectedly, all remaining lights went out, leaving the room in utter darkness for a fleeting moment until a single beam of light emerged from the ceiling, focusing on the young man they had left behind. He sat in an antique, wooden chair in the center of the stage with his eyes closed and his head down as if meditating. His arms covered his instrument, the Uilleann pipe.

His long, brown hair was neatly parted and bound into a ponytail. The bright Red Sox T-shirt, a tribute to a local passion, was in piercing contrast to his otherwise plain clothing, the dark brown corduroy trousers and black shoes. The small set of bellows was wrapped between his waist and right arm. The three drones – tenor, baritone, and bass – lay across his right thigh. The presence of another set of three regulators, as any expert would notice, revealed the musician’s impressive talent.

Oblivious of his surroundings, the young man did not move, did not attempt to play or even respond to the presence of his audience. After a few calls from several tables, addressed to those in the audience still engaged in whispers and giggles, the room grew quiet and, slowly, the young man came to life, opened his eyes, straightened his posture, and used his right elbow to begin moving the bellows, pumping air into the pipe bag.

Finn had read about the young musician’s exceptional talent and, sitting in a dark corner alone with his drink, unnoticed by most of the patrons, had been waiting expectantly in anticipation of a performance that involved his favorite musical instrument with its sweet tone and the wide range of notes.

The first song was simple and light, yet enchanting, over the constant background of the drones accompanying the tune of the chanter, as is characteristic of the national bagpipe of Ireland.

Finn relaxed, closed his eyes, and let his mind wander, preparing himself for a journey back into time, to a place he had not seen in nearly three decades. Shortly thereafter he saw himself, a boy of fourteen, sitting on the top of a grassy knoll on a bright and warm Sunday morning, the wind swirling his hair, looking down on the Whelan farm in the far distance, so far away that all the sheep appeared like little white dots on a large, colorful painting. The dark blue ocean was quiet, and from where he was sitting, he could even see the beautiful beaches of Inch.

Sunday was his only day off from farm work, and he would spend his time reading, sitting on a rock, or lying in the grass until the daylight faded. Being aware that he might spend hours without food, Mother Whelan would not let him leave without a basket full of homemade brown bread, butter, and milk.

As on every Sunday morning he had been to church, and after Mass, he would spend an hour or two in the priest’s library, where he was offered tea while reading newspapers with passionate intensity, keenly absorbing every little detail. At times the study was supplemented by lessons on Irish history or the current status of the Irish Republic in cases where the young man lacked the background information on the topic about which he was reading.

When he had finished his readings, he had a choice of one book from the library’s extensive selection, which was to be returned the following Sunday. These were usually works by Jonathan Swift, James Joyce, Oscar Wilde, William Butler Yeats, or, on occasion, even English literature such as Winston Churchill’s “The River War.”

“You need to know the enemy’s thinking,” Father Connelly, a stern Republican, assured him on more than one occasion. “The enemy’s greatest mistake is their view – based on downright ignorance, I might say – that the Republican movement is nonexistent.”

Father Connelly was famous for his colorful Sunday night speeches at the local pub where an exclusive group of local farmers, Brendan Whelan being one of them, gathered in the back room to discuss the Irish situation, especially that of Northern Ireland.

The general sense of the discussions was that the violence in Northern Ireland was committed against Republicans, and not, as it should be, by Republicans.

“The Republican movement has no real policies,” Father Connelly once announced during one of his speeches. “We are talking a great deal about fighting for the freedom of Ireland, but we do not succeed. What will it take, what disaster must happen? How many lives will it take before we officially prove our position?”

Finn was only an innocent bystander in those discussions, torn between listening to the heated arguments and the Sunday night sessions at the pub in front. He remembered one night where the party went to a nearby barn, where they inspected a new shipment of Thompson submachine guns, stored in their wooden boxes, oiled and ready for use.

It was the first time in his young life that he had seen such weapons, and at the time he was unable to grasp their use. Ironically, only a few years later he would be an expert with any weaponry, including the legendary AK-47, and there would be no doubt about his understanding of their use and the reasons behind it.

His thoughts were quickly drawn in a different direction as the music turned to another piece in a faster tempo as the musician’s fingers went flying rapidly over the chanter, producing an occasional staccato by working the chanter’s bottom hole with his knee. He was now accompanied by another band member sitting on a white plastic chair to his left, a glass of Guinness positioned on the floor in front of him, lifting the music with his bodhrán, the traditional Irish drum, and creating surprisingly intricate rhythms.

Finn let his mind flow wherever it wanted to take him and after only a few seconds he was a young man of seventeen entering Durty McCarthy’s, a pub near the town of Cahersiveen in the county of Kerry, only a few miles away from the house where his mother had lived. It was late afternoon on a Friday. The pub was packed and filled with smoke, and a session was about to start.

Durty McCarthy’s provided him with reasonable accommodations after a long day’s journey from home. He had learned of his true heritage only a few days before, and he needed to reflect as well as learn more. The events of the preceding days had profoundly changed his life, and little did he know that it was only the beginning. Before that day his life held no print or plan, but that was about to change.

He distinctly remembered the first time he noticed the publican’s daughter Shauna staring at him. She was a beautiful girl with brown hair and green eyes, dressed in a kitchen apron, wearing rubber gloves and rubber boots. Even then, just like it had so many years earlier, his heart raced. The love he felt for Shauna began right then and it had never died.

He remembered her face as a mixture of surprise and immense joy when he asked her to marry him and follow him to live in the Northern provinces, where he would use his skills to fight for the Irish cause. Only a few months later they were married in the large garden behind the McCarthy’s house in the same niche that was now the place of her grave.

Suddenly the musicians turned to a piece of greater complexity and darkness, emphasized by an enigmatic beating of the bodhrán, requiring the highest level of skill and concentration. The young man playing the Uilleann pipe had closed his eyes. His body moved in the rhythm of the music, and his wrists frantically worked the drones and regulators.

Finn began to have visions of bloody bodies leaving bloody traces on the ground as they were drawn away from the view of the shooters, screaming all around him, left and right, from the injured as well as those who tried to help them. He saw people carrying the dead body of a young boy, a priest walking in front of them, waving a white, bloodstained handkerchief at the soldiers with the red berets who, without mercy, kept shooting at them.

Finn squinted his eyes and struggled to fight off the negative images. This was neither the time nor the place for such dark memories. His attempt was defeated by similar images full of screaming and yelling and the deafening sound of continuous shooting. He saw Shauna’s bloody body on the floor. He could not handle the expression of disbelief on her beautiful face while he was struck with shock, trying to find a way to get her out of harm’s way. Still, after all these years, he could clearly feel the intense pain of leaving her and being dragged away from her unconscious body.

He was surprised by the energy it took to fight off the images and force his mind to turn to more pleasant memories.

He finally found himself amid a cold autumn thunderstorm, rolling thunder and lightning in the distance, riding on the pony he had taken from his foster father’s stable in the early morning. There was no money to afford a saddle or reins. He would merely rely on his physical strength and skill. He knew Brendan Whelan would be angry with him, but he also knew the man’s great heart. He would understand and forgive him.

Horse and rider went striding down the hill, eventually reaching the beaches of Inch, where he steered the horse into the shallow waters. He kicked his bare feet into the horse’s flanks and together they went flying over the water. He felt the freezing rain hitting his face and his clothes turning soaking wet, but he didn’t care. He enjoyed the flight through the darkness, the lightning, and the noise.

He clung closer to the horse’s neck, desperately holding on to the mane with both hands.

“C’mon, laddy,” he yelled into the pony’s ear. “You can go faster than that!”

He could feel the animal’s body stretch under him, lengthening the strides.

“Yee-haw!” he screeched, stretching out his left arm with a closed fist high into the dark skies. His exaltation grew with every stride.

He had hoped to make it to the other side of the bay, but suddenly he felt his body slip, and his heart started racing. Trying to slow the horse, he adjusted his body into an upright position, and while he tried to use both hands to pull on the mane, he was caught in a massive gust. His upper body pushed off the horse, his feet high in the air, both arms stretched wide, he tumbled through the air, and after a less than perfect somersault, landed flat on his back, slumping into the cold and salty water.

There he lay for a few moments, stunned, trying to comprehend what had just happened, and then he burst out into thunderous, unrestrained laughter. He stood up slowly, stiff, pushing one arm into his back, water mixed with sand running from his hair and clothes, and then he limped toward the horse patiently waiting in the distance.

The music ended with the sole voice of the bass drone, gently and gradually subsiding into silence, followed by a thunder of applause. Finn slowly opened his eyes, a smile of satisfaction grew on his face, and in his mind he thanked the young man for bringing back memories of the one true love, Ireland.

He knew he would be back soon. There had been rumors, whispers, and signals that he could not ignore. He did not know when, but it would be soon. He did not know how, but he was willing to comply and finish his course.

———————————–

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The Bleeding Hills - A Novel by Wilfried F. Voss

January 30th marks an anniversary in recent Irish history that most people living outside of Ireland and the Northern Provinces recognize only through a famous U2 song, Sunday Bloody Sunday. Unfortunately, the song is still misinterpreted as a “rebel song.” Nothing could be further from the truth. The band was aware of the controversial nature of Sunday Bloody Sunday, that its lyrics might be misinterpreted as sectarian, and possibly jeopardize their personal lives. Some of The Edge’s original lyrics explicitly spoke out against violent rebels, but were omitted in order to protect the group. The result is a song with virtually null relevance – other than its title – to the events of Bloody Sunday, and, in all consequence, U2 should have taken the efforts to find a different title for an otherwise extraordinary anti-violence song.

What happened in Londonderry on January 30th, 1972 went far beyond violence, and the song does not recognize the real issue at hand, the oppression of the Catholic minority living in Northern Ireland. Carmen de Monteflores once said, “Oppression can only survive through silence,” and while I applaud U2‘s campaign for anti-violence in Northern Ireland, I fail to see how the oppression would have ended without the war that followed after Bloody Sunday. On that day, members of the 1st Battalion of the British Parachute Regiment shot twenty-six demonstrators. Thirteen people, six of whom were just seventeen years old, died at the scene, with five of those wounded shot in the back. To this day there is no evidence that any of the demonstrators were armed.

Northern Ireland, during 1950s, 1960s 1970s, and beyond, was a place at odds with the rest of the civilized Western world. The pride of defeating Nazi Germany was still remarkably alive in the United Kingdom and fighting Communism had become the prime directive. However, in contrast to the self-proclaimed image of defender of the free world, their halo paled as they turned a blind eye on the oppression of the Catholic population in Northern Ireland. Northern Ireland was a place where the treatment of the Catholic minority came with the foul stench of Kristallnacht, the night when the Nazis coordinated an attack on the Jewish community in Germany as part of Hitler’s anti-Semitic policy. Most certainly, in the history of mankind there has been no greater crime against humanity than the Holocaust, but the question is, has Kristallnacht ended with the defeat of Nazi Germany? Did the world get a false sense of security?

The British occupation of the Irish island began as early as the late twelfth century, and attempts to annihilate the Irish identity fill the history of English rule. Some of these attempts carry a striking resemblance to Hitler’s henchmen trying to eliminate the Jewish population in Germany, although not quite as methodical. History is also filled with constant acts of Irish resistance, and no ruling king or parliament was ever able to solve the problem. The saying is that the nineteenth century Prime Minister William Edward Gladstone tried to deal with the Irish question, but never found the answer as the Irish continued to change the question.

December 1921 saw the signing of the Articles of Agreement for a Treaty between Great Britain and Ireland, which established a free Irish republic with jurisdiction over twenty-six of the thirty-two counties. It also created the separate province of Northern Ireland that remained under British rule. It consists of the six northeastern counties of the predominantly Protestant Ulster region.

The terms, as negotiated by the founder of the IRA, Michael Collins, did not find the approval of the entire Irish population and, even though the Republic of Ireland was officially established, the battle for Irish reunification began. The importance of the IRA, though, endured a slow, but steady decline until the late 1960s, which saw increased confrontations between the Civil Rights movement in Northern Ireland and British officials, especially the Royal Ulster Constabulary (RUC).

The Civil Rights movement’s demand was, just to name one particular issue, for equal voting rights. The current system allowed only house owners to vote in local elections, and they were predominantly Protestants supporting British rule in Northern Ireland. The Protestant majority defended their superiority by engaging their own militias against Catholics, and they were actively supported by the predominantly Protestant RUC.

By the summer of 1969, these disputes reached the dimensions of an outright Civil War, and in August of 1969 the British government deployed troops to Northern Ireland with the intent to restore public order. “Operation Banner” ended at midnight on July 31, 2007, thirty-eight years later, instead of the planned “few months,” and it represents the longest deployment in the history of the British Army. The death toll included more than 3500 civilians and 763 soldiers.

In 2008, General Michael Jackson, the British Army Chief, called Operation Banner a successful combat. Nothing could be further from the truth. The English army became part of the problem very quickly, and they turned out to be another player in the conflict, not a referee.

Initially, the Catholic population welcomed the presence of the army in the hope they would serve as a neutral force and protect them against the RUC and Loyalist forces. However, their hopes were shattered in July 1970 during a British operation called “Falls Curfew,” which resulted in three days of rioting and battles between the British Army and Irish Republican paramilitaries. In the final tally, five people were killed, and three hundred were arrested.

The streets of Londonderry endured a long line of events filled with violence and the rage among the Catholic population turned not only into increased support for the IRA. They expressed their anger in a series of protest marches. One of these marches took place in Londonderry on January 30, 1972. That day was seared into the memories of the Irish people as Bloody Sunday.

The Civil Rights Organization of Northern Ireland had contacted the RUC’s Chief Superintendent, Frank Lagan, to inform him of their intention to hold a non-violent demonstration and to protest against internment without charge or trial. The internment, officially named “Operation Demetrius,” allowed the RUC and the British Army to detain suspects without justification. Lagan, in turn, notified the British Army and requested they keep away any military interference, a wise recommendation and, if followed, could have prevented the bloody events. The army, however, turned down before, was eager to prove that their well-rehearsed plan would put an end to the riots in Northern Ireland.

Just a week before Bloody Sunday, at an anti-internment march held at Magilligan Strand, British soldiers beat a number of protesters with such an intensity that their own officers had to physically restrain them. An attack on the patrol car of two RUC officers resulted in their deaths the Thursday before Bloody Sunday at Creggan Road. Nevertheless, the organizers of the Sunday march, the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association, had called for a peaceful march. They tried everything to prevent a repeat of the events at Magilligan Strand.

The march started almost an hour late from Central Drive in the Creggan Estate and proceeded toward the Bogside area of Derry. The official report, produced only a few weeks later by the Widgery tribunal, tried to downplay the magnitude of the march and gave an estimated number of somewhere between 3,000 and 5,000, while organizers claimed a number as high as 20,000. The correct figure was likely somewhere in between.

The organizers had intended to direct the march toward the town’s guildhall and hold a meeting there, but British military units had erected a number of barriers at strategic spots to seal the demonstration in the Bogside area away from the guildhall. They had also positioned a large number of snipers at strategic points around the perimeter of the Bogside area.

The barriers, the snipers, the stone throwing that followed, and the verbal abuse – all this was as familiar territory for the demonstrators as it was for the soldiers, who were very well protected in their anti-riot gear. The marchers did not suspect that the army’s reaction would be somewhere out of the ordinary. Maybe they would see some rubber bullets fired at them, maybe some gas, and then they would proceed to their meeting with the feeling they had fought well for their cause.

The exact details of the British Army’s reasoning for their attack are still, more than 30 years after the fact, under investigation. The fact is that the British Army engaged into a massive combat operation. Armored cars raced through the streets at a speed of forty miles per hour, thrashing through a horrified crowd. This was not a spontaneous response to a violent provocation, this was a well-rehearsed military operation. The soldiers that jumped out of the armored cars were paratroopers not wearing the usual anti-riot gear. Instead, they were wearing full combat gear. They took their strategic positions quickly and precisely and then they started shooting, using their fire-and-movement tactic as if they were fighting another army.

The only possible explanation for the army’s savage attack is that they believed they had effectively provoked an encounter with IRA forces. That was evidently not the case. Regardless of whether or not the attack was initiated on grounds of an erroneous interpretation of the circumstances or a more sinister plan, they were not able to recall their forces. Once a bloodhound smells blood, he is impossible to stop.

At the end of the riots, members of the 1st Battalion of the British Parachute Regiment had shot twenty-six civil rights protesters. Thirteen people, six of whom were just seventeen years old, died at the scene. Five of those wounded were shot in the back. After the shooting ended the army continued with collecting the dead and wounded, lining up demonstrators against walls, searching, and abusing them.

The Army Headquarters in Northern Ireland dealt with the following media inquiries particularly badly and defensively. The British Army Chief, Major General Robert Ford, just as useless as his fellow officers seeking to explain the firings, claimed his soldiers had only fired at IRA snipers and grenade-throwers, which turned out to be a blatant fabrication.

The question is, what was so different, so significant about Bloody Sunday? There had been rioting before, and people were killed. While that is true, the events of Bloody Sunday manifested a magnitude that was beyond anything that had happened before in Londonderry. Until Bloody Sunday, there was only a struggle for civil rights. There were riots, but the killing of people was a disturbing exception. After Bloody Sunday, it was outright war.

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The Bleeding Hills - A Novel by Wilfried F. Voss

Sigerson Clifford was an Irish poet and playwright. I took a line from his poem The Boys of Barr Na Sraide, the line that goes “And when the hills were bleeding and rifles were aflame…”, to use it as the title for my book “The Bleeding Hills“. The research for my also revealed that there is not a lot of information available that would describe the person Sigerson Clifford in more detail, and that is the reason I created a web site in the hope that people all over the world find it and possibly add more data.

Sigerson Clifford (1913 – 1985)

Clifford was born at #11 Dean St, Cork City, and was christened Edward Bernard Clifford. His parents, Michael Clifford and Mary Anne Sigerson, were from County Kerry, and they returned there in the following year, to Cahersiveen, where he was raised on the Ring of Kerry. He attended the Christian Brothers school in that town.

At the age of six, he went to live with his paternal grandfather, Ned Clifford, on the Old Road in the town. Ned was a gifted storyteller, and his influence encouraged Eddie to write poems and stories while at school. As a writer, he adopted the first name Sigerson in honour of his maternal family, although he continued to be known as “Eddie” to family and friends. At nineteen, after finishing secondary school, he joined the Civil Service, and worked for several years in unemployment exchanges in Cork and Kerry. In 1943 he moved to Dublin.

In 1945 he married Marie Eady from Cork. Clifford continued to write, but he did not leave work, and retired from the Civil Service in 1973.

Sigerson Clifford died in Glenageary, County Dublin on 1 January 1985, aged 71, and was interred in Kilnavarnogue Cemetery in his native Cahersiveen, with a graveside oration by his fellow Kerry author and playwright, John B Keane. A monument in memory of Sigerson Clifford is located in Cahersiveen.

Clifford wrote a number of poems and plays, including The Great Pacificator, which was staged at the Abbey Theatre, Dublin, in 1947. Clifford is best remembered for his poem, The Boys of Barr na Sráide, which was named after a street in Cahersiveen. The poem recalls the life of his boyhood friends starting from when they were young children through to the Black and Tan period, and up to the civil war. The poem speaks of the Irish tradition of “hunting for the wran” (wren), a small bird, on St. Stephen’s Day, 26 December. Later set to music, the song has been recorded by numerous traditional and folk singers including Christy Moore and Tim Dennehy.

Contribute to the Sigerson Clifford web site

If you can contribute any information on the life and work of Sigerson Clifford please have a look at the web site I created to honor his life and work. Unfortunately, there is not a great deal of information on Sigerson Clifford, and I would love to show photos and a more detailed biography.

The web site is located at SigersonClifford.com.

]]> http://frogenyozurt.com/2009/11/sigerson-clifford-1913-1985/feed/ 0 http://frogenyozurt.com/2009/10/a-writers-lament/ http://frogenyozurt.com/2009/10/a-writers-lament/#comments Fri, 30 Oct 2009 16:25:38 +0000 Wilfried F. Voss http://www.frogenyozurt.com/?p=837 Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.
- Soren Kierkegaard

The Bleeding Hills - A Novel by Wilfried F. Voss

As a writer you cannot only expect praise for your work, but also criticism. That is just human nature. I have learned to live with criticism, and, knowing that I am not the ultimate source of all wisdom, I am willing to listen and learn as long as the criticism is constructive. The situation becomes very difficult, however, when your writing hurts the feeling of a person, and that person accuses you of false reflection of a certain event or person through means of superficial research.

That is exactly what happened to me a few days ago. Two of my entries on my blog got the attention of Natalie, who apparently lives in the United Kingdom. She responded to my blog entry Robert Nairac – Hero, Butcher, Homosexual…? as follows:

“I would be very interested in talking to you! You seem to have a cavalier approach to researching for your book and make extremely tenuous links.

I can state quite catagorically that Julian ‘Tony’ Ball was not psychotic and did not take drugs. Though he did bite his nails, this is a family trait.

Robert came from a very loving middle-class family who would be mortified to read you diatribe. He was not gay and if he was he would have been able to face it in the same way as he faced his life and death, with style and dignity.”

You can see her comment and my answer at the bottom of the entry. She left another, similar remark at the entry  Robert Nairac – Supplement to previous entry. We also initiated a brief communication through Facebook (see my Facebook reference to the right hand side of the screen), and I found out that Julian Ball was her father. After a few exchanges we decided that we both had made our points and to leave it at that.

Even though I felt sure that the research for my novel was meticulous, it leaves a bitter aftertaste when you hurt the feelings of somebody with something you wrote, and, naturally, doubt arises. As a result, I spent all of yesterday and this morning – starting at 5:30 am – with further research on the subject of Julian Ball and Robert Nairac. Without going into details – it doesn’t make sense to drag this matter on and on – I was relieved to find that my research was not flawed. Let me also state that my references to Julian Ball and Robert Nairac in my novel add only one small aspect to the Irish troubles as it takes place in my novel.

I will follow Natalie’s advice and I will read ‘Big Boy’s Rules‘ by Mark L. Urban, a book exploring covert operations against the IRA from the mid-1970s to the Loughgall shooting in 1987. I did, however, take the liberty of adding a highly controversial book to my reading list, ‘War Without Honour: True Story of Military Intelligence in Northern Ireland‘ by Fred Holroyd and Nick Burbridge.

Interesting enough, but both books were hard to come by and seem to be out of print. I managed to buy used copies through Amazon.com and Amazon.co.uk. I will follow up on my readings by writing reviews on this blog.

]]> http://frogenyozurt.com/2009/10/a-writers-lament/feed/ 0 http://frogenyozurt.com/2009/06/robert-nairac-supplement-to-previous-entry/ http://frogenyozurt.com/2009/06/robert-nairac-supplement-to-previous-entry/#comments Sat, 06 Jun 2009 10:29:58 +0000 Wilfried F. Voss http://www.frogenyozurt.com/?p=337 The Bible contains six admonishments to homosexuals and 362 admonishments to heterosexuals. That doesn’t mean that God doesn’t love heterosexuals. It’s just that they need more supervision.
- Lynn Lavner

The Bleeding Hills - A Novel by Wilfried F. Voss

I would like to follow up on my entry “Robert Nairac – Hero, Butcher, Homosexual…?“:

The research on Captain Robert Nairac continues and I have found some more, interesting references. One is a blog, where I, among a mind-boggling large number of blubberings, found one entry referring to Robert Nairac as being gay. More interesting than the claim – which, in this specific case, was without any substance – was an alternative explanation of irrational behavior by British soldiers: “…watched a program a few months ago on the psychological stress of combat etc in the British army, and other issues such as mistreatment, bullying etc. Turns out of any regiment in the british army the SAS have the highest suicide rate according to the Psychiatrist in the program. He has raised this issue thru his MP with the UK MOD and they would not comment, classified information etc.”

The second reference (An article in the Sunday Mirror – June 10, 2001) is about a woman falsely claiming that Captain Robert Nairac fathered her son. This article openly addresses Nairac’s homosexuality, for instance, “…those who knew Nairac from his days working in south Armagh said the Grenadier Guards captain was known to be gay. “We all knew Nairac was a homo-sexual. He was having a relationship with a member of the Armed Forces in one of the camps,” said a former soldier last week.”

At this point I am satisfied with the view that my suspicion, that Nairac may have been gay and/or the victim of sexual abuse during childhood, is not without substance. I take the research for my novel seriously, and while I do have the liberty of “distorting the facts”, I wouldn’t want to include claims just based on a hunch.

My research on the subject of Bloody Sunday began almost exactly to the day one year ago. At the time I had no definite vision of my work’s format, whether it would be a non-fiction account of historical facts or if I should package the events into a novel. The question was, how would I separate myself from the numerous other books available on the subject? Just a quick search on Amazon.com will show you what I mean; there are a myriad of books on the Irish War and adding yet another non-fiction work would be like adding sand to the Sahara. Another circumstance that made my choice for a novel was the sober look at a simple number: The Amazon ranking. Amazon sells millions of different books and a ranking below 100,000 is not too shabby, however, most books on the Irish Troubles rank way beyond that, which accounts for a very few book sales per month throughout the entire United States.

The low ranking has, in my very personal opinion, several reasons. First of all, most books on the Irish War are either incredibly boring (they are usually written for people who already have intimate knowledge of the Irish Troubles) or are so politically tainted that you need to doubt their credibility. The other reason may be plain lack of interest in an event, such as Bloody Sunday, that took place more than 30 years ago. Well, I am almost sure there is some good literature out there, but none of them sticks out far enough to separate themselves from the masses.

Consequently, after a few weeks of intense research, I had made my decision to write a novel and embed some Irish history into the storyline, just enough to not be boring, but tickle the readers’ curiosity. Maybe they will feel inspired to go to their local library, bookstore, or even Online, eager to learn more about a topic that deserves more attention than it currently receives.

Besides writing I also create my own covers and I had decided it would be best to use a photo related to Bloody Sunday. The previous research had provided me with a small number of contacts and as it turns out my first contact was also where I got the photo I liked best. That contact was Mary Andrews, Pictures Syndication Manager of the Guardian and Observer. It was very uplifting to receive a response per e-mail that started with a “Hiya, Wilfried.” She offered me a number of photos, most of them relating to the recent Bloody Sunday inquiry (or to use proper English: enquiry), which would have been an interesting choice, but I felt they were not quite right considering the storyline of my novel. One photo, though, caught my attention from the beginning; it is described as Boys Playing In The Bogside Catholic Neighbourhood Of Derry, A Republican Stronghold In Northern Ireland, Antonio Olmos, 01 July 2002.

The events of Bloody Sunday took place in the Bogside neighborhood. The black & white photo shows, besides the boys playing, a large sign in the background “Free All Political Prisoners“. What I liked about the picture is the contrast between the playing children and the political message placed in a neighborhood where thirteen civil rights protesters, six of whom were just seventeen years old, were killed by members of the 1st Battalion of British Parachute Regiment. I obtained the copyright later that year, which also included a very pleasant phone conversation with Mary as she took my credit card number.

I would also like to thank Adrian Kerr of the Derry Journal for his efforts. The Derry Journal owns some few photos related to Bloody Sunday, but they were taken either before or after the events. You can find a number of photos of the victims on their web site (http://www.derryjournal.com/), but as Adrian told me, victim photos belong to the individual families.

Another possible source of authentic photographs was Eamon Melaugh, a photographer, who owns an extensive collection of photos made during and after Bloody Sunday. He also maintains a very impressive web site on the subject, but I have to say he was a vast disappointment. I wrote several inquiries per e-mail, which he chose not to answer.

Well, after all, I am very satisfied with my current choice.

Supplement 07/20/2009:

Maybe I should have done this much earlier, but, now that we are getting closer to actual publishing, I looked into the terms & conditions allowing me to use the cover photo. The terms did not allow me to modify the photo, which limited the design choices for the nice cover. As a result, the cover looked too bland, and we decided to change it. Another reason is, that the royalties I paid are based on a sales volume of up to 100 copies, and I am sure it will sell better than that. We downloaded a nice picture at BigStockPhoto.com, meaning there are no royalties involved.

Well, as I wrote before, this entire process was supposed to give me a look & feel of publishing a novel, and I can say, I have learned a lot.

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The Bleeding Hills

A Novel by Wilfried F. Voss

I have fought a good fight,
I have finished my course,
I have kept the faith.
- 2 Timothy iv. 7

The Irish War is officially a part of history, but not for Finnean Whelan, an IRA veteran of almost 40 years. British Intelligence has produced evidence that he is the mastermind behind a conspiracy to assassinate the First Minister of Northern Ireland. For Whelan this is not only a mission of revenge, but marks the beginning of a journey into the past and the return to the one true love: Ireland. [More...]

The Bleeding Hills is available at Amazon.Com, Amazon.co.uk, Barnes & Nobel, and any other good bookstore.

The Bleeding Hills - A Novel by Wilfried F. Voss

Back in 2005 I discovered the thrill of writing and publishing my first book on a very dry technical topic – Controller Area Network, a technology developed for automobiles. Since then I had published two more books of similar nature, but for the longest time I had toyed with the thought of breaking the cycle and explore other topics to write about, maybe even writing a novel of some kind. I am aware, writing technical literature or writing a novel are two very different ballparks, but am also thrilled by the idea.

Now, that a decision for a novel was made, I had to decide the subject to write about. I do have enough material in my mind that would account for at least four or five novels, but I also wanted to start with an “easy” subject, something to get a feel of the whole novel writing experience without wasting years of research and writing. One recent issue of the Poets & Writers magazine listed cases where authors worked for up to 18 years on their first novel, which, honestly, does not appeal – maybe it’s my German efficiency thinking.

After numerous hour-long sessions in the hot tub I came up with the “easy” subject of Bloody Sunday, which made my wife crinch when I told her. Having a law degree and knowing my rebel attitude she foresaw all the legal implications such as verifying copyrights, accuracy of historical facts, etc. It’s ironic, because being married to an Irish-American green-eyed red-head who is spiritually, however, not actively a staunch supporter of Sinn Fein, confronts you with the very passionate topic of Irish history on a nearly daily basis. To my wife’s credit, I hadn’t told her I was thinking about a novel; her initial expectation was a non-fiction account of the events. As Mark Twain put it so adequately “Familiarize yourself with the facts and then you can distort them any way you please.” and that is exactly what novel-writing is about.

Bloody Sunday, which many people associate only with the famous U2 song, refers to the events in Derry (the name Londonderry is not acceptable for a good Irish Republican) in Northern Ireland on January 30, 1972, when twenty-six civil rights protesters were shot by the 1st Battalion of the British Parachute Regiment. Thirteen people, six of whom were only seventeen years old, died at the scene. Five of those wounded, were shot in the back. While the study of such a tense subject seemed promising, I also found that good literature on the subject is hard to come by. Most books are either politically tainted to a degree that their credibility must be taken with a considerable grain of salt or the writing style simply defies the basic rules of good and fluent reading. It is my firm belief that writing about history should not only catch, but also keep the reader’s attention; otherwise the writing turns out to be a worthless task.

I was discouraged to have selected several bad examples from a myriad of available books on recent Irish history. One work in particular, written by a former member of 14 Company, at some time considered the most secret undercover operation of British Intelligence, was written in the style of an adolescent with an inferiority complex the size of Wisconsin describing a violent video game. Accompanying photos were plenty and one of them showed an example of how a pistol was properly tucked into the backside of a woman’s jeans with the subtitle “A fine example of a nicely shaped butt”. A head shake is in order now. I am now using the vast Internet resources for my research.

Another inspiration for my story was a CD I had first heard in Ireland, when we visited some relatives (I am now officially “Irish by Marriage”). My wife’s grandmother was born on the island of Inishbofin off the coast of Galway and came to the United States in the early 1920′s. The CD in question is Farewell to Evening Dances by Colm O’Donnell, one of my absolute favorite Irish musicians. One song in particular, The Boys of Barr Na Sraide, caught my attention. The song, according to Irish singer Tim Dennehy’s web site, “captures beautifully the essence of Cahersiveen nestled as it is between the mountain and sea”. Cahersiveen is an Irish town located at the Ring of Kerry. The song is based on a poem by Sigerson Clifford, who was born in Cahersiveen, and it tells the story of the boys of Barr Na Sraide – Top Street – who hunted for the wren.

Through the intensive research on the topic of recent Irish history I discovered many more interesting details, which influenced my writing significantly as I tried to incorporate historical facts into the story line. Bloody Sunday is still an important part of the story, but more in respect that it strengthened the position of the Irish Republican Army (IRA) and resulted in the recruitment of a great number of new members determined to fight British rule. I used references to The Boys of Barr Na Sraide in a very unique way and you need to read the final result to find out how…

Talking about the story line… Here is a summary:
The Irish War is officially a part of history, but not for Finnean Whelan, an IRA veteran of almost 40 years. British Intelligence has produced evidence that he is the mastermind behind a conspiracy to assassinate the First Minister of Northern Ireland. Finn is protected by the CIA in his exile in the United States after working for them for the past twenty years. Consequently, British Intelligence has come up with a plan to lure Finn back into their jurisdiction, Northern Ireland, by revealing the identity of the man who is ultimately responsible for the killing of Finn’s wife, Shauna. Here they hope not only to apprehend him, but also lead them to another conspirator, Martin Sheehan, who hides in the Northern provinces. For Finn this is not only a mission of revenge, but marks the beginning of a journey into the past and the return to the one true love: Ireland.

The title of the book will be “The Bleeding Hills“. It is divided into six chapters and as of today’s date I have finished chapter three; time to forward it to my editing resource. The remaining three chapters already contain a very coarse draft and I need to flesh them out. You will see me somewhere in Western Massachusetts, hanging out at a Panera Bread, copying thoughts from my brain into my beloved MacBook. The current plan is to be ready for publication by end of May. In the meantime I will post further updates here on my blog.

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The Bleeding Hills

A Novel by Wilfried F. Voss

I have fought a good fight,
I have finished my course,
I have kept the faith.
- 2 Timothy iv. 7

The Irish War is officially a part of history, but not for Finnean Whelan, an IRA veteran of almost 40 years. British Intelligence has produced evidence that he is the mastermind behind a conspiracy to assassinate the First Minister of Northern Ireland. For Whelan this is not only a mission of revenge, but marks the beginning of a journey into the past and the return to the one true love: Ireland. [More...]

The Bleeding Hills is available at Amazon.Com, Amazon.co.uk, Barnes & Nobel, and any other good bookstore.