I had been warned that my continued research on the person of British Captain Rober Nairac might cause criticism and threats, specifically from residents in the United Kingdom, and, as a matter of fact, I have already been through several rounds of such fruitless communications. As they say, “Insult is the weak man’s perception of strength,” and most of the criticism I received was filled with insults. Any requests to contribute facts to the lives of Robert Nairac and his fellow colleague Julian “Tony” Ball that would complete or even correct my research went unanswered.

For the record, I, a German citizen living in New England, am in continuous and truly appreciated communications with a number of British writers of whom two served in the British Army during the time known as “The Irish Troubles.” And even though we don’t necessarily agree on all aspects of the conflict, the communication remains pleasant and professional, and that is the picture of the British people I will keep in my heart (and I will continue listening to British rock music).

On 14 December 2011 I received the following email with the subject “Slander on your website?”:

Dear Sir/Madam

I am referring to:

http://thebleedinghills.copperhillmedia.com/tag/robert-nairac/

Where it is stated: “Ball has been described as “a nasty bit of work — a psychotic …”

Is this the view of Copperhills Media or the author’s view from the distance of a comfortable sofa in Germany or New England?

I would like to see your evidence for this that you feel the ability to publish this on your website. This certainly does not fit my knowledge of the man, who won the Military Cross for bravery.

P.S. Tony Ball was the father of my best friend at school and we also have many links to the SAS regiment through my father’s role in the army; I can check your references on this.

I would like to know who my lawyer should get in touch with, yourselves or the author?

Yours sincerely,

Dr. [Name Removed]

There were a number of thoughts that came to mind, including that I don’t have a sofa in Germany, not even an uncomfortable one. I was also flabbergasted that Dr. [Name Removed] had the audacity to mention his lawyer, especially under the view that I wrote not about his father, but the father of his best friend at school. Maybe he wants to bring legal charges on terms of emotional stress. I also wanted to tell him that I am fairly certain that British law does protect freedom of speech and freedom of the press (technically, I am part of the press when I publish through my website) as does the United States of America (and Germany).

Again, all these thoughts and a lot more came to mind, but I decided to answer in my trademarked sober German manner:

Dear Sir,

Let me say, first of all, that I reserve the right of publishing our communication on my website.

In regards to your inquiry, please read http://www.eamonnoneill.com/shadow-man-an-investigation-into-robert-nairac/, especially the article (PDF file) on the bottom of the page and in particularly the paragraph:

“In 1974, ROBERT NAIRAC met Julian “Tony” Ball, a serving SAS man attached to 14 Int and operating out of South Armagh. Ball, an ex-Para, was described to me by one former colleague as “genuinely ruthless – and in some ways I think Nairac modelled himself on him.” Another source put it bluntly: “Ball was a nasty bit of work – a psychotic, I would say. He bit his fingernails down to the white half-moons and was living on his nerves continually, possibly taking drugs.”

I believe, my statement beginning with “Ball has been described…” is valid, and I did put the description in quotation marks.

See also http://thebleedinghills.copperhillmedia.com/from-the-author/ where I list my references.

Last, but not least, if you wish to contribute information on the person of Julian Ball, please feel free to do so. All I ask is to keep a professional attitude.

Regards,

Wilfried F. Voss

As of today, I have not received a response, but I will keep my breath until that legal letter arrives…

Everything you read about British Captain Robert Nairac and related topics on this website represents my very personal view and research on the topic. If you deem my findings objectionable or in err, please feel free to leave a comment below or write to me directly by using this website’s contact form. The same applies for any comments, in favor or not, and for information you would like to share. All I ask, is to keep a professional attitude on the subject.

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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.

During the research for my novel 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, and in May of 2009 I wrote a post titled Robert Nairac – Hero, Butcher, Homosexual…?

The interest in Captain Nairac was sparked by an article titled Shadow Man and written by Eamonn O’Neill for the Esquire Magazine. Let me quote:

British Army Captain Robert Nairac fought his own war on the streets of Seventies’ Belfast, heading out on patrol with a cowboy hat, trainers and a pump-action shotgun. His undercover activities won him both the George Cross and accusations of treachery, but doubt surrounds almost everything he did.

Source: http://www.eamonnoneill.com/wp-content/uploads/ROBERT-NAIRAC.pdf

Captain Nairac is generally described as charismatic and brilliant, but there was also a dark side to him, something that most of his contemporaries were unable to interpret.

“It’s simple: Nairac didn’t just stick his head in to the lion’s mouth - that wouldn’t have been enough for him. Instead, he had to go and stick it right up the lion’s arse.”

Source: http://www.eamonnoneill.com/wp-content/uploads/ROBERT-NAIRAC.pdf

Almost immediately after reading O’Neill’s fascinating article the thought came to mind that Captain Robert Nairac, in view of his tendency toward flamboyant appearances, might have been gay. The initial premonition was substantiated by further research represented, among other resources, by articles of which some hinted and others openly addressed his homosexuality.

There was also the topic of unexplained behavioral patterns that some described as a death wish, a view that is reinforced by accounts of his irrational, and in some cases outright suicidal activities, and this is not a typical gay feature. However, Captain Robert Nairac was also a devoted Catholic, and in Roman Catholicism, homosexual acts are considered contrary to natural law and sinful, while homosexual desires are considered “disordered” but not themselves sinful. For me, the conflict between being Catholic and being gay was sufficient evidence explaining his suicidal tendencies, and I left it at that.

Case closed; or so I thought. As of lately I have received information that provided a much more sophisticated insight into Nairac’s psyche, namely the “death wish” theory. I am at a point where I distance myself from that assessment. Yet still, in my very personal opinion, Captain Robert Nairac was gay.

Before I go into further details let me make a statement to counter potential accusations such as smearing the memory of a British soldier on one end or discrimination of gay rights at the other. I strongly support the view that homosexuality is not a mental disorder. In the same sense, a person’s sexual orientation is not a matter of choice; individuals have no more choice about being homosexual than heterosexual. I am heterosexual, but I accept homosexuality as a different form of life style.

My conclusion that Robert Nairac was gay is still a theory, and I am far from trying to cast a blame of any sort; my mere intention was to find an understanding of what was described as irrational behavior, a behavior that eventually led to the slaying of Captain Robert Nairac, a British officer with a bright future.

I am aware of the concerns and complaints from people who knew him and their demand to respect the Nairac family’s right to privacy. It is my belief, though, that everybody loses that privilege as soon as they happen to dwell in the limelight, voluntarily or not. The question is, what exactly put him into that position? I believe, it was his violent nature, or at least the records – right or wrong – thereof. The fact remains that he is now, for tragic reasons, public property and therefore arguably a legitimate subject for research.

Available records of Robert Nairac’s life (including John Parker’s Biography “Secret Hero”) have mostly ignored his secret personal life, which represents an extraordinary omission, given that Nairac’s obsession with Ireland, the circumstances of Nairac’s presence in Northern Ireland, his army career, and, most importantly, his death were all dependent on choices he had made and which were influenced by his character and background.

Keeping in view Nairac’s role and accomplishments in the Irish conflict, it is only logical to penetrate to some extend the mystery about him and his fate. Nothing that may be unearthed during this investigation can take away from the image we already have of an extraordinary man.

Everything you read about British Captain Robert Nairac on this website represents my very personal view and research on the topic. If you deem my findings objectionable or in err, please feel free to leave a comment below or write to me directly by using this website’s contact form. The same applies for any comments, in favor or not, and for information you would like to share. All I ask, is to keep a professional attitude on the subject.

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

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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