Sam Beckett had the business about failure just about right. Fail? Fail again. Fail better. I paraphase the learned scribe. I don't believe in failure. Even though Anglo-Irish history is chock full of glorious failures. It depends how you come at these things. Some of my more melancholic friends would have you believe that every silver lining has a cloud. Me? I'm with Beckett. I'll give you an example.
It was Christmas Eve in Long Kesh. Long Kesh was a British prison camp outside Belfast. It was 1974. We were to be blessed with a midnight mass. It would be celebrated in the half hut which was the only bit of our cage which was not used as living accomodation. There were four large Nissen huts in each cage. Three were occupied by a motley mix of male internees who ranged from teenagers to old-age pensioners. There were about one hundred and twenty of us in each cage. We spent our sleeping hours piled on top of each other in decrepit bunk beds. The rest of the time we did our time. Most of us were from the north, city folk and country men in equal measure, with a handful of blow-ins from the south. Dubs and culchies, again in equal measure.
At its height there were about twenty-two cages in Long Kesh. The conditions were awful. Especially during the winter. Particularly on Christmas Eve. But this Christmas Eve was going to be different. That is for me and three trusty compañeros. This Christmas Eve we were going to vamoose, skedaddle, get outta the place. This Christmas Eve we were going to escape.
The plan was simple. We had a trapdoor cut in a blind spot in the cage fence, not visible to the tall watchtowers which glared down at us. Our cage had four such towers with their heavily armed Brit soldiers and Colditz searchlights and sirens. Once out of the cage we were to crawl our way towards the perimeter fence, cutting our way through acres of barbed razor wire. We had procured bolt and wire cutters for that purpose. We had also smuggled in camouflaged clothes and sewed a change of clothing into this heavy fatigue gear. The plan once we got beyond Long Kesh was to change into the civilian clothes and make our way to civilization. In case of emergency we each had a twenty pound note, some change for phone calls, a Mars Bar and an Ordnance Survey map.
So far everything was going hunky dory. We were outside the cage, the four of us belly-flat on the ground inching our way along the gap between our cage and the one next to it. We didn't expect to make much progress until midnight mass was over so I was content to listen to the sound of the cage choir rehearsing "Oiche Ciuin" ("Silent Night") and other seasonal offerings. The sounds of slightly melodious male voices drifted out from the half hut to where we lay.
Then a slight mist came down. Extra sentries were put on the walkway alongside us and into the cages. We timed the sound of their footsteps approaching us and lay soundless and motionless till they passed. Then we edged forward another wee bit. Midnight mass came and went. We heard our comrades being locked up. To our relief our absence was undiscovered. Long Kesh went to sleep. Christmas Day arrived. The mist stayed. So did the extra sentries. We could hear the snatches of their conversation as they passed on their weary beat.
Then all hell broke out. Sirens wailed. Searchlights lanced the darkness. There was the sound of running feet, shouted commands. Dogs barked excitedly.
We were caught. A gang of Brits and prison warders converged on the area we were crawling through. One of our group stood up in a vain attempt to distract attention from the rest of us.
"Ho ho ho," he shouted, "Happy Christmas everyone."
It didn't work. One by one we were pried from the barbed wire. I was beaten about the face. My spectacles scarred a bloody track across my cheek. We were frogmarched, batons raining down on us, towards the punishment blocks.
I was glad to get into the cell. By now I was naked. Our clothes were stripped from us, our belongings, including the Mars Bars, confiscated. Alone in my cell I pulled the rough jail blanket around me and lay in the foetus position on the plank bed.
"Ach well. Sín é (That's it)," I thought to myself.
"You alright?"
It was one of my captured compatriots. I shouted in response and each of us yelled back and forth to each other. I pulled myself up to the cell window and peered through the bars. Right outside there was a line of Brit soldiers with ferocious war dogs. They, the Brits not the dogs, screamed abuse at me.
"Get down ya Irish bastard."
Then to my horror one of my friends yelled back in defiance.
"Fuck up ya ballox. My name is Gerry Adams and if you come in here I'll knock yer melt in."
"Jesus," I whispered as I slid back on to the bed.
The verbal abuse continued.
"Hi Brit. What rank are you? Is that dog taking you a walk? What you say, you're only a private? My mate is twenty-three and he's already a general."
I stayed quiet. Well nearly quiet. Between clenched teeth I hissed at my friend next door.
"Shut up you imbecile. Give me a break. Jesus, Mary and Joseph tell him to shut up."
By now the Brits and their dogs were in the corridor. The dogs were off their leashes. They ran excitedly up and down barking madly as their masters drummed our cell doors with their batons.
Then all went quiet. My cell door slowly opened.
A young British soldier stood looking in at me. I stood up fists clenched eying him.
"Here you are."
He flung a packet of cigarettes at me.
"You want a light, Paddy?"
I looked at him in disbelief. He pushed a lit match towards me.
"Happy Christmas," he grinned.
I sucked on the cigarette.
"My name's not Paddy."
"I know, Paddy. Happy Christmas."
I grinned back at him.
"Happy Christmas," I said.
