John Laverty Today 06:00
The second of May, half a century ago, was also a Thursday. My dad was in Belfast that day, finishing off a building job with city-based colleagues who later invited him for drinks at a pub called Maddens in the Markets.
And Joe was sorely tempted. He liked those guys but had never felt comfortable in The Smoke, didn’t fancy bunking down in someone else’s house and, ultimately, boarded a Transit van bound for Ballymena.
A couple of hours later, Joe’s pals stood outside Maddens watching a fleet of ambulances race towards what was left of the nearby Rose and Crown on lower Ormeau.
Five men died instantly or within hours of the massive explosion, a sixth in hospital the following week.
It would later emerge — to my old man’s horror — that Maddens had been the principal target for bombers who, having spotted a UDR checkpoint, diverted their stolen car and its deadly cargo towards the Rose and Crown.
That probably explains why no warning preceded the biggest death toll from a pub bombing since McGurk’s in 1971, and was, ironically, visited upon a premises renowned for welcoming patrons from ‘both sides’ of the divide.
As it happened, the UVF murder gang ‘got lucky’ at 10.15pm that night; all six victims were Catholics.
I was in primary school back then and felt no affinity whatsoever with the casualties, only selfish relief that someone close to me had, courtesy of what’s now described as a ‘sliding doors moment’, avoided becoming one.
There’s deep personal shame about that now, but I was hardly the only inhabitant of this twisted place who, by then, had become inured to the incessant death and suffering.
A few years after May 2, 1974, and with access to a ‘clippings file’, I delved deeper into what happened that day.
The faded newsprint wasn’t an easy read; detached, imperforate and unsparingly graphic accounts of the guttural screams, the severed limbs — one man was, literally, cut in half — the desperate, frantic clawing through rubble, the kids standing around, bewildered, as “four bodies and half of a fifth body” were carted away.
After that came the immediate intrusion into survivors’ suffering: Thomas Morrissey’s teenage children dragging their father from the debris and comforting him as his life ebbed away; James Doherty’s wife Eileen, a nurse, busy saving other people’s lives prior to being informed that her husband had lost his.
Doting grandfather William Kelly’s ‘mistake’ in nipping out for a quick nightcap 15 minutes earlier than normal; Tommy Ferguson’s wife Margaret saying she “just knew” he wouldn’t be coming home that night.
John Gallagher’s baby son would be turning four months old that weekend; the locals’ fervent hope that pub manager Francis Brennan would survive his horrific injuries. Francis clung to life for another nine days.
But, apart from the secondary-school age of the bombers — reported to have giggled as they left the apocalyptic scene (who knew indiscriminate mass murder could be amusing?) — perhaps the most shocking item was one which didn’t even make the front pages.
An ambulance carrying two of the critically injured was denied entry to A&E at Belfast City Hospital — because it was the Royal Victoria’s ‘turn’ to treat Troubles casualties. I kid you not.
The mercy vehicle’s exasperated driver told reporters: “One man’s arm was hanging off, the other had massive internal bleeding.
“With the City being much closer, I decided to rush the casualties there; all I wanted was to get these men to the nearest hospital as quickly as possible.”
(It was mentioned in the clippings that one of the victims would have died anyway, so that’s alright then.)
In response to the ambulance staff’s complaint, a spokesperson for the City said: “In all fairness, it was more appropriate to go to the Royal because it has better equipment…”
The Rose and Crown atrocity eclipsed another consequential one that night: 28-year-old UDR Greenfinch Eva Martin becoming the first female member of the security forces to be murdered in the conflict.
Eva, a married woman whose ‘day job’ was head of modern languages at Fivemiletown High School in Tyrone, died after being hit by a burst of IRA gunfire in nearby Clogher.
One gruesome night, so many sectarian murders forensically covered by this paper and others on Friday, May 3.
The following day, however, none of those poor souls rated a single mention in the Tele.
We’d moved on already: the Europa had been bombed yet again; a monstrous 600lb IRA device, destined for Enniskillen, was successfully intercepted by security forces; an RUC officer miraculously survived a sustained Provo gun attack in Dungannon.
A death-free evening then, but May 2’s victims would be joined by 50 others over the next 22 bloodsoaked days, the majority of those a result of the UVF’s Dublin and Monaghan bombings.
This newspaper noted in its May 3, 1974, ‘Viewpoint’ column: “There will be a passing sympathy for the injured and the relatives, but how many people will remember the casualties’ names this time next week?”
A cold, harsh, insensitive and untimely remark when judged by today’s pacific standards yet honest, accurate and, sadly, in tune with the overall mood of 50 years ago.
At least we’re remembering a few of those names this week…
by pickneyboy3000