Fishers of Men - The Gripping True Story of a British Undercover Agent in Northern Ireland. Rob Lewis
those days was the working environment for about three thousand men, operating over a number of different shifts twenty-four hours a day. These men became known to our gang as ‘the enemy’. One of our favourite jaunts was to catch the empty coal drams at the top of the colliery, jump aboard, ride on them until they were approaching the pithead area of the works and then jump off at the last minute to avoid being caught by the enemy. This was actually a necessity, as the miners really would give you a damned good thumping if they caught you. They knew the risks and dangers of our little joyrides; we did not. These drams were extremely heavy four-wheeled steel containers for carrying loads of coal along a rail track. One false move or fall and they could quite easily have cut straight through a limb like a hot knife through butter. After one particular fun-filled afternoon of coal-dram riding I decided to head home. On the way it became evident that my shoes were caked black with coal dust, and I thought that if my parents were to cotton on to the fact I had been down in the area of the colliery then the smelly stuff really would hit the fan. Along with the rest of the intrepid gang I made my way to the pithead baths, where, just inside the doors, were positioned two industrial boot cleaners for the miners to grease and polish their heavy steel-toed pit boots. After a quick spin under the revolving brushes, my shoes would have passed the scrutiny of any Guardsman, and I made my way home thinking I was looking spick and span. I was very wrong.
As I walked down the garden path and into the house my mother took one look at me, shouted at me to get out and then proceeded to give me a mild bollocking about going down to play in the area of the colliery. I remember looking at her in complete amazement and stating quite categorically that I had been nowhere near the place – if I had been down the colliery, then how come my shoes were so clean? She then told me to go to the bathroom and take a look in the mirror. The sight in front of me was reminiscent of old films and photographs I had seen of the young lads that worked underground, or chimney-sweep kids. I was filthy with coal dust. Lesson learnt – if you are going to lie, make sure you have your alibi watertight. Attention to detail is a necessity. On future occasions when we had been down the colliery we used to go home via the open-air swimming pool in the town and use their showers. My mother never caught me out again.
It was a cold, damp Sunday afternoon, and I was about thirteen at the time. After making sure that all signs of coal dust had been eradicated from my face I sat down to watch the television while my mother started to prepare tea. The evening news commenced with the story of another riot in Northern Ireland. I had never really paid that much attention to the problems in the Province I knew very little about, and cared nothing much about it for that matter. I vaguely remember my parents saying how terrible it all was – that was about it for me. This particular Sunday was different, though. It was 1972 and this was the last Sunday in January, Bloody Sunday. The thought of ever being involved personally in any shape or form with the Province never entered my mind. Why should it? Although I knew that thirteen people had been shot by the army that day, the realities of the situation went straight over my head. I do remember seeing film coverage of teenagers my age throwing stones and the occasional petrol bomb at the army. I wondered if they had bollockings off their mothers as well. I suppose I was lucky to live and grow up where I did. I felt a certain sympathy for those kids – life must have been bloody awful in those conditions. The following day we played soldiers and rioters in the schoolyard. Ironically, I was a rioter.
I was lucky enough to have had numerous family holidays in the seaside town of Porthcawl, a traditional ‘miner’s fortnight’ in the last week of July and the first week of August. My grandparents owned a caravan there, and more often than not I would stay on for a few extra weeks with them.
My scallywag ways were to turn into profitable ventures working at funfairs at Trecco Bay and Coney Beach, both packed-out places of entertainment during these periods. Along with other lads working at the fair I would remove all the seats from the various rides in the morning and coat the base with a thick green slime of Swarfega, a substance usually used for cleaning dirty or oily hands. It was also an excellent way to catch coins that had fallen from the pockets of the people who had been on various rides. At close down every evening a few minutes was spent washing off the slimy coins, which were then added to my pay and holiday money. A lucrative little number indeed.
Porthcawl, as well as being a great place for families wanting a decent holiday, was also sometimes a magnet for people looking for trouble. With some concern for my own safety I watched one afternoon as a large group of Hell’s Angels went haywire along the arcades and public houses in Coney Beach, turning tables over, smashing fruit machines open and grabbing young girls as they tried to escape. There were about forty of them in total, rampaging their way along to one of the large pubs along the seafront. They looked extremely menacing. Most were long-haired, dirty, tattooed and drunk, a few wore World War II German helmets, and all had cut-off denim jackets over their leathers proclaiming ‘Windsor’ in Gothic writing. This was a chapter that over the years has gained quite a notorious reputation. Two policemen who approached them were forced to back off as a variety of chains and knives were openly displayed, and it was more than obvious that the Angels would have been quite happy to use them. Then the group descended on a large pub with a huge outside seating area for families. This was their biggest mistake. As dangerous and as wild as they were, they had not bargained on a major factor of Porthcawl at this time of year – the Welsh miner.
I had followed them down along the tarmac path leading from the funfair towards the caravan park. They then proceeded to turn and force their way through families having a quiet afternoon drink in the sun. The whole area erupted. Women and kids were forced over to a grassed patch while about fifty or sixty ‘sports jackets’ suddenly stood up and went to town on the gang. It was mayhem. I watched as a large broad-shouldered man stamped on the face of one of the gang who had been punched to the floor by another bloke seated at the same table. The most amusing part was that, as he was stamping on him, he was talking to him. He was actually telling him that he had spoilt his day and really should not have done what he had done. This was not uncontrolled rage – the bloke was explaining to the Hell’s Angel quite calmly where he had gone wrong. The fact that his face was spattered all over the place and he appeared to be unconscious did not matter. After about ten minutes the whole thing calmed down, and the police finally had enough back-up to bring some control to the scene. The Windsor chapter sauntered away, bloodied and beaten, and the sports jackets sat down and carried on drinking as if nothing had happened. Another lesson to be learnt – no matter how hard you may think you are, you do not fuck with a bunch of Welsh miners when they are on holiday with their families. These were hard men, really hard, and this was the environment I was brought up in.
The holidays came to an end and my school examinations loomed, and with them the usual unanswerable question of what my future employment would be. The subject was constantly being raised by teachers and my parents. I was having too much fun with my friends to be interested in studying and was subsequently no bright light in school. Therefore the choices open to me were really going to be limited. An apprenticeship with the National Coal Board was an option, but it really did not appeal to me. I had no idea which way I was likely to go until one weekend when my older brother returned on leave from the army with three of his mates. That weekend was to have a profound effect on me and confirmed what I wanted for my future.
My brother had been the first soldier in our family for several generations. During World War II both my grandfathers had commitments in the coalmines under what was termed reserved employment, whereby even if they had wanted to join up, their jobs as mine-workers restricted them to the colliery. My maternal great-grandfather was the only soldier I was aware of in a direct blood-line. He had won the Distinguished Conduct Medal at the Somme while serving with the 2nd Battalion, The Welsh Regiment. He was in his late thirties at the time, and probably went to war because the money was better than in mining. He paid the price for his actions, though, and spent a long period of time on his return recuperating after being mustard-gassed by the Germans during the trench warfare that was the horrendous trademark of that campaign.
I was completely overwhelmed by the friendship and loyalty my brother and his mates showed towards each other. They would do each other’s ironing, lend each other clothes and money, and they all looked very fit and suntanned, having just returned from exercise in Canada. And if pushed into a corner they were more than capable of looking after