REPORTING on the early days of the Troubles in Northern Ireland at the end of the 1960s was a tense and dangerous task. However, in spite of the chaos there were plenty of humorous moments.
I was sent to Armagh in August 1969 after a young man was shot dead and six injured in a tragic incident in the Shambles area of the town. As usual on such occasions, I checked into a central hotel and parked my car around the back so that the southern registration would not attract too much attention.
I had made a few inquiries and got myself well organised when a colleague from Dublin arrived puffing and panting and obviously in bad form. I asked him if he was all right and offered to give him some assistance on the story so far. He said he was fine but that he had been very worried on the drive up. What was he worried about, I asked? "Oh, I was afraid of road blocks. You know what the B Specials are like," he replied.
The B Specials had a reputation for making things difficult for anybody with a southern accent. But I told him there was no point in being concerned about that: he was a journalist going about his business. Absolutely nothing to fear.
"I know that, but I was afraid they would search the car and find my gun," he moaned.
"Your WHAT?" I shouted, aghast at this revelation. "What in the name of God are you doing driving around this neck of the woods with a bloody gun in your car?" I asked.
"Oh, it's not a real gun."
"What the hell is it, then?"
"It's a rubber toy gun. I carry it around in the car in case anybody tries to attack me at traffic lights in Dublin," he explained.
Well, there was no answer to that. It takes all kinds to make a world. But even now, 40 years later, I still scratch my head and wonder about some of my colleagues.
Another good friend and colleague who used to liven things up during our tours of duty in the North was nicknamed Walter Mitty (at least behind his back). He had a phenomenal imagination and used to regale us with tall tales about his imaginary exploits. The more drink he had, the better the story. Fortunately, he never let his imagination enter his reporting.
One night he was drinking in one of the Belfast pubs frequented by journalists (where you could drink into the small hours of the morning). He was on full throttle about his missions as a pilot with the US air force in Vietnam. He was vividly describing his many missions over enemy lines when he dropped his bombs with deadly accuracy. This went on for quite a while.
Our rollicking raconteur was oblivious to the fact that there were three US marines in the pub. After a while they sidled up to him and one of them hissed: "Look, punk, you were never in Vietnam. We were. You don't know your elbow from your ass. Shut up." Or words to that effect, if you get my drift.
It was, to say the least, a tense moment. Time stood still. Where did we go from there? Well, our intrepid journalist, after his initial shock, stared them straight in the face, tore his shirt open in the front, and shouted: "Bastards! Look at my scars!" Sure enough, his whole chest was covered in scars. It was an ugly sight. There was what I could only describe as a collective gasp. Then the Yanks recovered their bearings and were deeply apologetic. "We thought you were just bullshittin', man," said one. "Please accept our apologies."
Yes, Walter Mitty was one of them all right, a fully paid-up member of Uncle Sam's army. What the US marines didn't know was that our man had been in a serious car crash some months earlier and was very lucky to survive. And of course he had the scars to prove it.
I still chuckle when I think back on those stories. Unfortunately, both of the above colleagues died some years ago and did not have the satisfaction of seeing those murderous times turn into today's peace and stability.
I am left with pleasant memories of good friends and loyal colleagues.