Soldiers and The IRA - Part 1

I am apt to telling stories. Long, interesting ones. My wife and friends used to call them lies, but they are merely embellishments, and if I am to go down for something, I am going down remembered. You know the kind of thing, "You lying B*****d! You tell a great story." I am up for that. A story from my childhood does come to mind though.

I lived in a nice little neighbourhood called Shantallow in Derry Northern Ireland. I grew up in the time of the troubles, an interesting time for all concerned. Shantallow was in the thick of it with wanting to relieve itself from British Tyranny, or some such other grand notion. I had an interesting time there and most of these stories will revolve around my time there growing up with the natives.

One particular day, my friends an I were playing a friendly game of "Soldiers and IRA men" A game similar to Cowboys and Indians without the hooting, hollering and Texas accents. Well the idea of the game was for the soldiers to stay put, and the IRA to run like hell and hide somewhere in the neighbourhood. You know, like the Indians running up into the hills. a contingent of soldiers, know as Squadies or foot patrol would then go and look for them.

In my neighbourhood it was like pulling teeth trying to get someone to join the soldiers team, but that was just the way we were. As the IRA, we would put on our masks and sunglasses, take what meager weapons we were given, and hide.

One particular game, I was captured. I was talking with Elizabeth, God was she cute. I didn't see a friend, Paul sneak up behind me. Damn, a woman's love gave me away. She said she would visit me, and would wait until I got out. All good stories have an essence of this I think. WIthout so much as a name rank and seriel number, I was dragged back to head-quarters for full interrogation. Head-quarters was my friends back yard. I was dragged in, and to my dismay I discover that I was the only one caught. On the upside, it meant that my comrades where still out there fighting the good fight and upholding the cause.

"Where are they?" Sargeant Smith, Paul, asked me
"Who?" I replied indignantly.
"The rest of your unit."
"I don't know."
"Where are they?"
"I'm tellin' ye I don't know. They left me behind."

At this point, my other friend Michael comes over with a baton under his arm, like a high ranking officer. Well it was a piece of wood rather than a baton. One of the pieces we kept to use as a drum stick when we formed the band to play the Wembley Arena in Michaels back yard on the weekend.

"I am Captain Jameson." Michael said. He took the name right from the bottle of the same name. "We can ask you nicely or beat this out of you."
"Beat... what... me?" I said sounding pretend scared.

He started tapping the baton on his hand.
"Nice touch." I thought, he really knows his Captains.

Meanwhile, Paul, or Sargeant Smith had a weapon of his own. He made it himself and was really pleased with it. It consisted of a broken mop handle with a heavy piece of rubber taped to the top of it. He walked over to me also tapping the weapon in his hand.

"I'm gonne ask ye one more time. Where are they?" He said
"Are ye fekking deef, I tole ye I donnow." I replied