My Story by Bea Worton

The year 1976 started with a horrific no-warning bomb that decimated a New Years’ Eve party killing three people. The Friday night previous to Kingsmills at a New Years Party the IRA exploded a no-warning bomb outside Dawson’s pub/Central bar in Gilford. The Venue was full of local people both young and old there to see in the New Year. However as they enjoyed the music and company a bomb ripped the building apart killing three and injuring scores of others. The bomb was planted by the INLA shortly after 9pm, in a duffel bag in the porch of the bar and exploded 40 seconds later. The no-warning bomb contained 5lbs of explosive that destroyed the building injuring so many that a fleet of seven ambulances were needed to ferry the wounded to hospital. The bombing ruined not only the new year but ended the lives of three people.

In such attacks, which punctuated the Troubles, terrorists demonstrated their complete lack of humanity and blatant sectarianism. A local village party was targeted because the terrorists saw it as a place where they could target a large number of protestants. In Northern Ireland and especially south Armagh, protestants were not safe whether at work, at worship or while socialising. The fact that the victims of which we speak were all innocent civilians targeted only because of their religion disproves what republicans have often said about their campaign.

What possible threat could a village party have posed or what obstacle to a united Ireland did they present? In the absence of any such rational it is clear that the men of violence were driven not by patriotism but by sectarianism. Their motives were not pure nor their actions honourable, the murder of innocent men and women can never be justified no matter how dearly held the cause. If this is what must be done to forward the Irish republican cause then surely that cause is wrong. If a political ideology cannot succeed through the power of its argument and with the support of the ballot box then it must be seen as not only morally but practically bankrupt.

During the Second World War, many people from Northern Ireland joined up to fight the rising tide of Fascism across Europe. In 1939 it was clear to all that the Nazi Party led by Adolf Hitler was intent on placing the whole of Europe under their control. In those days we felt that such a system was so alien to all we knew and believed in that it was vital to oppose it and do what little part we could to defeat this evil. My story starts here because the experiences of this time changed me, in many ways. During those dark days, as Britain struggled to defend itself from German attack, we were told that the war was about defending not only our country but also democracy. The Battle of Britain turned the tide of the war and ensured that this period became known as ‘Our finest hour’.

After the war I moved to England and joined the Royal Air Force in June 1946. The move and my work were exciting and I settled in well. I met and married by husband of over fifty years George Worton in 1948. We set up home together and had our first child a baby girl Jennifer in 1949. Soon after wards our little family moved back to Northern Ireland to near Markethill where I had been raised. My new husband settled in well and soon found work in the area. It is a lovely part of the country and we were very happy. Our family grew with Kenneth on 14th February 1951, this was the best Valentines present I could have wished for. In total we had 5 children. The area was prosperous and I soon found work in a local factory at Glenanne, where I made many friends.

In the late 1960s Northern Ireland entered its darkest chapter as the Civil Rights movement gave way to terrorism. Belfast and Londonderry were worst hit with rioting and sporadic shootings. However South Armagh remained relatively untouched by the troubles. The two communities lived side by side, worked and played together. We did not see what the issues where as we were every bit as poor as our Roman Catholic neighbours. Indeed in the country everyone chipped in to help. Of course there were differences as we went to different churches, and celebrated different traditions however there was an unspoken respect and no real hostility. That is why when two policemen were murdered in Crossmaglen on 12 August 1970. Samuel Donaldson and Robert Miller were community policemen out to investigate an abandoned car. However the Provisional IRA a group which had recently been armed by the Irish Government, had planted a bomb in the car. When the policemen attempted to open the door a bomb was triggered that killed them both. Shock waves went through both sides of the community, as both Protestants and Roman Catholics paid their last respects to two men who were well know and liked about the locality. This was the first real taste of the violence in the area and it led to a growing coldness between the communities.

RESPONDING TO THE THREAT

The racial hatred of the Nazis was mirrored by the sectarian hatred of the IRA. Again I felt that this had to be opposed, and that democracy and the right to live free from fear had to be defended. Despite having a large family, a home to keep and a full time job I volunteered to join the Ulster Defence Regiment in September 1973. Already 53 people had been murdered in my area in the space of two and a half years.

The point I feel that is often missed is the restraint that was shown by the ordinary decent people of both communities. Despite some of the most callous acts of depravity there was no retaliation by the protestant community. Such composure and control was in no small part down to our faith and up bringing which taught us to ‘Fear God and honour our Fellow Man’. Joining the UDR or the Royal Ulster Constabulary was the natural response of our community because it was fundamentally a law-abiding community. Whereas in the towns, minority communities who were attacked retaliated through the paramilitaries, in our area we refused to condemn such action and put our faith in the government and the forces of law and order to protect us. It was perhaps because I was a mother that I felt the need to do something to protect my community. After all the young men who were being killed were someone’s son, somewhere a mother was grieving at the loss of the son she had borne.

A typical scene depicting a UDR and police patrol

The respect for law and order and the sense of duty influenced my own family who also joined the UDR. Kenneth joined followed by Colin when he was old enough. Many of the young men of the district joined the regiment or the police to protect their families and community. Serving in the UDR was a costly decision it cost many men their lives, but it cost us all something. For example I served in the UDR Greenfinches for 14 years, it involved often six or seven nights in the week. I worked out of Glenanne and was often on duty from 7.30pm –3am. This involved patrols, and other duties through all weather conditions. On a normal evening I came off duty at 3am and went home for a few hours sleep before getting up, preparing breakfast for the family and going to work at Spence Brysons, a local factory. Like many who served in my area it represented a degree of dedication and personal sacrifice.

Waiting for the Bus that Never Came

The events of the evening of the 5th January will live with me until, my dying day. It is strange that some events often the simplest things remain in my mind, while others are like a dream. I can recall that on my way home from work I stopped to but a comic for my youngest son, and while I prepared dinner he lay by the fire reading it and watching TV. I was too busy to watch the news, as I had to prepare the evening meal for the family before going on duty.

As I worked, Colin come into the kitchen and asked “Mummy where is Kingsmills”. Without thinking I told him and heard for the first time about the ambush. Details were not available and I just didn’t think of the work bus. It was not a target, they were innocent men returning from a hard days work. Living with the daily presence of terrorism dulls the mind, when you hear of an ambush you immediately assume it is the police or army that have been killed. The last person you ever imagine is your own son. By the time we sat down to our dinner the news was over and we never imagined the tragedy would involve our family.

Slowly the realisation that something was wrong dawned on us as a neighbour, a local school official came to ask how we were. Later Bob Walker came to the house to tell me I didn’t have to go on duty, that night. By this stage I suppose I was in shock and didn’t appreciate the prospect that the massacre at Kingsmills affected me. However my neighbours all knew that my son Kenneth lived in Bessbrook and would have been on the workers bus that was ambushed.

It was only when another neighbour arrived and actually told me to get up the road to see if Kenneth was alright that I realised the terrible truth. We immediately realised that it was the workers bus travelling from Glenanne Mill to Bessbrook that had been ambushed a few hours previously and that our son was probably on board.

I hurried across the street to another daughter Jacqueline who drove me to Bessbrook. We were met by Kenneth’s sister-in-law who said “Is Kenneth with you?” They were living in the hope that he had come to my house to get changed or something. That night they had waited on a mini-bus that never came home. It was sheer confusion as they didn’t know what had happened, while some expected an accident or breakdown none could imagine the terrible truth. When they realised that he wasn’t at my house his young wife and family were devastated. Together we raced to Daisy Hill Hospital where we were told that Kenneth was one of the first ones admitted.

The wait was agonising and many of the relatives needed sedation, the whole evening was unreal like a nightmare out of which we had to wake. The shock of the news didn’t sink in and I left the hospital in confusion. Upon returning home, I found the house full of friends and neighbours all anxious to hear news. I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t even cry and that hurt me. I just couldn’t accept it and somehow felt he would return, the unreality of the whole evening still haunts me.

That was a Monday night and he was buried on the Thursday, he was 24 years old if he had lived for another thirty-nine days he would have been twenty-five. He is dead longer than he lived. In his short life he achieved so much he had a lovely wife and two beautiful children and was already a foreman in the Mill. If his life had not been ended on that cold winter evening what could he not have achieved? It is just the waste of a young life and all the potential that is so sad. He was just coming home to two wee girls in Bessbrook and he was just mowed down. They never saw their daddy again.

We didn't see him at all either. He was identified by his uncle David an ambulance driver. David wouldn’t speak about what he saw that night and that was probably for the best. His coffin wasn't opened. We just buried a box. We don't know what was in it. The trauma of the events didn’t allow us to mourn there was so much grief, ten families heart-broken ten homes wrecked. There is no opportunity for private grief in the aftermath of such an atrocity. The community and media are intrusive and the whole week is like a bad dream out of which we didn’t wake. Rumours circulated about the extent of the brutality, I heard that my son’s head was shot off.

Reading about the massacre in the newspapers was difficult and it appeared as if it was about other people and events. Speculation and suspicion about who was responsible was rife in the area. Names were mentioned local men, people who I could see and meet. It was difficult to adjust to the idea that I could meet someone who had pulled the trigger that night. However there was no one to talk to no help or counselling to get over the trauma. The only thing to do was to get on with life, and to be strong for the young family Kenneth had left behind.

Kenneth’s wife Zelda and his two daughters Racquel (3) and Suzanne (6)

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