I have written a good bit about my friend and comrade Ted Howell since his death on January 3. It was also my honour to give the oration at his graveside. So I intend here to reflect on some of our time together as internees in Long Kesh instead of repeating what is already on the public record about Ted’s outstanding contribution to the republican struggle, his pivotal role in the peace process and the building of Sinn Féin and his loving relationship with his family and friends.
In particular, I have fond memories of the time after the cages of Long Kesh were burned down in October 1974 by its republican inmates. Following that event prisoners lived a very primitive shanty-town like existence among the ruins of the Kesh. After the fighting stopped, the wounded were tended to, and the British Army pulled back we quickly readjusted to living in the remnants of the burnt huts which remained after the fire.
Ted and I were in Cage 2. Some intrepid souls re-plumbed the piping from the demolished wash huts and there was an open-air bathing area for those fussy folks who were obsessed with cleanliness. Someone lit a fire below a tank filled with water and our intrepid plumber - Gerry Fitz - fixed up a shower with warm water.
Al fresco. That’s how we ate also.
We slept where we could. Ted and I built a little bivouac comprising of a few sheets of corrugated tin. We crawled under it, settled ourselves on the tarmac and wrapped ourselves tightly- and separately- in our prison blankets. That was us. Luckily, as best I can remember, it stayed dry though it was bitterly cold at night.
Some of the lads lit fires and we huddled around them, telling yarns and spoofing. After a few nights someone produced a guitar from God knows where. That was a great night. Billy Reid and big Dominic - both fine singers - entertained us for hours.
Ted loved music. So do I. We would all gather around a big fire in the middle of the Cage. Billy and big Dominic had acres of songs. American ballads, Irish rebel songs, lesser known Dean Martin, Sinatra, Everly Brothers. The Beatles, Tony Bennett. Johnny Cash. Planxty. Frankie Lane, Patsy Cline, Kathleen Largey. Willie Nelson. Old cowboy songs. The Clancys.
After a couple of sessions all of us could join in the choruses. That’s how we passed an evening: gathered around our fire below a big starlit sky surrounded by barbed wired and search lights. Observed by armed guards and war dogs. Beyond the camp perimeter traffic zoomed along the M1 oblivious to our existence and the songs we were singing.
We sang and we sang well. Even the screws were impressed and the Brits up in their watch towers on the perimeter fence would open the shutter in their spy post to listen to us.
Meanwhile in Cage 5, the Cage closest to the motorway, a tunnel was inching its way underground towards freedom. Hugh Coney was shot dead by the British Army when they eventually surfaced some time later on November 6. Hugh was 24 years old. Thirty internees escaped but most were recaptured almost immediately. They were all badly beaten and some had the war dogs set upon them. There was no sing-song that night.
On another night before this, a concert was organised in what remained of one of the big huts in Cage 2. Ted didn’t want to go at first. I thought he was doing heavy whack but he wasn’t so I was pleased when he agreed to accompany me.
That was another mighty gig. I laughed so much I almost wet myself a few times. Especially during ‘I Am The Music Man’ led by the late Paddy Barkley. Paddy - all five foot of him - was in his element conducting us as if we were a male Welsh choir.
“I am the music man” he warbled at us. “I come from down your way. And I can play”.
“What can you play,” Ted and I and the rest of us roared back at him.
“I can play ……… he paused theatrically.……. “The P….P… P… P…Piano. The Piano. The Piano….I can play the Pianooooooo.”
And so it went on. Verse after verse. Musical instrument after musical instrument.
Paddy, God rest him, could sing none. But could he make us laugh? Like there was no tomorrow. And in those days there was no tomorrow.
Ted was in great form when the concert was over. So was I. We settled down again on the tarmac below our corrugated tin covering.
“You know I was all for staying in tonight. I wasn’t gonna bother going out. But I’m glad we made the effort. That was a great night out. Oiche mhaith a mhic,” Ted said.
“Oiche mhaith Ted,” I replied. “Codladh samh.” Sleep well.
