Nasz "Copy & Paste writer" ujawnił nam kolejny fragment swej wstrząsającej
>>It’s 3 PM in the afternoon of July 1961 and I’ve left home for the first
in my life to travel to a military barracks in Kilkenny, on my first ever
summer camp for two whole weeks of training.
A few months earlier, just after my 15th birthday, I had joined the FCA
Cosanta Aitiul in Irish), which means ‘Local Defence Force’, which is a part
time army. I’ve to catch a train at Kingsbridge Station, Dublin, in order to
travel to Kilkenny city and at last the station is in sight.
I’ve had to walk the last three quarters of a mile as CIE - Coras Iompair
Eireann, Irish Transport Company, are either on another go slow or are ‘not
home today’. CIE, Costly Ineffective Excuse, was a hierarchical arrogant
company with badly paid staff who only worked between strikes.
I’m weighed down like a bloody camel, carrying a heavy suitcase and attired
very tired in fact at this point in the crucification I’m knackered and close
to death. This camel could do with a mind-altering drink before he collapses
with exhaustion on the last few furlongs. My massive heavy wool great coat is
almost sweeping the ground and I’m carrying a heavy knapsack on my back, with
my murderous webbing equipment wrapped around my body, attempting to strangle
me. This gear was designed for a bad winter in Stalingrad.
My shirt is an old style grey back, a hand me down from the Great War when
were men and women were women. It’s made of sandpaper and the collar is made
from ‘Gillette’ razor blades. In case your interested I have a steel helmet
hanging from my neck, making a determined effort to choke me, and my face is
turning purple as I gasp for breath.
My feet are weighed down with what feels like a pair of ship’s anchors and
lifting, no – I’m transporting these highly polished ox blood boots with a
platoon strength of studs on the soles, sixteen on each with four metal
horseshoes adding to the weight. These boots were never made for walking they
were made for walking all over the enemy.
I’m sliding and skidding along the footpath, getting uncontrollable under
and over steer on both feet at the same time – even Fangio couldn’t handle
these. At last I’ve arrived and collapse on a bench and wait for my train.
Come to the station
Jump from the train
March at the double
Down lover’s lane
They’re in the glen where the roses en-twine
Lay down your arms, lay down your arms,
lay down your arms and surrender to mine
A soldier is a soldier and when he's on parade
An order is an order and has to be obeyed
You've got to do your duty wherever you may be
And now you're under orders To hurry home to me
I’m the only one in uniform and I stand out looking like a spare, feeling
nervous, apprehensive and excited in my new soldier’s role when
comes over to me and introduces himself.
“How yeh? I’m Macker and I’m with the Second Battalion”
“Do you want a smoke?”
“Yeh. O.K. Thanks.”
He puts the cigarette in his mouth and draws on it for almost five seconds,
holding the smoke in, and then expelling it slowly in controlled puffs.
Jesus, I’m impressed. He looks like a man who was born with a cigarette in
mouth and certainly knows his business. Macker:
“Where are you headin’?”
“I’m going to Kilkenny Barracks on a two-week camp”
“I’ve never been there. I’m from Ballyfermot”
At this time Ballyfermot , known as Ballyer, was the Gaza strip of Dublin –
they don’t send police cars in, they send in the tanks.
Macker was in his twenties, 5’9’’ in height, stocky as in built like a brick
and bullet proof. His uniform was different to mine. He wore a peaked cap and
thick ox blood leather belt with a brass buckle, and matching boots, and had
yellow and red ‘Eastern Command’ flash on his left shoulder, which was
to mine as I was in the same Command.
“I’ve just came back from the Belgian Congo” – in his deep rough gravely
taking an even deeper puff on his cigarette. I’m thinking if he takes another
puff like that the cigarette will disappear, and there’ll be nothing left.
overawed; this is a huge honour to be in the company of a real regular
just back from action in Africa. He’s a rough tough diamond and I can’t
understand why he’s bothering to talk with me.
Macker takes a final puff from the almost non-existent cigarette and I can
this is a practiced art, and he then slowly expels the smoke again:
“I was with the 33rd Battalion and nine of me mates were killed by the
His uniform fits him like a glove and his brass buttons glisten in the light
coming through the windows of the station.
Macker was starting to warm to the subject:
“They chopped them up with machetes. I’m fucking serious. It was no joke”
Macker was no diplomat, niceties were not his trademarks. He came from a
of 12 children of which 8 survived. He was the cream of the crop and came
one of the toughest areas in Dublin, where the law of the jungle prevails.
Macker was born fighting.
“ Then the fucking bastards ate them, I’m serious”
Macker was probably in uniform because he would be entitled to free public
transport. He withdrew his own cigarettes from his packet:
“Here, have a smoke”
I took the cigarette and he gave me a light
“They put them in pots and ate them. The coffins that were sent home were
fucking empty. There was nothing left of them except bones”
At this moment Macker was my hero. He came from Ballyer and had made
of himself. He was a fully trained soldier with a chance of promotion to
corporal and possibly to sergeant. He had been in a part of the world that
people only dream about. His life was real; he had fought Baluba tribesmen in
the bush. The name of the game was respect and in any language he was a hero.
He had experienced the climate, the smell, the feeling of a different planet,
different theatre, wearing at that time a heavy bulls wool uniform in the
tropics. He was a roughie – a toughie – a braveheart.
Macker takes another draw on the cigarette and said:
“We went out looking for them. We searched the fucking jungle and we found
He exuded an aura of strength, of both mental and physical endurance. He was
professional fighter and was proud of what he was. Macker had street cred; he
had respect and was probably the only one on his street who had travelled
outside of Dublin. His grandfather had been a ‘Dublin Fusilier’. Macker was
master of his trade; his business was getting the job done.
“We got some of the bastards and we finished them off with fucking
as he stamped on his cigarette butt.
“We had to even the score” – and with that he took some photos from his
photos of bodies, lying in different positions in the jungle of Africa...<<