The other day, it occurred to me that Mom lived through a lot of wars.

As a child, she wrote poems about the soldiers in World War II. Her uncle Pip and other fellows from the neighborhood were called up to service. It clearly weighed heavy on her heart.

She and Dad married while he was on a finally approved three-day leave. When he returned to his barracks, Dad found orders to ship out on his bunk. He was on his way to Japan and then Korea. The newlyweds spent their first 18 months of marriage apart.

Far apart.

Next, Mom worried about her older sons being called up for Vietnam. The war raged. The draft was in place.

And finally, her youngest child served in Desert Storm. A Marine, Bill was a member of the military police force. I’ve no doubt that the day he returned, safe and sound, was one of the happiest in Mom’s life.

There were other violent conflicts around the world that concerned her gentle heart. In Northern Ireland, for example. “The Troubles” lasted for three decades and took approximately 3,500 lives. At the risk of oversimplification, The Troubles involved a disagreement about whether Ireland should be a united and independent nation, of if Northern Ireland should remain under British rule.

Belfast’s Bloody Sunday

The Ballymurphy Massacre took place over the course of three days in August of 1971. Also called “Belfast’s Bloody Sunday,” it resulted in the loss of 11 unarmed civilians.

They were neighborhood folk. A Catholic priest, waving a white flag, ran to administer last rites to an injured man. The soldiers shot the priest as well. And then another who went to help him. Next, the mother of eight children. Eleven dead and 40 more injured.

One victim’s story touched Mom deeply. Paddy McCarthy, 44, was a social worker from London. He worked as a youth leader in the poor community of Ballymurphy in West Belfast. He and his wife were Quakers. Paddy just couldn’t imagine that the soldiers would block vans bringing milk and bread for the hungry children. But the soldiers wouldn’t permit the vans to come near the neighborhood.

On the third day, Paddy tried to request a ceasefire so that children could be evacuated from what was now a war zone. He tied a Red Cross flag to a broomstick and stepped outside.

The flag was shot out of his hands.

Bleeding, he ventured back out, with the hope he’d be allowed to fetch the milk and bread and bring it back to the families. Paddy McCarthy managed to load crates of milk onto a wagon. He called out “Milk for babies!” as he dragged the wagon toward the tenements.

There are two versions regarding what happened next. Some witnesses say soldiers broke the milk bottles, beat Paddy, and shot a gun off just above his head. Others said the gun was forced into his mouth, but Paddy didn’t know it wasn’t loaded. Either way, Paddy collapsed and died of a heart attack.

No doubt with tears in her eyes, Mom wrote this elegy for Paddy and the children he tried to help.

For Paddy McCarthy
Child-Keeper, Dead of a Heart Attack Carrying Milk to Babies
in Embattled Belfast, August 11, 1971

Does nobody comb your hair, my dears,
or wind your mufflers tight?
The winds blow cold down the friendless streets
and bring the rains at night.

Does nobody mend your mittens now
and keep your porridge hot?
The soldiers tremble against the walls,
afraid of being shot.

Does nobody say a supper prayer
or run your bath at bed?
No, nobody comes but the bird of death
that flies about your head.
~ Joan Vayo 1/12/72

It’s been half a decade since the Ballymurphy Massacre. The tragedy, though, still hasn’t been put to rest.

While researching the Paddy McCarthy story, I checked to see if there were any recent news story. Indeed, there’s a “legacy inquest” underway. The report should be released in the next week.

Although Paddy is not included in the inquest (since his death was technically from a heart attack), he will surely rest in peace after 50 years if his friends and neighbors are vindicated at last.

Update 5/11/21: And vindicated they were: “All entirely innocent.”

“For Paddy McCarthy … ” © 1972 Joan Vayo. All rights reserved.

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