Eamon McGuire - Enemy of the Empire: Life as an International Undercover IRA Activist

I started work at 6.30am on the morning of 13 December 1992 at Maputo airport in Mozambique. It was mid-summer and the height of the rainy season, and I had put my travel plans on hold until late afternoon . When I finally decided to travel I came under so much pressure at Departures for dash (an illegal payment, or bribe) that I turned and walked away until I was finally called back by the official and waved through. I have thought about that incident since and wondered what way my life would have progressed if I had kept going.

The small twin-engine aircraft droned incessantly as we flew slowly over bush country on our way to the South African border. Such a flight can be boring, even hypnotic, but the man in the cockpit seat beside me was familiar with the run and was able to point out places of interest, including areas controlled by anti-government Renamo forces. Increasing altitude, we flew over the Lebombo mountain ridge along which runs the electrified and heavily guarded South African border; from the air it is possible to see the double-wire fencing as it runs north along the Kruger National Park and south to Swaziland. Crossing the line presents such a contrast that it shocks the senses: one moment you are over a jungle floodplain, the next you feel that you have been transported to Europe or California where healthy crops form a beautiful multi-coloured pattern across the country.

Familiar things tend to relax you and I felt myself dropping down a couple of gears as we covered the sixty miles from the border to Nelspruit. This small town is on the main road and rail line that runs to Johannesburg and Pretoria from Maputo in Mozambique. The remnants of the Boer army and government retreated along the route after Pretoria fell to the British in 1900. It is said that Paul Kruger, on his way to exile, stopped the train here and unloaded wooden crates that contained the contents of the state mint at Pretoria to prevent it falling into the hands of the advancing British. All this gold is supposed to be buried somewhere between Nelspruit and Barberton. It was also the town where earlier in 1992 Tiso Leballo, Winnie Mandelas driver, and five other alleged robbers were killed in an ambush by Eugene De Kock and other members of Vlakplaas. De Kock was a former police colonel who commanded an assassination squad that killed opponents to apartheid. They then blew up Leballos body with explosives. Not the most pleasant of policemen to bump into on arrival in South Africa.

The grass airstrip at Nelspruit is on rocky bush land, raised slightly above the surrounding countryside, which allows a clear, smooth approach and relatively easy landing. We taxied across the bumpy surface and parked beside a couple of light aircraft located some distance from the take-off strip. As I stepped out of the plane I instinctively scanned the area: one small building, but quite a few people some walking, others standing. Why so many? Normally these places are deserted. Another survey of the people seemed to indicate a containment ring. I felt that I was in the centre. When you are exposed to danger for a long time it sharpens your mental faculties some people call it being jumpy and you develop an instinct for imminent danger in a way that people living under normal, civilised conditions can hardly imagine. A kind of sixth sense warns you of impending danger while at the same time it allows you to weigh up the chances of escape.

I bent down on one knee and went through the motions of tying my shoelace while I suppressed my feelings and evaluated my options. This period of slow breathing allowed me to clear my mind and prevent myself from reaching the level of tension when things go so quiet you can hear your own heartbeat. The distance between each individual was less than the radius of the circle; it would have to be twice that, at least, to give me a fifty-fifty chance of a surprise break out. I did not see a rifle, but a short-arm would take me down in such circumstances on open ground. After twenty years of active involvement in guerrilla warfare, I did not fear death, only the method of its coming. And it brought no sorrow. But how bitter it would be to die on this glorious sunny day in a land I had dreamt of in my childhood.