IRA chief was never sorry for his crimes

WHENEVER public opinion in this country divides, the two categories are always pretty much the same: between the luvvies and the hard-heads. So it has been over the death of Martin McGuinness.

Among those praising him to the skies for his undoubted contribution to establishing peace in Northern Ireland and participating in the government since the Good Friday Agreement have been the usual forgive and forget brigade: Blair, Campbell, Corbyn, etc.

OK, they all say, for 30 years he struggled for his cause, the unification of the island of Ireland. A fine ambition if it were the wish of a clear majority in the Six Counties of the north but it was not. In pursuit of his dreams he organised the deaths of thousands. Most were just peaceable folk going about their peaceable daily business. That did not spare them. He left behind not one widow but hundreds. But he was actually a warm, charming fellow, his fan club tells us.

And yes, it is true that over the years the British have fought against – and later made peace with – others such as Archbishop Makarios (EOKA, Cyprus) and Jomo Kenyatta (Mau Mau, Kenya) but there are two criteria I have seen little mentioned. Why did he change and did he ever express regret or pity for the suffering and bereaved?

The second answer is easy: no, never once by a single syllable. For the first you have to go into the covert world. When, after 30 years of murder and its organisation, he changed to a peacemaker, there was a hidden reason: the Provisional IRA was losing badly and going nowhere. It was on the threshold of utter defeat.

By the time he saw the writing on the wall and first approached the government of John Major (before Tony Blair) the IRA was penetrated by our agents from top to bottom and side to side.

The public mood had had enough, support was drifting away. Even faster in their departure were the funds, the arms supplies and the volunteers. Almost all the aces were in prison or fled abroad. Foreign political support was on the ebb. The Provos were at the gate of complete collapse.

That, plus the absence of a single word of remorse, strip away an awful lot of charm.