Red Hand Commando
Based on Wikipedia: Red Hand Commando
On February 18, 1973, two postmen named Anthony Coleman and Joseph McAleese were walking along Divis Street in Belfast, performing the mundane, essential task of delivering mail. They were Catholic civilians in a city fractured by sectarian violence. From a passing car, gunmen armed with a submachine gun emerged and opened fire. Both men died instantly. This was not an isolated incident of bad luck; it was the calculated work of a group that operated in the shadows of Northern Ireland's most volatile era, a group known as the Red Hand Commando (RHC). While history books often reduce the Troubles to broad strokes of IRA and British Army maneuvering, the RHC represents a specific, terrifying chapter in that narrative: a small, secretive loyalist organization whose primary aim was the systematic elimination of Catholic civilians to maintain Northern Ireland's status within the United Kingdom.
The Red Hand Commando was born in the summer of 1970, amidst the rising flames of sectarian conflict in west Belfast. Founded by Ronnie "Flint" McCullough and William "Plum" Smith, alongside colleagues from the Shankill Defence Association, the group emerged from the loyalist strongholds of the Shankill Road. Their membership was drawn largely from Protestant youths—street gangs known as "the Tartans" who roamed the city at night looking for confrontation. As Martin Dillon wrote in 1973, these were young men who "longed for action," and McCullough gave them a vehicle for that violence. Unlike other paramilitary groups of the era which often had sprawling, porous hierarchies, the RHC was defined by its opacity. It was highly selective, secretive, and structured as an enigma to outside observers. This secrecy proved vital; during the early 1980s, when supergrass informants penetrated almost every major loyalist organization, dismantling networks from the inside out, the Red Hand Commando remained largely intact.
The group's name derived from the Red Hand of Ulster, a historic symbol of the province, yet they distinguished themselves with an Irish language motto: Lámh Dearg Abú, meaning "red hand to victory." This linguistic choice was unique among loyalist paramilitaries, adding a layer of ideological complexity to their operations. Their operational mandate was clear: combat Irish republicanism, specifically the Irish Republican Army (IRA), and protect the Union. However, in practice, this translated into a campaign of terror targeting the Catholic civilian population. They carried out shootings and bombings, often using drive-by tactics or leaving no-warning bombs at social venues believed to be frequented by Catholics.
By 1972, the RHC agreed to become an integral part of the Ulster Volunteer Force (UVF), one of the larger and more established loyalist paramilitary groups. While they retained their own internal structures and identity, operationally they merged with the UVF, sharing weapons and personnel. In many instances, attacks attributed to the UVF were actually carried out by RHC cells. This ambiguity served a dual purpose: it provided operational cover for the smaller group while amplifying the reach of the larger loyalist movement. The British government finally moved against them on November 12, 1973, when Secretary of State for Northern Ireland William Whitelaw proscribed the organization under emergency legislation. Yet, being illegal did not stop their momentum; if anything, it forced them deeper into the shadows where they continued their campaign with renewed vigor.
The human cost of this campaign is etched into the timeline of Belfast's history, a ledger of names and dates that tells a story of random, indiscriminate violence. In early 1972, the RHC claimed responsibility for the killing of Bernard Rice, a member of the Catholic Ex-Servicemen's Association, in a drive-by shooting on Crumlin Road. Weeks later, Patrick McCrory was shot dead at his home on Ravenhill Avenue. By April 15, Sean McConville, just seventeen years old, was cut down from a passing car while walking along the same road. These were not combatants in a war; they were neighbors, workers, and students caught in a crossfire that had no front lines, only targets.
The violence escalated with chilling efficiency. In July 1972, an attempt to kill a Catholic businessman in Smithfield failed, but the intent was clear. By October 31, James Kerr was shot dead at his workplace on Lisburn Road; the gunman responsible was eventually cornered by a plainclothes policeman and arrested, providing a rare glimpse into the mechanics of these operations. Just days later, on November 11, Gerard Kelly was killed in his shop on Crumlin Road. The following year, February 1973, saw the massacre of the two postmen, Coleman and McAleese. In March, the RHC bombed the Catholic-owned Hillfoot Bar in east Belfast. By May, John McCormac was shot while walking along Raglan Street; he lingered for three days before succumbing to his wounds.
The RHC's reach extended beyond the immediate sectarian conflicts of Belfast into broader acts of terror that claimed international victims. On May 31, 1973, an English sailor named Thomas Curry was killed during a gun and bomb attack on Muldoon's Bar in Corporation Square. His death underscored the reality that for the RHC, any Catholic presence, or even the perception thereof, was grounds for execution. In June of that same year, four Catholic youths were targeted in a drive-by shooting on Antrim Road. By October 1, the group hijacked a taxi carrying 19-year-old Eileen Doherty and shot her dead on Annandale Embankment. The randomness was not a sign of chaos but a strategy of intimidation; no one felt safe.
Perhaps the most grotesque example of their internal decay occurred in February 1974, when RHC members beat and stabbed "fellow loyalist" John Thompson to death over an apparent internal dispute. His body was found on Ormeau Road, a grim reminder that the paramilitary lifestyle consumed its own as readily as it targeted enemies. Later that year, in July 1974, the group engaged in what was described as a "no warning bomb spree." Over the course of fourteen days, they bombed fourteen Catholic-owned pubs. The result was the death of Thomas Braniff and the wounding of one hundred people. This was not warfare; it was a massacre designed to terrorize an entire community into submission.
Despite the intensity of their campaign in the 1970s, the RHC did not maintain a constant level of lethality throughout the decades of conflict. During the 1980s, loyalist paramilitary violence dropped significantly from its mid-1970s height. There were years where the RHC was implicated in no killings at all. By 1984, some observers described the group as "largely intact" and capable of violence, while by 1988, others declared it "extinct." The truth lay somewhere in between. Following the signing of the Anglo-Irish Agreement in 1986, loyalist paramilitary activity surged again. In 1988, the RHC was tied to at least two attempted murders, signaling their re-emergence from the doldrums.
During this resurgence, the group initially relied on cover names such as "Red Branch Knights" and "Loyalist Retaliation and Defence Group," continuing a tradition of obscuring their identity even while claiming responsibility for atrocities. Eventually, they opted to claim attacks directly under the RHC title, shedding some of their secrecy as their confidence grew. In the years leading up to the 1994 loyalist ceasefire, violence intensified once more, though it never reached the staggering victim count of the 1970s. The group claimed responsibility for killings in the Republic of Ireland during 1975 and 1976, extending their terror beyond the Northern Irish border.
The question of how many people the Red Hand Commando actually killed remains a subject of debate, obscured by the very secrecy that defined them. The Sutton database of deaths at the University of Ulster's CAIN project attributes 13 killings to the RHC: 12 civilians and one of their own members. However, because they operated as a satellite grouping of the UVF, many attacks carried out by RHC cells were officially attributed to the larger organization. Other sources estimate the death toll at at least 40 people. This discrepancy highlights the difficulty in untangling the web of loyalist paramilitarism, where command structures were fluid and responsibility was often deliberately blurred.
Beyond the violence, the Red Hand Commando played a significant role in the political landscape of Northern Ireland. A number of senior RHC members were instrumental in the formation of the Progressive Unionist Party (PUP) in 1979. The seeds of this political movement were sown in the compounds of Long Kesh prison, where figures like William Smith and Winston Churchill Rea joined forces with UVF inmates to chart a new political direction. This transition from gun to ballot box was not unique to them but represented a broader trend among loyalist paramilitaries seeking legitimacy. According to Jim Wilson, chairman of the Reach Programme associated with the RHC, the group numbered well over one thousand members during its active campaign. As of 2017, he claimed membership had dwindled to the "small hundreds," now engaged primarily in community work.
Despite this pivot toward community engagement, the British government maintained a hard line on their status. The RHC is listed as a Proscribed Organisation under the Terrorism Act 2000, meaning any support for or membership within the group remains illegal. In September 2017, the organization made a failed application to be removed from this list of proscribed groups. The rejection underscored that while their tactics may have evolved, the state still viewed them as a threat to public safety and democratic order. Much of their past remains unknown, a black box of loyalist history where operations were planned in basements on the Shankill and executed with a cold efficiency that left families shattered across Belfast, County Down, and beyond.
The legacy of the Red Hand Commando is not found in the strategic victories they claimed or the political influence they wielded, but in the quiet streets of neighborhoods like Sandy Row, Newtownabbey, and the Fermanagh region where their presence once loomed large. They were a group that thrived on fear, utilizing the cover names and shadowy structures to strike at the heart of Catholic communities. Their motto, Lámh Dearg Abú, speaks of victory, but for the families of Sean McConville, Eileen Doherty, Thomas Curry, and the hundreds of others whose lives were cut short by their actions, there was no victory—only loss.
The story of the Red Hand Commando forces a confrontation with the darker realities of the Troubles. It challenges the romanticized narratives of paramilitary groups as freedom fighters or defenders of community. Instead, it presents a stark portrait of an organization that operated outside the law, targeting civilians based solely on their religious identity. Their ability to evade detection for so long, avoiding the supergrass penetrations that crippled other groups, speaks to a level of discipline and secrecy that was both impressive and horrifying. It suggests a network deeply embedded in its local environment, protected by silence and fear.
As we look back at the timeline of their attacks, from the failed bomb on Frederick Street in 1971 to the final years of their activity, a pattern emerges. The RHC did not just fight an enemy; they terrorized a population. They turned pubs into graveyards, streets into kill zones, and everyday routines like walking home or delivering mail into acts of supreme risk. The fact that they were able to sustain this campaign for decades, adapting from the chaos of the 1970s to the more political maneuvering of the post-ceasefire era, is a testament to their resilience, but also a tragedy for Northern Ireland.
The Red Hand Commando remains an enigma, a "small secretive" group that punched far above its weight in terms of impact and notoriety. Their story is one of violence, political ambition, and the enduring scars left on a society divided by sectarianism. While they may no longer be the active threat they once were, their history serves as a grim reminder of the human cost of paramilitary politics. The names of those they killed are not just statistics in a database; they are the faces of a community that lived under the shadow of the Red Hand for too long. In the end, the only true victory was the one claimed by silence, the silence of a city trying to heal from wounds inflicted by its own children.
"The composition of this group was highly selective, and it was very secret in its operations." — Martin Dillon, 1973
This assessment rings true even decades later. The Red Hand Commando operated with a precision that belied their chaotic image, striking where they were least expected and vanishing before justice could catch them. Their legacy is a complex tapestry of political evolution and violent entrenchment. Today, as Northern Ireland continues to navigate its post-conflict identity, the memory of groups like the RHC serves as a cautionary tale. It reminds us that the path from street violence to political power is paved with blood, and that the ghosts of the past never truly leave a place where they were so deeply rooted.
The journey of the Red Hand Commando from the Shankill Road cell to a proscribed terrorist organization illustrates the cyclical nature of conflict in Northern Ireland. They began as youths looking for trouble, evolved into a disciplined killing machine, and eventually attempted to reinvent themselves as political actors. Yet, through every transformation, the core reality remained: they were a group dedicated to the exclusion and destruction of their neighbors based on religious identity. The failure of their 2017 bid for de-proscription suggests that the state is not ready to forgive or forget, nor should it be. The human cost demands recognition, not just as historical footnotes, but as the central tragedy of a conflict that still resonates today.
In the end, the Red Hand Commando's story is a stark indictment of the sectarian mindset that fueled the Troubles. It shows how easily a community can turn against itself, how political grievances can be weaponized into random acts of terror, and how difficult it is to break free from the cycle of violence once it takes hold. The names on the timeline—McCrory, McConville, Kerr, Kelly, Coleman, McAleese—are not just dates in a log; they are the enduring testimony of a struggle that consumed generations. Their deaths were not collateral damage; they were the primary objective of a group that believed violence was the only language worth speaking. And for decades, in the streets of Belfast and beyond, that is exactly what they spoke.