The bravest man in ireland

The bravest man in Ireland - that’s how his army buddies in the Irish UN Veterans Association know adopted Cavanman Paul Coventry. As the only living recipient of the Irish army’s highest honour, they aren’t lying.

Damian McCarney

Amongst Paul Coventry’s half a dozen or so military medals is the most prestigious decoration an Irish soldier can be awarded - the Military Medal for Gallantry. Only eight have ever been awarded in the history of the State, and of those Paul is the only recipient still living.
Jobs were hard to come by in the depressed ’80s. For Paul who had left school at 13, and an address in Ballymun which further jaundiced many potential employers’ opinions, it was tougher still. A spur of the moment decision on 8/8/88 saw Paul enlist as a teenager.
Less than a decade later, Paul returned to his hometown a national hero to receive the Military Medal for Gallantry. The incident for which he was honoured occurred on September 29, 1992.
Paul was nearing the end of his second six-month peacekeeping mission in south Lebanon, a volatile interface between Israeli forces and Hezbollah. Along with ‘Mousie’ Byrne, ‘Nailer’ Coleman, and others, Paul was part of a small team from A Company of the 71st Battalion, manning a road checkpoint at the border hamlet of Al Jurn. Here five dirt roads intersected, and a handful of shops and a school were dotted about. During the long sweltering days, the Irish lads were tasked with preventing arms getting through; a thankless and often futile job as militants could avoid detection by simply getting out of the cars before the checkpoint armed to the teeth, walk through the shops, and get back in to the cars a hundred yards up the road.
The checkpoint was marked by gabions, large defensive rock structures contained in wire mesh, also used to protect the coastline against the ravages of the sea. To prevent suspicious vehicles passing through, the soldiers could push over a tank-stop - large wooden jacks - raising a metal chain across the width of the road. Despite their name, they couldn’t stop a tank - but they could stop the Mercedes or Volvos that Hezbollah militants invariably drove. Overlooking the road from an elevated position was a machine gun post manned by one Irish soldier, in this instance Nailer, who was on his first mission in Lebanon and was due to receive his UN medal that day.
“We left him up there for the night so he could relax and wouldn’t be walking down the road,” recalls Paul.
Earlier they had heard shooting coming from the neighbouring village of Braachit, but gunfire was another note in the daily soundtrack to life in south Lebanon.
About 6am a car approached the checkpoint from Braachit, driven by a man they identified as being a militant - “you’d know all their faces” - and the officer, who always wanted to know if there “were any snags” was notified.
A stand-off ensued. The irate driver refused to let the soldiers check the boot for arms; all the while he was yelling for the officer to look at the injured person lying in the back of the car.
“He eventually looked in the back seat of the car, there was a woman after being shot and he wanted to bring her to hospital. So we let them through, no bother.”
Speaking in his native language, the driver relayed a message on a radio in his car. Whatever he said, word filtered to the local residents, and they took heed.
“The civvies were gone,” says Paul. “You know it’s not good news.”
Minutes later Nailer from the mag-post shouted down that a convoy of five or six cars was coming from Braachit.
“The first car stopped, and he couldn’t get through the check point, he started hitting out, he had all these weapons on - so he’d have these grenades, the whole lot there,” says Paul gesturing that he had them on his chest like something from a Rambo film, “and a rifle in his hand.”
The remainder of the cars pulled up in a line behind the first and the Hezbollah men all emptied out with their weapons, taking up elevated positions on top of the shops and school. There followed a firefight from hell.
“Unreal. Thousands and thousands of rounds. Unreal,” he stressed.
One militant mounted an enormous machine gun on the gabion and unleashed a relentless barrage into the mag-post - intent on disarming the soldiers’ strongest position. Nailer was pinned down by the vastly superior firepower.
A unit from C Company, who when at home were based in Athlone barracks, sped from Braachit to Al Jurn in an armoured car (APC), but came under intense gunfire. A Corporal Ward, who was operating the machine gun and helping to navigate from the hatch, was shot. C Company turned back to try to get Ward medical attention, but his wounds proved fatal.
Responding to a call for back up another APC, this time from A Company, approached from another road which led to their base. “When we saw that coming down we relaxed,” said Paul, “we’re winning.”
Their confidence was misplaced. A Hezbollah fighter attempted to hit the APC with a rocket propelled grenade (RPG) but the range was too close.
“It went under our APC and blew up a house beside us,” says Paul matter of factly.
The militants were trying to remove the chains from the tank-stops to clear their path, but the APC blocked the road, where it was hit and had all its tyres shot.
“It was in bits,” recalls Paul.
In the commotion an officer from the APC was almost kidnapped.
“They tried to throw him into the boot of the car.”
How’d he get away?
“There were different stories... a fella jumped on one of the Hezbollah’s backs and was supposed to have taken him away from the officer.”
In the midst of the battle, Paul’s thoughts turned to home.
“Would you believe it, my woman (Josephine) was only after having my daughter, and I’d three weeks left. And I says, I never even seen my own child. That was the big thing that went through my head. I was convinced none of us were coming off the road.”
At this stage all the soldiers had paired up - a “buddy-buddy” system as Paul calls it. His buddy was Mousey Byrne, and in a kneeling position they were covering each other at the foot of the mag post’s perimeter wall. Above them, on the school’s roof, they spied a Hezbollah fighter.
“He threw a grenade down at us - but never took the pin out.”
What did you do?
“Myself and Mousey just looked at it. You know if the pin’s in it - believe me,” he says with a laugh.
Above he heard Nailer “shouting, just roaring”.
Having endured sustained attack in the mag-post, Nailer, had been hit and Paul felt compelled to help, running a two-minute gauntlet amidst heavy fire.
“They were firing at me from up here,” Paul says pointing at a location on a hand-drawn map, “they were up here as well, firing back into the checkpoint.”
“I had to go over that wall, then run up steps, up the hill to get here [into the mag-post].”
Paul isn’t a tall man and the wall was eight foot; he’s at a loss as to how he scaled it. “Nothing goes through your head. You’re trained that way. It’s scary, just looking at this [map] now.”
Nailer had a bullet wound to his stomach but was conscious when Paul finally reached him.
“He was blessed to be alive,” he says given the pounding the mag-post had taken.
Nailer’s blood drenched white t-shirt was alarming. “Blood was all over the place.”
In this surreal scene Paul did what he could to bring calm: “He had a fag and I patched him up.”
Using the field phone, he contacted the medical unit back at base to relay news of Nailer’s injury and blood type. He lay on top of Nailer to protect him and joined him in a smoke. The medics finally arrived during a lull in the two-hour conflict to bring Nailer to safety.
Paul remounted the machine gun, to try to push back the Hezbollah fighters and support his comrades on the road.
On reflection, he believes it “was a foolish mistake on my behalf”.
The mag-post had been their main target and by remounting the gun it was only attracting more fire and prolonging the conflict. It eventually petered out with the Hezbollah men getting through the checkpoint.
Weeks later Paul found himself sitting on a return flight home to see the daughter he never thought he’d get to meet. The soldiers greeted touchdown with relief. “You wouldn’t hear the roars anywhere once it lands. It’s probably the best feeling you’ll ever feel in your life - you’re home safe.”
Making the adjustment back to life in Cavan was tough. “When I came back I couldn’t sleep; I used to have nightmares the whole lot. I decided to go over again.”
Josephine didn’t want him to return, but Paul felt he had no choice. They married in Cyprus and Paul set off for Lebanon a year and a half later in 1994 “to get rid of the skeletons in the head”. He concedes that returning for a third tour didn’t make any difference. Paul continued serving in the army - a job he loved due to the camaraderie - and along with Josephine, raised four kids Sabrina, Amy, Kerry and Paul. In 1997, five years after the Al Jurn attack, he was awarded the Military Medal of Gallantry. The delay was due to the army’s thorough investigations, to ensure only the most deserving receive the highest honour. The closure of Dún Uí Neill Barracks marked the end of his illustrious military career, and he turned to taxiing in Cavan Town for a living.
“I did 23 and a half years in Cavan, I would have stayed longer only they closed the barracks down. I loved the job, I still miss it today.”
What of that fateful day in September 1992?
“I remember it like it was yesterday. I had some scary thoughts - I’d wake up shouting and roaring. It’s part of life, but I still wouldn’t change it.”