Read Ebook: My fight for Irish freedom by Breen Dan McGarrity Joseph Author Of Introduction Etc

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land in '98, and fell with their face to the enemy. And I knelt on the green sward of the deserted palace and prayed that the Croppies' sacrifice might not be in vain; that their dream might come true even in our generation, and that I might be given strength and courage to speed the day.

There on the sod hallowed by the footsteps of Ireland's warrior saints and kings of peace I realised for the first time the full meaning of that little poem of Moore's, with its pathetic appeal that always grips the Irish heart and dims the patriot's eye.

"Let Erin remember the days of old Ere her faithless sons betrayed her!"

And then my eyes wandered over the plains at my feet--richer than my own Golden Vale. Here and there I saw a stately mansion or a castle; but I knew that these were not the homes of the clansmen of our kings, but the fortresses of those who had deprived them of their heritage. Of farm houses there were none; a labourer's cottage here and there marked the home of the Gaels who had survived--to be the hewers of wood and drawers of water. I searched the countryside for the men that this fair land should have raised; but the roads were deserted; the bullock had replaced the king and the peasant. And I asked myself did Providence ordain that Meath should be the home of the bullock to feed the conquering Saxon. No! It could not be. It was the old curse, the old blight of the foreigner.

Many a day afterwards I wandered along the plains of Meath, thinking and planning and dreaming of the happy land it might be if only we were allowed to work out our own destiny as God would have us. I often walked for three or four hours without meeting a human being. Here and there a lovely mansion; around it the gatelodge of the serf, the winding avenue, the silent trees and the green fields with the bullock as their ruler. Landlordism, worked as the willing instrument of English rule, had wrought this desolation. And I renewed my resolve to do my share in bringing about the change that must come.

I spent pleasant, if uneventful days, with Joseph Dardis and with Dr. Lynch and Tom Carton, of Stamullen, and also with Vincent Purfield, of Balbriggan. From them all I received the same genial hospitality that so many had already shown me. Thank God, England has not yet deprived us of our spirit of kindness and hospitality.

The summer was now approaching. I was feeling strong and fit again. I was anxious to be doing something. The war was developing and I could not be idle. I felt I had no right to remain any longer out of the fray. Some of the things I had read in the papers had made my blood boil again. Tom MacCurtain, Lord Mayor of Cork, who had been with us but five or six months previously lying in wait for Lord French, had been murdered in his home in the presence of his wife. In Thurles two or three similar murders had been committed by the British. They were but the first of a hundred such murders to be committed within a year by British forces, all connived at or directly inspired by the highest officials in the land.

I resolved to be up and doing. I returned to Dublin. There I met some of the boys and urged an intensive guerilla campaign. Dick McKee and Peadar Clancy enthusiastically supported my views and favoured my "on with the war" policy.

The public did not want the war. They forgot that it was their vote at the 1918 General Election that had led to the formal establishment of the Republic. They only knew that attacks on police meant more severe martial law, worse curfew, more arrests and compensation for policemen's widows. Evidently many thought at that time that liberty was a thing to be got for nothing. I must say, however, that as the war developed in intensity towards the end of 1920 and the beginning of 1921 the vast majority of the people stood with us, and cheerfully took their share of the risks and hardships.

I did not intend to stay long in Dublin. I wanted to get back to Tipperary. I felt that things were too quiet there. The boys were all right, they were game for anything; all they wanted was to be told what to do. So Sean Treacy and I once more cycled that hundred miles journey, and I found myself back in Tipperary after an absence of nearly twelve months.

This time we had a new plan. We decided to embark upon a campaign of a kind then scarcely known in the struggle, but one that was soon to show the world that there was no longer any doubt that Ireland was in a state of open war.

Before dealing with the events which followed my return to Tipperary I must tell of an incident that almost ended my career as a gunman.

Seumas Robinson and I had been spending a few days with Vincent Purfield at Balbriggan, where I had often had such a happy time. That was during Holy Week, 1920, and we decided to go to Dublin for Easter. We started from Balbriggan in a motor driven by Vincent himself on Good Friday, April 2nd, 1920.

Now the British authorities in Ireland were always under the impression that the Sinn Feiners would always do something every Easter to celebrate the anniversary of the 1916 Insurrection. As a matter of fact we usually did, but we were always disobliging enough to do just the thing they never expected, and at that time they were taken most by surprise. Anyhow, in preparation for the "annual rising," as people sarcastically spoke of the thing which the Government expected, the military always let us know that they were not to be taken by surprise. For years they used to erect barricades at all the roads leading into Dublin, and place military outposts who searched every car and pedestrian passing in or out of the city during the few days before and after Easter. Having thus done their duty by the Empire they usually removed their barricades after a few days.

When we left Balbriggan that morning we forgot all about this annual manoeuvre of the British, otherwise I need hardly say we should have spent Easter with Vincent in Balbriggan. We had a pleasant journey until we arrived within a few miles of the city, about half a mile beyond the tram terminus at Whitehall. On rounding a corner we suddenly came face to face with a military lorry travelling towards us. The lorry slowed down apparently to pull up and search our car, but we looked so innocent and harmless that the officer ordered his car to proceed. We proceeded on our way and laughed heartily, while congratulating ourselves on our good luck. But our good fortune was short-lived. The noise of the military lorry had scarcely died away when half a mile further on towards the city we heard a sharp order to "Halt!"

Straight ahead of us, just at the tramway terminus was a military barricade, a score of soldiers, with their rifles gripped in a business-like way, while an officer was stepping towards us, dangling his revolver. Now, I thought, my hour had come. There is no escape this time.

Vincent kept as cool as a cucumber; not one of us betrayed the slightest concern and the car drove right to the barricade before it slowed down.

I stepped out of the car and walked straight to the officer with an angry scowl and demanded the meaning of this.

"I must search your car," was the curt reply.

Then I thought it was better to try civility. I told him we had no objection to being searched, but assured him that any delay would be serious to us, as we were in a hurry to reach the city on important business. He hesitated for a moment. Then he waved to the soldiers to clear the way.

"Very well!" he said, "you may go ahead."

"Thank you," I nodded to him, entered the car and we drove on.

I could not have afforded to allow either the car or ourselves to be searched. Had he attempted to do so, it would have been his last piece of military activity. Probably we would never have escaped ourselves had he forced me to pull my gun, but there was no other way out of it.

Our motor car was the only vehicle that entered or left Dublin without being searched during those five days.

The same bluff as had carried Sean Hogan and myself out of a similar difficulty near Limerick a year before now proved successful at Whitehall, within a few hundred yards of the house where, seven months later, I was to have my biggest fight for life--at Drumcondra.

THE BARRACK ATTACKS

Our new plan for more active operations against the British was, in short, to attack them in their strongholds--the police barracks throughout the country. The peelers were now far too cautious to patrol the roads. They seldom if ever ventured any distance from their barracks. We could not meet them in the open. But if the mountain would not come to Mohammed, there was only the other thing to be done. We had got to go to the police and attack them on their own grounds.

At this time too the Black and Tans appeared on the scene. A great many are still in doubt as to how they got this name, so it is as well to explain.

These changes to which I have referred had taken place in our native county during our absence. We decided at once to open a series of attacks on police barracks.

Liam Lynch, as the struggle developed in intensity proved himself the finest officer in Ireland to control and handle a brigade or division. He and Sean Moylan made an admirable combination and their successes against the British were amazing. Tom Barry was, I think, the best leader of a flying column.

I first met Liam Lynch at the Autumn of 1919. We were introduced by Tom Hunter, then Republican Deputy for Cork and Peadar Clancy's partner in business in Dublin. Lynch was at that time very much on the run, like myself. On September 7th, he had carried out a daring coup in Fermoy, disarming twelve soldiers who were going to church. In the struggle one of the British soldiers was killed and Liam himself was wounded. That incident is of historic importance by reason of the fact that it led to the first case of "reprisals"; for the night of the attack the British soldiers, led by some of their officers, wrecked and looted the principal shops in Fermoy.

Liam Lynch was a soldier to his finger tips. He stood six feet in height and in his eye you read that he was born to be a leader of men. As gentle as a child he was a dauntless soldier, and commanded one of the best brigades in Ireland against the British.

On our return to Tipperary we very soon carried out three attacks on police barracks, one of which surrendered to us after a five hours' fight.

Having taken these precautions to ensure that no assistance could arrive to the garrison we also cut the telegraph and telephone wires. Then we quietly occupied a few houses in the front or rear of the barracks and opened our attack, while some of our men perhaps attempted to fire the building by means of petrol. Very often too the first hint we gave of our presence was the exploding of a mine at the door or the gable of the barrack in order to blow up the building or to make a breach. Sometimes these plans succeeded, sometimes they failed.

The fight at Drangan was a prolonged affair. The officers who took part in the attack were Sean Treacy, Seumas Robinson, Ernie O'Malley, Sean Hogan and myself. Having first taken the usual steps of blocking the roads and cutting all wires, we quietly occupied a vacant house right in front of the barrack--why the police were so stupid as to leave it unguarded I cannot imagine. More of our men went to the back and took up positions for opening fire, while on the street in front we erected a small barricade. About midnight we opened the attack. After the first volley we ceased fire, and called on the defenders to surrender. We always did that, not only to spare their lives if possible, but also to spare our own supplies of ammunition which were never plentiful. But they refused to come out. We renewed the attack, with rifles, bombs, revolvers and shot-guns--our munitions were always necessarily of an assorted kind. The enemy replied hotly to our fire, but with no effect. Suddenly the sky was lighted up with Verey lights--rockets discharged by the garrison as a signal to neighbouring posts that they needed help. But we knew it would be long before assistance could pass our barriers. We continued the onslaught with renewed vigour from front and rear, and some of our men actually tore off the slates on the roof of the barrack. Daylight was breaking amidst cracking of rifles and the bursting of bombs when there was a sudden lull in the replying fire from the enemy. A moment later appeared from one of the windows a sharp blast of a whistle, and our men ceased fire. The order was shouted to the garrison to advance into the open. A minute later they were disarmed prisoners. We prepared for our return to safety before military reinforcements cut their way through. We marched our prisoners--two sergeants and six constables--to the outskirts of the village, released them and departed with our booty, not one of our men being wounded.

It was sometimes amusing to read the accounts of these attacks in the newspapers next day. Naturally none of our men ever told the true story, and the newspaper men had to rely mainly on the police version. The police, of course, had to make the best show possible in the eyes of their own superiors, and the newspaper men had to take their version, because they would need the information that friendly policemen could give them later on, and also because they might get a surprise midnight visit from the Black and Tan torturers if anything derogatory to the police was said. Hence it was that often when we had only 30 or 40 men on a job, with perhaps half a dozen rifles in all, the police would tell the public that the "number of attackers was estimated at 300, with several machine guns." And often when not one of our men got a scratch it was reported that "several of the attackers were seen to fall, and it is believed three were shot dead." There were times when we did suffer losses, but they never suspected it.

Our next operation of the kind was away on the north-western side of the county in the mountainous districts of Hollyford. This also was a complete success, the same body of us being in charge of the operation. It must be remembered that at this time the number of men on the run was comparatively small, and we often had to rely upon men who were never suspected of taking part in these attacks, and who returned to their work before morning.

Our next attack was not far from the same district--Rear Cross. Here we had a desperate battle, and were forced to retire without capturing the position. In this fight we had the assistance of some men from East Limerick Brigade, and the North Tipperary Brigade, but the South Tipperary boys carried out the main offensive under Sean Treacy and myself. The garrison, I must say, put up a brave defence, and used their hand-grenades with effect, Ernie O'Malley, Jim Gorman, Treacy and myself all being wounded by shrapnel. We succeeded in setting the building on fire, and I believe that several of the enemy were burned to death, while two others were shot.

The next big engagement in which we took part was the famous fight at Oola, the day Brigadier-General Lucas escaped. This sensational incident I must relate in the next chapter.

CAPTURE AND ESCAPE OF GENERAL LUCAS.

The capture of Brigadier-General Lucas was effected on June 26th, 1920, by Liam Lynch, George Power, and a few more of Lynch's staff. General Lucas, who was stationed at Fermoy and commanded in that district, was accompanied by Colonel Danford, R.E., and Colonel Tyrell. Lynch and his comrades drove up in a motor car and surprised the three British officers at a place called Conna, near Castlelyons, seven or eight miles from Fermoy, where General Lucas had taken a fishing lodge. They were taken completely by surprise and removed to a waiting motor car. The original idea was to hold the General as a hostage to be exchanged for Bob Barton, T.D., who was then being treated as a criminal in an English prison, where he was undergoing a 10 years' sentence for "sedition."

His last place of detention was a house in East Limerick. From there he made his escape on the night of July 29th, in circumstances which it is not in my province to narrate.

Now, on the morning of July 30th, Sean Treacy and the rest of us had planned an ambush on the road between Limerick and Tipperary. At that time our men were creating much trouble for the enemy by holding up trains and mail cars to censor letters for information. In this way we got much valuable information from time to time, including evidence against local spies here and there. So serious a problem did we create for the British that they had to take special precautions to prevent military mails and despatches falling into our hands. For instance, the Limerick garrison adopted the plan of sending a special military escort by road to the Limerick Junction every morning to take the mails off the train there, and thus avoid possible raids on the 20 miles of the branch line from Limerick Junction to Limerick.

We determined to ambush this party. The spot we selected was half a mile on the Tipperary side of the village of Oola. That would be about six miles from Tipperary town, fifteen from Limerick city and four from Soloheadbeg. Although we were on the main road from Limerick to Waterford we had a great stretch of country by which we could escape southwards, getting back towards East Limerick. The country is comparatively flat with good thick hedges of whitethorn as cover along the roadside.

Sharp to time the military car came tearing along from Limerick. Just when they turned a corner and drove almost into the barracks we opened fire. Like a shot every man jumped from the car and took cover to reply to our men.

A fierce encounter followed for half an hour. In the first minute two of the British dropped their rifles and rolled over dead, but the others continued to pour volley after volley in the direction from which our fire came. But we were in a difficulty. There were only seven of us there, and we had only ten rounds of ammunition per man.

We retired without losing a man or receiving a wound. The enemy had three dead and three wounded.

Next morning we learned more than we knew while engaged in the attack. Brigadier-General Lucas was actually with the enemy forces. He had, as I said, escaped the previous night. He wandered all through the night through the fields not knowing exactly where he was and endeavouring in the first place to avoid any of our men who might have been sent in pursuit of him, and in the second place trying to get in touch with some of his own forces, police or military. On the morning of the ambush he arrived at the village of Pallas, three miles on the Limerick side of Oola, and evidently was picked up by the passing car.

We, of course, did not recognise him. As a matter of fact we were not even aware of his escape. The whole thing was a mere coincidence, though the English newspapers next day splashed the story as an "attempt to recapture the General." Perhaps it is as well we did not recognise him. Anyhow, we wish him luck, now that all is past.

A few days after this engagement at Oola I returned to Dublin. For some time I was kept busy with minor activities. It was only then, too, that I found an opportunity of having removed from my body some of the bits of hand grenades with which I had been wounded at the attack on Rear Cross police barracks.

This was in the autumn of 1920. We had now been a year and a half on the run with a price on our heads. But I was becoming more reckless. The war was going on with greater intensity every day. I saw that the struggle of the Irish people was taking the shape I had always hoped. The British soldiers and police, particularly the Black and Tans and the Auxiliaries--the latter were all ex-officers of the British Army, and were the garrison's gentlemen murderers--were day and night looting shops, burning private houses, and murdering prisoners and torturing youths. But the more savage became their methods of repression the more determined the Irish people became to fight to the bitter end. Practically the whole country was now on our side, helping us with food and information when they could not give us more active assistance. Men who had not the same views as we had on active warfare were being driven into our ranks because if they stayed at home in their beds they would be murdered by the British in the dead of night. In fact, their only hope of safety was to get "on the run."

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