Espionage and Assasination with Michael Collins' Intelligence Unit: With the Dublin Brigade (11 page)

In the first week in December I heard that my home had again been raided, so I made a flying visit to find out what had happened.

My mother was surprised to see me and at the same time relieved to know that I was still alive and ‘at large'. She quickly prepared a meal for me, which I greatly enjoyed, and she begged me not to stay long for fear I might have been seen and followed to the house.

‘That is all right,' said I. ‘I kept a good look out on my way.'

I asked her to tell me all about the raid.

‘Well,' she began. ‘We had gone to bed, when, shortly after midnight, we heard lorries coming down the road and pulling up in front of the house. I knew what was coming.

‘There was a loud knock at the hall door, and I heard Emmet going down to open it. They kept banging on the door so that everyone in the road must have heard it. The next minute there was the noise of footsteps charging up the stairs. Our bedroom door was flung open, and a lot of men ran in, flashing torches on me. They must have found the switch, because the light was turned on immediately.

‘There were fully a dozen men in the room. They gathered round the bed. One of them was dressed in a black uniform and seemed to be in charge. He was drunk, and kept lurching against the bed, pointing a revolver at me.

‘Papa jumped out of bed and said: “What is all this fuss about?”

‘They did not answer him, but told me to get up. Papa said: “You must clear the room first.”

‘This they refused to do, and Papa said to me, “Perhaps you had better,” but I kept repeating that I would not, as I was feeling very weak.' (My mother had been suffering from heart attacks.)

‘The other men in the room started pulling out drawers, and scattering their contents all over the floor. Some of them were wearing tam-o'-shanter caps (the Auxiliaries), and the others were Army officers.

‘Well, while all this was going on,' said my mother, half smiling, ‘Papa kept saying: “Do you know who I am?” and when they paid no attention to him, he said indignantly: “Do you know that I am a JP?”

‘But they didn't seem at all impressed. Instead, they plied him with questions.

‘“What are the names of your sons?”

‘“Dermot,” said Papa.

‘“Where is he?”

‘“There, in his cot.”

‘“What are the names of your other sons?”

‘“Brendan,” replied Papa.

‘“Where is he?”

‘“Inside there in bed.”

‘“How old is he?”

‘“Thirteen.”

‘“You have other sons?”

‘“Emmet, who let you in.”

‘“There is still another one, where is he?” and Papa replied that he was away in the country and that we did not know where he was.

‘They ordered Papa to dress, and he did not even then realize that they were going to take him, though it was quite plain to me.

‘He got into his clothes, and realizing at last that he was arrested, he said goodbye to me. They all trooped out of the room, with Papa, looking indignant, in the middle of them. I don't know how I didn't faint, as I felt quite dazed.

‘I next heard the hall door being slammed, and the engines of the cars starting up. They had taken Emmet too, but they would not allow him up to my room to say goodbye.

‘Before the cars moved away a shot rang out. My heart stopped beating. But then Papa gave a loud cough and I knew it was a signal to me that he was all right.

‘Two hours later the cars came back again. There were again loud knocks at the door, and Bridget got up and let them in. They dashed up to my room, as before.

‘“Has anyone come in since?” they shouted, and again they searched the house, obviously thinking that you might have come home.'

My mother begged me to stay no longer and I decided, too, that it was time for me to go. Bidding her good-bye, I told her not to worry, assuring her I would be all right.

It was forty-eight hours after the raid before my mother was able to locate the whereabouts of my father and brother. They were prisoners in Collinstown Aerodrome.

The two of them became greater patriots than ever while they were there. My father appointed himself Chaplain, and gave out the Rosary every night, while my brother, making use of his training in France, spent his time drilling his fellow prisoners. When they were ultimately released, my father on the strength of his JP, and my brother on his services to the British Empire, they were both highly incensed.

When I reported the raid to Liam, the assistant D/I, the following morning, he told me he knew all about it. He and Michael Collins and one or two other staff officers were sleeping in a house overlooking mine, and had spent a restless and sleepless night with the enemy so near at hand.

A few minutes before curfew on Christmas Eve, 1920, I was on my way home to the dispensary, and I called at the dairy to get provisions for our supper and breakfast.

Neither Joe nor Jimmy was there, and I waited, listening to a gramophone playing in the parlour off the shop. Then the clock struck ten, and I could delay no longer. I must get under cover and the shop must be closed before the curfew patrols came round.

When I got into the dispensary, I found that old John had the kettle boiling and a big fire burning in the range. He wished me goodnight and retired to bed.

I felt very lonely. I kept wondering why neither Joe nor Jimmy had turned in. I was so miserable that I took a hot bath and went to bed. But I could not sleep. I could hear people passing outside my window, singing. I thought they must be drunk to be defying the curfew regulations.

I found myself picturing the more happy Christmases I had spent, when, after I was in bed, my mother would be stealthily preparing my presents. So that when the joy bells started to ring out I felt very angry with the world. Never should I have thought it possible to have so sad a Christmas Eve. Then I touched my Mauser pistol under my pillow and the feel of it gave me consolation. I had one true friend that would not desert me.

I must have fallen asleep, because opening my eyes I found it was daylight. There was no one to wish me a happy Christmas. I got up and, putting on the kettle, I thought, here is Christmas morning and there is no one even to prepare my breakfast!

I went out to a late Mass, and I was very pleased to meet Jimmy. He was surprised to hear that I had been alone all night in the dispensary and was sorry to have forsaken me.

After Mass, we went to an old stable owned by Jimmy's father where he kept an ass and cart for carrying around his paints and ladders. In the stable was a motor-cycle which Jimmy had captured from a military despatch rider a few weeks previously.

We got the cycle into running order and decided to risk paying a flying visit to my home for dinner. My family were delighted to see us, and I felt now that Christmas was the same as ever and I forgot my troubles.

We did not dare to tarry long in the house. Jimmy suggested that we should take a run through the country and I agreed, forgetting both the bad nature of the roads and the hardness of the pillion seat. But though my physical discomfort was considerable, our hearts were light, and when we got back to the dispensary we enjoyed that feeling of pleasant, half-somnolent weariness which comes at the end of a day spent happily in the open air.

From the time I became attached to the intelligence staff, I was kept very busy. Hardly a day passed without some important operation taking place.

About this time, January 1921, we had been very much occupied with the activities of a certain group of RIC under the leadership of a west of Ireland man whom I shall refer to as Nemo.

This group was composed of about twelve policemen from those parts of the country where the Volunteers were most active. Each policeman had been attached to the Crimes Special (Political) Branch in his district for a number of years, and had made it his business to know the political opinions of all the people in the neighbourhood.

The group had now been stationed in Dublin for some time. They patrolled the principal streets in civilian clothes, on the lookout for any Volunteer up from the country. They greatly interfered with the mobility of the Volunteers and were one of the most effective arms operating against us.

A Volunteer named Howlett on arrival at the Broadstone Station had been met by this gang and shot dead; and this was but the first of a series of such acts committed under Nemo's leadership.

The D/I was most anxious to have this group ambushed, but it was a difficult undertaking as there was no regularity about their movements.

In January, a Volunteer from Galway named Tom Newell, who knew Nemo, came up to Dublin and was attached to our department to help us in our quest. Newell was a small, sturdily built fellow of about thirty years. His healthy complexion and his cap and the cut of his clothes betrayed him as being a countryman.

The Squad was now working in cohesion with the Active Service Unit.

One morning towards the end of January, while I was working on some papers in our office in Crow Street, Newell rushed in to say that he had just seen Nemo and his men going up Grafton Street.

Liam Tobin immediately took action. A messenger was despatched to the Active Service Unit, who were standing-to in a building close at hand, with instructions to them to proceed at once to Stephen's Green and there await orders.

I was told to go with Newell, and, when we had located the gang, to get in touch with the Active Service Unit and arrange that they should be trapped in one of the streets by a rapid movement of the ASU.

I thought that possibly the policemen were on their way to Harcourt Street Station on the lookout for Volunteers from the country, bearing in mind their former action at the Broadstone Station.

Newell and I hurried along and were quickly in Grafton Street.

We were walking side by side on the crowded footpath when suddenly I saw two men approaching us. They were so near that I had no time to question Newell. I was at once alarmed. One of the two men was wearing a cap and the moment I saw him I guessed he was Nemo.

They appeared to take no notice of us. And we, of course, looked straight ahead. They passed without giving us a glance. And then, with a swift turn, they wheeled, and had us between them.

‘Don't stir,' they said, threateningly.

We were unarmed.

The movement was carried out so quietly and neatly that the pedestrians did not notice anything amiss.

I could see that we were covered from their pockets, and looking around me I saw that we were surrounded. The gang were standing about in groups of two and three on either footpath.

Nemo and one of his men got Newell between them. Another of the group walked along with me. We were led into Suffolk Street, and the beating of my heart was nearly suffocating me. I was sure we were being brought to the Castle. I thought of Dick McKee, and I thought I was about to share his fate.

I began an Act of Contrition, and I had no sooner finished one than I began another. I don't know how many I had repeated when, on reaching Dame Street, Newell and I were told to stand against the wall.

We were placed some distance apart.

We were cross-examined separately.

‘What is your name?' ‘Where did you meet the man you are with?'

I could not hear Newell's answers, nor he mine, but judging by the ugly expressions which came on their faces, they did not tally.

I felt that my time had come, yet I tried to bluff.

I said I was a nationalist and believed in Home Rule, and that if only they would bring me home they would find out the truth of what I said. I was thinking of the picture of John Redmond, the constitutional Home Ruler, which my father had hanging over the mantelpiece, and I imagined, like a fool, that before hitting me up they might go to the house to verify my story.

Then suddenly I heard Newell shouting: ‘I know you, you dog, and you know me …'

He had lost his temper at last, sick of the lies he was telling, with his enemy standing before him and he unable to get his hands on him to give him what he deserved. He felt it was all up with him anyhow, as I did myself.

My own inquisition was over too.

‘You can walk on now. Go to the right, and don't look back.'

I walked on, two of the gang following me. But how I kept to a walking pace I do not know. I wanted to spring round and face them. But what could I have done without my Mauser! I knew their game. It had become a way of getting rid of our men. They were officially accounted for as being ‘shot while trying to escape'.

My knees shook under me. Mercifully, at first there were a good many people on the pavement. I might get a few minutes yet. ‘To the right' was to the quieter streets. I began my Acts of Contrition again.

The agony was to keep walking. I wanted to run, to tear through the streets away from those footsteps pacing behind me. That was what they wanted too.

People passed me by as if I were walking the streets for pleasure like themselves, with no idea at all of the plight I was in. Over and over again, in anticipation, I was shot in the back as I walked along those interminable streets. I wanted to bend in my waist to escape the bullets, just as I used to do when I was a kid coming out of a dark room to escape from a ghostlike hand that might clutch me from behind.

I turned round ‘to the right' into Trinity Street. There were fewer pedestrians and I walked faster. But yet I managed still to keep to a walking pace. Then I was round the corner of Andrew Street. Here it was still quieter and the footsteps behind me louder.

I could stand it no longer. I dashed round the next corner into Wicklow Street. A few paces on was the building in which my father had his office. For a moment I was out of sight of my pursuers, and in that moment I got through the doorway and up the stairs.

I was shaking. I was not sure that they had not seen me. I could not drag myself to the window to look into the street. I threw myself in a chair and listened for the footsteps coming up the stairs.

Minutes passed. I began to feel a gleam of hope. Perhaps I had given them the slip. I did not dare to ponder on this thought lest it should prove untrue.

I looked round the office and saw my father's typist looking at me in bewilderment.

An idea came to me. I jumped up.

‘Put on your hat and coat quickly, and come out with me,' I said.

Still bewildered, she obeyed me. We went down the stairs. Linking my arm in hers, and not daring to look up or around me, we passed out into the street. Arm in arm, we walked up a side street to Stephen's Green like sweethearts taking an outing. Once there, I knew I would be safe with the boys.

At last, I dared to look round. There was no one following me!

I said goodbye to the girl. She must have been dumbfounded at my strange behaviour, but she asked me no questions.

I walked into Stephen's Green. I found my friends and related to them my terrible experience. They shook the hands off me, congratulating me on my escape.

But poor Newell! They asked me where he was, and I had to tell them I did not know. The evening papers informed us.

He had been riddled ‘by unknown men' in Greek Street. But he was alive and in King George V Hospital, a prisoner.

They gave him a dreadful time there, trying to extract information.

After the Truce, Michael Collins got him handed over and placed him in one of the city hospitals. He was for two years on his back and came out of it a cripple.