Espionage and Assasination with Michael Collins' Intelligence Unit: With the Dublin Brigade (6 page)

I was promoted to the rank of sergeant of No. 4 Section of the company, while I was still attending school.

Often on my way to school I would meet some Volunteers whom I drilled on the weekly parade night. These meetings caused me great embarrassment and, in order to make myself look older and more important, I decided that I must alter my dress. To do so, I commandeered an old pair of my father's trousers and a cap. Now I felt I looked a man and I no longer feared to meet my comrades.

At this time my brother, who was serving in France in the commissioned ranks of the British Army, returned home on leave. He brought home with him a German pistol and a rifle as souvenirs. I took possession of the pistol and was overjoyed at my acquisition, which I proudly reported to the quartermaster.

‘Of course you will hand it up,' he said. ‘We are very short of guns in the company.'

This I refused to do.

‘If the company wants my gun,' said I, ‘they can take me with it.'

If my gun was going to see service, I was determined that I was going to be the man to use it.

Being now one of the few Volunteers who were armed, I was ordered one day by my captain to report to the Battalion QM at 46 Parnell Square for duty. I guessed that there was something on foot and I went to the appointed place full of eager expectation.

I found a score of Volunteers waiting in a large room ordinarily used as a classroom by the Gaelic League. I knew a few of them – Brigadier McKee and Peadar Clancy. In the room were also Jim Slattery, Vincent Byrne and Tom Kehoe, who were to be afterwards my comrades in many a hazardous enterprise. They were subsequently in Michael Collins' famous Squad and will come frequently into my story. I did not have any conversation with them on this occasion.

Dick McKee was a tall man, over six foot high, of soldierly bearing and fine countenance. He wore a small black moustache which added to his military appearance. He spoke with a soft drawl. And it was that beguiling voice of his, so attractive – like the tune of the Pied Piper – which cast a spell over you, so that you could not but obey him.

He was a printer in the firm of Messrs Gill and Son of O'Connell Street. He knew personally nearly every Volunteer in the brigade, and he never passed by a man he knew without giving him a glance and a smile of recognition.

Peadar Clancy was an outfitter, in partnership with another Volunteer officer, Tom Hunter. Their shop in Talbot Street was known as ‘The Republican Outfitters'. Peadar was a County Clare man. He was young and handsome, with a clear complexion and a beautiful speaking voice. He had a very gentle, engaging manner.

Dick McKee told us that we were about to undertake an important, daylight ‘hold-up'.

‘Robert Barton is being tried today at the Police Courts for a speech he delivered in Wicklow. He is to be rescued by us,' he said. ‘He will be brought from the Courts to Mountjoy Jail in a motor van. That van must be held up.'

He then outlined the plan of action and allotted us our different positions.

While waiting for the appointed hour, a lively discussion arose as to the merits of my Mauser pistol. It was quite a new gun to most of the men present. It was generally condemned because some of our men had been badly let down by the jamming of their automatic pistols, and they had found from experience that the revolver bullet had greater stopping power.

Peadar Clancy said to me: ‘The next time you are brought on a job, come with a decent weapon. If you have not got a revolver, get a loan of one somewhere.'

This made me feel extremely indignant, as I dearly loved my Mauser, so that when Dick McKee, who was listening, took my part, I was delighted.

‘There is nothing wrong with that gun. I like automatics,' he said, producing a long Parabellum of his own.

Whether this was the beginning of our subsequent friendship I cannot say, but after that incident the brigadier was very friendly towards me. And as for me, I looked up to him and worshipped him.

Shortly after noon we went in groups of twos and threes to the scene of action – the corner of Mountjoy, Blessington and Nelson streets. We took up our positions without attracting the attention of the passers-by.

After waiting about fifteen minutes we saw a Ford covered-in military van approaching. As soon as it reached the corner, some of our men, who were waiting up a side street, pushed a builders' handcart, on which were some very long ladders, across the roadway, blocking the van's progress. This was the signal for us all to rush forward, pointing our guns at the occupants, and shouting ‘Hands up.'

Immediately, with their hands up, an officer, Major Carew, and two Tommies stepped out of the car.

There was no one else! There was no prisoner! The authorities, anticipating the possibility of a rescue, had had Barton conveyed back to Mountjoy by another route.

During the excitement, a Volunteer accidentally discharged his revolver, wounding himself in the leg.

Major Carew, greatly agitated, shouted: ‘For God's sake, men, don't shoot,' when, seeing it was an accident, he quickly regained his composure.

Meanwhile the traffic had come to a standstill. Crowds began to collect. It was time to get away.

It was now 1919, and I was sixteen years old.

One day I noticed a Volunteer cycling along in the neighbourhood in which I lived. I knew his business did not take him to my district, so I became suspicious that something was on foot.

Shortly afterwards I met a newsboy shouting ‘Stop Press' and as I was curious I made no delay in getting a paper.

The news was startling. Lord French, the Lord Lieutenant, had been attacked at Ashtown. He and his escort were travelling in two touring cars and a van, when bombs had been thrown at them, and in the fight which followed one of the attackers was killed.

Lord French had escaped injury.

I guessed that the Volunteer I had seen had had something to do with the attack. Here was dangerous work being carried out by a select few and I was not one of them! I was disturbed by this discovery, and set myself to think how I could best avail myself of the knowledge I had gained to secure a place amongst those who were engaged on special work. To ask my captain would only make him suspicious, and he probably knew nothing of the identity of those special men.

I thought it best to await an opportunity to tackle the Volunteer I had seen. This occurred soon afterwards, and I told him what I had noticed of his movements and that I suspected him of having had a hand in the attack on Lord French.

He immediately became very reserved and tried to put me off, but I persisted. I convinced him that my only object in speaking to him was to offer my help. I wanted him to speak to his leader for me, so that I could be taken on for dangerous work. He made no promises, but he must have reported our conversation, because shortly afterwards I was picked to take part in some fairly important undertakings.

One evening I was notified that I was to call at the house of the quartermaster of the battalion on the following morning at 7 o'clock.

Mick MacDonald was a man of nearly forty years, much older than any of the other men who formed the Squad. He had very prominent temples and spoke with a shrill voice like a woman's. He was a stickler for detail and he would pour forth his wrath on anyone who was a few minutes late. That was quite right of course in a soldier, but in our war our difficulties were immense. We had always to be dodging the enemy and could not go by direct routes to keep our engagements, and at the same time, a minute one way or the other might affect the success of an enterprise.

Mick Mac took his duties with intense seriousness, and this, with his irascible temper, made it a bad business to vex him. He was very brave. His whole heart was in the fight, and knowing the shortness of our ammunition, if he had had his way, I believe he would not have given out a single cartridge without a guarantee that it would be used with effect. He could not bear six shots to be fired, when five might have done as well.

‘How many did you use?' he would ask anxiously. And when he was told: ‘God blast you, could you not have managed with less?'

Needless to say I was not a minute late for my appointment the following morning and I was very favourably received.

There were several men present, and now for the first time I met, to speak to, the famous Squad who worked under Dick McKee and Michael Collins, and whose achievements never failed to produce ‘Stop Press' editions.

They were having breakfast, with home-made bread, and they asked me to join them, which I did with the greatest pleasure. I could hardly believe it possible that I was sitting at the same table with such fearless men, whom I had for so long admired, though till now I had never met them, or known them by name. Soon I began to feel quite at home with them, especially as they did not seem to notice that I was rather young, but treated me as one of themselves.

Tom Kehoe was one of them. He was a tall, country boy, and had no regard at all for personal danger. At the age of about seventeen he had taken part in the Rising of 1916. He was a fitter by trade, and he had started making grenades in a small secret bomb factory we had in Parnell Street, which was seized by the Black and Tans. He was a splendid soldier and a true and loyal friend, so that we have never got over his tragic end. Having survived all the dangers of the Black and Tan period, he was killed in the Civil War.

The other two men present that morning were Jim Slattery and Vinny Byrne. Jim was from Bodyke, County Clare. Vinny was born and bred in Dublin. They were both cabinet-makers, and had served their apprenticeship together. As lads of seventeen they had fought in the Rising with Tom Kehoe, who was about the same age. Jim wore a loose-fitting dust-coat, and, in spite of his long residence in Dublin, he spoke with a pronounced, soft, Clare accent. He had very clear, penetrating, blue eyes.

Vinny was an optimist. He was pleased with all the world and everybody in it. On his round and slightly sleepy face was an expression of incurable good nature. He was a typical Dublin man.

When we had finished breakfast we came to business. The leader outlined the plan. We were to go to the corner of Dominick Street and be in position by 8.30. When he gave the signal, we were to seize a mail van which would then be approaching us, and stand by while the mails were transferred to a waiting motor-car in an adjoining lane.

While waiting at the street corner I felt very excited, so that I could hardly control myself. But I did my best to keep as calm as possible outwardly, for fear that any signs of my excitement would result in my being dropped from further work.

Several mail vans passed by from the Rink close by, which was now being used as the Chief Sorting Office.

At last a van came which I knew was the one we wanted. Our leader gave the signal. The men, and I with them, rushed out and seized the horse's head and reins. We covered the driver with our revolvers, Tom Kehoe jumped up, and, taking the reins out of the driver's hands, he drove the van round the corner to where the motor-car was waiting.

Everything happened so quickly that the few pedestrians remained motionless, glued to the ground, as if they had suddenly become benumbed. We chased after the van and saw the safe transfer of the mails to our car. The driver was a Volunteer named Owen Cullen, who belonged to my company. He was the first driver attached to the Squad and the first whole-time Volunteer in Dublin, as he lost his job when his employers discovered that he had been engaged in Volunteer activities.

The whole affair was over in three minutes and we were on our way back to safety.

Later in the day, as soon as it appeared, I got the inevitable ‘Stop Press'.

‘Sensational Coup.

Robbery of Castle Mails.'

There followed detailed descriptions by ‘eye-witnesses', which greatly surprised me as they were quite erroneous.

In the trams there was no other conversation. I could hear scraps of the news exchanged. ‘French's mail seized!' ‘A wonderful coup!' ‘Such remarkable intelligence work!' ‘So-and-so who knows so-and-so told me how it was done,' and here would follow an imaginary story, so that I had trouble not to interrupt and tell them what lies they were talking.

But we had to keep our mouths sealed. Not a word could we drop even to our dearest friends. Silence and success went hand in hand.

Some weeks later, a messenger called to my house and handed me a note. It was an instruction from the brigadier to report to him the following morning at a house he used as an office in Parnell Square.

To receive a command from Dick McKee himself filled me with the proudest satisfaction. I was overjoyed. I began at once to make considerable preparations for so important an interview. Not possessing a man's suit, I borrowed one of my elder brother's, so that my appearance would be worthy of the occasion. Although a little large for me I was satisfied with the result.

When I arrived at headquarters, there was a meeting of officers in progress, so that I had to wait some time before I was called in to the room.

The brigadier took me on one side and questioned me as to whether I had ever been to London.

I told him I had not, but that I was quite prepared to go there or anywhere else. I did not tell him that I had never been farther than a few miles from Dublin.

He asked me if I would be prepared to travel for a week or so, and I replied that I was at his service.

He kept looking me over, and seemed doubtful as to whether he would send me away, and, at last, as if he were summing up the matter, he said, ‘I think you have horse sense, any way.'

I was greatly troubled by this description of myself, as I did not know what horse sense meant. But it must not have been detrimental, because he told me to hold myself in readiness to travel to London.

‘You will be accompanied by a few men from Dublin and Cork, and you will get full instructions later.'

With these words he closed the interview.

I was greatly pleased with these prospects, and I was looking forward to seeing London and carrying out whatever work was to be done there.

But I was doomed to disappointment. Day after day passed and I received no summons. Then I heard that the job was off.

Long afterwards I learned that what we were to do in London was to watch the movements of Cabinet Ministers. But the idea was not developed owing to unfavourable reports from our intelligence officer there.