Two Walls and a Roof

by John Michael Cahill

  On another occasion we had seen the Romans capturing Troy or Egypt or someplace and they had been using huge catapults firing rocks as big as cannonballs at the enemy. By then our little gang had a lot of enemies in town. There was the Knockbarry gang, the Townies gang, Charlie Mack and Joe Hurley (a born ringleader), as well as the crowd from the area known as the Quarters. Usually we were well able to defend ourselves with our small catapults, fire tipped arrows and our secret weapon: the ‘weed killer bomb’, which was still not used in battle but under development.

  We heard a combined attack was being planned for a Saturday with the aim of destroying our submarine once and for all. As luck would have it, some weeks earlier we had seen the Romans in action and I felt that we should use the sapling trees on the ditch in front of the sub as our catapults. These would be our first line of defence. We all agreed, and soon we had ropes attached to the tops of the young trees and were bending them down to the ground, where the ropes were attached to some iron stakes driven into the soil. I believe we had three of these systems ready all along the ditch prior to the attack.

  Kyrle got some canvas bags and filled them with rocks and stones, and we tied these to the tops of the trees now sprung back and ready to fly forward. Unfortunately we had never tested these new weapons.

  Saturday came, bleak and overcast, and we waited and waited. All of a sudden there was a yelling from Joe Hurley, the self appointed ringleader of the combined gangs, and he and a few others began climbing over the outer wall of a nearby field, shouting and roaring at us and firing their catapults as they advanced on our submarine. “Launch one,” Kyrle shouts at me and I cut the rope holding down the first tree. Whoosh, up went the sapling with its bag of stones and it flew right over their heads, breaking into shrapnel all over the road. From what I could see, the gang still on the road took off, never having seen such a weapon, but the others, now numbering about five or so, cautiously edged forward, firing all the time. “Launch, launch, launch,” Kyrle screamed at Martin and me while he fired his arrows. More stones flew off and again they went over the gang’s heads and the wall. This was not working at all. The trees were too good and we had fired too late. Hurley’s gang was almost upon us, and now becoming desperate, I gave the order, “Catapults …and aim for the eye,” and I did just that. I aimed for Joe Hurley’s eye. The stone hit him on the forehead and he reeled backwards in pain. We sent a hail of stones at them as their hail zinged all about us, and even though a stone or two hit me and the lads, we were winning. Hurley was bleeding badly from the forehead and ran back over the wall heading for home. I ran out after him to make sure he got the message, and was caught in an ambush by Mickey O’Rourke who punched me into the nose and tried to kick me to the ground as well. I was now bleeding too and made a dash back for the camp where Kyrle and Martin came out to save me. As for the others; with their leader gone they lost the will to fight and soon all became quiet. I remember us all shaking hands and cheering because our sub was safe. We were never attacked again either. After that incident Hurley became Kyrle’s arch enemy with no possibility of forgiveness ever.

  We had become experts in bomb-making after Kyrle was given the secret from a friend of his: a spy in the Knockbarry gang. He was told that if you mixed sugar with weed killer powder you would get an explosion. The problem for us was he did not know what the proportions were. The weed killer was sold as a white powder in the chemist shop or hardware shop I believe, and I don’t know how we got a load of it, but we did and were soon in the bomb-making business. The first attempt did not explode at all but burned fiercely. The next attempt did almost nothing and we did a lot of experimenting before we began to use science to help us. I figured that we should stop wasting this powder, and start measuring the amounts we used and keeping a record of it until we got the mixture right. Pretty soon this began to show a pattern, though for the life of me now I can’t remember what the proportion was for a bomb, as against the intensely burning proportions of a rocket. One was the direct opposite of the other, I do remember that. It was not long before we blew a good size hole in the ditch and then, having perfected the explosive side of things, we advanced to making rockets.

  President John F Kennedy was coming to Ireland and he had already given the go ahead for the landing on the Moon, so we became utterly fascinated by the Americans’ work on rockets. We decided to make our own very large rocket and try and impress the great man. Maybe we might later be given a job in NASA, but to ensure success we would build our version of a Saturn 5 Missile and shoot it up in the air in front of a military chopper, hoping that the pilot would see our abilities and report the great news to the President.

  We stole the lower section of a drain pipe, probably from Tadgh Hurley’s shed, and mixed a load of the powders as rocket fuel. Kyrle beat in the top of the drain pipe to make it into a point or nose cone. I added a stick and wired it to the side of the tube just like you see in today’s fireworks and I think we painted the words Cork on the side of the pipe as well. We were ahead of our time except for the Americans and Chinese.

  The real worry for us though was that this rocket was huge and very dangerous. We knew that if we had got the proportions wrong, simply because of the amount of powder being used, it could easily become a bomb rather than a rocket. Each of us knew the danger and it was scaring us, but there was no turning back then as everyone was talking about the President and we wanted to really impress him, just in case he needed a forward base to keep the Russians in check. We drew straws to decide who would light the fuse. This fuse was a string dipped in paraffin oil, the good old reliable in plentiful supply in Ger’s shed. Kyrle and I both hoped that Martin would win the honour, but he didn’t draw the short straw. That left it between us: I cheated and made Kyrle do the fuse work. He knew I cheated and I knew that he did, but I made him do it anyway. The plan was to launch this missile some distance in front of the chopper, as it always took the same path over the town, and hope the pilot saw it fly up in front of him, when he would later report to the great man.

  Our launch pad was a little domed hill inside the local quarry behind Sadler’s shop on Buttevant’s Main Street. We would set it up on the hill, then climb up the side of the quarry face and tell Kyrle when it was coming from a distance. He would light the fuse, allowing him time to get back up the cliff face too so that we could all watch as it flew off directly ahead of the chopper. I was about thirteen, Kyrle was twelve and Martin was nine. We figured on immediate fame, never thinking of the consequences if it actually hit the helicopter, as we were sure it would not. At the very least we might be recognized as rocket experts and meet the great Irish American President.

  Soon Martin and I are on the cliff top watching and hearing the chopper approach. I roared down, “Light the fuse and get up quick, tis on the way”. Kyrle lit the string, and to this day I don’t know how, but the flame seemed to jump ahead of itself. Maybe it was petrol we had mistaken for oil. Kyrle saw this too and ran like hell for the cliff face, but he never made it up. Suddenly there was a huge flash and a massive bang, and he vanished in a white cloud of smoke. I got a terrible fright. I was sure he was dead and I had cheated him, and it should have been me dead not him. I tore down the cliff shouting, “Kyrle, Kyrle where are you?” After what seemed like an eternity, we heard the voice from the bushes and briars way down below at the base of the hill. I could not see him still. Then he emerged from the nettles and briars as black as night with two white eyes staring back at me and says, “The bloody thing blew up, the fuse, the fuse ran too fast. Pull me up will ya, I’m stung alive”. Somehow we dragged him up. He was covered in scratches and his clothes were singed, as was the back of his hair which had turned black. I think I laughed out loud with great relief that he was alive. As we climbed back up, he says to me “I know you cheated”. I felt really ashamed but continued to deny the undeniable. That was the worst experience we had in our bomb-making phase, but it was not the only one. I often thought later in life what did t
he pilot really think when he saw that flash. One thing was sure though, President Kennedy never did meet us, and on the day he died, what I remember most was how close we had come to meeting him and the deep sorrow that filled my heart for the loss of such a great man.

  At an early stage we took to making ‘gillies’ or what are called go-carts today. The aim always was for maximum speed. We had few parts: usually an old pram, a few boards and the father’s endless supply of six inch nails. A six inch nail became our friend. We called it a ‘six incher’. It could be used as a nail, a hook, an axel, a u-bolt even a drill when reddened in the fire and used to bore a hole in a bit of wood. The father swore by those nails and always had a collection in his tool drawer in the back kitchen. He had a wrench that he called a geegaw. This was an adjustable spanner with two big jaws and where he got that name from I have no clue, but somehow it appeared fitting and he used this wrench constantly. He had a small twist drill, but it had only one bit and if that was the wrong size we resorted to the red hot ‘nail drilling’ by the fire.

  Gillie building was becoming a fad and I think we were the forerunners of today’s boy racers. We had an arch rival gillie maker known as Charlie Mack. He lived up the street from us and his brothers, being mechanics, always had loads of wheels, axles and excellent parts. They were also geniuses at anything mechanical and Charlie began to make gillies like us. One time he told us that he was making a Henry Ford Model T and that it would blow our ones off the street. Kyrle took exception to this insult, and he discussed with me how we could build a gillie based on some Roman film that had a sea battle in it. In that film they had built ships with battering rams and they sank all round them. He called it his secret weapon. He felt we should ram Mack first chance we got. That meant us building a battering ram gillie, but how to make the ramming part was the problem.

  I immediately began building the frame, but kept seeing Kyrle searching day after day for what he was calling his ‘secret weapon’. I had no idea how he was going to make the weapon, but I built away and finally got the frame completed. It had a wooden base with a cord steering rope, and it turned on the inevitable six inch nail. The back axle also was held by the nails and I was all for taking it for a spin, but no, not Kyrle.

  He said he had seen Mack’s Ford and it looked awesome. Charlie had used a large wooden tea chest for the body, and it even had a roof and was painted black, or so Kyrle kept telling me. When I finally saw it, I thought it was awesome too. That day Mack had sped past us gaining speed from the slope on our street and as he did so, Kyrle says, “That’s it, I got it, I see his weak point”. He made off down the town to Big Kyrl’s shed and arrived back with a length of two inch iron pipe. Big Kyrl used these pipes as rollers for moving headstones where he cut them into sections and Kyrle had stolen one of them.

  Kyrle began to hacksaw like mad. Then I realized what he was doing; he was making a battering ram just like the Romans did, but it would be made of iron and far more dangerous. He kept at it, sawing and filing till it was like a spear, and then using the usual six inchers, we mounted this spike onto the front of our gillie. All this work was taking place down our back yard safe from the prying eyes of Mack.

  Another check on the street showed Mack once again passing and enjoying his driving. He passed us again as we stood at the door and gave us a smug wave and Kyrle says to me, “Ok that’s it, get me up to Fitzs’, I’m ramming him next time”. Out comes our new gillie and we pushed it all the way up to Fitzs’ shop on the highest part of the street. Then Kyrle challenges Charlie to a ‘race’. He had absolutely no intention of a race; he wanted a war. By then Charlie was staring at our pointed spear and I’m not sure if he was scared or not, but because of Kyrle’s taunting he agreed and lined up his Ford beside our battering ram.

  I can’t remember who pushed him off, but off he went down the street. Kyrle had whispered to me, “Let Mack off first and then keep on pushing”. As Charlie sped away, I gave a mighty push to Kyrle and ran along pushing as hard as I could. We are rapidly gaining on Charlie and Kyrle starts shouting, “Julius Caesar, Julius Caesar”, and when he’s almost parallel with Charlie, he suddenly turns sideways and the spear goes clean through Charlie’s wooden tea chest. How he wasn’t impaled I’ll never know. At the bang I tripped and fell, and last thing I saw was the two of them locked in a mortal combat, with both gillies careering across the road glued to each other, and Kyrle is now waving his fist in the Roman salute. Mack’s ‘boat’ had been sunk. How they escaped the cars beats me too, but in those days there were fewer of them. They disentangled outside May Sheehan’s and Charlie threatened us with his brother for wrecking his Ford, so we laid low for a while.

  It did not take long for us to rise again though, and this time Kyrle wanted to build a ‘super gillie’. He had the idea that if we used huge wheels on the back and tiny wheels on the front it would have to go faster and it would look like a Roman chariot as well. We managed to find two big bicycle wheels in the dump and once again we were modifying the battering ram gillie by adding the big wheels at the back and much smaller ones for the front. The word was out that the Cahills were building a ‘super gillie’ and planned to race it down the Ballalley lane. I was a good bit worried at this test run, as the Ballalley is very steep and ends on the main road. Besides that, it’s quite a short run too, so how were we going to stop it at the bottom of the lane. Kyrle dismissed all this as nerves, and he just wanted the speed. I wanted a good few plays on this new gillie myself as it looked like a chariot without sides, so I really did press him on how to stop it: all to no avail. We planned a Saturday test run and a good crowd of lads gathered on the top of the lane, including Mack and Joe Hurley, who was still not speaking to me then due to the donkey incident being fresh in my mind. Everyone was amazed at our design. Doubtful heads were huddled in discussion, Mack among them. Our hands were being shaken and more lads were nodding that it was the best gillie ever seen in the town. Even Joe Hurley, my ex-best friend, tried to make peace with me, hoping for a go on it later, but I refused. We were the local heroes, even if only for one day.

  We had agreed that Kyrle would do the test run as he said it was his gillie, and in truth it was. I still maintained that we should have some way of stopping it though, and then inspiration dawned on me. I got the idea that he should use a big concrete block attached to a rope as a brake.

  The plan was that he would push the block out behind him as he was nearing the main road and the gillie would stop due to friction.

  We got the block from Hurley’s wall, with Joe protesting as usual, and we tied a strong string to both the block and the back of the gillie. All was then ready for the great push off.

  I’ll never forget that day, it was so exciting; it was like launching a rocket. I so wanted to be part of the speed that at the last minute and without telling Kyrle I planned to jump on behind him and sail down the lane with him, then use my foot as a brake if the block failed. That was the plan at least, but it didn’t quite work out like that though. By then, Kyrle is all tensed up and keeps telling me to, “Come on, come on, push me off will you”, so I do. I gave him a huge push off, but I jumped on board as well. A huge cheer went up from the crowd as we both sped down the lane. Almost immediately I tumbled right off the back of the ‘chariot’ because it was going so fast, and there was too little room because of the block. Kyrle was really speeding up and as I picked myself up I saw this amazing sight. Here he was frantically trying to shove off the block as he’s chased by a load of lads all cheering and waving at him. The whole crowd was running past me and it all felt so great, but Kyrle was panicking, trying desperately to push off the block. When he did, it suddenly snapped the string before it could do any good. I saw him fly straight across the road with his hair flying back and no doubt a panicked look on his face. He crashed straight into Hutchins’ wall. As the ram hit the wall, he actually catapulted up into the air, hitting the plate glass window and collapsing back on top of the gillie, which was by then
totally wrecked. I was running across the road and by the time I got to him I was furious. He had mangled the new gillie before I even had a spin on it and I kept on shouting at him, “Why didn’t you steer for the lane, the lane? I’d have steered for the lane”. As I saw it, he could easily have turned slightly to the right and gone on down Hutchins’ lane where I felt he might be able to slow it down using his leg as a brake. Of course I was not the one travelling at twenty miles an hour, then heading for the main road, so it was easy to be critical.

  Poor Kyrle was dazed: probably concussed. He had this blank look in his eyes and he didn’t argue back as I was shouting at him, and that was very unusual. I think I must have realized then that he was hurt somehow, and helped him home. I think someone stole the chariot that day, as we never used it again and I have no memory of ever bringing it back to base either. It’s a likely bet that Mack or Hurley used it for ‘parts’ but I don’t remember any more gillies being built after that famous one. Kyrle recovered and still laughs at his escape even today.

  Our father, a gentle Soul.

  My father was a small man of just over 5”5’. In my mind he always seemed to be poor and I never saw him have a wad of money in his life, yet before he was married he was fast becoming wealthy and would be considered a yuppie by today’s standards. His real love was for music. He was self taught and many is the time he recounted his long hours spent in the attic practicing on a piano accordion bought from a local man called Herman Weedle in Mallow. In later years he learned the saxophone and I have been told many times that he was a real expert on that wonderful instrument. Every time I hear a sax solo I think of my dad.

  I was told too that everyone liked my dad, and I never met anyone in my life that had a bad word to say about him. His personality was very gentle, and he was full of old sayings, stories of his youth, and later still accounts of his mad life. He had a very broad mind and could be seen to discuss almost every subject ad infinitum. It was very rare that he lied about anything, and the only time he did tell lies was to cover his tracks with our mother when he had been spending money he should have been handing up to her. He was especially interesting in the days before television, when we would spend many hours discussing electronics, space and all kinds of science subjects as well as the Roman Empire and Alexander the Great’s feats. He seemed to know everything. I loved talking to him, except when he was drunk. Then all he did was repeat over and over again the same old stuff we talked about ten minutes earlier. When he was like this I would listen away to his repeats and pretend it was all great news, but secretly I longed for his sober discussions. I can honestly say too that my dad never raised a hand to me or to any of my brothers and sisters. He would get a mad look on him if he drank whiskey and change his personality, but if he got too mad, mother would threaten him with the poker and say, “I’ll guzzle you if you don’t stop this carryon”. This rarely happened anyway because whiskey was too dear and went down his gullet too fast, unlike a Guinness which he could make last all night when needed.