Dan Breen and the IRA

by Joe Ambrose

  As they made their way to Dublin, Treacy and Robinson’s car broke down outside Marlboro jail and several British soldiers came to their assistance, eventually getting the car going. On arrival in Dublin word was sent to GHQ that they were in town. They got a message telling them where they were to meet Michael Collins.

  ‘Michael was waiting for us on the street with his notebook out,’ said Robinson. That this meeting was to be on the street instead of in an office was the first indication Robinson had that, ‘if we [the Big Four] were not exactly persona non-grata, at best we were decidedly not warmly welcome in any HQ office … they were rightly afraid of our blazing trail being followed by spies.’

  Collins seemed to be keeping his eyes peeled, watching everyone in the street without moving his head.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘everything is fixed up; be ready to go in a day or two.’

  ‘To go where?’ Robinson asked.

  ‘To the States,’ Collins replied.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, isn’t it the usual thing to do after …’ Collins allowed his sentence to trail off.

  ‘We don’t want to go to the States or anywhere else,’ Robinson insisted.

  ‘Well,’ said Collins, ‘a great many people think it is the only thing to do.’

  ‘Look here,’ said Robinson, worried that Sinn Féin-style pacifism had taken hold of GHQ, ‘to kill a couple of policemen for the country’s sake and leave it at that by running away would be so wanton, as to approximate too closely to murder.’

  ‘Then what do you propose to do?’ asked Collins.

  ‘Fight it out, of course.’

  ‘Mick Collins,’ Robinson said, ‘without having shown the slightest emotion during this short interview, now suddenly closed his notebook with a snap, saying as he strode off with the faintest of faint smiles on his lips but with a big laugh in his eyes: “That’s all right with me”.’

  7 – Gelignite

  Gelignite is made using a type of gun cotton dissolved in nitroglycerine and mixed with wood pulp and sodium or potassium nitrate. Its composition makes it easily mouldable and safe to handle without protection, so long as it’s not near anything that could detonate it. It is one of the cheapest of explosives, mainly used for large-scale blasting in the construction and mining industries. It burns slowly and cannot explode without a detonator. Because of this it can be stored safely. Unlike dynamite, gelignite does not suffer from the dangerous problem of sweating: the leaking of unstable nitroglycerine from the solid matrix.

  The Soloheadbeg gelignite – over one hundred pounds (forty-five kilos) of it in three wooden cases – was initially hidden in a ditch by the roadside at Lisheen Grove – Treacy and Breen’s old meeting place – and covered with leaves. They dumped the horse and cart elsewhere, and scattered a few sticks of gelignite nearby as a decoy.

  From the Tuesday of the ambush until the following Friday – 24 January – the boxes were left untouched. A small team of local Volunteers and Cumann na mBan women observed and guarded the concealed booty from a distance. Larry Power from Donohill and Norah O’Keefe, Breen and Treacy’s good friend, organised this.

  On one occasion a military truck drove right up to the hiding spot and broke down. This false alarm led to the decision to move the explosives somewhere less vulnerable. On the Friday night, Tom Carew (subsequently intelligence officer of the Third Tipperary Brigade) and his brother approached the explosives dump driving a cart loaded with timber. The brothers put the three cases on the driver’s seat, covering them with an overcoat. Carew then lit his pipe and drove off at a leisurely pace. As they moved away from the Grove several military vehicles passed them, stopping Carew because he had no lights on his cart. He told them there was no need for lights as there was a full moon.

  Carew then hid the consignment – covered with hay – in a mangold pit on his farm at Golden Garden, near Cashel, until a more secure hiding place could be dug on a part of his land where cattle foddered. All soil and sand was removed from the pit and thrown into a nearby stream. The boxes were then inserted into the hole. Alternate layers of clay and stones were placed on top of them, and finally, the topsoil was replaced.

  There the booty rested until, one day, fourteen lorries showed up at Golden Garden. Over 200 RIC men and soldiers spread out, armed with spades, picks and long spikes. They also had meticulously detailed maps of the farm. The raid that followed went on for hours.

  ‘When it started,’ Desmond Ryan reported in Seán Treacy and the Third Tipperary Brigade, ‘Carew was out working on the land and managed to conceal a revolver and get rid of some ammunition. As he entered the house he was placed under arrest and armed guard along with the other members of his family.’

  The British forces carefully scrutinised and probed the entire farm. Carew, alert to the fact that he had probably been the victim of a well placed informer, could hear excited shouting going on all around the farmhouse.

  Eventually, down by the stream, a shrill whistle was blown and there was animated yelling. Virtually every one of the searchers dashed to the scene, leaving only a handful of men to guard the Carew family. ‘On the very spot where the dump had been sunk,’ wrote Ryan, ‘the raiders were working furiously, spades, picks and spikes all in action.’ The spikes were thrust deeply into the exact place where the boxes were buried. It subsequently emerged that a spike had even struck one of the boxes and broken off a splinter of wood from its lid.

  Amazingly, the men failed to discover the boxes and eventually the search was called off. The gelignite rested easy at Golden Garden until the following November, by which time the tentative war which its capture initiated was getting into full swing.

  Around 10 November one box was sent to the south Tipperary brigade HQ, one to the Tipperary town battalion and one to the Rosegreen district. It was first used during an attack on Drombane Hall in January 1920.

  ‘Shortly before the Truce, what was left of the gelignite taken at Soloheadbeg was used to destroy Ballydrehid and Alleen bridges,’ said Tadgh Crowe. ‘Ballydrehid Bridge was blown up by the battalion staff, that is by Brian Shanahan, Arthur Barlow, James Maloney, Matt Barlow and myself. I was present too at the destruction of Alleen Bridge. That was about a week before the Truce and I may say that I felt a sense of relief at seeing the end of that gelignite. Its history and its hairbreadth escapes from recapture by the military and police after the Soloheadbeg ambush … were almost as varied and as exciting as those of any of the men who took it.’

  8 – The Knocklong Rescue

  The impressive thing about the rescue of Seán Hogan at Knocklong train station on the evening of Tuesday, 13 May 1919, was the manner in which the rest of the Big Four acted in instant harmony, like a hammer coming down on a nail. In My Fight for Irish Freedom, Breen would claim that they all felt it was ‘the decree of history’ that they would stand or fall together. Knocklong bears out this poignant contention.

  On Sunday, 11 May, a late night dance took place at Kilshenane. Eamon O’Duibhir, the host, said that, ‘the young and the brave and the beautiful from the countryside were there in great numbers. Seán O’Treasaigh, Seán Hogan, Séamus Robinson and, I think, Dan Breen were there. We were all there.’

  Mick Davern (Second Tipperary Brigade and, later, a popular Fianna Fáil TD) remembered: ‘Séamus, Dan, Seán and J. J. [Seán Hogan] and about seventy or eighty couples attended the dance which was under a heavy guard and covered by excellent scouting. The dance continued without incident until 5 a.m. … I had been keeping company with Mary O’Brien of Rossmore who was a prominent Cumann na mBan girl for some years and Seán Hogan was in love with Bridie O’Keefe of Glenough. Hogan intimated to me that he was returning with me to Rossmore. I informed Seán Treacy, who warned me, “Don’t leave him out of your sight and I will wait for ye at Lacey’s Cross”, which was near Glenough. I pumped Hogan’s bike and the four of us proceeded towards the village of Ballagh. When we got there Hogan asked me for the pump again, I handed it to hi
m; he put it his pocket and said, “Tell the boys I’ll be in Glenough about four this evening”. I argued with him and told him of my promise to Seán Treacy and tried to get hold of his bike, but he jumped on it shouting, “Two is company, three is a crowd”.’

  For the first time in his life Davern dreaded his next meeting with Treacy, where he would have to explain what had happened. When they met, Treacy, known for his even temper, was visibly exasperated. He said he would have disciplinary action taken against Hogan and fumed that this was not Hogan’s first breach of authority. ‘This is not your fault, Mick,’ he said to Davern. ‘and this is not the first time he did such things. I will teach him sense when I get hold of him.’

  On 12 May, Hogan was advised, as he breakfasted and relaxed in the farmhouse where he’d stayed overnight, that there was about to be a raid. A party of RIC was approaching with the intention of making a low-key inspection of the farmhouse, as opposed to hunting for one of the Soloheadbeg gang.

  Hogan proceeded to walk directly into, instead of escaping from, the search party. His friends attributed his arrest to his unfamiliarity with the terrain but it seems that he could easily have escaped if he’d listened to his hosts. This debacle was an example of what was kindly referred to as his lack of common sense.

  At the time of his arrest, Hogan was not identified; he was really detained because he was caught trying to make an escape. Transferred to Thurles, he was interrogated there and, eventually, recognised as one of the notorious ‘Soloheadbeg Murder Gang’. Security was tightened around him as plans were made to transfer him to Cork.

  When Robinson, Treacy and Breen heard of Hogan’s arrest and that he was in Thurles, they made an urgent decision to rescue him. In the preceding years they and their friends had been in and out of prison often so they knew all about the entire process of arrest, custody and incarceration. It was likely that Hogan would very soon be transferred – by train – to Cork. They would free him while he was in transit on that train.

  Assistance of various sorts was sought and, in the meantime, they set about choosing a suitable train station at which to stage the rescue. Goold’s Cross, Emly and Knocklong were considered suitably small and unguarded.

  Treacy established a mission headquarters at Maloney’s of Lackelly, not far from Emly. There, in the early hours of 13 May, Robinson, Breen and Treacy sat around the breakfast table and worked out a plan. Treacy fretted about which station would prove the best bet, which would be furthest from RIC and army reinforcements, and which would allow the greatest hope of a getaway. The freeing of J. J. Hogan – as everybody knew him – was due to be an all-Tipperary action, but local factors intervened.

  Emly and Knocklong, being in Co. Limerick, were outside the Tipperary men’s brigade area. There were friendly ties between the east Limerick and south Tipperary IRA – they regularly co-operated on important jobs – but the Galbally brigade, within whose area the rescue was to be attempted, were territorial enough. They were happy to allow the Big Three across their borders but they baulked at allowing virtual hordes of Tipperary fighters into their space.

  Mick Davern from Cashel had been approached on 12 May by Patrick McCormack, one of the Soloheadbeg gang, with a verbal instruction from Séamus Robinson. Davern was to proceed immediately to mobilise twenty-five men – or as many as he could arm – and to bring them under cover to within striking distance of Goold’s Cross train station. ‘I carried out this order,’ said Davern. ‘I had them billeted in an old shed about one and a half miles from the station. Some of the men had no idea why they were there, but they were told that they would have no option but to fight in a few hours. They were quite happy and I told them that if the fight came off I had arranged for Father Matt Ryan to give them General Absolution.’

  The next morning Davern was told that the plan had changed. Now the rescue would be done at Emly and, more importantly, his Tipperary men would not be needed. The Galbally battalion would supply enough men and whatever else was required.

  At Lackelly, the decision was finally made to stage the rescue at Knocklong. The countryside around Knocklong was quiet and, on one side of the station, deserted. The two nearest barracks were more than three miles away.

  Using an elaborate panoply of lookouts, telegrams and local Volunteers, a theoretically foolproof scheme was worked out. Women and men set about watching Thurles Barracks, train station and points in between there and Knocklong. Coded telegrams would be used to convey news of Hogan’s movements.

  At 1.29 p.m. the morning train from Dublin pulled into Knocklong. Hogan’s pals went on board but found no sign of him. The three then returned to Lackelly and prepared to meet the evening train, due into Knocklong at 8 p.m. Five Galbally IRA men were recruited and made their way to Lackelly where the plan was being revised.

  As the Cork-bound train made its way south, four Galbally Volunteers got on board at Emly, the stop which preceded Knocklong. They soon discovered that Hogan was on the train, guarded by four armed RIC men.

  They were to warn the Knocklong rescuers – Breen, Robinson, Treacy and Eamonn O’Brien, a Galbally man closely linked to the Big Four – that Hogan was there and to indicate exactly which compartment he was held in.

  Hogan sat in a compartment, handcuffed and seated between Sergeant Wallace and Constable Enright. Both men carried revolvers. Opposite Hogan there were two other constables, Ring and Reilly, both bearing shotguns. Sergeant Wallace was an important political officer, his pre-eminence shown by the fact that he was in charge of a key prisoner like Hogan.

  Treacy and Eamonn O’Brien walked down to Knocklong station, while Breen and Robinson entered the town on bikes. Breen and Robinson were to linger around the station entrance, acting as lookouts, while O’Brien and Treacy went in to free Hogan.

  When the train pulled into the station, two of the Galbally men jumped out before it ground to a halt. One of them pointed to the compartment where Hogan sat under guard. Treacy and O’Brien strode onto the train, revolvers drawn.

  They made their way to Hogan’s compartment, thrust open its sliding door and shouted, ‘Hands up! Come on, Seán, out!’ Constable Enright placed a revolver against Hogan’s neck and crouched in behind him for cover. Treacy and O’Brien opened fire, killing Enright. ‘We certainly would never have fired if Enright had not made a move to attack Hogan,’ O’Brien later maintained.

  Hogan jumped up and crashed his handcuffed hands right into the face of Constable Ring, seated opposite him. Treacy and Wallace wrestled viciously with one another, while Eamonn O’Brien and Constable Reilly fell into a similar struggle. Then the Galbally contingent stormed onto the train virtually unarmed and wrenched Reilly’s shotgun away from him. One of them smashed him across the head with his own weapon and he collapsed onto the floor, apparently knocked out. Constable Ring either jumped out a window or was thrown out through it. This was the last that was seen or heard of him for some time.

  Treacy, still wrestling with Wallace, told Hogan to leave the train. The teenager withdrew, with difficulty, as far as the corridor. There were now so many people in the small compartment that chaos reigned. While the tenacious Wallace and the resolute Treacy remained locked in combat, Treacy repeatedly appealed to the powerfully built sergeant to give it up but one man was as stubborn as the other.

  Wallace was now getting the upper hand in his struggle with Treacy. The two were grappling desperately for control of Wallace’s Webley revolver, whose barrel was remorselessly turning in the direction of Treacy’s head. Eamonn O’Brien fired at Wallace just as the policeman put a bullet through Treacy’s neck.

  Wallace fell back, mortally wounded. The rescue party was now in a position to get off the train. Treacy had little fight left in him. He later told a friend: ‘I thought I was a dead man. I had to hold my head up with both hands, but I knew I could walk.’

  As they made to leave they heard a shotgun going off. Constable Reilly had either feigned unconsciousness or was rapidly coming round. According t
o the Tipperary Star: ‘when he recovered from the staggering jab he had received in the affray, he dashed out firing shots like a man entirely out of his senses. The stationmaster, amongst others, had a narrow shave from random bullets.’

  Breen and Robinson rushed onto the platform. Breen fired fiercely at O’Reilly with an accuracy that forced him to withdraw, thereby taking pressure off the retreating rescuers. O’Reilly hit Breen twice during their fight, one bullet going through Breen’s lung, the other injuring his arm.

  While all this was going on, Robinson seems to have kept his distance. He may not have been a coward, but neither does it seem that he was much use in the heat of battle. Desmond Ryan, in his hagiographic account of the adventure, Daring Rescue of Seán Hogan at Knocklong Station is soothingly discreet about Robinson’s input: ‘Panic still reigned and it was some minutes before Robinson could discover the actual position. He saw, however, that the worst had not happened. He prepared to intervene as soon as he could with effect … A thought flashed into his mind, a curious oversight in the plans … there had been no provision against any attempt to start the train. Robinson hurried quickly to the spot where he could keep his eye and his gun on the engine driver. The next minute he saw Treacy, Breen and Hogan and knew that the rescue had indeed succeeded.’

  Robinson’s indecision, timidity and commitment to the rules of war – as he interpreted them – would gradually isolate him from the fighters he commanded. However, on that Knocklong platform, after fifteen minutes of grim struggle, his cohorts were probably lucky to have at least one of their number fully operational; Treacy tottered on the edge of unconsciousness, Breen was delirious with pain and Hogan was still handcuffed.

  As the injured men were dragged away, Hogan rushed into a butcher’s shop and shouted at the startled butcher, ‘Take them off! Take them off!’, as he held up his hands. The butcher’s wife bolted the shop door, got a seven pound weight with a deep groove in it and told Hogan to place his hands over the centre bar of the weight. Her husband took his cleaver and, with one good belt, broke the handcuffs. Hogan was then guided out through the back door of the house and pointed in the direction of open country. He soon caught up with the others. The Big Four were reunited, having pulled off the sort of stunt from which legends are made.