Espionage and Assasination with Michael Collins' Intelligence Unit: With the Dublin Brigade

by Dalton, Charles

  My first companions in this dug-out were arrested soon after we had taken possession of it, and I was left alone. This did not suit me at all, and I mentioned my loneliness to two of the Squad who were also in need of a hiding place, and they promptly accepted my invitation to join me.

  One of them was Joe Leonard, my comrade in the attack on the troops on the canal bridge, and the other was Jimmy Conroy, who had bought the paraffin to burn the Income Tax office.

  Joe, as a very young lad, had taken part in the Rising and was imprisoned after the surrender. On his return to his native city he took a prominent part in the early activities of the reorganized Volunteers. He became an electrical engineer, but in the hard black hat which he invariably wore, and a dark raincoat, he looked more like a clerical student. Of an even-tempered, cheerful disposition, his frequent, rippling laugh was not unlike the rattling sound of machine-gun fire.

  Jimmy was a painter by trade, and as a patriot he had been equally precocious. Before he was yet grown-up he had fought in the Rising by the side of his aged father. They were stationed together at Jacob’s Factory. He had a simple, affectionate heart and a pleasing manner. Anything mechanical was interesting to him, and he was very handy and useful in all practical affairs. Except for a few months learning his trade at the Liverpool Docks, he had lived all his life in Dublin. He was a deadly shot.

  Every night we returned to old John a few minutes before curfew.

  We met usually in a little dairy shop at the corner of an alley, lined with small cottages, which approached the laneway by which we gained admission to the dispensary. I had been appointed housekeeper, and I bought our rations in the dairy each night.

  Our suppers and breakfasts were always the same. Either tea and boiled eggs, or cocoa and bread and cheese. I was the only one of us who cared for cheese, of which I am very fond, so that I offered it to my companions at our meals only as a polite formality. But on one occasion they took it, with the result that there was none left for me, upon which I lost my temper, saying: ‘You did that on purpose. You know very well I have a passion for cheese.’ I was chaffed on this account for a long time afterwards.

  These two meals were usually the only ones we had, as it was very difficult to get dinner. It was too dangerous to go into one of the restaurants in the city as they were continually raided. Occasionally we were fortunate enough to run into a friend who brought us to his home and gave us a meal.

  But there was one month during which I got my dinner every day.

  Kevin Barry had been hanged in Mountjoy Jail on the 1st November. Owing to the jamming of his automatic he had fallen into the hands of the enemy during an attack. He was a medical student, and as he was only nineteen years old and very brave, with an attractive personality, his sad end had moved all hearts.

  The nuns in a convent nearby had sent a message to one of our officers through an intermediary. They asked if they might be allowed to give dinner each day for a month to a young Volunteer ‘in memory of Kevin Barry’.

  The offer was passed on to me and I accepted it. The convent was very handy. I was not of course asked my name, or any questions. Everyone seemed to know instinctively the need for discretion.

  The nuns called me ‘Kevin’. It seemed as if they could not make enough of me, and I was welcomed every day with the warmest reception.

  The Reverend Mother was quite young, with a very lovely face, and gentle, grey eyes. I used to notice her delicate, white hands. She was one of the two nuns who had permission to visit the prisons, and she was allowed to spend some hours with the condemned men on the eve of their execution.

  With her great piety she was also an ardent patriot, and her two-fold faith must have helped to sustain her through the ordeal of those prison vigils. She had been with Kevin Barry and was with all our men, nearly all of them very young, who were hanged afterwards. Her faith – that they were dying for Ireland and were going straight to Heaven – was without a shadow of doubt, and she was able to communicate this supreme confidence to them. So that through her courage (I have been told) at those farewell meetings, there was no fear or depression, but on the contrary an atmosphere of gaiety and hope.

  Our stay in the dispensary was most happy.

  I selected the enamel mug, and the other boys used the cups. We chatted for hours, sitting before the kitchen stove each night. The kitchen, looking out on the back, was the only room in which we dared to show a light. The whole front of the dispensary was always in darkness.

  When we retired to bed at last our room was illumined only by the rays of light from the street lamps. From our beds we could see the curfew patrols passing along the thoroughfare outside.

  We slept lightly, waking often with a start to hear a lorry pulling up outside. There was a building opposite – Lourdes’ Hall – which was often raided.

  Even in our slumbers, the sense of danger was always near us.

  Chapter XXIII

  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. Th
ey 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.

  Chapter XXIV

  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.

  Chapter XXV

  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 rep
eated 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.