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

by Dalton, Charles

  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.

  Chapter XXVI

  The day after my escape from Nemo I was instructed by a senior member of the intelligence staff to verify a report which had been received concerning Nemo. It was reported that he and his men lunched in the Ormond Restaurant on the quay, close to Dublin Castle.

  I was badly shaken by my experience of the day before and I refused to obey this order, as I knew I would be recognized by them. I said I would go with a party of Volunteers and attack them, but that I would not go unarmed and alone, and become a voluntary victim of their campaign.

  My refusal greatly angered this officer, and to bring home to me my insubordination, he arranged with the assistant D/I to have me transferred to a new office we had just secured over a Picture House in Great Brunswick Street.

  I felt I was in disgrace, but I was satisfied that I had acted logically.

  That afternoon we transferred a duplicate set of papers and some revolvers to a new office. With two separate offices, and duplicates of all papers, we could not be completely disorganized in the event of a raid on one of them.

  In the new office I was unpacking the guns when a small automatic caught my attention. I was looking it over with great interest when suddenly, with a loud report, it went off.

  I was dumbfounded, and hastily laying it down I felt a terrible pain in my left hand, which was pouring blood.

  My companions broke out into a violent storm of abuse for my carelessness, fearing for the safety of the office which we had only just acquired. Only one lad, Paddy, did not blame me, but rushing out, brought me back a glass of brandy, which I immediately drank with great appreciation.

  One of the boys got a cab from a nearby hazard to bring me to hospital. I was in great pain. I wrapped a handkerchief round my hand, and getting into the cab we drove up Brunswick Street, where, to my further dismay, the horse stumbled and fell.

  I had to get out of the cab, while a curious crowd quickly gathered. I was a conspicuous figure, holding my hand in a now scarlet handkerchief. I am sure they connected me with an ambush.

  I was most uneasy, fearing every moment that the troops would come on the scene. But with so many willing helpers the horse was soon pulled up onto his legs again and we proceeded on our way.

  When I entered the accident ward of the hospital a doctor quickly put a first-aid dressing on my wound. As soon as he was finished he told me to clear off, as the military might be along any time.

  ‘Wait now, a minute,’ he said, ‘give me some name or other. We are compelled to keep a register of people treated for wounds and are supposed to detain them pending the arrival of the authorities.’

  I invented a name and address, and being urged again by the doctor to hurry away I lost no time in obeying him.

  That evening I received a message that I was not to go near any of our offices till my wound was healed. Entering any one of them with a bandaged hand, I might draw attention to them.

  I suffered great pain and had great difficulty in getting my wound dressed. I had to keep indoors for about a week, as to be held up by a patrol would be fatal.

  Every second or third day, dodging any military lorries I met, I made my way to a friendly doctor, Dr John Ryan, who lived in Gardiner Street.

  He dressed my wound, first running a steel rod through the hand to keep the wound open, as it had turned septic. This caused me excruciating agony, and as I have always been terrified of pain the ordeal tried me sorely.

  After a week I had him put a small dressing over the wound, and putting the injured hand in my pocket (ignoring his instructions about carrying my arm in a sling), I returned to duty.

  Chapter XXVII

  Joe, Jimmy and I had retired to bed in the dispensary as usual on the night of Holy Thursday, 1921.

  During the early hours of the morning we were awakened by loud noises outside. Peeping out through the curtains we were alarmed to see lorry loads of troops drawn up in the street.

  Just outside our window a large tank was stationed. This sight quite overwhelmed us. Glued to the spot and shivering, undressed, we watched the soldiers. They were driving iron stakes into the ground, and putting barbed wire entanglements across the street. Then a field kitchen was driven up.

  Now we knew! An investment was taking place. They were closing in our area preparatory to combing out every house in it.

  Filled with consternation, we hurriedly dressed ourselves, and Joe went to see whether it would be possible for us yet to make our way out at the back. He returned to tell us there was a sentry in the lane.

  From our bedroom, we could hear someone being halted. We listened to the voices. He was a baker going to work. They were detaining him.

  It was now five o’clock. Curfew was over. We held a whispered consultation. We agreed that our only chance of escape was to try to make a get-away from the back. As it was, we were trapped and had to take our chance.

  We decided that if we were caught we would try to bluff, saying we were milkmen and had to be out early. We left our guns behind to be able to play our part.

  Noiselessly we opened the back gate and peering up the lane we saw the Tommy standing on duty, with his back to us. There was a chance.

  The other end of the lane was a cul-de-sac, and without making a sound we tiptoed to the wall, hoping to God the sentry would not turn round.

  We crossed the wall, and found ourselves in a back garden. We crouched down, waiting to hear a challenge.

  None came.

  After that, with hope in our hearts, we crossed several other walls until we came to an alleyway which brought us out onto the North Circular Road.

  On the road, not a hundred yards away, we saw three tenders of Auxiliaries. They had been raiding a house and had not yet left it, so we made our way in the opposite direction.

  We had not gone very far
when we heard the cars coming after us. At that moment a hall-door opened and a postman asked us the time. Joe seized his opportunity. Walking up to the door to answer the question, we saw him push the postman before him into the hall and shut the door after him.

  Jimmy and I were now alone, and we hurried down the first side street we met and turned into a laneway. My heart was beating at a terrible speed, and, sure that we had been seen, we stood together listening for the sound of the approaching cars.

  Then we heard them pass by, continuing on their way.

  Exulting, we waited until Joe came along and joined us, when we made our way to my home where we enjoyed a hearty breakfast.

  As soon as we had finished, we set out again to discover what was happening round the dispensary. We learned that they had drawn a cordon round the whole vicinity. The procedure was as usual. All the men in the houses were brought out and questioned and scrutinized by their intelligence men. Many Volunteers were captured in this way. During the three days that the troops remained in possession, every house was ransacked, and in some stables which were used as dumps by the Squad, large quantities of arms and ammunition were discovered, including a dump of Jimmy’s.

  These seizures greatly crippled us, as our supplies of ammunition and hand-grenades were very limited, and it had become well-nigh impossible to smuggle fresh supplies into the country.

  When the investment was lifted and the troops had departed to repeat their activities in another area, we made our way cautiously to the dispensary.

  To our joy and comfort we found old John safe in the house and quite undisturbed, just as we always found him on our return each evening. We had had no hope but that he had been arrested or shot on the discovery of the box full of arms in our room. To our surprise we learned, in reply to our questions, while as usual he volunteered no opinion, that for some unaccountable reason the dispensary had not been visited. It was the only building in the whole area to escape the search.

  The house next to the dispensary (which was on the outside edge of the invested area) was used as their headquarters by the military during their three days’ occupation.

  Chapter XXVIII

  In late April 1921 I was instructed one evening by the assistant D/I to report to the Plaza Hotel in Gardiner’s Row. This building was being used as the offices of a trade union body, and one of the offices was now our brigade headquarters.

  When I walked into the room I saw several staff officers assembled. Among them was the director of intelligence, Michael Collins.

  I knew Michael by sight, but this was the first occasion on which I met him face to face. He was sitting at a table and he gave me a friendly nod when I reported to him.

  I felt very important to be in such company, but at the same time the presence of Michael completely overawed me. I was very vexed with myself not to be able to be at my ease, as I was most anxious to make a good impression.

  He told me that the superintendent of the Corporation abattoir (who was also a Volunteer officer) had reported to him that an armoured car called to the abattoir each morning at six o’clock to escort supplies of meat to the military barracks.

  ‘I want you to go to the superintendent’s house,’ he said, ‘and observe the movements of the crew, and see if there is any possibility of capturing the car.’

  Seán MacEoin was a prisoner in Mountjoy Jail. He was a fine and chivalrous soldier, having conducted the campaign in Longford with brilliant success and great humanity. But he had been captured after an ambush, and was awaiting his court-martial at which he was certain to be sentenced to be hanged. Michael Collins was determined to rescue him, and with the help of an armoured car there was a chance. I was to take up residence in the superintendent’s house and to make my observations over several mornings.

  The next night shortly before curfew I went to the house. The superintendent’s wife, Mrs Lynch, was expecting me. Her husband, the Volunteer, was ‘on the run’ and very much wanted by the authorities, so that he was unable to sleep at home. The house was raided for him from time to time, which added to the precariousness of my position.

  My hostess welcomed me warmly. She made me acquainted with her two young children, and showed me over the house. From the drawing-room window, which faced onto the abattoir, she pointed out the position usually occupied by the car.

  It was moonlight, and, while paying due attention to what Mrs Lynch was telling me, my eyes wandered round looking for a possible way of escape in the event of a raid on the house. To my horror I saw something else – a sight calculated to strike far greater fear to my soul than the approach of any number of armed men. Below me, scurrying about in the moonlight, were shoals of rats!

  I withdrew hastily from the window, making up my mind that, if that were my only way out, I would cheerfully allow myself to be murdered in my bed.

  I was then shown to my room, which looked most comfortable and inviting, and after an excellent supper I retired for the night. Mrs Lynch promised to call me in good time so that I could watch the arrival of the armoured car in the morning.

  She was as good as her word and, hurriedly dressing myself, I went down and took up my position by the drawing-room window. Kneeling down, I could see, through the lace fringe at the bottom of the blind, all that was going on.

  I saw the arrival of the armoured car. It accompanied two lorries, and while it pulled up exactly on the spot opposite the window, only a dozen paces away, which Mrs Lynch had pointed out to me, the lorries were driven on up the yard to be loaded with the meat.

  I saw the door of the car opened. Four soldiers got out. They were dressed in dungarees and each had a revolver on the holster of his belt. Lighting cigarettes, they stood chatting.

  It was a double-turreted car and I knew the crew consisted of six men. On getting out, one of the soldiers had locked in the other two by fastening a small padlock on the door.

  Morning after morning at six o’clock I took up my position behind the window and saw this performance repeated. The lorries, conducted by the armoured car, made several journeys with their cargoes of meat to and from the various barracks. While they were away I had my breakfast and made friends with the two children of whom I had grown very fond.

  Every morning I made my observations and every day I reported them to Liam.

  After a week I was summoned to another meeting at brigade headquarters. On this occasion we met at Barry’s Hotel, a few doors from the Plaza, where to my surprise and gratification I again saw Michael Collins.

  We sat around a table. Michael asked me to tell him what I had seen and what my opinion was in view of my observations.

  I described the arrival of the car, the several journeys it made and the conduct of the crew. I produced a sketch of my own, showing the position usually occupied by the car when in the abattoir.

  They heard me out without interruption.

  When I had finished, Michael Collins addressed me.

  ‘I take it from your report you consider it possible to capture the car?’

  ‘I do, Sir,’ said I, ‘but our success depends upon the exact arrival of our men at the opportune moment, which may only occur very occasionally.’

  I had already explained to the meeting that during the dozen or so times I had had the car under observation only on one occasion did the whole crew leave it. Until such another occasion arose we could not capture it. When it did arise, it would be necessary for our men to be at hand to seize it instantly.

  This seemed to satisfy Michael.

  ‘Since they left it once, they will probably do so again,’ he said.

  He then addressed the others in turn.

  He first questioned Pat McCrea.

  Pat is a County Wicklow man, about forty years of age, an older man than most of us. He was out in the Larkin Strike and took part in the Rising, and was always to be found wherever there was any hard fighting to be done. Of a gentle disposition and charming manner, he endeared himself to everyone who ever had the ple
asure of serving with him. Meeting him, it would not occur to you that he was a soldier, on account of the mildness of his address. Only, if you were observant, you might notice a directness in his glance which corrected your impression of his entirely peaceful disposition. He was our crack driver and took part in practically every action in Dublin.

  In reply to Michael Collins’s question, Pat said that while he had never driven a car of this make – a Peerless – he was sure he could get it to go.

  I could see that his assurance was quite enough for Michael, who immediately proceeded with the rest of the business.

  Two gunners had to be found, a spare driver and two other Volunteers to make up a complete crew.

  Michael then unfolded his plans.

  The car was to be captured by a swift and, so far as possible, silent attack. This was necessary as the Marlboro’ Barracks was close at hand and no alarm must be raised. The soldiers were to be held up while the car was driven off. The car would proceed from the abattoir to the North Circular Road, where two Volunteers would join it. These two men were my brother Emmet (whom I had introduced into the Volunteers on his return from the European War) and Joe Leonard, my friend of the dispensary.

  Emmet and Joe would be ready waiting, each dressed in one of Emmet’s British officer uniforms. They were to be taken into the car, which was then to be driven direct to Mountjoy Jail.

  Michael described in detail the plan for gaining admission to the prison. He instructed Emmet and Joe in the steps they were to take – in their role of British officers obeying orders from Dublin Castle – to secure the custody of Seán MacEoin. He produced duplicate keys which he had had made from the wax impressions he had received from friendly warders inside the prison.