1972 (7 page)

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Authors: Morgan Llywelyn

BOOK: 1972
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Not all IRA operations that night went smoothly. A plan to blow up bridges in County Fermanagh went awry because the mines used were not powerful enough to destroy the concrete pillars. An attack on the RAF radar installation at Torr Head was intercepted at the last moment; gunshots were exchanged and three Volunteers were arrested.
But the opening salvo of the campaign could be considered a qualified success.
The combined Garland-Daly column fell back to South Armagh to await new orders. Irritable and frustrated, the men put together a makeshift camp and tried to get some sleep. The only dry place was inside the lorries.
In the morning Phil O'Donoghue went to the nearest village for milk for their tea, and a newspaper. He returned in a state of elation. “This made the early edition!” he said, waving the paper.
The men crowded around him. Barry read over Feargal's shoulder.
December 12, 1956
IRA ISSUES CAMPAIGN PROCLAMATION
Spearheaded by Ireland's freedom fighters, our people in the Six Counties have carried the fight to the enemy. We seek an independent, united, democratic Irish Republic. For this we shall fight until the invader is driven from our soil and victory is ours.
2
The words swelled in Barry's soul like a balloon going up.
That afternoon new orders arrived. “We'll be moving out again,” Garland told them. “We're going to attack Lisnaskea Barracks in County Fermanagh tomorrow night.”
For once the promised transport—three small trucks and a bakery van—arrived on time. The men piled inside. Their route led through Monaghan, where IRA field headquarters had been set up, to Fermanagh. Along the way Dave O'Connell “liberated” fifty pounds of gelignite from a small-town armoury and Charlie Murphy used the explosive to construct a large mine.
A
T Lisnaskea the members of the Royal Ulster Constabulary were billeted together with a squad of B-Specials. The Lisnaskea Barracks was a three-storey building in the main street of the town, with civilian houses on either side. Across the road from the barracks was a house occupied by the parish priest. On this evening the bitter cold and sleet were keeping everyone indoors.
At dusk a couple of Volunteers knocked at the priest's door. “We're here to free occupied Ireland, Father. Would you kindly remove yourself for a little while to avoid accidental injury?”
3
“If the time of my death has come,” the old man replied, “I'll meet it here in my own house, thank you.”
The rest of the group parked behind an outhouse not far from the barracks. As soon as darkness fell, the attack party advanced on their target while the drivers waited with their vehicles, ready to make a getaway. As Charlie Murphy was lifting the mine from the back of a lorry the driver's foot slipped off the brake and hit the accelerator. The truck lurched forward.
The mine fell at Murphy's feet. Mercifully, it failed to explode—the detonator was not yet attached.
Breathing hard, Murphy completed the arming of his device. Barry Halloran and Seán South carried it to the entrance porch of the barracks, then ran back to crouch behind the lorries while Charlie Murphy triggered the detonator.
Fifty pounds of gelignite blasted open the barracks door. The porch collapsed into the street in a cloud of dust and splinters. The brick walls of the building remained standing, however, protecting the RUC as they opened fire through the windows.
The Volunteers shot back as best they could. Unfortunately the Garland and Daly contingents had not yet drilled together and kept getting in each other's way. To make matters worse, when Seán South tried to fire the Bren, the usually reliable weapon failed to operate.
“We can't move closer without getting right in their line of fire,” Seán Garland said in frustration. Murphy suggested they pull out and O'Connell agreed. “The chief constable's probably on the radio right now, calling for reinforcements.”
The Volunteers climbed back into the trucks and roared away.
“All that effort and we only destroyed a porch. A porch!” Barry lamented.
It was Feargal's turn to console him. “At least we fired at the enemy this time, that's something.”
T
HEY arrived at field headquarters in Monaghan shortly after daylight, eager to hear how other operations were doing. “Kavanagh's column hit the Derrylin Barracks last night,” they were told, “and walked straight into an RUC ambush. Kavanagh himself was shot, but when they arrived here a little while ago we found the bullet had only destroyed his belt buckle and left a mighty bruise on his belly.”
Field headquarters had a radio, so, after some food and a brief rest, Garland and his men crowded around to listen. It became obvious that the coordinated attacks of the twelfth and thirteenth had caught everyone off guard. Northern Ireland was in turmoil.
The RUC was mobilising on an emergency basis. The
B-Specials, however, were having difficulties. Some of the militia were eager to fight but a significant number wanted to go home. They might enjoy battering individual Catholics in their homes and shops, but they did not relish confronting an organised army.
After dark, country roads were abandoned to the IRA. Businesses closed early. Tens of thousands of legally held guns belonging to northern Protestants—Catholics were not allowed to have guns—were loaded in the name of self-defence. More than one nervous householder shot his dog or his own foot by mistake.
The prime minister of Northern Ireland left for London to confer urgently with Anthony Eden and the British government. The British ambassador to the Republic, Sir Alexander Clutterbuck, gave the Irish minister for external affairs a stiff note expressing Her Majesty's displeasure.
John A. Costello disapproved of the IRA's actions, but refused to order wholesale arrests of republicans just to satisfy the British. The taoiseach knew that such an action might cause a major public outcry. Following the IRA announcement of intent, the Irish people were experiencing a resurgence of patriotism.
B
y the fifteenth of December, Operation Harvest had moved out of field headquarters and dispersed throughout the region.
I
N Rostrevor, County Down, Barry Halloran stood in the doorway of a small hardware store and gazed out at the empty street. Nearby Carlingford Lough, where a flotilla of fishing boats rode at anchor, was leaden beneath a leaden sky.
“Drismal,” Barry commented.
Feargal was sitting on a high stool behind the counter, mending a pair of socks. “Drismal?”
“A word my mam concocted. Drizzly and dismal.”
“Better than the snow we had yesterday.”
“I'd rather have the snow, it makes everything a fairyland.”
Feargal clucked his tongue. “A hopeless romantic, you. I'm more the practical type meself. How are your socks?”
“Full of holes.”
“Hand'em over, then. It'll pass the time.”
“I thought you offered to mind the store while the owner visits his wife in hospital.”
“I am minding it, there just aren't any customers. Catholic area, Catholic pockets. Empty.”
Barry perched on the end of the counter while he took off his boots. “These fit fine when I left home, but they're getting tight now,” he complained. He peeled off his socks and tossed them to his friend.
“Whew!” Feargal wrinkled his nose. “D'ye ever wash these at all?”
“They're every bit as clean as yours.”
“That's not saying much.”
Dave O'Connell strode purposefully up the street and into the store. “New orders just arrived. We're being pulled out of the north for the Christmas. That means you can go home for a few days, lads.”
Feargal winked at Barry. “God works in mysterious ways. Now your mammy can wash your socks for you.”
W
HILE she waited for the spuds to boil, Eileen Mulvaney fanned her face with her apron. Even in December a morning's baking made the kitchen uncomfortably hot for a fat woman.
The newspapers that came down from Dublin carried adverts for “gleaming white fridges with plastic trays for ice cubes.” Ice in cubes. The image was deliciously cooling. What a triumph it would be to announce the acquisition of a modern refrigerator to her friends over cups of tea! An event for serving caraway seed cake and looking smug.
The most common method of keeping food cool, in both town and country, was the meat safe: a raised wooden box outside the back door for storing milk and meat. None of the neighbouring farms had electric refrigerators. Few even had
telephones. If someone needed to make a call he went to the kiosk at the post office. The telephone had to be cranked with a heavy black handle like the handle of a skillet, and as the caller shouted down the line, the operator unashamedly listened in to the conversation.
Ursula had installed a telephone for the sake of business. The Halloran farmhouse had an indoor toilet as well, the ultimate mark of rural sophistication. But Eileen knew that Ursula would never consent to buying a gleaming white fridge. The only creatures she provided with luxuries were her horses.
Eileen sighed. Heaving her bulk off the chair, she went to the dresser to get the bowl of freshly laid eggs. She smeared her palms with butter, then rolled the eggs between them until the shells were thoroughly coated. Thus sealed, they would last for weeks. A box of buttered eggs packed in straw would fetch a premium price at the market.
The horses and cattle were Ursula's enterprise, but the butter-and-egg money was Eileen's.
She was tucking the last greasy egg into its straw nest when Ursula entered the kitchen. She was still wearing her riding boots. Eileen began to scold her for tracking mud on the flagstone floor. Then she saw Ursula's face. “What's wrong?” she asked in alarm.
“There's a telegram. I met the boy in the lane.”
Eileen put her hand to her heart. “Mother of God.” No one ever received telegrams unless there was dreadful news. “Who is it?” she whispered. “Has something happened to Barry?”
Wordlessly, Ursula extended her hand.
Eileen took the crumpled yellow paper from her and read, “Captain dead. Cancer. Funeral yesterday. My life is over. Henry.” She looked up. “What captain? What can this mean?”
“It's Ella Mooney. Henry always called his wife Cap'n, but I suppose the telegrapher couldn't use a contraction.”
“Oh, Ursula, I am sorry! I know you were fond of both of them.”
“Henry was Papa's best friend. And mine. When I was a child he called me Little Business, did you know that? And it was Ella's money that sent me to school in Europe and opened the world to me. Now …”
“Now you can't even go to the funeral.”
Ursula clenched her thumbs in her fists, an old habit when under stress. “I could have taken an aeroplane if only I'd known in time.”
“You mean
fly
to America?” Eileen was astonished. Flying was as exotic as an electric refrigerator.
Without pausing to take off her boots, Ursula went upstairs to her room and began composing a letter.
My dearest Henry,
Words are no good at a time like this, yet they are all I have to offer. My heart aches for you. From having been Ella's bridesmaid, I know that October marked your thirty-fourth wedding anniversary. I hope you celebrated, Henry. I pray that wretched disease allowed you some final, happy time together.
Please do not say your life is over. You may feel like that now, but remember how much Papa accomplished after Síle died. Remember also how much you are loved by
Your devoted
Little Business
Ursula put down her pen and turned toward the window. With unseeing eyes she gazed across a succession of paddocks. When the broodmares were turned out with their foals in the spring the paddocks would fill with new life. But she was thinking about death. Henry was seventy-three. Realistically, how long could he be expected to survive the woman he had adored? His feelings ran very deep. When Ned lay dying, Henry had made the long journey from America to be with him and put an end to their ancient quarrel.
Ned. How surprising that a man like Ned Halloran had died peacefully in his bed! Ursula, who knew his soul, had wished a warrior's death for him.
Barry.
She did not want a warrior's death for Barry. The only child she would ever have. Had the republican movement asked for her last drop of blood she would have given it without hesitation, but she did not want them to take so much as a hair from Barry's head. She knew she was being hypocritical—Ursula never lied to herself—but she yearned to have her son home this very minute, safe beneath her roof.
When he came striding down the lane the next morning it was as if the power of her thoughts had summoned him.
“I've come home for a new book of poetry,” he jauntily announced. “My copy of Ledwidge has gone to pieces.”
Ursula longed to hug him. Instead she cried, “How dare you give me such a fright! You put the heart crossways in me, going off without a word. I didn't know where you were, or how you were, or if you were lying dead in a ditch someplace. I should take a horsewhip to you!”
Barry waited until the tirade ended, then observed mildly, “A simple
Dia dhuit
n
would have been enough.”
T
HE prodigal was welcomed home with a prodigious meal. The big table in the kitchen groaned beneath roast chicken and ham, brown bread and soda bread and fruit scones, roasted potatoes and mashed potatoes, runner beans, carrots with parsnips, bowls of crisp breadcrumb stuffing, a jug of glossy brown gravy. When Barry protested he could eat no more, Eileen produced an apple tart hot from the oven and smothered it with thick yellow cream.
At last Barry pushed his chair back with a satisfied sigh. “I haven't eaten like that since I joined the Army.”
“I should think not,” his mother said with asperity. “You've just devoured the ingredients for our Christmas dinner.”
Eileen said, “Och, don't begrudge it to him. It does my heart good to have a man's appetite at table again.”
“He's not a man, he's a boy.”
“I'm a man, Ursula,” Barry contradicted. He pitched his voice as low as he could and was pleased with the way it resonated in his chest.
“A man wouldn't sneak out of here in the dead of night without telling anyone. That was a boy's prank.”
“If I told you I was going to join the Army, would you have let me go?”
“Of course not. You're too young.”
“There's younger than me in the IRA. Lads of only fourteen fought in the Rising.”
“That's different,” said Ursula.
“How is it different? You and I listened to the radio while boys of fifteen and sixteen fought the Red Army in the streets of Budapest. You thought they were heroic, you said so.”
Eileen's eyes twinkled. “He has you there, Ursula.”
A
N anomaly amongst the women of her era, when Ursula became pregnant with Barry she had defied priest-ridden, patriarchal Ireland to keep her child. Other women gave up their babies at birth, or even committed secret, desperate infanticides to keep from being disowned by their families, but Ursula Halloran had raised her son with her head held high. For years he was all she had.
With the passage of time, however, the relationship between mother and son had changed. Since inheriting the old Halloran farm Ursula had ruled it well and wisely; ruled the farm and everyone on it. But now Barry had escaped her benevolent dictatorship without her knowledge and she was upset.
Yet she loved him more than ever.
Centuries of harsh colonial rule that denigrated everything Irish had stripped the people of self-esteem. Ursula Halloran had rebelled against this tendency from earliest childhood, breaking the shackles that limited so many others. Perhaps this was what had given her the strength to keep Barry.
Throughout her son's childhood she had told him that he was intelligent and worthwhile. She had praised his achievements and encouraged him to be his own man.
Now he was. And more than that: He had embraced the republicanism that was her heart and soul.
T
HE morning after Barry's return he went on a tour of the farm. Familiar buildings, familiar fields; tangible reality that made his recent experiences seem a dream.
Did it really happen? Was I shooting at the RUC from behind a lorry? Were they shooting at me?
Back in his room, he sniffed the muzzle of his rifle and caught the faint, lingering smell of gunpowder.
T
HAT night at table he remarked, “Did you know there's a donkey in the upper pasture? A little piebald jack. I thought that field was set aside for next season's yearlings.”
“Donkeys have a right to eat too,” said Eileen. “Have another roast potato.”
“But where did he come from?”
“I met a tinker family in the road a few weeks ago,” Ursula told him. “Their horse had died and all they had left was a donkey. He was too small to pull a caravan but it didn't matter because their caravan was rotten clear through and falling apart. The family was living in appalling conditions even for tinkers. The adults were wretched enough, but the children were practically starving.
“I collected our old pots and pans for the tinker to mend and I offered to buy the donkey from him. I gave him more money than the creature was worth, it was almost as starved as the rest of them. But at least they will be able to eat for a while. And besides, Christmas is coming.”
Barry said, “I didn't know you had such a soft heart.”
“There's a lot about me you don't know.”
This, Barry mentally agreed, was true. Sometimes he thought his mother was like an onion. If you peeled away one layer there was another one underneath. On the farm she habitually dressed in shabby clothing and wore an old pair of men's trousers belted around her narrow waist. She walked with a long, unladylike stride. With her cropped hair and boyish figure she could have been mistaken for a farm labourer.
Yet she insisted on elegant table manners. By the time he was four the rules had been deeply ingrained in Barry. If soup or a bit of fish was served before the meat, it was called the first course and not “starters.” The knife must not be held like a writing pen. Elbows were not allowed on the table. One did not speak with food in one's mouth. When one finished eating, the cutlery must be arranged on the plate at “half past six,” to indicate that the plate could be carried away. A small portion of food must be left on the plate, however, to show that one was not greedy.
Born into an Ireland where memories of the Famine were still vivid, Eileen disapproved of the latter precept. Wasting food was a mortal sin. Before she washed the dishes she surreptitiously ate everything Ursula and Barry had left on their plates.

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