CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE RESERVE DEFENCE FORCE

Time was moving on, and before long I had reached my sixteenth birthday. There was no big celebration or anything like that. In fact, I didn’t have a birthday party until I was twenty-one years of age. Some of my friends had joined the Reserve Defence Force or An Forsa Cosanta Aituil, to give it its Irish name. It was also called the FCA, or “Free Clothing Association,” to quote some of the smart alecks around. They asked me if I would join and I told them I’d ask my father if it was all right with him. Before I could do that however, Gerard, an older brother, invited me to join the Fianna Boy Scouts. A whole gang of us set off one evening to the meeting hall that was located on Blackhorse Avenue near to the Phoenix Park, only to find that the police had raided it. It was only then that I realised it was the junior section of the IRA. I didn’t have a problem with this anyway, but one of the instructors who met us on our way to the meeting place advised us to keep away until he got in contact at a later date.

A week or so later, I asked my father if it was all right with him for me to join the FCA. He wasn’t too keen at first, and he was at pains to tell me that there were no heroes in war. “It’s a nasty business and you should keep as far away from the army as you can,” he said. But I persisted and he agreed, only if I joined the Medical Corps, in view of my first-aid experience with the Ambulance Brigade. So the following Thursday, I accompanied my pals to Collin’s Barracks to sign on. They had warned me that the qualifying age was seventeen years, but if I had a Social Welfare Number, I could lie my way in. I duly took my Social Welfare “Blue Card” with me and tried to look as old as I could.

A Lieutenant Byrne interviewed me and insisted that I was only fourteen years of age. To be fair to him, I did look much younger than my actual age. So much so, that I could still get away with paying half-fare on the bus. I pulled out my “Blue Card,” and returning his look, insisted that I was seventeen. “That’s your brother’s card,” he said, “we get that all the time here.”

“No Sir, it’s mine,” I said, “I work for the Electricity Supply Board.”

“Okay,” he said, “but I’m putting your name down in my notebook alongside all the other under age guys who’ve joined.” I smiled and said nothing further. “Right,” he said, “stand against that wall.” He pointed at a wall on which were calibrations for measuring height. There was a timber ridge just below the chart and I put my heels on it to give me a bit of extra height. The lads had told me about this before I entered his office. He finally accepted me and issued me with my LA-89 identification book. I resigned from the St. John Ambulance Brigade the very next week.

He took a real liking to me and asked what exactly my job was in the ESB. I explained that among other things, I operated the new photocopy machine. Copying machines were very much in their infancy then. This one was manufactured by Agfa Gaevart, Ltd., and was wet process. I had to mix up the chemicals for it and keep it clean and in good order. It was used to copy confidential documents at times, and it surprised him to know that I would be trusted to that extent. I explained that I had signed a document that bound me to secrecy, and it would cost me my job if I were to discuss any of the Board’s business with outsiders, especially since the Board’s customers were members of the general public. Their information was strictly private.

He was so impressed with hearing what I had to say that, about six months later, he invited me to an interview with his company. He was a director of Ballsbridge Motors, Ltd., a main Volkswagen dealer and there was an opening in the parts department that he felt would suit my talents better. The problem was… he didn’t give me enough time to apply for a half-day’s leave of absence from the Board, and he suggested that I go sick. I did this and had a successful interview. If it hadn’t worked out in my favour, I would’ve been in a lot of trouble in my future career. Next day back at work, I was told to report to Mr. C, who proceeded to grill me like a criminal. His abuse upset me so much that when he asked me what my father would think of my behaviour, I told him that it wouldn’t do his health any good if my father got to know how he was treating me. He was apoplectic, and I thought he was about to hit me. As a punishment, he transferred me out of the addressing section and into a Hall Porter position. This is where I would have to spend the rest of my working life, he said. My boss in Adrema kicked up a real fuss about this, but he was over-ruled. In fact, he came out to the porter’s desk one day and brought me back into his department. The little Nazi kicked up murder, and I was promptly returned to the hall, where I was condemned to rot mentally. I was told specifically, that I was not to read books or study materials of any description while I was at my desk. He was determined that I was not going to progress if he had anything to do with it. Soon afterwards, I resigned and joined the motor company. Many years later, having left the motor company to join my family in England, I returned to the ESB looking for him to give him a piece of my mind, only to find that he had died a short time before.

It seems strange that I was to meet a namesake of his in recent years who was just as obnoxious. It must be in the genes. By this time of my life, I had decided to let him answer to a higher power. His behaviour induced me to retire finally. Now, I thank God almost daily for the freedom that I now enjoy in working around my garden.

While I was working at the porter’s desk, I got to see the new intake of female staff, all of whom were from the country areas. One of them seemed to like me very much. It was leap year, a time when a girl is entitled to ask a guy to marry her. Before long, I received a note with a love poem written therein. I can only remember the last line… it said, “If for me there is no hope, then send me back ten yards of rope.” She was taking full advantage of the year that was in it, or so it seemed. I had a good idea who it was, but couldn’t be sure as it was signed with a nom-de-plume. Considering that I was on a very low wage and that all of the girls had passed their “Leaving Certificate,” not only would they be paid more than me, the highest I could expect to rise to would be a “Grade C Clerk,” (if I ever got away from the Hall Porter job) that was way below what they would achieve. I felt inadequate and besides, I wasn’t sure if this might have been a joke. So I wove a hangman’s noose out of some parcel cord, and placing it in an envelope I asked one of the girls to pass it to the writer of the letter. It had indeed come from the girl I had in mind. She was lovely, with light blonde hair and bright blue eyes.

We did get around to talking, and she asked me if I would show her around Dublin, since she was new to the city. I agreed and she asked if we could meet the following evening. I told her that I had planned to see a film in the Grafton Cinema. It was called At the Balalaika, and starred Nelson Eddie, a favourite of mine. She asked if she could come. I agreed and asked her to be outside the cinema in Grafton Street at quarter to eight, as the film started at eight. This was going to drain my finances, but I was willing to stay home for the rest of the week. I stood outside the cinema until five minutes to eight, but there was no sign of her so I went in. Next day she came over to me and asked where I was the previous evening. She said she had been there and that she didn’t see me. I explained that I had in fact been there, and that I could tell her what the film was about if she wished. She insisted that she had turned up, and I felt that she was just messing with me and I told her so. “I waited until five to eight,” I told her, “you weren’t there at that time, and I don’t believe you were there at all. I think it best if you find someone else to show you around,” I said and we parted.

She came from Tralee in County Kerry. Her father had a very large farm. I felt so inadequate and thought that I just couldn’t entertain her in the standard that she would be used to anyway. My feelings were confirmed when she pulled up beside me in her new car, a few days later and offered me a lift. I accepted and we drove around the block. Her father had bought it for her as a present. I congratulated her and wished her well, while thinking to myself that I had made the right decision, keeping in mind my experience with my previous girl.

When I arrived home with an Infantry Identification Book, known as the LA-89 in the army, my father had a fit. I explained that the Medics were located in Rathmines, on the south side of the city and that it would cost bus fare to get there, he relented. He made it very clear to me however, that I was to serve my full five years or I would answer to him. He also informed me that he had been held prisoner in the Guard Room in what was then “The Royal Barracks,” during the Tan War. He was beaten up by the guard and was rescued from serious injury by the Orderly Officer.

That first night in barracks is still fresh in my memory. I cast a wistful eye on the Guard Room as I walked past, remembering my father’s story. The feel of the Lee Enfield Mark 3 Rifle was special. There was the unique smell of gun-oil that is still in my nostrils today. Although I had never handled a rifle before, I instinctively knew how to release the safety catch and open the bolt. A couple of other new recruits near me were fascinated as they watched me close the bolt and squeeze the trigger. It made a distinct click as the firing pin shot forward, attracting the attention of a corporal who was standing nearby. “Leave that weapon alone,” he roared, with eyes blazing. I swallowed hard and put the rifle down quick. We had our first lesson on the weapon that night and we were told to memorise the various parts, as we would be tested on our knowledge. We were then told to report in on Sunday morning at 11 a.m., when we would be issued with our uniform. The rest of the evening seemed to fly by, and by 10:15 p.m. I was on my way home again.

The uniform, I was to learn, was commonly known as “bulls-wool.” It was made up of a thick woollen material that was designed to withstand the roughest wear. Since nobody wore underpants, it was vital to tuck the family jewels into the tails of our shirt, otherwise it became most uncomfortable when the material rubbed against the skin. It was also very difficult to iron a crease into the trousers, for example, and we had to rely on the older hands to tell us the “tricks of the trade.” To get a sharp crease that lasts, we were advised to iron with a damp cloth first, then turn the trousers inside-out and rub a wetted bar of soap down the inside of the crease. Then we were to turn the trousers back the right way, and with a damp cloth use a very hot iron on the crease, followed by brown paper. The paper dried the dampness and at the same time stuck the two sides of the crease together. This gave a razor-sharp crease that lasted for quite a long time.

There was just one problem with the issue that all of us got… the jackets were miles too big. When I told the quartermaster about this he said, “Never mind son, you’ll grow into it.” The answer to that problem was to get the jacket tailored to fit and that’s what most of us did. I sewed on with pride the Red Spearhead Flash of the Eastern Command. This had to be three finger widths down from the shoulder on the left sleeve. If it was more or less when checked, it had to be taken off and redone. The half-moon-shaped Unit Flash denoting membership of the 42nd Infantry Battalion was sown across the shoulder of the right sleeve. The 42nd, we were told, was the successor to the 2nd Battalion, Old IRA. One of the other units in the barracks was the 26th Battalion and this unit contained the sons and other relations of fathers who had served in the IRA. It is mentioned in my father’s account of his service. My older brother Gerard served in this unit. I joined the 42nd Battalion because my pals were members of it. The 26th was recognised by the colour of their boots. They used Kiwi Oxblood Polish, which gave their boots a purple hue. The 26th Battalion was one of our bitter rivals in the platoon competitions. One other unit in the barracks was the 7th Battalion… or “the scruffy seventh,” as they were known. These presented no threat in competition, as they didn’t seem to have the same interest in keeping their uniform to the same standard as us.

Before long, we began to look really smart. We were told to only use Wren’s Oxblood Polish on our boots and Wren’s Black on our webbing. The web issue was ex-British First World War and it had a pungent smell of must, that only webbing can get when it’s a long time in storage. Soon though, we had it gleaming and the smell of polish quickly replaced the old pungent odour. All of the brass buckles and fittings had to be shined with “Brasso.”

We got down to the serious business of learning arms and foot-drill, along with absorbing the knowledge of the parts of the rifle and the “Mills Grenade.” That was the extent of our armament at the time. My pal Jimmy had no interest in joining the force. He preferred to join Sinn Féin. He was to be found outside the church on Sunday, selling “An Phoblact,” the Republican newspaper. I seriously considered joining Sinn Féin myself, but decided against it when the priest condemned the organisation from the pulpit, and threatened ex-communication for anyone who did join their ranks. This coupled with the fact that Jimmy told me, in answer to a question, that they had no provision for looking after individuals or their families in the event of an arrest or worse. I remembered why my father had to join the British Army and decided against getting involved with what was, after all, an illegal organisation. The fifties campaign was in full swing in the North and the IRA had carried out a number of disastrous operations across the border. They had no support from the people on either side of the divide, and their campaign eventually fizzled out. The Army, I would learn later, was highly suspicious of the Reserve, because many of the IRA recruits joined the FCA first, to learn how to fire the weapons and steal small amounts of ammunition when they got the chance. This suspicion was heightened when a serving Lieutenant was killed in a raid on a police barracks in the North. There were all sorts of trouble with our police and army when his IRA comrades tried to have a formal military funeral for him, after his body was returned to his family. He came from Limerick and his name was Sean South. This was the same Sean South who inspired the song, Sean South from Garryowen.

My being in the Reserve didn’t affect the relationship between Jimmy and myself. He had met Pauline, a new girlfriend who lived on Broombridge Road and I started to hang around with her friend Judy. We just went for walks together and generally hung around. I can’t ever remember us going to the cinema, for example, and I preferred the loose arrangement we had anyway. Whatever arrangement we had fell apart after she saw me in uniform. “Lose the uniform or lose me,” she said.

“Well, good luck,” I said as I walked away. My shyness had all but gone and I was growing in confidence almost daily. No one would tell me what I should do or where I could go in future if I didn’t want to. After six months of being among “Army” people, I was cured of my shyness altogether.

Jimmy and me started to attend the dances being held in St. Peter’s hall in Phibsboro. I hadn’t a clue about dance steps and so got my sister Rosaleen to teach me. Pretty soon I was enjoying the quickstep, foxtrot, tango and the samba, which was my favourite. The dances were strictly supervised by the local priest; who would walk onto the dance floor, tell a couple that they were too close, and part them so that there was a modest gap between them. One night, a fight started close to where I was standing. A couple of guys had been drinking beforehand, and managed to get passed the security at the door. One of the combatants pulled a bottle of Guinness from his pocket and belted the other one over the head with it. The bottle smashed into smithereens as the guys locked arms and fell to the floor. By this time, a ring of people had formed around them. I was right on the inside edge. The girl I had been dancing with started pushing me forward and telling me to get in and help. I grabbed her arm and swung her into the ring saying, “Now you go and help if you want. I’m wearing a new suit.” She was disgusted and that ended what might’ve been a beautiful friendship.

Fights were not a common occurrence in St. Peter’s Hall, I’m pleased to say. It was usually a good night’s dancing to a live band and it was very enjoyable. I met Sheila K, and really liked her. She, on the other hand was more interested in playing the field. I arranged to meet her outside of the State Cinema on one occasion and she stood me up. It was a lovely summer’s evening, and I decided not to see the film anyway, and walked the short distance from Phibsboro’ to Cabra West. I walked along Connaught Street and onto Fassaugh Road. As I approached the bridge at Matt Whelan’s Pub, who should come down the hill on her bike but Sheila? She almost fell off with the shock of seeing me. She tried to find a suitable excuse and made a complete mess of the lie she told. “It’s alright,” I said to her, “let’s meet tomorrow and talk about it.” The relief showed on her face and she promised faithfully that she would be at the appointed place. Next evening at the time I was meant to be meeting Sheila, I was sitting at home polishing my army boots.

A couple of days later she sent a friend up to my house to ask me to meet her at the corner. I went along and she demanded to know why I hadn’t shown up. She was livid with rage. “Not very nice, is it?” I asked.

“No,” she said red-faced.

“Well, now you know how I felt, so shag off with yourself, right!” That ended our brief relationship.

I started my new job with Ballsbridge Motors, Ltd. The first six weeks of training were spent in the Spare Parts Department, attached to the Volkswagen factory on the Naas Road. I was told that I would have to learn enough part numbers to be able to deal with a customer at the desk without having to refer to the parts manual. The part numbers were nine digits long and by the time I took up my position in the stores in Ballsbridge, I could serve a customer and write the part number from memory. During my six weeks in Naas Road, I had the distinction of selling the first full set of tools for the saloon car, besides memorising the part numbers. My trainer was highly impressed and informed my boss, Dessie Byrne, of the fact.

I reported to the Stores Manager in Ballsbridge and began work in earnest. He didn’t like me because of my association with the Director of the company and didn’t hesitate to tell me so. He had a drink problem also, which didn’t help his attitude, particularly on Mondays after a weekend of heavy drinking. Matters got worse and worse over time, until eventually he exploded one afternoon and accused me of taking money from the till. Generally, I’m an easygoing fellow and try to get along with everyone, but being accused of thievery really hit me hard. I walked over to the phone and dialled the director’s office. “I need to see you right now,” I said when he answered. He tried to fob me off, but I said “Sir, I need to see you, it’s urgent.” He agreed to see me and the stores manager went purple with rage. I stood in front of the director’s desk and told him that though I might be a poor kid from a council house scheme, I was an honourable person and certainly not a thief. He promised to deal with the matter, and asked me to return to the stores.

The manager was by this time fit to be tied. “Well,” he demanded, “what did you say to the boss?”

“You’ll know about that soon enough,” I said and walked down the aisle towards the back door to the stores, where I could serve the mechanics with the parts they needed for the jobs they were on.

A couple of weeks went by with no further word from upstairs and no further comment from the manager. Then one of the other staff asked me one day if I’d heard that the guy who worked on the petrol pumps had been arrested. I said no and asked what for. “He’s the thief,” my colleague said. “He has admitted to forcing the stores door at night, and not only taking odd sums of money from the cash, but stealing parts and selling them.” What this guy had done was to take the part and leave the box on the shelf so that it wouldn’t be noticed. A full stock-take revealed that hundreds of pounds worth of parts were missing. No one came to me to explain or apologise. I was incensed and lost the respect I had for my “friend,” the director. To this day I have abhorrence for thieves, because of the way in which they cast doubt on others who are innocent.

The manager was serving a customer one afternoon, when another one came to the counter. I approached and asked if I could help. He said no, that he wanted to talk to the manager. I began to retreat as I needed to visit the toilet anyway.

“Where are you going?” the manager demanded.

“To the toilet,” I answered.

“Get back here and serve this customer,” he yelled.

“The customer wants to talk to you,” I answered. “You already heard the man ask for you,” I said, “and I’m going to the toilet, whether you like it or not.” And I walked away. He was fuming when I got back and he began to abuse me verbally. I picked up a flywheel and warned him to behave himself or I would bury the flywheel in his head. He quietened down after that and was very wary of me from then on. The “get” got to know that you don’t mess with a Sheridan.

Gormanstown Camp July 1955.

I had joined the Reserve Defence Force on the 14th of October 1954, just two days after my sixteenth birthday. From then until the summer, we trained very hard in weaponry, arms, and foot drill. We held competitions in the various military skills in camp, between the best platoons from every unit in the Eastern Command. To be selected for one of these platoons was an honour, as only the best were considered. One of my school pals had joined the same unit as myself and his mother was an accomplished tailor. She made our uniforms fit as if they had been painted onto our bodies. The crease in the front of our trousers got sharper the more we used the soap and the iron. Our webbing looked terrific, polished black with the brass buckles and studs gleaming. Our boots were like mirrors by the time we had used the special technique of burning the polish on. We even polished the piece of leather in the arch between the heel and the soul of the boot. I was so successful at this that one of my neighbours pointed to my boots as I swung my leg over my bicycle at the curb, as I was about to head off to the barracks, and said, “Look, your boots are all wet!” I smiled widely and told him he was seeing the shine. He was enthralled. Friends and neighbours alike had begun to take notice and I enjoyed every minute of it.

I was picked as a member of the unit “Competition Platoon,” after I won the best-dressed soldier of the month award. I wasn’t the first to win it as the competition was fierce, but it was sweet when it came. The award consisted of a white web belt and lanyard and it set the green uniform off beautifully. It carried a certain status among my fellow soldiers, and it certainly helped my confidence tremendously. My back became ramrod straight and my head was held high. One of our neighbours, who was in the regular army, was so impressed with my turnout; he presented me with an army tin plate together with a knife, fork and spoon.

The first two weeks in July was our allotted camp time and I applied for leave from my job well in advance of this. I was still working in the ESB at this time, and was entitled to apply for one week with pay and one week without. As we were paid on camp according to rank, etc., and qualified for a ten-pound gratuity, also I was gaining more that I was losing financially. I looked forward eagerly to having what, in fact, would be my first holiday away from home. I gathered, along with all of my new friends and colleagues, in Collin’s Barracks and climbed on board a truck with my suitcase. We were taken to Amiens Street, now Connolly Station, where we boarded a train for Gormanston Station in County Meath, approximately twenty miles from Dublin. The excitement was palpable and we chattered with loud voices as we headed off on our great adventure. The station was close to the camp and we put our bags on a truck and marched the rest of the way. Once there we were shown to the long wooden huts or billets, as they were known, where we would live for the next two weeks. The method of heating was with a Pot-Bellied Stove. There were a couple of these approximately one quarter and three quarters way down the hut. Turf was used as a fuel and when the fire was lit, the stove glowed red in the dark. We left our bags and reported to the stores, where we drew our bedding. Back at the billet, we were shown how an army bed is made up; and how each morning, it had to be stripped down, and the sheets folded a particular way, so that the blue line showed to the outside. The sheets then had to be encased in the folded blankets, together with the pillow, so that it formed a neat package. We didn’t have sprung beds to sleep in. We were each issued with three wooden planks that sat on wooden trestles, which were only six or so inches off the floor. This was to be the first time in my life that I had a bed all to myself and I loved it… planks included.

Our time on camp during the first week was taken up fully with preparations for the competitions. We had fired on the range some weeks earlier, in Kilbride Camp, County Wicklow and we had qualified to wear two stars on our sleeves. The camp nestled in a valley, not very far from Dublin. It has various ranges on which we fired our weapons. Like all of the camps and ranges around the country, it had been built in the days when the British occupied Ireland. And like most of the ex-British establishments, it had been neglected. The buildings were in a disgraceful condition and we usually ate our food out in the open. The setting however, like all of the ranges, was beautiful.

During breaks for meals, we could look out across the valley towards Blessington Lake as it glistened in the sun. The lake is five miles long. It’s manmade and is the reservoir for Dublin. There was also a lovely river running through Kilbride itself. It was a wonderful place to be on a sunny day. But for some peculiar reason, it seemed to be raining most of the time when we were there. Perhaps this was due to it being located in the Dublin Mountains.

There were set tests that had to be passed in order for us to earn our one, then two, and then three stars. These also increased our wages while we were serving on camp. Gormanstown camp was at sea level and the weather had vastly improved. I began to really enjoy the army life and thought seriously about signing on full-time. Here I was among good companions, in a stable job, getting paid for doing what I loved, and with my own bed. I had passed the test for my first star and was presented with it by the commanding officer. I couldn’t wait to sew it on the sleeve of my tunic. And when I did, I almost had a creek in my neck from looking sideways at it. I decided to speak to my father about signing on full time when I got home. In the meantime, it was down to the serious business of training. The sun shone from early morning until it set in the evening. It was too hot some days for drilling and such like, and the company commander marched us down to the beach for a swim.

Ah! This is the life, I thought to myself. We made up for lost time by drilling in the evenings. Butlins Holiday Camp was nearby and there was a great buzz among the lads about the shows and the girls available to those who had the money to buy a ticket to get in. The platoon sergeant announced that anyone who wanted to borrow money until payday should see him. There was no scam involved. The CO (Commanding Officer) had organised this, knowing the financial straits that we would be in. Before the sergeant had finished speaking, there was a queue of us having our names and amounts entered into his notebook. Most of us were to be found in Butlins that very evening, enjoying a show first, and afterwards a dance.

Before we were allowed out of camp however, we had to have two NCO’s inspect our kit. Our beds had to be made up properly and all of our kit was laid on top so that the corporals could check it. Only after they approved it would we be issued with a pass to leave camp. We had to be back in camp by 23:59 hours or there would be consequences. At the weekend, a group of us visited Drogheda and then Balbriggan where we attended a dance. We learned to look out for each other in both locations, because the local lads didn’t like the idea of us Dubliners dancing with their girls. It wasn’t unusual to hear someone shout “42nd, Over here,” when they were in trouble. That cry for help would bring all of the rest of us to his rescue. The local lads soon got the idea that discretion was the better part of valour, and I’m delighted to say that there was very little trouble once they knew that there were a lot of us around.

Reveille was at 7 a.m. and breakfast on camp was at 7:30. We washed, made our beds, and dressed as for a parade. We then marched to the dining hall, which was an airplane hangar. This was an Air Corps Camp, in fact, and we were there as guests, though we had no contact with Air Corps personnel. They regarded themselves as something special and most of them went on leave when guys like us were about. It was nice to see The Spitfire, my all time favourite aircraft up close. The Corps had six of them at the time that had been bought from Britain after the Second World War ended.

The competitions started at nine o’clock sharp on Monday of the second week. There was great excitement throughout as the first week wore on. Every morning after breakfast, our platoon officer inspected us. Standing there in the warm sunshine had a strange effect on me. Bearing in mind that I was only sixteen years of age and that the hormones were running riot, I would get an erection. My penis would press hard against my trousers, and it was obvious to even the casual observer what was happening. The harder I tried to prevent this, the worse it got. Our platoon officer was homosexually inclined, and he was highly amused at my embarrassment. I wonder if any of the other lads suffered in similar fashion. He looked along my chin against the light of the day and asked if I shaved. When I replied, “No,” he told me to get the bum-fluff off my chin. I bought my first razor that afternoon and did as he ordered.

We went through the alphabet of arms and foot drill, threw practice grenades twenty-five yards onto a target, went on a route march that was timed, while referees checked us along the route for any slackness in our lines. We had to maintain our dressing, and keep our rifles upright and in line, among other things. The midges had a feast while we marched. The heat of the day, together with the fact that we were wearing heavy wool uniforms, made us sweat. We were not allowed to brush the midges away, for fear of being seen by the referees and lose points. So by the time we got back to camp, our faces were covered in bites. But we endured to the end. After all, we were soldiers! The culmination of it all was a seven-mile road race that began in Drogheda. The Lord Mayor fired the starting pistol and the race ended outside Headquarters in the camp. By this time, all of the scores for the various competitions would be totalled and the winners announced. Our forte was arms and foot drill, and there was a flag that had been presented by the Lord Mayor of Dublin as the prize. We set our sights on winning this, but fell short by the narrowest of margins. The Pearse Battalion was made up of college boys and they were the successful team this time out. We vowed to be better next time, and were consoled with the two plaques we won for other disciplines.

Our commanding officer informed us that the Commander of Collin’s Barracks had asked him if we would consider joining the regular army as a unit, after seeing us drilling on the square. He wanted us as a specialist unit for Guards of Honour and for Tattoos, etc. He thanked him, but refused his offer on our behalf. Many of us would have loved to have taken him up on it but Lieutenant Byrne discouraged any suggestion of it by telling us that only the “scum of the earth” joined the army. True to say that many of those in the army were from troubled backgrounds. Many had come straight from Reform Schools such as Artane and Daingean. Some would have been orphans who had been institutionalised and knew no other life. Some of them were thieves and rogues, but most of them were decent guys trying their best to survive in a bitter world. Anyway… the CO rejected any suggestion of our joining.

There was a great buzz when we lined up that Friday afternoon to collect our pay and the gratuity. I had never had so much money in my hand before and couldn’t wait to get home to hand it to my mother. There was a second line also… the sergeant had to be re-paid the money he gave out in loans and this we did gratefully. A bond had been formed. We were soldiers and the spirit of friendship was very strong. We had competed together and won. We were now a “Team,” and as proud Dubliners we sung all the way back to our lovely city. Before leaving camp, we were told that we would not need to report into barracks until September. We would be told of the exact date later on. I looked forward with eagerness to that time when I could earn my next star and become a recognised fully-trained private soldier. Over the next few months Lieutenant Byrne turned up at my home and invited me to go for a drive. Sometimes he would have other lads from the unit with him and sometimes he didn’t. He talked on a couple of occasions about a guy at work that liked boys. I suspected that he was talking about himself. On one occasion, he actually put his hand on my thigh while he complimented me on the suit I was wearing. If he was making a pass at me, then the look I gave him soon put paid to any possibilities he might have had in mind.

I broke out in a cold sweat nevertheless, as I recalled an experience I’d had in the Cabra Grand Cinema when I was twelve years of age. As a special treat for helping her with the shopping, my mother had given me the money to go and see A Christmas Carol. I had just settled into my seat when an adult male sat beside me. It was the early evening show and there were plenty of vacant seats around me, so it wasn’t as if he couldn’t have found a seat elsewhere. I noticed that he was breathing hard as he pushed a bag of sweets in front of me. The warning bells began to ring immediately. “Would you like a sweet?” he breathed.

“No thanks,” I replied.

“Would you like to earn a few bob?” he asked, placing his hand on my naked thigh (I was wearing short pants).

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“My girlfriend let me down and she had promised me that we would do it… yeh know what I mean? So if you come outside with me, we could go around the back of the cinema and do it. I’d pay yeh. What do yeh say?”

My mind was racing with thoughts and the sweat was rolling down my back. “Don’t panic,” I said to myself… “Think.” Like a shot, I came up with an idea. “I have to go to the toilet,” I said to him. “If you wait here for me, I’ll be back in a couple of minutes, Okay?”

“Don’t be long,” he said, this time almost breathless. I knew that if I went to an usher and reported him he would deny it and I’d probably be thrown out of the cinema anyway. So I opened the toilet door, let it close, and immediately opened it again, as if someone had gone in and someone had come out. I went and sat in a different seat, this time closer to other people and watched my potential abuser. After a few minutes had passed, he got up and went over to the toilet. He was back out within a minute and left the building altogether. Perhaps he thought I would be waiting for him outside, who knows? All that mattered to me was that I had, with God’s help, managed to avoid the attentions of a pervert.

Me Ma was delighted with the money from camp when I gave it to her. At that time, a married man’s wages for a week was £7.10.0 (approximately €10.00). I handed my mother at least £12.0.0. You can imagine her delight. There was no singing of “Big Head” or slagging from those in the family who had indulged themselves on previous occasions in the past. I really enjoyed the dance in St. Peter’s Hall that night, especially as I was wearing a new light pink shirt with my dark navy suit that I bought with my newfound wealth. It was the talk of the night among the girls. Boys didn’t wear pink! Next day, Saturday, I asked my father what he thought about my joining the regular army. He was vehemently against, saying that he’d seen enough of that sort of life and emphasizing the perils of war. I wasn’t to know at that time that he was intending to move to England.

There was no family discussion about the intended move, although I could understand, to some extent at least, his reasons for doing what he did. First off… he was working three eight-hour shifts and he was finding it very difficult to get a decent sleep when he came off nights. There were so many kids on our road that the decibel level was tremendous. There was constant knocking on our hall door from kids looking for one or the other of us to come out and play. Then there was Mister Solan, whose back garden joined ours. He was in a Pipe Band and he would walk up and down his bedroom playing his pipes. Further up the way was Missus Maloney, playing her fiddle. There was such a cacophony of sound that he used to go nuts at times, trying to sleep. It also came to light that my mother had been borrowing money for some time from an illegal local moneylender.

Only now did I understand why we struggled so much to make ends meet. We should have been very well off with the number of wage packets that were coming into the house, but now it all made sense. It has been stated earlier that the tenement dwellers looked after each other and helped out with finances whenever they could. My mother was as soft hearted as a person could be and her friends took advantage of that. The interest charged by moneylenders was penal and she had gotten in so deep, that a woman named Duffy who lived nearby, called to our door accompanied by two heavies demanding money that my mother had failed to pay. My father happened to be at home at the time and he was shocked to discover the predicament that my mother had gotten herself into. He told Duffy and her heavies to get away from the door before he lost his patience. In other circumstances he would’ve taken on the two heavies straight away, but I think the shock to his system dulled his reactions. There wasn’t any row between my parents, at least not that I know of. But what came to light regarding debts, etc., I believe, was the deciding factor in his moving to England. Perhaps he gave my mother an ultimatum, I don’t know, but soon afterwards he resigned his job and took himself off to Birmingham. I cannot, to this day, understand why my father or my older brothers didn’t tell Duffy and her henchmen to keep away in future, or suffer the consequences.

One of the ways in which the moneylenders sucked in people was through a “docket” system. The larger stores such as Bolger’s and Boyer’s in North Earl Street issued dockets to clients with which they could buy goods. It was an early form of the store credit card. Moneylenders would buy up large amounts of these and offer them to poor families as a simple way of shopping for clothes for First Communion, Confirmation, and Christmas, etc. They then charged exorbitant interest rates and the poor people couldn’t pay anything off the capital because of this. My mother got involved and borrowed heavily to help her “friends.” One of these so-called friends called to our door one evening, and I told her to keep away in future, or else. I was fourteen years of age at the time and my mother had loaned her friend my suit so that she could pawn it. I had asked my mother not to touch my suit, as I needed it to attend a function in the St. John Ambulance Brigade. I was livid when I discovered what my mother had done, and couldn’t wait to tell her friend what I thought of her. My mother told me off for speaking to her friend the way that I had, and I told her that from now on, my clothes were not to be touched, especially as I was handing up my wage packet.

We had a nice three-bedroom house, and we kept it and the gardens in good shape. Some of the family had left home, so for a short while there was space and a degree of comfort in our home. May, the sister who had worked in the mill in Lancashire, got married in February 1949. She and her husband rented rooms in a house that my father’s relations had in Ventry Park, Cabra West. That didn’t work out and they came to live in our house. The space quickly diminished and it was back to overcrowding once again. My eldest sister married in June of the same year. I still remember scutting on the back of the taxi as it left the church at the top of the road on its way ‘round the block and back to our house. Frank, her husband, threw a handful of pennies into the waiting kids outside of the chapel, a practice called a “Grush.” Most of the wedding parties at the time did this for luck. It used to cause mayhem as kids pushed and shoved each other to get at the fallen money. It was unusual to have two weddings so close together, but we younger kids loved it, especially when we could drain the dregs in the Guinness bottles. There was no booking hotels or anything of that nature. The reception was held at our house and the crowd got so big by the time evening came that the men carried the piano outside onto the footpath and all the neighbours had a “Hoolie” on the road.

Gerard emigrated to Birmingham in England and he got married there in 1953. He was regarded as the “black sheep of the family,” (I’ve never managed to find out why) and so nobody travelled over for his wedding. He had brought his wife Pat, home on holiday before they got married and they stayed for more than a year. He made some money by chopping up planks of timber from old packing cases that my father got from work, and making the sticks into bundles for firewood. The bundles were held together with bands of rubber that had been cut out of old bicycle inner tubes.

He never collected the timber himself and my father didn’t seem to demand that he do so. Instead, I would have to walk to Granby Lane near the city centre and hire out a handcart for sixpence from Kehily’s. Then I would walk to Glasnevin where Player’s factory was, collect the timber, take it to Cabra West, and then return the handcart before the hire company closed that evening. Later on, my younger brother Bill (Willie) had to do it as I was working. Life was tough in our house but we were the stronger for it, even if we resented some of the treatment at times. There was a space under the stairs where we hung our coats and that’s where Gerry slept. The door had to be kept open to allow some air to circulate. One night my brother Tom went outside to the toilet. It was located off a porch, outside of the kitchen door at the back of the house. As he opened the door, he heard an awful moaning sound. Thinking it was the Banshee, he burst into the kitchen where Dick was having a cup of tea. He, having heard the sound as well, took after Tom who was running for the door out of the sitting room and heading for the stairs. As he reached the stairs, Dick caught up with him, grabbed him, and pulled him back so that he could get past. Tom thought it was the Banshee as he hadn’t seen Dick in his excitement, and he passed out with the shock. We still laugh about this today. On their way passed the cubbyhole where Gerry slept, one of them slammed the door shut to make more room. Gerry had almost suffocated by the time his knocking was heard and things had settled down sufficiently for someone to realise his plight and open the door.

Dick was married in 1954, the year I joined the Reserve. The flattop haircut, or crew cut as it became known, was all the rage then. I had what can only be described as a “shock” of black wavy hair and one of the men at work bet me that I wouldn’t get a crew cut. I’ve never been one to shirk a challenge and so I took his bet. When my brother’s wife saw it on the morning of the wedding, she banned me to the back row of the wedding photos.

The battalion hadn’t been as successful as we had hoped in the competitions on camp in 1955. We trained even harder in 1956 and arrived on camp determined to win the competition outright. That wasn’t to be, however. The shooting prowess of the teams from Castlecomer, County Kilkenny, and Tullamore, County Offaly was our undoing. We did defeat all comers at arms and foot-drill, including the Pearse Battalion, our bitter rivals, and we were awarded the coveted Lord Mayor’s Flag. The battalion went on to win it so many times in future years that it was given over for keeps. It was used in later years as the flag of the 20th Infantry Battalion.

September 1956 came quickly and having received notification by post, I reported into barracks. After renewing friendships and swapping stories about our summer break, I was called into the office of the commanding officer. He congratulated me on my performance on camp and on my turnout. “You’re a credit to the unit,” he said, “and I’ve nominated you for a Potential NCO course that will start next month and run for the next three months.”

“Thank you sir,” I blurted out, finding it hard to contain my excitement. I was about to jump over the three-star course, and all being well on passing this course, I would become a Non-Commissioned Officer. My father would be proud of me. I saluted and almost ran from his office, eager to tell my pals the good news. By the time the night was over I discovered that Hughie, my school pal, was also on the course. More importantly perhaps, I also discovered who my real friends were. There was a definite coolness emanating from some of those who would not be NCO’s. The course itself was terrific. For the first time I learned to take notes and compose a lesson plan. Lieutenant Byrne ran the course with the assistance of a sergeant and three corporals and they really put us through our paces. We were given eight men sections to drill on the barrack square. The section was placed at one end of the square while we were at the other end. We then had to project our voice so that we could be heard at the other end.

Tom was married in 1956 and so some space had been created in the house. He was a devout Catholic and went to the trouble of having a blood test before his marriage to determine his suitability for fathering healthy children. The test was a requirement of the church in those days. On one occasion, Paddy was eating meat for his dinner on a “fast day.” “Don’t you know it’s a fast day today?” Tom asked him, disgusted at the idea of his flouting the church’s rules.

“It’s not going fast enough for me,” Paddy answered, laughing out loud. My mother almost choked, trying to stifle a laugh. I looked at the floor keeping a straight face for fear of getting a belt from him. I wasn’t sorry to see him leave, as he was the most difficult one in the family to share a bed with. I had to sleep at the bottom of his bed on one occasion, and he lashed out with his foot at the slightest movement. He didn’t like me anyway, and wasn’t behind the door about showing it. It was he that I had overheard telling my father that he wasn’t going out to work to pay for my schooling. He obviously didn’t appreciate the fact that my father had helped to get him a job in John Player & Sons, Ltd. Prior to that he was labouring on a building site where he had to supply his own shovel.

He had also served in the Irish Army during the period in our history known as the “Emergency.” The rest of the world was going through the “Second World War,” we in Ireland had an emergency. He always seemed an unhappy person. Perhaps it was just my imagination, but I never noticed him enjoying himself except when he was full of Guinness. He accused me one day of stealing his cigarettes. My father happened to walk into the room while I was telling him that I hadn’t touched his property. My father asked what was going on and I told him about the accusation. “He knows I don’t smoke,” I told my father, “but he insists that I took his fags,” I said. My father looked a little surprised to hear me speak up in the way that I had. Previously I wouldn’t say anything or I might even start to cry. But that was all over now and the real me was beginning to emerge.

“You know that he doesn’t smoke,” my father said, telling him to leave me alone. He might have been a devout catholic but he was a long way from being Christian, because he never forgot that and we never had a friendly relationship. I did sing at his funeral many years later and hoped that he appreciated that.

My mother looked after my sister May’s children while she went to work. Her husband worked in the Irish Raleigh, Ltd., with my brother Dick. In fact it was Dick who introduced them. No sooner had some space been created in the house than it was filled up again by my sister’s family. They had to have their own room, my mother and father had their room and that left one bedroom for the rest of us. I don’t know how we managed or where we all slept. What I do know is that there were nineteen people living in the house at one time.

On top of all this, we had a constant stream of visiting relations from England. My aunt Annie was my father’s sister, and she lived in Oldham in Lancashire. My sister May stayed with her and her family when she lived and worked in Lancashire. Naturally, my parents were expected to return the favour and did so willingly. That was the thing with Tenement dwellers… nobody regarded it as an imposition to facilitate visiting relatives. Or if they did, nobody said so. Anyway, a first cousin arrived at our door one evening. She left her bag open on the table. My brother Willie let his curiosity get the better of him and rooted around in the handbag. He found what he thought was chocolate, and gobbled it down before anyone saw him. Later that evening my cousin announced that a packet of “Brooklax” (an anti-constipation product,) had disappeared from her bag. Everybody sung dumb until a couple of hours later, Willie had to rush to the toilet leaving a trail of “scutter” behind him. The thief was caught and the trail of evidence was on the floor for all to see.

Jim, who was four years older than me had enough of the crowded conditions and decided to join the Royal Air Force. He had been caught playing “Cowboys and Indians” during working hours in the Raleigh and got the sack. He got a job in Brooks Thomas Wood Mill, at the bottom of Gardiner Street and came home covered in sawdust. That really got to him and when he got his letter of acceptance into the RAF, he took off (to use a pun) and reported to the training camp in the North, before being posted to his unit in England. He would go on to serve in Malaya and Germany.