This is the story of an ordinary working class Dublin family, some of whom had one or two extraordinary experiences. I trust that the reader will enjoy our story and perhaps even manage a smile at times. I have deliberately avoided using names in some instances to save embarrassment to those still living. Our story starts with my father’s birth in the year 1900 and takes us right up to date. The story hasn’t finished. Most of the family are still living and there may be more to come.
For some years before my father died in 1977, I had pleaded with him to write down his experiences with the Irish Republican Army during the “War of Independence” or the “Tan War” as he called it. He was very reluctant to do so, but I finally managed to persuade him. Although it is by no means comprehensive, it will give the reader some idea of the man and those he served with.
I was also curious to know why he never attended any of the commemoration parades, for example, and when I enquired about his reason for this, he looked me straight in the eye and said, “Have you seen any of these parades?”
I answered in the affirmative.
“You’ve seen the guy who carries the flag, in that case.”
I nodded again.
“Well, in the first place, he and many of his colleagues never fired a shot in anger. Although they were members of the IRA, they were never involved in any action. There was some excuse for those who didn’t turn out during 1916; due to confusion when the mobilization order was cancelled. There was no excuse this time, however. Everybody knew what was happening, but some of them chose not to show. More importantly, a Republican Court tried the fellow who carries the flag, and found him guilty of sexually interfering with a child. His sentence was a bullet in the scrotum and that’s what we gave him. So, there’s no way that I would march with a swine like that. On another occasion,” he continued, “as I was making my way along the quays, I came upon two of these brave warriors. They were about to throw a drummer boy dressed in his British Army uniform, into the Liffey. The lad was about fourteen years of age and he was scared to death. I pulled out my gun and ordered them to let the boy go or I would shoot both of them on the spot. It is this sort that gives an organisation a bad name.”
My father was a devoted follower of Eamonn De Valera all of his life. He, like many of the men who stayed with the Republican ideal of a united and free Ireland, remained true to this ideal to his dying day. My mother named me after his hero and though there were twelve children in the family, we spent more time talking than any of my siblings. He later served with the British 8th Army during the Second World War, but this didn’t change his original belief in a United Ireland. I have included some photographs that I believe will be of interest to the reader. The 1st Battalion memorial, shown here, is located opposite the Public Library in Phibsborough Dublin-7. The sculptor was a friend of my father and told him that he modeled the figure after him. I have also included pictures of his medals and the certificate of service that the government issued together with other photos I have in my collection.
I dedicate this book to both of my parents. To my father, who was a hero as far as I am concerned, and took up the gun to play his part in freeing our country from the oppressor. To my mother, who stood by him in good times and bad; whose dedication to the family was nothing short of saintly. She had twenty-three pregnancies (contraception wasn’t considered, they were devout Catholics), and this in turn led to her untimely death at the age of sixty-three years. We still sadly miss her. If I have any regret it’s that she didn’t live long enough for the family to return in kind some of what she did for us.
I have told this story as honestly and frankly as I can. It relates the joys and sorrows of being brought up in a large but proud working-class family in Cabra and Cabra West. It tells of the effects of emigration on the family and how we coped with living apart and in different digs in Birmingham. It was an old industrialized city and it still hadn’t recovered from the effects of the bombing that it had suffered during the Second World War. I found it strange compared to Dublin. The houses had been built during the industrial revolution. They were jammed together in narrow streets and the toilets were in the back yard. They did at least have a modern sewer system, unlike Oldham where the system was primitive. I had no sex education whatsoever. Because of this and my Roman Catholic upbringing, I felt obliged to marry the first girl that I had sexual relations with. This, I discovered, is no basis on which to build a marriage and it led to divorce eventually. I tell of my disappointment with the Army and the Gardaí after I reported the plot to blow up Nelson Pillar. As a result, I received threats to my life; and then there was the killing of my old school friend Billy Wright. Then, there was new love, new life, and stability at last.