Chapter 2

Heroes All

t cannot be said that Field Marshal Sir Henry Hughes Wilson, 1st Baronet, GCB, DSO, MP was the most popular man in the world. Born in 1864 in Co. Longford, Ireland, he was commissioned into the Rifle Brigade, served in a number of campaigns, was severely wounded, mentioned in dispatches and won the Distinguished Service Order in the Boer War. In 1914, as a major general and a staunch Ulsterman, he surreptitiously supported the British officers who refused (in the so-called Curragh Mutiny) to lead their troops against the Ulster Unionist opponents of the Third Irish Home Rule Bill. After a successful career in the First World War he was appointed Chief of the Imperial General Staff (CIGS) in 1918 and adviser to Prime Minister Lloyd George. He had been regarded as a fine Corps Commander, and following the end of the war he was awarded £10,000 by a grateful British Government plus a baronetcy by Lloyd George (a fellow officer drily remarked, “Whenever Wilson came within a mile of a prominent politician he suffered from a sexual disturbance”) and was showered with awards, world-wide. But when a treaty was signed between the provisional Irish government (headed by Michael Collins) and the British to form the Irish Free State, in Knightsbridge in December 1921, Wilson could not agree with government policy. He fell out of favour with Lloyd George, resigned from his post as CIGS in became Member of Parliament for North Down and was invited to become Northern Ireland’s adviser on security. In addition, Wilson (who was hurtfully known as ‘The Ugliest Man in the British Army’) was said to be a scandalmonger and a lover of intrigue. But if he was no longer popular with Lloyd George, this was nothing compared to how the Irish Republican Army felt about him. In fact, Wilson had been on their death list since 1921, but apparently his execution had not been sanctioned by Collins who, it was said, ‘wanted to give the treaty a chance’.

The Field Marshal had spent the morning of 22 June 1922 unveiling a plaque for a war memorial at Liverpool Street station and afterwards returned to his house at 36 Eaton Place, SW1. He was in full uniform, and as he paid off the taxi he was taking out his front door key when two men approached him from behind. The first was Reginald Dunne (also known as John O’Brien), who was aged twenty-four and had served as a private with the Irish Guards in the First World War; currently, he was employed as a teacher at Strawberry Hill College, London. The second man was Joseph O’Sullivan (also known as James Connelly), aged twenty-five; he was currently employed as a clerk at the Ministry of Labour in Whitehall. O’Sullivan had also served in the First World War as a lance corporal with the London Regiment; he had lost a leg at Ypres in 1917. Disabled or not, O’Sullivan, like Dunne, was a fervent, paid-up member of the IRA; their mission was to murder Field Marshal Wilson. Although Dunne and Michael Collins had been close friends, it is possible that what was to follow had not been instigated by Collins.

The two men drew their revolvers and fired a total of nine shots. Two bullets hit Wilson in his right arm as he endeavoured to draw his sword to defend himself, another lodged in his left forearm, two in his right shoulder, two more in his right leg and one in each of his armpits; these last two were the fatal ones, puncturing his lungs. Their work complete, the heroic duo scuttled away, but Police Constable Walter March had been patrolling at nearby Eaton Square; hearing the shots, he ran into Eaton Place West where he confronted the two gunmen. March immediately tackled Dunne but as he did so O’Sullivan shot him, at close range, in the stomach.

Detective Constable Cecil Charles Sayer had joined the Metropolitan Police in 1913 and had served as a constable on ‘F’, ‘H’, and ‘D’ Divisions before being appointed detective constable on ‘B’ Division in August 1920. He had been twice commended by the commissioner, once for the arrest of four men for conspiracy and larceny and, just three weeks previously, for the arrest of two men for cheque frauds. The commendations were made even more acceptable by the award of six shillings for the first and fifteen shillings for the second. Now he was on patrol in Elizabeth Street when he too heard the shots; the initial fusillade came from almost straight ahead of him, then after he had started running across the busy King’s Road there was another shot, off to his left. March, although seriously wounded, was able to provide a good description of the two assassins to Sayer, and he set off in pursuit, re-crossing the King’s Road and chasing them into South Eaton Place. As he did so, both men turned and fired at him (and also hit and wounded Alexander Clarke, a chauffeur who had joined in the chase), but Sayer, a married man aged twenty-nine, gamely continued his pursuit, pausing only long enough to draw his truncheon and fling it, hitting O’Sullivan on the back of the head. Dunne stopped, turned and fired, hitting Sayer in the leg and bringing him crashing to the ground. The blow to O’Sullivan’s head had slowed him considerably, as had his wooden leg, but as he and Dunne ran on and into Ebury Street, the alarm had been well and truly raised, and two constables ran out of Gerald Road police station into Eaton Place to take up the pursuit.

Police Constable James Alexander Duff had joined the Metropolitan Police just three months previously, and was not even on duty when he rushed from the station; not that that mattered. The former gamekeeper from Castle Douglas, aged twenty-one and single, now joined his colleague and they turned right, chasing the suspects into Ebury Street.

The other officer was Police Constable Walter Bush, who after spending twelve years in the British Army had joined the police in 1919. A married man, twenty-nine-year-old PC Bush, at almost six feet two, was a powerful adversary, as Reginald Dunne was about to discover. As the police officers dashed towards their quarry a number of shots were fired at them, but they were more fortunate than their colleagues. All of the shots missed, but PC Bush did not miss his mark. With one carefully aimed punch from his ham-like fist, he caught Dunne flush on the jaw, flattening him. At the same moment, Duff flung his truncheon at O’Sullivan, striking him in the face, and then tackled him to the ground.

As news of the murder emerged, the House of Commons adjourned as a mark of respect; a dinner to celebrate the birthday of the Prince of Wales at Buckingham Palace was cancelled. The following day, The Times, with more than a hint of jingoism, noted: “The murderers were Irishmen. Their deed must rank amongst the foulest in the foul category of Irish political crimes.” It appears that Field Marshal Wilson was rather better regarded in death than he had been in life.

Dunne and O’Sullivan stood trial at the Old Bailey on 18 July 1922 before Mr Justice Shearman and pleaded not guilty to Wilson’s murder. The noted pathologist Sir Bernard Spilsbury had carried out his initial examination of Wilson’s body on the couch at Wilson’s home in Eaton Place and he was able to tell the jury not only where the murderers had been standing as they fired their fatal shots but also the probable order in which the shots had been fired. That testimony, together with the evidence of the four police officers, was sufficient for the jury to return a verdict of guilty, and although Dunne attempted to read some heroic rhetoric from a prepared script in the dock, he was prevented from doing so. Instead, he and O’Sullivan were obliged to listen to some rhetoric from the judge, who sentenced both of them to death.

Following the sentence, the foreman of the grand jury handed a note to the Recorder, who read it aloud:

I have been asked by the foreman of the grand jury to express their appreciation of the conduct of the police at the arrest of the two prisoners charged with the murder of Sir Henry Wilson. They feel that their conduct in unflinchingly facing almost certain death by the performance of their duties is worthy of the highest praise and commendation. They also wish to express their appreciation of the conduct of the civilians concerned in the case.

The Recorder expressed his concurrence with those sentiments which he directed be communicated to the proper authorities. Three days after the conclusion of the court case there was a presentation at the London home of the Duke and Duchess of Atholl, 84 Eaton Place. Lord Arthur Hill informed the assembly that following Field Marshal Wilson’s murder he had gone from house to house in Eaton Place, and without exception all of the residents had given generously to a fund to recognise the gallantry of Police Constable March, Detective Constable Sayer and Alexander Clarke, all of whom had been wounded during their endeavours to stop the two gunmen. The three men were each presented with a gold watch and chain by the Duchess.

The double execution was carried out at Wandsworth Prison on 10 August 1922 and Dunne and O’Sullivan were buried in the grounds of the prison. Sir Henry’s own funeral was a more grandiose affair; he was buried in a crypt at St Paul’s Cathedral. Twelve days after the hangings Michael Collins was shot dead in an ambush just outside Cork, and shortly afterwards the Irish Civil War commenced.

In addition to being commended by the grand jury and the trial judge, the four officers were congratulated by the coroner at Westminster Court and highly commended by the commissioner. On 18 September the officers appeared before the Chief Metropolitan Magistrate, Sir Chartres Biron. March and Sayer were presented with cheques for £20 each and Duff and Bush with cheques for £15. In a wonderfully flowery speech, Sir Chartres declared:

In few countries has that wild savagery of spirit which inevitably followed a Great War been less in evidence than in our own; this is due largely not only to the firm administration of the law, but to the kind and generous spirit which is always behind that administration. That the two murderers of Sir Henry Wilson were brought to justice was largely due to those considerations and to the fact that the police can always be relied upon to do their duty, as in this instance with a bravery which might, if there were not so many other examples of it, be called exceptional. The police who secured the men and the members of the public who assisted them did so at the imminent risk of their lives, and one of the constables (March) is still maimed and lame as a consequence of his injuries. The constables deserve the thanks and the gratitude of the community and I feel certain that they will prize more than any pecuniary reward the consciousness of having rendered valuable service to the public and of having upheld to the fullest degree the best traditions of the Force to which they belong and to which the country and London in particular owe so much.

On 15 February 1923, at Buckingham Palace, the four officers were personally decorated with the King’s Police Medal by His Majesty King George V.

PC March was so badly injured that eventually he had to be invalided out of the Force. The heroic former soldier, PC Bush, was later transferred to ‘S’ Division and after three years’ service there transferred to ‘X’ Division. There, aged forty-four, he received another commissioner’s commendation, this time for stopping a runaway horse; but his wartime service had taken its toll of him and after twenty-five years he developed angina and was pensioned off. He died twenty years later, just before his seventy-third birthday. PC Duff, the keen newcomer, had acquired a taste for adventure early in his career and in 1929 he joined the CID. By now he was married and had two children. As he rose through the ranks, he received commendation number thirteen from the commissioner for the arrest of ‘three violent, alien female pickpockets’, followed by another, six months later, for an arrest in a case of housebreaking. And then, six months after that came promotion to detective sergeant (first class) and a posting to C1 Department at the Yard. This lasted, however, less than two years and was followed by a posting to ‘R’ Division where he remained for the rest of his service; it appears that much of the fire had gone out of him. He had passed his examination for detective inspector (second class) in 1936 but for some unknown reason he was never promoted. His next commendation was sixteen years after his previous one, followed by another two years later, both for the arrest of housebreakers; three years after that he resigned, still with the rank of detective sergeant, the rank he had held for twenty years, after thirty-three years’ and one day’s service. He died six years later, aged fifty-nine.

DC Sayer recovered from his leg wound and within a year he was active again, being commended in a case of false pretences. In the next few years, until he was promoted to detective sergeant (first class) in 1934, he notched up a total of sixteen commissioner’s commendations for a multiplicity of offences: for a variety of breakings – office-, shop-, warehouse- and church-(although this was better known as sacrilege) – and for his last, in a case of robbery with violence. In addition, he received monetary rewards from the commissioner on an astonishing eleven occasions, bringing in a total of over £25.

And yet, like Duff, Sayer had passed the examination for detective inspector (second class), in his case in 1930, and again, like Duff, was never promoted. He was a man who had travelled within the Metropolitan Police; commencing his service on ‘F’ Division, he was posted to ‘H’, ‘D’, ‘B’, ‘M’ and ‘K’ Divisions, before finally returning to ‘H’ Division. He had served in West, South and East London.

With his posting to East Ham in 1928, he and his wife settled into Police Married Quarters at 61 Haldane Road, just a short walk across Central Park to the police station. However, in 1941 he was pensioned off as being unfit for further duty due to clinical depression. He had served almost twenty-eight years, was awarded a pension of exactly £4 per week and lived on for another twenty-two years, dying at the age of seventy.

That was the fate of those gallant Metropolitan Police officers: to suffer ill health, to be denied promotion or longevity.

On the other hand, Dunne and O’Sullivan, those heroes of the IRA, fared far better; their remains were permitted to be disinterred from the unmarked graves in Wandsworth Prison and in 1968 they were reburied in the Republican plot at Dean’s Grange cemetery in Dublin, where Dunne’s dramatic words were finally read to an enraptured audience, forty-six years later than originally intended. The following year, the IRA offensive commenced in Northern Ireland, then in mainland Britain, and it continued for the next twenty-eight years. It seemed a curious way of saying thank you.