1972 (11 page)

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Authors: Morgan Llywelyn

BOOK: 1972
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What Mickey called fiddly, Barry called precise. The painstaking detail appealed to a certain orderly quality he was discovering in his own nature: the counterbalance to the wild and reckless side.
H
E returned to the farm eager to utilise his new skills. “When Mickey's finished with you,” McCoy had said, “get word to me. Then wait for your assignment.”
When Barry telephoned the pub in Ballina he was told, “Never heard of anyone called McCoy.”
Damned Army secrecy.
“I have a message for him anyway. Tell him Seventeen rang and he's ready.”
“If your man turns up, we'll tell him.” Click.
Days passed, became a week, became a fortnight.
F
ORCED by events and public opinion, Costello called for an election. The Sinn Féin party received an impressive 65,640 votes. But spearheaded by de Valera, a man even more implacably opposed to the IRA than Costello had been, Fianna Fáil won seventy-eight seats in the Dáil and swept back into power.
On the twentieth of March, Eamon de Valera began his third term as taoiseach of Ireland.
I
N one of Ned's notebooks Barry read, “I believe I know what turned de Valera against his former comrades in the IRA. It was not simply political expediency. Dev blamed inadequate planning by the Irish Republican Brotherhood for the failure of the Easter Rising. Pádraic Pearse was large-spirited enough to accept the responsibility himself, gallantly exonerating his fellow republicans, but that was not in de Valera's nature. Since he could not punish the IRB directly he took out his spite on the Irish Republican Army because it had been the tool of the Brotherhood.”
W
HILE he waited to hear from McCoy, Barry threw himself into farm work. He liked animals and had been riding horses for as long as he could remember, since the first time Ursula sat him on a broad, warm back and closed his chubby fist around a clump of mane. But Barry's thoughts kept running back to his former comrades. He felt as if the greater part of himself was still with the column.
In the evenings Barry went to his room, closed the door, and sat down with his grandfather's notebooks. He did not return to Ned's unfinished novel but skipped around in the other books, reading whatever caught his eye. He was intrigued by Ned Halloran's evolution from passionate warrior to thoughtful observer.
Toward the end of the Spanish Civil War, while he was fighting with the International Brigades against Franco's fascists, Ned had written, “There is a terrible irony here. In Ireland the republicans fought against the official government and lost. In Spain the republicans are fighting on behalf of the official government and are losing. Why are we so addicted to lost causes?”
I'm not,
thought Barry defiantly.
I intend to be on the winning side.
He began stocking a remote outbuilding with empty containers he took from the kitchen when no one was looking.
Shortly before America entered the Second World War, Ned had stated emphatically, “The Easter Rising was not only a military revolution, but also the physical manifestation of a
yearning on the part of the Irish to be
themselves
, to create a society where the native Irish imagination and potential would be unfettered!”
An entry dated 1943: “If we had been given Home Rule there would have been no Rising, but in the long run that would have been a tragedy for Ireland. Home Rule would have replaced the tyrannical Act of Union with an only slightly more palatable version of colonialism, giving us the delusion of self-government while keeping our resources firmly within the British realm. Victorian values and culture would have been the only models allowed us. The colonial class system would have kept the native Irish on the lowest rung of the ladder.”
A few months later Ned had written, “Republicanism rejects the obsession with class. The republican philosophy threatened both the northern Protestants and the southern Ascendancy, who, under British rule, were enjoying economic and social privilege they did not want to lose. Quite understandably, they resented the Rising and hated its leaders.”
An entry in 1945 pointed out, “After independence the southern Protestants became an important part of this state. They made and continue to make valuable contributions in the professions, in business, and in politics. Their religious beliefs are never questioned or challenged. I do not know the religious affiliations of many of my acquaintances. Here, it is not important.
“Tragically, in Northern Ireland the division between Protestant and Catholic has become a chasm. For their own purposes northern politicians cynically encourage hatred and mistrust between the two. If the ordinary people of England knew what was being done in their names on this island, they would be appalled. But they will never learn the truth. Their government will see to it.”
A solitary paragraph on a single page, dated August 1946: “World War Two is over. But how much hatred is being stored up for the next time? This war was a direct result of the First World War, which left such deep resentments. The longer one hates the deeper it goes. Hatred is passed on to the children and the children's children until it becomes a religion in itself.”
March 25, 1957
EUROPEAN COMMON MARKET CREATED BY TREATY OF ROME
U
RSULA was sitting on the farmyard gate—which she cryptically referred to as “the blessed gate”—watching Barry approach from the fields. Her face was expressionless but the set of her shoulders warned him.
I'm in trouble.
As he came up to the gate she said, “I went into that shed on the far side of the orchard today. I was looking for a pruning saw George misplaced.”
“And was it there?” Barry asked politely. He waited for her to step down from the gate so he could swing it open and enter the farmyard. She did not move.
Deep trouble.
“I found some other things instead. Rather odd things, actually. Did you put them there, Barry?”
He offered his jauntiest grin. “You know me, I'm like a magpie, I collect bits and bobs that appeal to me.”
The grin failed to melt her. “To what purpose? Don't lie to me, young man, I didn't just come down in a shower of roses.”
“It's Army business.”
“If it's on my farm it's my business. Exactly what are you using that shed for?”
Might as well bite the bullet. Except there's no bullet.
“I'm practising. Constructing a few simple explosive devices out of things we have lying around the place. It's safe, I know what I'm doing.”
“That's your new assignment? Making bombs for the IRA?”
He nodded.
Her features seemed to collapse in on themselves, as if the
strong bones underneath were crumbling. “Do you have any idea what a bomb can do? Your own father …”
He seized on the word. “My father? What about him? Was he in the IRA?”
“Hardly; he was the least militant of men. If he knew what you're planning …”
“I'm not planning to kill anybody. My job will be to help break down the machinery of administration,” Barry explained, quoting Seán Garland. “I'll blow up roads and bridges and telephone lines. And if there's any danger of people getting hurt, I'm going to give warnings first.”
Although she was not yet fifty, Ursula stepped down from the gate like an old woman afraid for her brittle bones. “You're going to give warnings first,” she repeated.
“I am.”
“That's your idea of how to conduct a war?”
“It's how I'm going to conduct this one.”
Ursula studied his face with narrowed eyes.
Is she seeing my father in me?
Barry wondered.
Then she turned away.
T
HAT night Barry trawled through Ned Halloran's notebooks seeking some mention of his father. The name Finbar Cassidy never appeared. Stranger still, after 1926 the only entry concerning Ursula was a newspaper clipping that listed her amongst the Irish working in Geneva for the League of Nations. There was no reference to her pregnancy or Barry's birth in 1939.
Mystified, Barry kept searching until he came to an entry dated 15 June, 1941: “Precious and I are fully reconciled at last. She has forgiven me.”
She forgave him? What the hell for?
After that Ursula and Barry made frequent appearances in Ned's writings. But nothing explained the silent years.
B
ARRY was keenly aware of time passing.
I was stupid, saying what I did about guns. Seamus must have passed it on to General Headquarters and they've decided I don't belong in the Army. But I do.
Eileen complained that he was neglecting his food. “Perhaps the milk's gone off,” she suggested during dinner one Sunday.
“No refrigerator,” Ursula said without looking up from her plate.
In early April, Barry at last received a letter postmarked Ballina. He eagerly tore the envelope open. A single sheet of paper bore two words: “Saturday morning.”
Now it begins,
Barry told himself. But there was not the heart-pounding excitement of the past, nor the sense of high adventure. Not even the purity of intent. This was a compromise and he knew it. He envied the men of 1916 for whom everything had been simple.
In Ballina, Séamus McCoy greeted him with, “Mickey tells us you're ready to do the business, is that right?”
“It is. When do I begin?”
“Not so fast, Seventeen. Here, have a fag.”
“I don't smoke anymore.”
“Wish I didn't,” McCoy said wryly. “Cigarettes use up money better spent on whiskey. But back to business. The Army Council's called a temporary halt to attacks. Reluctantly, I must say. John Joe's particularly upset about it, but …”
“John Joe?”
“John Joe McGirl. He's been very committed to the border campaign, he was even chief-of-staff for a wee while. But things are too hot for us right now, too many of our lads are in prison. We need to spend a few months regrouping. When the nights begin to be longer, we'll send fresh active-service units across the border.”
“Including me?”
“Aye, but you won't be assigned to one particular group. We're short on explosives engineers so you'll be a floater, sent wherever requested.”
The disappointment Barry felt told him how much he had been looking forward to the camaraderie, the sense of cohesion, that came with being part of a unit. Instead he was being cut loose.
An outsider again.
He let none of this show in his face. “How do I get my orders?”
“My friend Éamonn Thomas wears a lot of republican hats. In addition to being the Dublin O/C, he's the treasurer of Sinn Féin and the manager of the party newspaper, the
United Irishman,
for which he also writes historical articles. Since you're interested in history Éamonn suggests you buy a subscription.”
Barry laughed. “For once I'm ahead of you, Séamus. My mother already has a subscription. She takes every republican periodical in the country.”
“Then make sure you get to that copy of the
Irishman
before anyone else does. There'll be notes in code for you tucked between the pages.”
“Thank Eamonn Thomas for me, will you?”
“Thank him yourself if you ever come up to Dublin,” McCoy said, “though I think you'll soon be too busy.”
As Barry was about to leave the room above the pub McCoy stopped him. “One more thing, Seventeen. It's a stroke of luck that your name doesn't seem to be on any arrest list. Mind you keep it that way.
I ngan fhios don dlí is fearr bheith ann.

“It's better to exist unknown to the law,” Barry translated. “I didn't know you had any Irish, Séamus.”
“Even an old dog can learn. It's my language too.”
I
N response to the lessening of IRA activity, the Irish government began to release republican prisoners. Eamon de Valera, however, remained personally determined to stamp out the organisation. At his order the old prison camp on the Curragh in Kildare was reopened and made ready.
In the north the loyalists, convinced that the IRA was a spent force, renewed their attacks on Catholic families. People were beaten and houses burned with such regularity that the incidents were rarely even reported in the newspapers anymore.
In May a large republican rally was held in Dublin. Ex-prisoners assured a cheering crowd that the war was far from over; Ireland would be reunited yet. The government was alarmed by the size of the crowd and dispatched the Special Branch to take down names, though no arrests followed. “The government hopes,” stated a radio announcer, “that the declining number of incidents in the north signals an end to republican violence.” He made no mention of ongoing loyalist violence.
Throughout June, Barry waited, spending his ferocious energy on farm work during the day, then joining his contemporaries
for a round of socialising in Ennis until late at night. He drank more than most and talked less. The life of the local young people seemed far removed from his own. Their conversation was about sports—which he once had followed avidly—and the latest popular music on the wireless and the newest motion picture from America. Barry soon drifted away to spend his evenings reading Ned's notebooks. He lived a rich fantasy life as the young Ned Halloran, doing valiant deeds.
To his disappointment, the next small, blurred issue of the
United Irishman
arrived with no message inside for him. But a few days later a large box of what appeared to be stable supplies—curiously addressed to Barry Halloran rather than Ursula Halloran—was delivered to the farm. When Barry opened the box, he found, beneath two horse blankets that were neither clean nor new, a roll of commercial fuse and some detonators.
O
N the fourth of July an RUC patrol unexpectedly encountered a fully armed IRA unit in County Armagh. In an exchange of fire, the Volunteers killed one constable and severely wounded another. The next day the newspapers were filled with condemnation of “the Forkhill Ambush.”
The match was put to the tinderbox. Without hesitation, de Valera issued an order for internment. The gardai and the Special Branch fanned out across Dublin. At Sinn Féin headquarters in Wicklow Street they arrested twelve men, then went on to clean out the offices of the
United Irishman
in Gardiner Row. Éamonn Thomas temporarily eluded them and went on the run, but was soon captured.
The sweep continued throughout the week. Most of the Sinn Féin executive committee, the Army Council, and the staff of GHQ were sent to the Bridewell to await transfer to Curragh Camp. Only a few highly ranked republicans escaped, fleeing to a hideaway in the hills of Limerick.
Ordinary men and women were shocked by the number of arrests. The Bishop of Clonfert commented, “Our version of history has tended to make us think of freedom as an end in itself and of independent government—like marriage in a fairy story—as the solution of all ills.”
1
A
N outraged Ursula Halloran cried, “How dare they imprison people without any charge, just on suspicion of what they
might
do! Do we have a government or a dictatorship?”
In Curragh Camp the internees soon were following a well-established republican tradition, one that dated back to the days of Michael Collins: using their time to study the Irish language and the arts of subversion.
T
HAT summer Bill Haley and his Comets brought rock-and-roll to Dublin. They performed to packed audiences in the Theatre Royal. The music was condemned as “anarchic” by the Church and hailed as “revolutionary” by the young people, who loved it. Their idea of revolution was different from that of their grandfathers. To boys and girls growing up in the 1950s, it meant long overdue social change. They even had a new name for themselves, one imported from America. They were called teenagers now.
W
ITH the stroke of a pen Eamon de Valera had relieved Barry of any uncertainty. The introduction of internment in the Republic was all the justification he needed to return to the struggle with a whole heart. The Irish government had abandoned the moral high ground staked out by Pearse and Connolly. Only keepers of the republican flame like Sinn Féin and the IRA could bring it back.
Under the circumstances, Barry did not expect to receive any coded assignments via the
United Irishman.
Republican activity would be at a near standstill until there was a wave of prisoner releases, or the few men still free could mobilise. While Barry waited he spent hours figuring out new timing mechanisms and methods for disguising mines. When the call came he would be ready.
Ursula was thinking ahead too. “Have they given you a pistol?” she asked her son. “A handgun's more convenient for self-defence than a rifle.”
“I don't have a pistol.”
“Then take mine. I'll feel better, knowing you have it. We won't be unarmed, there's always Gerry's shotgun.”
Rather than try to explain his reasons for not carrying firearms, Barry accepted the pistol. He had not even told Séamus McCoy the whole story. That moment when he blew the face off another man was his alone to bear.
The Mauser went under his mattress with the Lee-Enfield.
I
N September, President Eisenhower sent a thousand U.S. paratroopers to Little Rock, Arkansas, to enforce a federal court order granting black children the right to enter a public school formerly attended only by whites. Fifteen hundred demonstrators staged a furious protest beyond the military cordon, screaming, “Go home, niggers!” Seven segregationists were arrested. Nine black children successfully enrolled in Central High School.

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