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  The British uniforms were quickly claimed.

  Seán Garland passed out black berets for the Volunteers to wear. He explained, “It’s Army policy to conform with the Geneva Convention, which demands active-service headgear to make combatants identifiable.1 As members of an organised army fighting a legitimate war to regain stolen territory we must obey international law. Even if the other side doesn’t,” he added sourly.

  “We commence operations at Gough Barracks sharply at midnight. The time’s been coordinated with the other columns because GHQ wants simultaneous attacks on British Army installations and the RUC. If this thing runs like clockwork we’ll knock’em off their pins.

  “Two covered lorries will be here to collect us by ten tonight. Bring your packs with you, you never know where we may finish up. We’ll rendezvous with Daly and his men at the barracks. Some of the locals will meet us with a mine so we can blow open the front gate. Once we’re inside, break down the doors, rip out the electrical wiring, destroy the telephones, set fire to files and mattresses—in short, do everything you can to make the damned place unusable. Then seize all the weapons you can carry and get out.”

  “The soldiers aren’t going to stand idly by while we destroy their barracks,” Paddy O’Regan said.

  “Threaten and intimidate’em all you like,” Garland retorted. “But don’t shoot anyone unless you have to.”

  Feargal whispered to Barry, “The O/C just doesn’t want to kill any of his old pals.”

  Seán Garland glared in his direction. “I heard that, O’Hanlon. I never want to kill anyone, and neither should you. Disable and demoralise, remember?”

  THE day was heavily overcast. As the light died a bitter wind blew in from the Irish Sea. In the barn where they waited the temperature dropped steadily, forcing them to put their coats over the borrowed uniforms. By eight o’clock they were blowing on their hands and stamping their feet.

  Barry, who thought smoking made him look more mature, lit a cigarette as much for the warmth as the comfort, and puffed ostentatiously to conceal his excitement. Now it begins. Now it really begins!

  Ten o’clock came and passed. The men grew restless. Several went outside to urinate. The Limerick contingent broke out a pack of cards and enjoyed a furious argument over which game to play.

  Dragging its feet, another hour crept by.

  Garland was consulting his watch every ten minutes.

  “Where d’you think our transport is, Seventeen?” Feargal wondered.

  “How should I know? If it doesn’t come I suppose we can always walk.”

  Feargal took him seriously. “Anything’s better than waiting.”

  “My granda said a lot of being in the Army was just waiting.”

  Seán Garland’s temper neared the boiling point. “Isn’t this bloody typical!” he snarled to his second in command. “Another Army cock-up.” He glanced toward the waiting men to be sure they did not overhear him. “Dave, run to the village and scare up some sort of transportation for us. We’re going to be late as it is.”

  O’Connell looked dubious. “The locals may feel they’ve done enough by getting those uniforms. They were certainly taking a ri—”

  “Nobody’s done enough until the war’s won!” Garland exploded.

  O’Connell hastily left the shed.

  Garland’s watch ticked on.

  After another half hour a dilapidated cattle truck appeared, lurching along uncertainly, backfiring and belching fumes. The exhaust pipe was only an ancient memory. Dave O’Connell leaned out the window. “Borrowed this from a farmyard,” he called to Seán Garland.

  “Did you have the farmer’s permission?”

  “Not exactly.” O’Connell climbed gingerly from the cab, then turned and glared at the rusty springs protruding from the dung-smeared seat. “I’m not familiar with this class of vehicle, Seán. You’d best ask someone else to do the driving.”

  Vince Conlon was duly appointed as driver. The other Volunteers scrambled into the back of the lorry. The stench was appalling. “Pigs was in here last,” a farm boy commented. “We’ll smell just like’em before we get out of here.” The floor was slippery with pig manure. The Volunteers kept their packs on their backs rather than set them down.

  With an appalling screech of metal Conlon engaged the gears and they were off. “Should the engine sound like it’s full of gravel?” Feargal asked Barry.

  “I don’t think so. My mam won’t let me touch her Ford, but I’ve tinkered with it a bit when she’s not around, so I know a thing or two. An engine should purr, not cough.”

  “Will this one get us there anyway, d’ye think?”

  “I’m sure,” replied Barry. Who was not at all sure. But he did not really care. The here and now was wonderful. A huge adventure!

  As the lorry clattered across the border into Armagh, sleet spattered against the windscreen with a sound like shotgun pellets. The bald tyres skidded on the icy road. The Volunteers clutched at anything they could hold on to.

  “Faster,” Garland urged. “Faster!”

  When they were within a mile of Gough Barracks the truck’s misaligned headlamps picked out two figures in overcoats standing by the side of the road. One of them waved twice, briskly, then once more.

  Garland ordered Conlon to stop. He slammed on the brakes and the lorry slewed sideways on ice.

  “Fuckin’ Jaysus!” someone gasped.

  The men on the roadside were carrying a mine wrapped in a flowered quilt. Garland spoke with them from the back of the lorry. “Haven’t seen the other crowd at all,” one man said in response to his query about Daly. “They’re probably waiting for you up ahead somewhere. Here, would you take this? We have to make a move, we’ve been here too long already.”

  Garland reached down and lifted the mine into the truck. The other Volunteers quickly edged away from him.

  A hundred yards farther on, Garland directed Conlon to a dirt track that branched off from the main road. “This will take us to a hill behind the barracks. There’s no guard post there. We can park without being seen, then sneak around on foot and blow the gate. If Daly’s anywhere in the area he’ll hear the explosion and come at the double.”

  As they started up the hill, Conlon throttled down to the lowest gear.

  The headlamps promptly failed.

  In the darkness they did not realise they were parking below a watchtower that had been erected since Garland’s days at the barracks. The sentry in the tower peeped over the edge. After one glimpse of the invaders, he fired his rifle into the air and ducked back down out of sight.

  A Klaxon blared. Lights shone from every window. Officers could be heard shouting orders and a five-man patrol came running along the wall, weapons at the ready.

  Seán Garland tossed the mine out the back of the lorry. “Let’s get the hell out of here!”

  His men sprayed the barracks wall with bullets as the truck lurched away. When it built up enough speed the headlamps came on again.

  Seán Garland was cursing under his breath. “They’re too well prepared, damn them. Didn’t used to be that way.”

  Halfway to the main road they met another truck coming toward them. The access road was too narrow to allow the two vehicles to pass each other. Brakes squealed.

  The driver of the second lorry stuck his head out the window and called, “Garland, is that you?”

  “WE didn’t even get out of the lorry,” Feargal complained.

  “Don’t worry,” Barry consoled his friend. “I’m sure we’ll see plenty of action soon.”

  Privately his disappointment was intense. The high excitement of anticipation, the sudden burst of adrenaline when things began to happen, the racing blood, the pounding heart, and then … and then nothing.

  Damn, damn, damn it!

  THE attack on Gough Barracks had to be abandoned, but at midnight ten other targets, in a ring from Antrim to Derry, were hit. In spite of a substantial network of paid informers, the RUC did not h
ave adequate warning. Operation Harvest began with the chatter of machine guns and the roar of explosives.

  A raiding party destroyed a BBC transmitting station. After moving the caretaker and his family to safety outside, another group set fire to a courthouse full of government documents. A post used by B-Specials was burned to the ground. Originally recruited under orders from Winston Churchill, the B-Specials were a fanatically pro-British militia with a taste for violence. Although they were called “police reservists,” this was only a flag of convenience. In reality the B-Specials dispensed punishment as they saw fit and had a well-earned reputation for savagery to Catholics.

  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.

  AT 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.”

  THEY 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.

  By the fifteenth of December, Operation Harvest had moved out of field headquarters and dispersed throughout the region.

  Chapter Six

  IN 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’r
e 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.”

  WHILE 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.