by Meda Ryan
‘It had to be done. I would never, if I could help it, put the ordinary people at risk. The men of the column who volunteered were taking a chance, but they knew they were gambling with their lives. This was always made quite clear to them. They had volunteered – though I was aware of this, my heart bled at the loss of one of them.
‘Yes, I put them at risk. We were all at risk, but that’s what war is about – the necessary war for a nation’s freedom ... I agree there is perhaps a conflict here. You push them forward to do a job, to kill and perhaps be killed. You can’t think too deeply about them then. Afterwards, when they get killed, one cannot but feel the loss.’
Did he see a link between the fight in the north today and the fight in his day?
‘Well! They are fighting for the same objectives as the men of 1916 did and as we did. They want the British out. It’s an ongoing fight, but the means to gain it have changed, not for the better, I might add, because the Provos have polarised the people against them. That was where we gained, we had the majority of the people behind us – not at first of course, but we won their confidence. They are not doing that. They are putting their own people, even down here south, against their aims.’
He regretted not being able to experience a United Ireland in his lifetime. ‘Thinking back on it, we would have been better off, the country would have been, if we had no Truce, though I was all for it then; but I only wanted a temporary break, a tester, but the negotiations messed things up – that dastardly Civil War and everything … Even in the 1930s if I had my way then, the climate was right to go up north and get the people behind us; we might have a different Ireland today. Each generation now has its own fight to fight and no matter what people say, it will go on until Ireland is united.’
The failures of past generations he claimed were due to lack of unity. ‘Take Owen Roe, left alone after his victory at Benburb; Sarsfield left surrounded at Limerick until he surrendered; the men of Wexford and Wicklow left unaided in the 1798 Rising; and those brave 1916 men left to their military defeat while the rest of Ireland kept quiet. Also we have to remember that the achievement of unity is coupled with planning and leadership, and this required discipline and organised effort. If the Irish could remember this, forget their squabbles, co-operate and unite, then perhaps they could make a fresh start with a reasonable hope of success.’
Had he any suggestions as to how the problem in the north could be solved?
‘It’s up to the commanders to make their own decisions. It’s not for me to say what the Provos should do. I only know I would handle it differently, but each commander has his own way of doing things. I back the Provos right to get the British out, but they need better planning, and the targets should be military targets only … Yes, negotiations should be more progressive now in this generation … I don’t know why they’re not successful. . . I cannot see why the northern Protestants would not be happy in a United Ireland. Surely we have reached a point in civilisation when people should work together. Why shouldn’t Protestants and Catholics work together in a united effort, in a United Ireland? We have a great bloody country if we’d only pull together and work it properly ... ’
As he turned a softness crept across his face.
‘It’s strange, you know, there’s always money for war and defence. Yet when money is wanted for houses or education there is none. Human beings are peculiar, there’s no doubt about it. Look at England, and what it is costing them to hold on to the six counties – those things seem to be taken for granted.
‘Yes, all wars are foul,’ he said, ‘but the war of freedom has to be fought. If the mighty power will not release its grip otherwise, then the release has to come around by war.’
He dismissed the insinuation in some books that the War of Independence was a ‘glorious war’. ‘There is no such thing. You fight because you have to and you do the best you can – that’s what we did. All you have to do is kill more of them than they kill of you.’
‘People said you had no fear,’ I said.
‘Of course I was afraid sometimes. I don’t think the man is born who has no fear. I conquered it I suppose. I needed bravery to command. I would never send a man to do any task which I wouldn’t do myself because of fear. But let history be my judge!’
There was such gentleness about this man one wondered how he could kill a spy. But it was all part of the war: ‘You did what had to be done.’ After a thoughtful pause the next sentence came like a bullet from his colt: ‘We didn’t kill half enough of the British bastards!’
Suddenly he leaned close and whispered into my ear, ‘I’ll take some secrets to the grave with me.’
Some stories he told were shocking; one could almost feel the blood rising. Some were strange and sad, and others were funny – all based on a myriad of experiences from the man who said he was happy and contented with himself.
The man who fought in three wars before his twenty-fifth birthday – the First World War, the Anglo-Irish War and the Civil War – was a little dissatisfied with the Ireland, which had emerged. Another IRA Kilmichael veteran put it thus: ‘We fought for Ireland, we died for Ireland and now we won’t work for Ireland.’[1]
In an Irish Press interview Barry said, ‘nowadays people tend to be money-mad; everybody seems to be concerned with money, money, money. We all like to have a few bob in our pockets to spend, but it is gone to ridiculous lengths now.’[2]
The man who who told me that he wouldn’t place a wreath on the grave of a famine victim, because they didn’t mobilise to stick a pike in a few landlords despite the fact that they would have had the backing of the majority of the Irish people, took the filter tip of his smoked cigarette from its holder, put it into his match box which went into his left pocket and put the holder into the top pocket. Everything he did was exact. He rubbed the flecks of ash from his trousers, and as he got up and turned, his well-polished shoes shone beneath the rays of the sun.
He lifted his soft, grey hat in a polite gesture before we parted on the understanding of another meeting.
The May flowers were in bloom as Tom Barry walked with me down the narrow path in the grounds of Fitzgerald Park in the Mardyke, Cork. It was a sunny Saturday morning.
The cane with a silver top – a general’s cane – was placed across his legs as he sat. Was he a proud man?
‘How do you describe pride? If you mean proud of what I have achieved in life, the answer is yes; but if you mean vain, I don’t think so. I hope not. Most of us try to do the best we can with our lives. Some don’t do a damn thing of course. When I think of my wife and all that she has done for people, and she’s left lying there.’
He paused, getting lost in his thoughts for a moment.
In a Sunday Independent interview he had said, ‘I see goddamn rapists and exploiters and robbers and murderers go out in their sleep. Why does she have to get it like this?’[3]
A sadness crept across his face, so we changed the subject.
There was a touch of sadness, not to be lingered upon, at the fact that his family was not around him – that his parents were buried in England, that his father was buried without his being present. His older brother was killed when struck by a train in America, a sister went to Australia and married there, another sister followed, other members of the family were now dead ...
Tom and his wife Leslie had no children, but ‘the good Irish people’ were their family. ‘This pair had given their time, energy and money to the people of Ireland’.[4]They really held no worldly possessions, never owned their own house, but lived for most of the latter part of their lives in a rented flat over Woodford Bournes at the corner of Patrick Street, Cork.[5]
Tom had admiration for many of the great men who fought for Irish freedom down through the ages. He liked to talk about them: the men of Wexford, the Fenians and ‘Tom Clarke, a man who had to eat his food in the filth of an English dungeon with his hands tied behind his back. The spirit of that man, whom one would say had had enou
gh, came back a middle-aged man and fought in 1916. And after all that he faced the execution squad bravely. All for Ireland!’
Eamon de Valera was a man he admired, even though he was jailed by him many times. ‘Sometimes he was right and sometimes he was wrong.’
Michael Collins should have lived, but then it was that horrible ‘fight between brothers that brought it about. He wanted peace, just as De Valera did, as some more of us did ... Collins did so much for Ireland ... ’
He showed me a copy of a letter to his solicitor in which he said he wanted a strictly private funeral. His plot for himself and his wife would be close to the Republican one but not in it. As he carefully folded it he grinned, then laughed, ‘‘Twill be all over before anybody knows about it.’
The sun had shifted high in the sky when suddenly a dark cloud obscured the golden rays. He rose, looked around, ‘Light and shade,’ he said. ‘A mirror of the facts of life!’
We walked in silence towards the bustle of city traffic, towards his flat over Woodford Bournes.
He put his hand gently on my shoulder, bent towards me and whispered, ‘If you write something about me and I’m still around I’d like to see it. If I’m gone, it doesn’t matter a damn!’
A warm shake-hands was followed by the raising of his hat, and we parted. (The flat was gutted to make way for a fast-food outlet. Tom and Leslie’s papers and letters were mixed up in the rubble. But a concerned builder salvaged some, contacted a friend, and bundled everything into black plastic bags.)
He was not feeling well during an informal celebration held on 1 July 1980 to mark his eighty-third birthday. That night he became ill and was taken to the Regional Hospital, Cork, where he died in the early hours of 2 July. His life had run a complete cycle; it was as if he had timed it. In life he was exact, and it seems almost as if he had ordered his death so that his precise age could be quoted without the addition of even an extra week.
His body lay in an oak coffin, draped with the tricolour, before the altar of the church of SS Peter & Paul in Cork city. His ‘loving wife, Leslie’ whom he had hoped would go before him, had a wreath of yellow and white chrysanthemums sent. Unable to attend the funeral, she lay in her hospital bed where she would remain until she died over three and three-quarter years later (April 1984). Only a group of friends, relatives and a contingent of the special branch were present, while a police helicopter hovered overhead. His wife’s nephew, Fr Cathal Price, who said that the general had asked for a simple funeral without fuss, celebrated the Mass. ‘Let us do that and give thanks for the man whose life touched our lives, and that of our country. Let us give thanks to God that the tremendous qualities that he had were used for us, and through us, and together let us give thanks.’[6]
On 4 July, without the presence of a firing party, without the pomp or ceremony usually accorded to great men, one of Ireland’s most famous sons was quietly laid to rest in St Finbarr’s Cemetery, Cork.
Notes
[1]Pat O’Donovan author interview 20/2/1980. The reference was in relation to continuous strikes and workers in jobs comparing their pay with those of others.
[2]Irish Press, 7 April 1980, interview with T. P. O’Mahony.
[3]Sunday Independent, 7 March 1976. Interview by Donal Corvin.
[4]Criostóir de Baróid, author interview 12/1/1981.
[5]A plaque organised by Pádraig Ó Cuanacháin marks the building.
[6]Irish Press, 4 July 1980. Nellie Casey was amongst the many gathered outside Tom Barry’s flat as the ambulance took him away. ‘We stood in silent prayer and sadness.’
Appendix I – Kilmichael Ambush Participants
Under the Command of Tom Barry, there were thirty-six riflemen, three scouts, two dispatch scouts and four after-ambush helpers involved in the ambush on 28 November 1920.
Tom Barry – Commander, 1898–1980
Jack Aherne , 1901–1973
Sonny Carey, 1902–1951
Nelius Cotter, 1891–1952
Batty Coughlan, 1895–1951
Denis Cronin , 1897–1966
Sonny Dave Crowley, 1894–1971
Timothy Crowley, 1889–1955
Pat Deasy, 1904–1920
Seán Falvey, 1898–1971
Johnny Hegarty, 1895–1973
Jack Hennessy, 1899–1970
Michael Herlihy, 1897–1949
Dan Hourihane, 1900–1974
Jack Hourihane, 1899–1922
John Kelly, Kilmichael, 1890–1959
John Lordan, 1892–1930
Jack McCarthy, Drimoleague, 1892–1971
Michael McCarthy, 1895–1920
Paddy McCarthy ‘Kilmallock’, 1900–1922
Timothy ‘Casey’ McCarthy, 1885–1965
Jim ‘Spud’ Murphy, 1900–1976
John ‘Flyer’ Nyhan, 1892–1934
Denis O’Brien, 1899–1953
Paddy O’Brien, 1896–1979
Tim O’Connell, 1898–1983
John O’Donovan, 1887–1973
Michael O’Donovan, Ross, 1899–1965
Michael O’Donovan, Leap, 1896–1958
Patrick ‘Pat’ O’Donovan, 1899–1981
Patrick O’Donovan, 1895–1974
Dan O’Driscoll, 1898–1967
Michael Con O’Driscoll, 1898–1969
Michael O’Driscoll, 1899–1976
Jerome O’Hea, , 1892–1961
James O’Mahony, 1897–1979
Jermiah O’Mahony, 1891–1921
Denis O’Neill, 1897–1978
Stephen O’Neill, 1889–1966
Denis O’Sullivan, 1894–1969
Jack O’Sullivan, 1899–1986
Jim O’Sullivan, 1894–1920
John D. O’Sullivan, , 1897–1958
Tim O’Sullivan, 1880–1965
Jack Roche, 1902–1973
Ned Young, 1892–1989
Three Volunteers were killed during the Kilmichael ambush: Pat Deasy, Michael McCarthy, Jim O’Sullivan.
One Volunteers was killed during the War of Independence: Jeremiah O’Mahony, (gun accident).
Two Vounteers were killed during the Civil War: Jack Hourihane (pro-Treaty), Paddy McCarthy ‘Kilmallock’, (anti-Treaty).
Eighteen men emigrated either after the War of Independence or after hostilities ceased. Some returned and settled in Ireland, some visited but made their homes abroad. Tim Crowley summed up the feelings of the men, who went to the US, when they first left – ‘Our bodies are in the US, but our hearts are in Ireland’.
Went to the US: Sonny Carey, Batty Coughlan, Sonny Dave Crowley, Timothy Crowley, Seán Falvey, Michael Herlihy, Jack McCarthy, John O’Donovan, Patrick ‘Pat’ O’Donovan, James O’Mahony, Denis O’Neill, Jack O’Sullivan.
Went to Bermuda: Tim O’Connell.
Went to Scotland: John ‘Flyer’ Nyhan.
Went to Wales: Patrick O’Donovan, Dan O’Driscoll.
Went to Switzerland: Michael O’Driscoll.
Went to Liverpool: Jack Roche.
Appendix II: Kilmichael Ambush – the Aftermath; and Mistakes at Crossbarry
British forces, converging on Kilmichael, carried out largescale reprisals around the ambush area. Shops and homes, haybarns and outhouses were destroyed at Kilmichael, Johnstown and Inchageela. Proclamations were posted up in public places and printed in the daily press:
New Police order in Macroom
December 1, 1920
Whereas foul murders of servants of the crown have been carried out by disaffected persons, and whereas such persons immediately before the murders appeared to be peaceful and loyal people, but have produced pistols from their pockets, therefore it is ordered that all male inhabitants of Macroom and all males passing through Macroom shall not appear in public with their hands in their pockets. Any male infringing this order is liable to be shot at sight.
By Order
AUXILIARY DIVISION, R.I.C.
Macroom Castle
NOTICE
December 2, 19
20
The General Officer Commanding the 17th Infantry Brigade, Cork, requests that all business premises and shops be closed between the hours of 11 a.m. and 2 p.m., Thursday, December 2, 1920, as a mark of respect for the officers, Cadets and Constable of the Auxiliary division, RIC, killed in ambush near Kilmichael, 28, November, 1920, and whose Funeral Procession will be passing through the City on December 2nd.
F. R. EASTWOOD, MAJOR
BRIGADE MAJOR, 17th INF. BDE.
British dead at Kilmichael
(Regimental Museum of the Royal Corps of Transport, Bullen Barracks, Aldershot, Hampshire)
Killed
Captain F. W. Craik, MC, late Bedford Regiment.
Captain P. N. Graham, late Northumberland Fusiliers.
Major F. Hugo, OBE, MC, late Indian army.
Captain W. Pallester, late Royal Air Force.
Captain W. Wainwright, late Dublin Fusiliers.
Cadet W. T. Barnes, DFC, late Royal Air Force.
Cadet L. D. Bradshaw, late Royal Air Force.
Cadet J. C. Gleave, late Royal Air Force.
Cadet A. G. Jones, late Suffolk Regiment.
Cadet W. Hooper-Jones, late Northumberland Fusiliers.
Cadet E. W. H. Lucas, late Royal Sussex Regiment.
Cadet H. O. Pearson, late Green Howards Regiment.
Cadet F. Taylor, late Royal Air Force.
Cadet B. Webster, late Black Watch.
