We walked, as directed, up Suffolk St. and down Trinity St. until we came to a building in Dame St. (No. 38) which was an insurance office, where we were directed to stand against the wall. Newell was kept several paces away from me, and we were surrounded by a bodyguard on either side. I should mention that Newell was dressed in typical country fashion. He was wearing a cap and greatcoat, and was easily identifiable as a man from the country.
Igoe, whom I had identified from his description, first questioned Newell and later questioned me, but neither of us could hear the other’s answers.
While in this predicament, I saw Vincent Byrne and other members of the squad cutting across Dame St. and going through Hely’s Arch, on their way to St. Stephen’s Green to the rendezvous. They evidently thought that I was engaged in conversation with some friends, as they made no effort to approach us.
In reply to the questions put to me, I gave my correct name and address. I stated that I was a believer in Home Rule and that my father was a J.P. and did not agree with the Sinn Fein policy.
Newell endeavoured to bluff also, and we were asked how we came to know one another. I stated that he was a stranger I had met on the street who had got into conversation with me and that I was directing him somewhere or other. I failed to realise at the time that Igoe was aware of Newell’s position in the Galway Volunteers and knew him quite well. Under the interrogation Newell lost his temper and told Igoe that he knew who he was, just as well as Igoe knew him. His outburst ended any further questioning.
I was told to walk on and not look back. I walked on in the direction of Trinity St., knowing from the footsteps behind me that I was under cover by some of Igoe’s men. I moved fairly slowly at first, not being physically able to go any faster. I moved through Trinity St., Suffolk St. and into Wicklow St., gaining a few yards on each bend and keeping civilians, as far as possible, in the line of fire between myself and my pursuers.
When I turned the corner of Wicklow St. I made a dash of about thirty or forty yards and entered a building where my father had his commercial offices. I went up the two flights of stairs into his office and was practically in a state of collapse on reaching it. My father’s typist was in the office, but I did not speak to her as I expected to hear the sound of steps on the stairs any second. After about five minutes, as nothing happened, I asked her to put on her hat and coat and accompany me, which she did. We walked out from the office and cut up Clarendon St. as far as St. Stephen’s Green, where I parted with my pilot and located the squad.
Having told Tom Keogh what happened, I got hold of a gun and we all returned to Dame St. in the hope of overtaking some of Igoe’s party. We searched several streets in the area without coming across them. We assumed that they must have entered the Castle, as they were nowhere to be seen.
Our surmise proved to be somewhat correct. Although Newell was not brought into the Castle, some of Igoe’s men went in and secured motor cars. Newell was brought – I think he was walked – to Greek St. adjacent to the Bridewell, where he was riddled and thrown into a car and driven to King George V Hospital. His wounds did not prove fatal, however, but before receiving medical aid his legs, which had been broken by bullets, were twisted in an effort to get information from him. He was detained in custody, and was one of the first prisoners claimed by Michael Collins on the signing of the Treaty.
Subsequently, an all-out effort was made, not alone by the Active Service Unit, but by all units that were available in the Dublin Brigade, to shoot Igoe and his party. Many abortive attempts were made, without the desired effect. Possibly Igoe became more cautious, because they used Ford cars for their excursions between the Depot and the Castle, and did not move around on foot except on very rare occasions.
The personnel of Igoe’s party was never fully established, beyond the fact that it contained members from the different ‘hot spots’ in the country. They were all Irishmen who had considerable service in the R.I.C., with the exception of a Scotsman who was known as Jock. He may have become associated through his membership of the Black and Tans. Due to the fact that he had committed some crime, they did not want him to appear in police uniform.
Igoe’s party were effective in their duties, and picked up a number of Volunteers, many of whom, fortunately, were imprisoned. This party became one of the most difficult and dangerous forces opposed to the I.R.A. in Dublin.
VINCENT FOUVARGE AND BRIGADE INTELLIGENCE.
Later on, the Brigade Intelligence Service was organised by the appointment of an Intelligence Officer to each Company in the Brigade. These, in turn, operated through a Battalion Intelligence Officer, who then reported to the Brigade Intelligence Officer. None of these men were whole time on the Intelligence Staff, and only operated on Intelligence as part of their Volunteer duties.
The first Brigade I.O. was Peter Ennis.
1st Battalion I.O. – Tom Walsh.
2nd Battalion I.O. –
3rd Battalion I.O. –
4th Battalion I.O. – Vincent Fouvarge.
During the course of a Crown forces raid, Fouvarge was arrested. He was questioned and released. It would appear that while in captivity he divulged information regarding his I.R.A. duties and associations. Fouvarge left Dublin for London and was shot on a golf course by Sam Maguire or his men, on the instructions of the Director of Intelligence.
Arising out of that incident, Peter Ennis was arrested by Captain Hardy and company and received inhuman treatment in the Castle, all his teeth being kicked out. It was believed that there was a connection between Ennis’s arrest and Fouvarge’s information.
ATTEMPTED LARGE-SCALE AMBUSH OF ‘F’ COY., AUXILIARIES.
A large party of specially picked Volunteers from the 2nd Battalion, under Sean Russell and Tom Ennis, took up positions one night on the Great Northern railway bridge which runs across Seville Place. I was in the party and there was a Volunteer from ‘E’ Company, 2nd Battalion, who worked in the shipyards, and he had invented a super bomb. This was constructed with a large outer case containing rivets, and must have weighed several stone. The intention was to drop this bomb from the bridge into the street at the opportune moment.
The plan of operation was that my colleague, Tom Cullen, Assistant D.I., would ring Dublin Castle from a house in Seville Place, and inform them that the Battalion headquarters was full of Volunteers. The house selected to telephone from was that of a Unionist, adjacent to 100 Seville Place, which was Battalion Headquarters.
It was assumed that on receipt of the message by Dublin Castle authorities, they would send several tenders of Auxiliaries to raid the hall. Although in position for almost an hour, no raid was made by the authorities on the hall, but a convoy of Auxiliaries with armoured cars passed along Amiens St. from the Castle and proceeded out to Killester, where they raided Furry Park, the residence of a friend of Michael Collins.
From inquiries made later, an unconfirmed report stated that the Castle authorities ’phoned the nearest D.M.P. Bks and instructed them to send a D.M.P. man to find out if the building was occupied, and that when he arrived he found it in total darkness and no sign of life within. On the other hand, it may have been that all their available forces were already detailed for the raid which was carried out at Killester about the same hour.
SECRET MEETINGS OF DÁIL ÉIREANN.
One such meeting was convened and held at Alderman Cole’s house in Mountjoy Square, at which, I believe, important decisions were made regarding the progress of the war. Only those members who were not in jail or interned attended and, as most of these were Volunteer officers, and more particularly, because Michael Collins, Cathal Brugha and Dick McKee were attending, myself and a few other members of the Intelligence Department performed security guard duties at the house to deal with any attempted raid by Crown forces.
On another occasion we took up similar protective duty outside the residence of Professor O’Rahilly in Herbert Park where Michael Collins and members of the headquarters staff of the I.R.
A. were meeting de Valera after his return from America.
CAPTURE OF ARMOURED CAR.
In late April 1921 I was instructed one evening by the Assistant Director of Intelligence to report to the Plaza Hotel in Gardiner’s Row. This building was being used as the offices of a Trade Union body, and one of the offices was now our brigade headquarters. When I walked into the room I saw several staff officers assembled. Among them was the Director of Intelligence, Michael Collins. I knew Michael by sight, but this was the first occasion on which I met him face to face. He was sitting at a table, and he gave me a friendly nod when I reported to him. I felt very important to be in such company, but at the same time the presence of Michael completely overawed me. I was very vexed with myself not to be able to be at my ease, as I was most anxious to make a good impression.
He told me that the Superintendent of the Corporation abattoir (who was also a Volunteer officer) had reported to him that an armoured car called to the abbatoir [sic] each morning at six o’clock to escort supplies of meat to the military barracks. ‘I want you to go to the Superintendent’s house,’ he said, ‘and observe the movements of the crew and see if there is any possibility of capturing the car’.
Sean MacEoin was a prisoner in Mountjoy Jail. He was a fine and chivalrous soldier, having conducted the campaign in Longford with brilliant success and great humanity; but he had been captured after an ambush and was awaiting his courtmartial at which he was certain to be hanged. Michael Collins was determined to rescue him and, with the help of an armoured car, there was a chance. I was to take up residence in the Superintendent’s house, and to make my observations over several mornings.
The next night, shortly before curfew, I went to the house. The Superintendent’s wife, Mrs. Lynch, was expecting me. Her husband, the Volunteer, was ‘on the run’ and very much wanted by the Authorities, so that he was unable to sleep at home. The house was raided for him from time to time, which added to the precariousness of my position.
It was moonlight, and, while paying due attention to what Mrs. Lynch was telling me, my eyes wandered round looking for a possible way of escape in the event of a raid on the house. To my horror I saw something else – a sight calculated to strike far greater fear to my soul than the approach of any number of armed men. Below me, scurrying about in the moonlight, were shoals of rats! I withdrew hastily from the window, making up my mind that, if that were my only way out, I would cheerfully allow myself to be murdered in my bed.
I was then shown to my room which looked most comfortable and inviting, and, after an excellent supper, I retired for the night. Mrs. Lynch promised to call me in good time so that I could watch the arrival of the armoured car in the morning. She was as good as her word, and, hurriedly dressing myself, I went down and took up my position by the drawing-room window. Kneeling down, I could see, through the lace fringe at the bottom of the blind, all that was going on. I saw the arrival of the armoured car. It accompanied two lorries and, while it pulled up exactly on the spot opposite the window, only a dozen paces away, which Mrs. Lynch had pointed out to me, the lorries were driven on up the yard to be loaded with the meat.
I saw the door of the car opened. Four soldiers got out. They were dressed in dungarees and each had a revolver on the holster of his belt. Lighting cigarettes, they stood chatting. It was a double-turreted car, and I knew the crew consisted of six men. On getting out, one of the soldiers had locked in the other two by fastening a small padlock on the door.
Morning after morning at six o’clock I took up my position behind the window and saw this performance repeated. The lorries, conducted by the armoured car, made several journeys with their cargoes of meat to and from the various barracks. While they were away I had my breakfast and made friends with the two children of whom I had grown very fond.
Every morning I made my observations and every day I reported them to Liam.
After a week I was summoned to another meeting at brigade headquarters. On this occasion we met at Barry’s Hotel, a few doors from the Plaza, where to my surprise, and gratification, I again saw Michael Collins.
We sat around a table. Michael asked me to tell him what I had seen and what my opinion was in view of my observations.
I described the arrival of the car, the several journeys it made, and the conduct of the crew. I produced a sketch of my own, showing the position usually occupied by the car when in the abattoir. They heard me out without interruption. When I had finished, Michael Collins addressed me:
‘I take it from your report you consider it possible to capture the car?’.
‘I do, Sir,’ said I, ‘but our success depends upon the exact arrival of our men at the opportune moment, which may only occur very occasionally’.
I had already explained to the meeting that during the dozen or so times I had had the car under observation, only on one occasion did the whole crew leave it. Until such another occasion arose we could not capture it. When it did arise, it would be necessary for our men to be at hand to seize it instantly. This seemed to satisfy Michael.
‘Since they left it once, they will probably do so again’, he said.
He then addressed the others in turn. He first questioned Pat McCrea. Pat is a Co. Wicklow man, about forty years of age, an older man than most of us. He was out in the Larkin Strike and took part in the Rising, and was always to be found wherever there was any hard fighting to be done. Of a gentle disposition and charming manner, he endeared himself to everyone who ever had the pleasure of serving with him. Meeting him, it would not occur to you that he was a soldier, on account of the mildness of his address. Only, if you were observant, you might notice a directness in his glance which corrected your impression of his entirely peaceful disposition. He was our crack driver and took part in practically every action in Dublin.
Another meeting of the key men was held the following night, when final arrangements were made and last instructions given.
I returned to my post behind the blind.
Our plans for concerted action were now complete. The Volunteers, who were to hold up the soldier and to seize the car, were to gather unostentatiously in the neighbourhood of the abattoir. One man was to lie concealed in a spot from which he could see the window of one of the rooms in the Superintendent’s house. From my vantage point I was to watch for the first occasion when all six men would leave the car. When this occurred I was to give a signal – I would raise the blind in that room which was visible to the waiting Volunteer. The moment he saw the blind go up, he would signal to the others who would appear at once upon the scene of action.
All of us were in our respective positions on the following morning. But only four of the soldiers left the car and, greatly disappointed, I saw there was again no chance. As soon as the car had moved off, I slipped out by the back and, getting on my bicycle, I made my way to headquarters. The waiting Volunteers, seeing me depart, moved away, knowing the job was off for that morning.
On the next morning, 14th May 1921, we made a slight change in our plans.
As usual, I was at my observation post at 6 a.m. When the car arrived I formed the opinion that the crew were in a not over-zealous mood. They seemed to be less vigilant. That was my impression.
As soon as they drove off escorting the first delivery of meat, I made my way on my bicycle to a stable in Abbey St. which was used as a rendezvous and place of waiting by the Active Service Unit.
Here were assembled all the men on the job waiting for my message. Michael Collins was with them and I made my report.
MacEoin’s days were now numbered, and Michael, fretted by the continual delays and disappointments, was most anxious that the attempt should be made at once. I told him I was optimistic and thought there would be a chance later in the morning when the armoured car returned. I based my hopes on that appearance of carelessness in the mood of the crew. Hurrying back to the house, once more I took up my position behind the blind. I was not long there when I saw the car return. It drew up outsi
de the window. I saw four of the crew get out and wander away through the slaughter-houses. They had not locked the door of the car! I became excited and hopeful. With my eyes glued to the door, I wished with my whole being to see the remaining two soldiers step out. For a whole ten minutes I waited. Then I saw the door swing open. It had happened! I had got my wish!
On stepping out, they lit cigarettes, and one of them shut the door, locking the padlock and putting the key in his pocket.
Nearly suffocating with excitement, I rushed into the room from which my signal was to be given and I raised the blind.
That was the most awful decision I have ever had to make. Those few moments were the longest of my life, while I waited to see the approach of our men up the avenue which led to the abattoir. From that window I could not see the car. It was possible that during those two minutes the soldiers had got in again and I would see the massacre of my comrades, men whose places could never be filled, and feel myself responsible for their loss.
While I waited, I shouted to Mrs. Lynch to get the children out of the way. We had arranged together that she should take them to a back bedroom, where they would be safe from stray bullets in the event of any firing.
Then I saw two Volunteers pass by the window. I recognised Tom Keogh. Dashing back to my post of observation at the other window, I was in time to see the two soldiers with their hands up, while our men were taking their revolvers. All my anxiety was over now. I was full of joy and relief.
The other Volunteers were scattering through the buildings, searching for the rest of the crew, who had gone to watch the animals being slaughtered.
Our men were getting ready to take over the armoured car. From my window I watched Pat McCrea, with a benign expression on his face, struggling to get his legs into a pair of dungarees. The other members of our crew were doing the same, while the soldiers were kept covered. They had brought dungarees in parcels, ready. They were dressing up for their new parts. I saw Pat take the cap off one of the Tommies and put it on his own head. It was too small for him. He jammed it on his head anyhow, so that it had a rakish look, while he still struggled to get his foot out through the leg of the dungarees. I found myself laughing as I watched him, and I waited to see him search the soldiers for the key of the padlock and, finding it, unlock the door of the car.
Espionage and Assasination with Michael Collins' Intelligence Unit: With the Dublin Brigade Page 15
