OUR FIRST MUNITION FACTORY.
During the summer of 1918 the threat of Conscription hung over the land,
and young and old flocked to the ranks of the Volunteers. It is safe
to estimate that at that time nine-tenths of all able-bodied Irishmen
between the ages of sixteen and fifty were Volunteers of a kind; while
the women had their association—Cumann na mBan—and the boys had theirs,
the Fianna or Boy Scouts, all preparing to be our auxiliaries. As most
of our officers were in jail on one charge or another, we who were out
were kept working day and night. All the time I felt enthusiastic, for I
saw in Conscription a glorious chance of uniting our own people. Though
poorly armed we were determined to fight; and I believed that if the
fight came the survivors would be united in their purpose, and to me a
united Ireland of two million people would be preferable to an Ireland of
four and a half million divided into three or four different factions.
Meantime, though the Conscription Act had become law, England, realising
our determination, postponed its enforcement for a few months, in order
to give us an opportunity of enlisting voluntarily. We went on with our
preparations, and became all the more daring. Sometimes it was both
bewildering and amusing to the public to witness our manœuvres.
More than once, for example, in sham battles we attacked or defended
Tipperary town, and actually proclaimed certain roads or streets as
“military areas,” where British soldiers or police, as well as civilians
were forbidden to enter during the “operations.” These operations were
carried out by a few hundred Volunteers, while the town was occupied by
a garrison of over a thousand British soldiers. On such occasions we had
no display of arms, though a few of our number might for special reasons
have their revolvers in their pockets.
It soon became evident that England was wiser than to try conscripting
us. The threat gradually faded away, and so too did our great army! But
the small number that remained was of more use. They meant to fight for
Independence. The others had been only thinking of saving themselves from
the trenches of France, and believed with the old political leaders that
Ireland’s freedom was not worth the shedding of a drop of blood. As my
subsequent actions showed, I held a different view.
At this time, as I have already explained, Sean Treacy was enjoying the
luxury of a hunger-strike in Dundalk Jail. He had been thirteen days
without food, and we feared they intended to let him die. We who were
outside felt that we should do something without delay. I got a brain
wave. Why not capture a Peeler, bring him off to a safe hiding-place,
and put him on forcible hunger-strike, and keep him as a hostage for
Sean’s safety? I discussed the plan with some of the others: they were
favourably disposed; and as we knew that a few policemen regularly
patrolled the railway line near the Limerick Junction every evening, we
decided they should be our hostages. All preparations were made, and our
hiding-place up in the mountainous district on the Limerick-Tipperary
border was selected. Forty men were mobilised to carry out the job; but
for once the policemen failed to patrol the line. Later I found out that
the scheme had been turned down by the Irish Republican Brotherhood, a
secret organisation which included the most reliable of the Volunteers,
and which practically controlled the Volunteer Army. After that I severed
my connection with the I.R.B.
Sean Treacy was released in July, 1918. When he came home he was full
of plans for organising. I had had an overdose of it in the months that
he was away, and from my experience I was more in favour of starting a
fight at once than of trifling further with organising. Sean would have
his way, and we agreed to differ. I at once started a “munition factory”
in partnership with my friend Patrick Keogh. Many a lively dispute we had
on various points, some important, some otherwise, but as soon as Sean
appeared he always poured oil on the troubled waters.
I must give you a description of our factory, lest the reader be
picturing an Irish replica of the Krupp works at Essen. The building
itself was a small rural cottage owned by Tom O’Dwyer, of the Boghole.
Three rooms were let to Denis O’Dwyer, of Dervice. Both he and the
owner were well-known characters in Tipperary. Our equipment was of the
crudest kind, for we had no machinery. But it was a simple matter to make
ordinary black gunpowder. We also turned out crude hand grenades, which,
by the way, had to be ignited by a match before being thrown, so you can
imagine the risks if these had to be brought into action on a windy or a
rainy night. At this time, too, we collected every available cartridge,
including sporting cartridges for shot guns, and these were refilled with
buckshot. Keogh and I always quarrelled as to whether it was better to
put four or eight grains of lead to the cartridge. The reader can easily
imagine the effect on a poor devil who might get the full charge of one
of these refilled sporting cartridges.
Though most of our raids for arms had been carried out by this time, we
still found occasion for an expedition of the kind from time to time. My
first encounter with the enemy was one night while I was returning from a
raid.
A small number of us, including Sean Treacy, were cycling home from
Tipperary, when my bicycle went flat, and I had to dismount to pump it
up. I ordered the others to go ahead, saying I would overtake them. On
their way they passed the police barrack on the outskirts of the town.
It would seem that the police heard them passing the barrack, and came
out to have a look round; or else they were actually on the road when the
men passed, and, with their usual courage, were afraid to confront the
six Volunteers. Anyhow, I neither heard nor saw anybody when I had pumped
up my bicycle, until I was suddenly pulled off by a burly Peeler. In my
left hand I carried a small iron bar for forcing locks, so I tried its
effect on his head. The bar got the better of the argument. I then drew
my revolver, and covered the group of peelers. “Surrender, or I shoot,”
shouted their officer. “Put up your hands, or I’ll shoot the lot of you,”
I replied. They complied with my order.
I then stepped backwards, rolling my bicycle, and still keeping my gun
levelled at the peelers, until I reached a laneway. I dashed up the
lane, mounted my bicycle, and escaped from the town not a moment too
soon. The alarm was quickly raised, and the whole town was surrounded,
and every street and lane searched. But I was safe in my factory with my
comrades.