CHAPTER ONE

THURSDAY 07 AUGUST 1947 –

KILLBAWN GARDA STATION

08:00 hours, District Officer (Superintendent) David Fox is standing at his desk. His office is spotless. David Fox is 6’0’’, 56 years old, with thinning hair neatly trimmed in a short-back-and-sides. Fox himself is spotless, albeit a little portly, dressed in Superintendent’s uniform of the former style, with the high military-style stiff collar. Dark-blue is the current police colour. He misses the smartness of the old dark-green uniform, so dark it was usually regarded as black. He favours steel tips on the toes and heels of his highly-polished shoes – being a superintendent he wears shoes rather than boots; the clip of his step adds to his military bearing, and serves as a warning of his approach. Neatness and smartness are marks of a good policeman.

There is one file on his desk, ‘Donnelly – Homicide’. It contains two sheets of paper. Other than time and date of the incident, there is nothing on page one. There is nothing at all on page two. Twenty-one hours after the incident was reported, there is nothing solid to report. He sits down, hands to his head, and ponders the blank sheets. He presses the knuckles of his right hand against his forehead, and thinks aloud, “Who is Donnelly? What is his full name? He is known as Black Donnelly due to his anonymity. No one has ever seen him. Some frightened locals claim to have seen a dark shadow in the doorway of his bleak cold house. It is incredulous that we have a homicide victim on our doorstep, one who has lived here for 20-odd years, and we know nothing of him. There is no known family connection, no baptismal records, nothing on Donnelly. It is as if Donnelly himself were a ghost. Except for the brutal reality that there is a very real homicide victim out there at the edge of the bog. And locals are saying that a phantom pig is the killer.” Fox knocks his knuckles against his brow and sighs, “Oh, God!”

To get a grip, Fox reverts to his daily routine in the hope that this restores some order to his mind. He cannot start the day without his copy of the ‘Irish Independent’ and his cup of tea – and two of those goldgrain biscuits he has hidden in his drawer. He hates to be caught off-guard not knowing what important events are happening. As the D.O., he ought to be as well-informed as any other reader of the newspaper. He hopes that there would be nothing reported about ‘Murder in Quiet Town in Mayo’. At least, no reporter has contacted him so far. But soon, very soon, he will need to make some public announcement. He twirls in his hand a jar of hydrocortisone in clotrimazole. His crotch itch flares up when he is stressed.

08:01, and where in hell is his tea and newspaper? “Garda O’Reilly!” he shouts.

Garda O’Reilly is the most junior member of the staff, lanky and quiet. He even walks quietly in his standard-issue police boots. Quiet O’Reilly is probably confused over how much milk to pour, or how many lumps…

His office door opens, and O’Reilly says, “Superintendent O’Brien to see you, sir.”

Superintendent Kevin O’Brien is the district officer of the neighbouring division. O’Brien had been a boxer. He represented Ireland in Amsterdam in 1928, the first Olympics for the newly-independent country. He did not succeed in winning a medal, but is regarded as a hero nonetheless. It is people like O’Brien who get preferential treatment. He is fit, witty, popular and ambitious. He does not hide his aspiration for the position of chief superintendent. O’Brien always has some smart remark, and Foxy is always at a loss for a comeback. Fox quickly hides the jar of medicinal cream in the top drawer alongside his biscuits. “Hi! Kevin!”

“Hi! Foxy!” taking it all in with a glance. “Neat office. Only one file? You know, you should spend less time on your arse. You wouldn’t get the itch.”

Damn! He had seen the jar. “It’s for athlete’s foot.”

“Ah! You’re an athlete now? Good!” taking a few annoying mock jabs at Foxy’s chin, enough to force a blink. “I’m here to see Murf for a few minutes. A case I can’t solve. You don’t mind if I run it by him?”

“He’s in his office. I’ll grab my tea and follow you down.”

O’Brien pops off down the hallway, and steps inside Murf’s office. “Hi! Murf!”

“Hi! Slugger!” And shuts the door.

Fox still has not had his tea. “O’Reilly!”

O’Reilly comes in with Fox’s 08:00 tea at 08:04. Fox has time for a quick dunk of a goldgrain before joining O’Brien in Murf’s office. Damn! The biscuit breaks and leaves a section swimming in the cup. Fox is attempting to fish it out with his spoon as he arrives at Murf’s door. Unexpectedly, O’Brien bursts out of Murf’s office all smiles. Fox drops the biscuit section back into the cup with an audible plop as O’Brien whizzes past.

“Thanks, Foxy! I owe you one!”

Fox would like to respond “You owe me TEN!” But as always with O’Brien, he is one step too late.

The entire local D.O.s drop in on Murf for help in solving cases. His reputation is quite vast. O’Brien is the most frequent. And Fox can never land a witty punch.

Fox goes in to Murf’s office, curious to know what the visit was about, and why it was so brief. Inside, Detective Inspector John Patrick Murphy is sitting with his feet up on the desk, or to be more accurate, his feet cushioned on a folded newspaper on the desk; he is wearing Wellington boots that are caked in dirt, some of which is smearing the newspaper. His trousers are a light-grey flannel with no crease – actually his trousers have multiple creases from frequently crushing the ends into his socks and thus into his boots. Is there any other policeman who wears his pant ends inside his socks? His socks, which Fox cannot see, are the thick woollen multi-dotted socks worn by county council work crews. His shirt is pinstriped with a detachable collar – which is missing – and Fox suspects that the buttons on the shirt probably don’t line up. He is afraid to look. Murf, when upright, is 6’2”. Funny thing about Murf, he is unnoticed in a room until he makes himself seen; and in spite of his choice of farming boots, he is silent until he wants to be heard. Like a conjurer’s rabbit – ‘now you see him, now you don’t’. A lot of the time Fox doesn’t know if Murf is in or out.

“Good God! Murf! Did O’Brien see you like this, with cow dung on your boots?”

“It’s not cow dung, Foxy! It’s a mixture of pig manure and peat from the bog. I’m watching it dry.”

“Why are you watching muck dry? Have you nothing to do?”

“It’s the case I’m working on. I’m studying how the bog clings to the treads in the heels.”

“Of course! Murf, you’re on a case right now,” and sighing, “but how does this help with the case?”

Murphy looks at his boots and seems to address them rather than Fox. “Each patch of bog is unique; the composition of the peat contains traces of the fauna from which it formed. Here you have bog stains containing root traces of bog plants and meadow plants. It’s the result of the bog encroaching on manure-rich soil, pig manure in this case. These stains can only come from the perimeter of a pig farm in the boglands. And there is only one such place. Unmistakable. I could recognise this unique pig-and-bog stain anytime...”

“No! Don’t explain! Tell me about O’Brien.”

“Oh! O’Brien just solved his case.”

“How?”

“Well, I had him look at this picture,” pointing to the front page of the Irish Independent. It is a picture of Éamon de Valera in top hat, riding a horse at the RDS (Royal Dublin Society) Horse Show.

“You showed him a picture of Dev on a horse – and he solved his case?”

“Yes!” said Murf, twirling a magnifying glass.

“You did the ‘white dot’ thing with O’Brien – right!”

Murf uses this technique to demonstrate how the brain files and retrieves, and ultimately understands data. This is how he explains it:

Look at a picture in a newspaper through a magnifying glass. You see many dots, some white, some black, of varying sizes – there are many more white dots than black dots. The picture is indiscernible until you remove the magnifying glass, and then you can ‘see’ it. Your eyes can see it all along, but the brain does not comprehend it at first. Now take the facts of a case. The more information you have, the better; even if you think it is not pertinent. Picture in your mind each fact as a white dot; fill in the black dots (by logic and inference) and stand back. The picture becomes clear.

“And you did this with O’Brien?” asked Fox.

“O’Brien closed his eyes, and punched his finger as if writing on an imaginary chalkboard; he hmmed and hawed, stepped back and opened his eyes and exclaimed ‘I got the answer, Murf! I have it! You are right; it was there all along, but I couldn’t put the elements in perspective until I looked at the full picture!’”

“And what was the answer? What was his case?”

“I haven’t the foggiest idea.”

“But you helped solve his case by showing him a picture of de Valera on a horse? And how come you have my Irish Independent?” and shouting down the corridor “O’Reilly!”

Murf tears out a middle section and hands a bog-and-manure-stained paper to Fox. “Here you are, Foxy; I only need the farming section. Oh, and tell O’Reilly it’s a mare!”

Foxy storms down to the front desk, to O’Reilly. “O’Reilly! The newspaper! On my desk at 08:00, not on Murf’s desk!” slapping the newspaper down in front of a frightened O’Reilly. And pointing to the front page with its picture of Éamon de Valera on horseback, “and what does Murf mean ‘It’s a mare’?”

O’Reilly, red-faced stammers, and Reynolds and Caldwell busy themselves within earshot at the wanted posters, stifling laughter.

“Out with it, O’Reilly, I’m going to find out anyway!”

“Sir! I just said ‘Look at the bollocks on the horse.’”

Reynolds and Caldwell are unable to contain their laughter.

“O’Reilly! The next time you have something smart to say, let me know BEFORE Superintendent O’Brien arrives.”

Fox goes back to his office, sits down with his newspaper, and realises that he has left his teacup in Murf’s office. “O’Reilly!” he shouts. “Get me my tea from Murf’s!” And stands up again with his legs apart looking out his window. His jock itch is flaring up. He hears the door open and the sound of the teacup being placed on his desk, and says, “And send in Murf!” Turning around he sees that it is Murf. “Where’s O’Reilly?”

“O’Reilly’s busy at the front desk. He’s going through the sports section. You know he’s on the county team.”

Fox returns to looking out the window, his back to Murf.

Murf speaks, “Nasty business there, yesterday.” An understatement, but no response from Fox. “And you had a tiff with the Mrs.”

Fox picks up on that, in preference to addressing the pressing police business. “A tiff? Why do you say that?”

“I saw Mary buy a sun hat in Casey’s General Store for 7/11.”

“So?”

“She didn’t ask for her 5% discount – the garda discount.”

“How…?”

“And you have invited me to dinner on Sunday.”

“What’s that…?”

“And the grandchildren too.”

“Fuf-fuf-fuf…”

“Looks to me like you are mustering support…”

“Sit down, Murf! My head hurts!”

“I AM sitting down! And stop scratching, Foxy.”

Fox sits down. He looks at the empty file-folder on his desk. It looks even emptier when compared to the bulky folder on Murf’s lap. “Murf, you were there yesterday. What do you make of it? I can’t file a report that a ‘ghost-pig’ or the ‘devil’ committed a murder. That’s what everyone believes – ‘The ‘Black Pig’ – the devil come to claim his own’. The whole townland of Ballycorry is afraid to go out at night.”

Murf waits for him to pause.

Fox holds up the file and reads aloud, “‘Homicide – victim Donnelly’. That’s all I can write.”

Murf interjects. “Kennedy!”

“Forget ‘Kennedy’. I have to deal with ‘Donnelly’. And who is ‘Kennedy’?”

Murf thumps his folder, his big thick file-folder, on Fox’s desk. “The victim, I believe, is ‘Kennedy – Daniel Edward Kennedy’. Here is his picture,” selecting a page from his folder and sliding it to Fox. It is a beaten-up old ‘wanted poster’. “This, Foxy, is a wanted poster from 1919, from the Manchester Police.”

“It’s a pretty poor picture. Are you sure this Kennedy is the same man?” Suddenly Fox jolts to alertness. “Hold on there, Murf! How come you have such a thick file on an incident that is just a day old?”

“Foxy, I have been looking into ‘Black Donnelly’ for over a year, connecting dots and trying to get a handle on him. And I have come up with a picture, pardon the pun, of a troubled and terrified man.”

“Troubled? And terrified?”

“Yes! He was murdered, but not by the devil.”

“He was murdered by a human being? Not by a mythical devil-pig? Well, that’s a relief! No! It’s not a relief; I mean, it is something we can deal with.”

Fox reaches for the phone and connects to the front desk. “O’Reilly, put me through to Castlebar!”

Murf asks, “You haven’t informed forensics yet?”

“Oh! They are already on the way. They should be here inside the hour; Garda Quigley is taking them to the crime scene at 09:00. I reported a ‘death by unusual circumstances’. I did not want to get into ‘devils’ and ‘pigs’ and ‘ghosts’. They would not take me seriously. By describing it as ‘unusual’, forensics is responsible for determining the cause of death and hence if it should be classified as ‘homicide’.”

Murf queries, “So why do you need Castlebar now if they are already on the way?”

“Because, Murf, it’s protocol in a homicide case. Castlebar needs to be informed.”

“Why?”

“Because they decide who leads the investigation, either take it over or assign it locally. What’s wrong with you, Murf? We are going to need help on this. That’s why!”

“And banjax the case!” Murf interjects, “Foxy! I have a list of suspects, people with motive enough to harm Donnelly-Kennedy. I am narrowing that down to those with means and opportunity. I am looking at a few particularly strong suspects.”

“How did you establish that even before the investigation has commenced? Oh, your ‘dots’ I suppose.”

“If Donnelly is the Kennedy I believe him to be, it is surprising that he wasn’t knocked off a long time ago. So why now? Why not twenty/thirty years ago? What happened to change things? Foxy, what I need is the forensic report and to confirm some information locally. What I DON’T need is long-nose O’Neill and his flat feet stifling the flow of information. You know how people clam up with outsiders…”

“I wouldn’t call O’Neill and his Castlebar Gardaí ‘outsiders’.”

“No, Foxy? What about Mickey Motor?”

Fox instantly realises that Mickey ‘Motor’ Carr, the first person on the scene, the one who reported the incident, would only confide in three or four people in the whole world. Mickey Carr had a very troubled childhood and is emotionally scarred. He is distrustful of everyone. There are a few exceptions. He is talkative with his farming neighbour Ben Muldoon. They had been schoolmates together a long time ago. He is trustful of Superintendent Fox whom he addresses as ‘Sergeant Fox’. And he is quietly cautious with Murf. Apart from that, he is withdrawn, or talks nonsensically. And so people regard him as the local idiot ‘amadan’, making fun of him and playing hurtful pranks on him. If Mickey ‘Motor’ Carr gets a whiff of a hint that Castlebar is investigating, he will withdraw into his own lonely non-communicative world.

Murf raises his voice to emphasise, “Foxy, I already know who the most-likely murderers are. And it is murderers, plural! I need the proof before I can pin it on them, and I don’t want to expose my hand prematurely.”

O’Reilly shouts from the front, “D.O.! Castlebar on the line!”

Murf leans forward. “Tell Castlebar that it is a homicide, yes; tell them that the investigation is progressing swiftly; suspects are under surveillance; arrest is imminent; blah, blah, blah.”

Fox is doubtful. “Are you sure?”

Murf assures him. “Yes! I need something more than dots to lay a charge. Just keep Castlebar out of the investigation!”

Fox, into the phone, “Chief Superintendent? Yes! I’ll hold!” Fox covers the mouthpiece, “Murf, you better be right on this!”

“When have I ever not been right?”

“Never! Not so far! But don’t start…” and into the phone, “Chief Superintendent...”

CHAPTER TWO

DAVID FOX COULD

WRITE A BOOK ON MURF

Foxy had just completed his telephone conversation with Chief Superintendent Ultan O’Neill. O’Neill has ‘complete faith in Inspector Murphy’. That’s what he said. ‘The best damn detective in the county!’ That’s what O’Neill said. Foxy is standing looking out the window at the rain, sipping his tea. “You know, District Officer Fox,” talking aloud to his reflection in the window, “O’Neill is wrong! Murf is the best detective EVER! Foxy! You could write a book on him.”

TEN YEARS EARLIER

THEIR FIRST MEETING –

FOX INTERVIEWS

SGT. JOHN PATRICK MURPHY IN 1937

“Sergeant Murphy, please sit down!” Superintendent Fox is seated at his desk, dressed in his favoured high-collared old-fashioned superintendent’s uniform. The station’s personnel files are neatly stacked on the corner of his desk. One file is open in the centre. Fox looks from the file to Sergeant Murphy. Murphy is already sitting, not having waited for the invitation, cheeky blaggard. And a bit too lax in his dress. His dark-brown hair is a shade too long; his shirt is the blue garda shirt to be worn with the uniform, rather than a white shirt appropriate to plain clothes; his navy-blue tie is askew revealing a missing button on his shirt; he is not wearing a jacket, which is required to conceal any sidearm or handcuffs, but then he isn’t wearing any of those either; his grey flannel trousers are tucked into his socks; his socks are work socks, and his shoes are black rubber-soled farm boots. Perhaps in Killbawn this is regarded as ‘plain clothes’. Good God! “I believe that to run a police barracks efficiently…”

“Garda station,” interrupts Sergeant Murphy.

Fox thinks quickly. Rude bastard, no respect for rank. He glances at the personnel folder open on his desk and reads again the comments of his predecessor –

‘Best detective ever

Take full advantage of his skills

Will not disappoint’

Damn! The wrong personnel sheet must be in Murphy’s file. No! The sheet is entitled ‘Murphy, John Patrick, Garda Detective-Sergeant’. “Excuse me! Sergeant Murphy!” Fox uses his full authoritative tone to silence Murphy.

But Murphy takes it as a cue to continue. “In Mayo we don’t say ‘police’, ever; we also avoid the term ‘barracks’; bitter memories from former times – it upsets the people.”

Fox notices that Murphy’s speech is rude and local, yet it is not ‘culchie’. And Murphy was perfectly correct. Fox was well-aware of this, but Fox’s former Royal Irish Constabulary training slipped out in his speech. Murphy was correct in what he said, but totally out of line by saying it. Fox attempts to recover by recommencing his introductory speech. “I believe that to run a garda station efficiently, the district officer should know the men, and vice-versa. I have the advantage of you, Sergeant Murphy, having access to your personnel file, but I feel that is my duty to fully introduce myself …”

Again, Murphy interrupts as casually as at the bar of a local pub. “You are Superintendent David Fox, newly-appointed District Officer of Killbawn Garda Station…”

“Good God!” thinks Fox. “Does this man not have any inkling as to his rudeness and impropriety and insubordination? I’ll start the paperwork today to have this man removed. He may have got around my predecessor; Oh-ho! But I’ll stamp on him before he gets too big for his boots in my station.”

Murphy is still reaming off Fox’s career “… married to Mary Fox (nee Wilson)… formerly in RIC with rank of sergeant… joined ‘The Civic Guards’ in 1922 after a three-month stint with the Irregulars…”

Fox has his hand up and is about to bark a command at Murphy, when the words hit him – ‘stint with the Irregulars’. Fox pales and tries to sit down, only to realize that he is already sitting, and tries to sit further down. Two people know of his brief membership in the anti-treaty IRA – Maura Rua O’Hara, the firebrand matriarch of the local republicans; and Mickey Go-Carr, an IRA assassin during ‘the Troubles’. No one else knows – not even his wife Mary knows. Fox had concealed this piece of damning information when applying to join the Garda Síochána.

Murphy is still speaking, “...where you went by the alias ‘Daithi Mac a’tSionnaigh, Oglach’, your Irish volunteer name and title when you served with the North Cork Brigade.”

“I was never part of the anti-treaty IRA,” Fox croaks unconvincingly. Fox knows quite well that what Murphy says is true. He remembers too, that while serving in the North Cork Brigade of the Irregular IRA, he took an active part in the assassination of a government minister in 1922. Fox is only half-listening to Murphy now. How could Murphy know? Maura Rua would never reveal his secret. Neither would Mickey Go-Carr. Then how could Murphy know? Fox is troubled. If Murphy knows, then who else knows? He has visions of his career coming to a sudden crashing end. He laments aloud, “Finished! Disgraced! No pension!”

Murphy consoles him. “Your career is far from over, Foxy. First, no one knows, or will ever need to know. Secondly, even if it should leak, be assured that you are among republican sympathisers here. Even the regional chief superintendent would regard it as a mark in your favour. And for all you know maybe Dublin already has that on file. You’re not the only garda in Ireland to have made the transition from RIC via IRA.”

“But how did you unearth this information?”

“Connecting dots.”

“Connecting dots?”

It’s not a big jump. ‘Fox’ disappears for a brief spell; and ‘Mac a’tSionnaigh’ – ‘Son of the Fox’ – makes a brief appearance. The dots connect. “And let me say, Foxy, your actions in 1921/22 trained you better than any RIC or garda training. I believe you’ll make an excellent district officer – and you have the stuff for regional command.”

“Thanks, Murf!” How did he know to call him ‘Murf’, and did Murf just call him ‘Foxy’?

Fox blinks at his reflection in the window and returns to the present. He sighs in relief at how things worked out. Murf was not booted out. Ten years later, Murf is still here, and still not wearing a sidearm.

Murf’s reluctance to wearing a sidearm is not due to sloppiness, but to his conviction that an ‘unarmed police force’ should be unarmed and be seen as unarmed. The RIC prior to 1922 was visibly armed, and its successor, the RUC, is visibly armed. The RIC/IRA conflict during the struggle for independence resulted in a popular distrust of a visibly armed police force. The negative connotation of firearms in the context of the previous policing practices of the RIC is not in keeping with the current concept of ‘Guardians of the Peace’. The Gardaí from its inception is primarily an unarmed police force. However, detectives and certain units are commissioned to carry firearms. Murf chooses not to do so.

And Murf was right about Fox, too. Fox had performed well here, and is now being considered for a position of regional chief superintendent.

CHAPTER THREE

If David Fox could write a book, so too could Fate.

Unlike David Fox, Fate does not rely on memory.

With Fate, all time coexists.

The future is already in the past;

The past lives in the present;

The present is ever-present, but is seldom fully revealed.

When Fate writes, she merely unveils.

SEPTEMBER 1918 –

THE SECOND BATTLE

OF THE SOMME

“Pigs! Pigs! Daniel E will make sausages out of you!”

By 02 September 1918, in the Second Battle of the Somme, the Germans had been forced back to the Hindenburg Line, from which they had launched their offensive in the spring. Heavy German casualties were inflicted; Canadian Corps seized control of the Drocourt-Quéant line. The Canadians also captured more than 6,000 unwounded prisoners. Canada’s losses amounted to 5,600.

A fortnight later, British, Australian and American forces are preparing for a major assault. Demoralising the Germans in order to weaken their resolve is one of their objectives in preparation for the assault. This assault, if successful, would force a German surrender. The employment of tanks raised the morale of the Allied soldiers. It was tank support that turned the tide in favour of the Allies two weeks previously. Each advance necessitated the construction of more trenches and previously-abandoned sections were returned to service. Some sections had once served the British Empire, then the German Empire, and now back again to the British.

On 26 September, Captain Daniel Edward Kennedy of The Royal Irish Fusiliers is waving his pistol at the German lines. “Pigs! Pigs! Come on you pigs! Daniel E will make sausages out of you German pigs!” Captain Kennedy is 5’10’’, fair-haired, with dark-blue eyes. At 21, he looks like he should be on a recruitment poster. His uniform is clean and well-fitting, winning admiration and respect for him amid the mud and filth of the trenches. His bravado is uplifting to the men in the trenches who respond with the RIF battle-cry “Fág a’ Bealach!” meaning “Clear the Way!” Few, if any, understand the words of the Faughs’ battle-cry, but shout it anyway in the context of “We’re coming to get you!” They shout across to the German lines “Fog-a-balla!” in a decent approximate rendering of the cry “Fág a’ Bealach!”

The Kennedy family are wealthy landowners in Tipperary’s Golden Vale. Daniel E. Kennedy is the third generation Kennedy to serve in the Faughs. Grandfather, Colour Sergeant Dan (Daniel) Kennedy of the 87th (Royal Irish Fusiliers) Regiment of Foot, served in the Crimean War (1854) and the Indian Mutiny (1857). Father, Sergeant Donal (Daniel) Kennedy of the Royal Irish Fusiliers, saw active service in the Boer War (1899 – 1902).

Because of his rank, Captain Daniel E. Kennedy is unlikely to lead a bayonet charge, or man the vanguard of an infantry advance; so Captain Kennedy’s bravado is unlikely to be tested in the field. Of course he could follow in the footsteps of Lieutenant Geoffrey St George Shillington Cather, 9th Battalion Royal Irish Fusiliers, who was awarded the Victoria Cross for gallantry at the first Battle of the Somme, in 1916. Yes! He could, but he wouldn’t. His bravado is at the outer perimeter of enemy sniper range, at the third line of trenches.

Kennedy makes his way to the second line of trenches, and then on to the front line. En route he uplifts the spirits of the fatigued soldiers. They salute him and smile at his threats to engage and defeat the Germans. One soldier, however, does not acknowledge him. Sapper Terence (Tracy) Prior sits in the mud. Prior is 5’5’’, squat and broad – built like a beast. He is as fast as a trap when in action; otherwise he sleeps close to a state of alertness. His brown hair is short and stubbly which makes him appear older than his 19 years. Tracy Prior looks up at Daniel E, and then down again. He does not join in the cheering. He just sits in the mud – mud with urine and feces mixed in an unhealthy cocktail almost as lethal as the bombs he plants – careful not to get a scratch. Prior could not get any dirtier than he already is, so he just sits there, fatigued from the previous night’s foray close to the German lines. Beside him, equally dirty, is Prior’s battle companion, Rex, a black-brindled English mastiff that understands only German. He lays his hand on the mastiff’s head. “Guter Hund! Braver Hund!” The mastiff responds by lifting his head a fraction, and then, with chin on paws, releases a tired snort.

Tracy Prior is from London’s East End, with a passion for, and understanding of, dogs. He joined the army as a combat engineer, required to perform a variety of military engineering duties such as laying or clearing minefields, demolitions, and field defences. His present work is primarily tunnelling under the German lines to plant explosives. He is anti-social and does not associate with his fellow soldiers. He is permitted, on a volunteer basis, to work as a mine and bomb planter at the German lines. Whenever he can be released from tunnelling duties, he devotes his entire time to his volunteer duties alone with his dog.

The object of the war, Prior is convinced, is for the realignment of wealth among the privileged classes. There could be no positive outcome for the likes of Tracy Prior. He listens to Daniel E’s ranting and considers how useless this privileged Irish loudmouth will be to society when the war ends. Humanity would be better off without him.

Daniel E is quite aware of Prior sitting in the mud like a rat. Rats scurry all over the place, but chiefly in no-man’s-land where they feast on the dead and the dying. It is a rat-heaven. Prior is a rat. He too crawls through the mud and filth of no-man’s-land at night – to plant mines and bombs at the German lines. Ah! Yes! It sure as hell demoralises the Hun. But after the war, what possible benefit would Prior be to society? Humanity would be better off without him.

They have one thing in common – the Webley Mk VI, with which they are both extremely proficient. Daniel E now points his Webley at the rats in no-man’s-land and imagines shooting them. He has sufficient skill to pick them off with ease, but reins in his temptation to fire. He envies the firing squads back behind the lines. He turns around to better hear the ‘pop-popping’ of their guns as more deserters are executed. As many as 20 in one hour are executed. Most of those executed are just shell-shocked boys that had frozen in fear when the order to ‘Advance!’ had been given. Disobeying an officer in wartime is treated as ‘desertion’. The arrested soldier would have the charge read to him, usually on the following morning, to which he would plead “Guilty!” or “Not guilty!” It wouldn’t matter; he would be found guilty in any event and shot. The whole trial and execution would take only a few minutes, so as not to interrupt the monotonously slow rhythm of the war.

Daniel E returns his attention to the rats. To discharge a shot in the direction of the German lines would provoke unauthorised gunfire – not something an officer should engage in. So he just lines up his shots and ‘pops’ his tongue as he ‘shoots’ the rats – including Tracy and that abomination of an ‘English’ dog that is German-bred and trained.

It had been a number of weeks, during a shelling assault, since Rex and his German handler fell into a water-logged bomb crater in no-man’s-land. His handler, severely wounded, drowned in the water. The dog was unable to clamber out of the hole. He was unsettled by the shelling and his dead handler could no longer soothe him. Two days later, Prior was on one of his night forays when shelling again occurred. Coincidently, he too sought shelter in the same bomb crater. The dog by now was near dead, frightened by the shelling and fatigued from vainly trying to climb out. Against his training to trust only his designated sole handler, the weakened dog surrendered to Prior’s care. Prior dragged the weak dog back to the British lines, and over the next few weeks nursed him back to health. The dog’s collar identified him as ‘Rex’ and his military role ‘Bombendetektor’. Both dog and man found protection in each other and formed a bond. Prior’s protection was in Rex’s ability to navigate safely through German minefields, and thus encroach deeper into German-held territory.

By 26 September 1918, Prior’s bomb and mine planting is at its peak. His bravery so impressed his C.O. that he earned a mention in dispatches. He requests, and is assigned, two sapper assistants. In effect this elevates Prior to the rank of Lance Corporal, but no formal promotion was conducted.

Daniel E. Kennedy’s skills are valuable in the current campaign. He is a bomb-development expert who works closely with the engineers. Ironically, a good working relationship between Prior and Daniel E is essential to this operation, notwithstanding their mutual contempt. Daniel E modifies bombs for specific purposes to ensure that each bomb functions to its desired end. His bombs are rugged, reliable, and his timing devices are accurate. Daniel E works at delivering deadly bombs; Tracy Prior works at delivering the devastation.

In order to see the mastiff during the night-time forays, Tracy has placed two small circular dots above the dog’s eyes and two small triangular dots behind his ears. These dots are dark red and are phosphorescent. With night vision Tracy can determine the location and proximity of the mastiff and the direction he is facing. In the unlikely event that the dots are observed from the trenches, they would appear as insects hovering over the mud. Tracy and Rex deliver death and destruction like a plague. German demoralisation increases.

Tracy, even in his sleep, is alerted by the silence. There is no ranting to be heard. The shouting “Fág a’ Bealach!” had ceased. It is peculiar how one can sleep amidst the noise of battle, but is awakened by silence.

“I’m addressing YOU, soldier!”

Tracy half opens one fatigued eye to observe Captain Daniel E. Kennedy standing over him, still brandishing his service revolver.

“Is this a sapper, or a rat? How can one tell? A soldier stands in the presence of an officer, and salutes!”

Tracy opens the other eye, but does not move.

“A RAT slithers into the filth.”

The silence along the line is solid and frozen. Every sniper and guard-sentry turn to see how this is going to play out. Had it been any ordinary soldier, he would have jumped to his feet and saluted, regardless of injury or fatigue. But Tracy is not ANY ORDINARY soldier. Tracy is an angel-of-death soldier – one to be feared (except by the stupid or arrogant). Daniel E is very arrogant, and is behaving stupidly. He realises it now but it is too late to back out. He has to see this through, but fears that Tracy might be holding his Webley Mk VI in his hand concealed inside his overcoat. Daniel E realises what peril he is in. But the men are looking at him – some apprehensively, some in amusement, but all with interest. He needs to act like an officer and save face.

Tracy bores a look into him that pierces him cold.

Daniel E feels a cold sweat on his face and concentrates hard, attempting to will a thought into Tracy’s head – “For the love of God, Tracy. Stand up! And let this be over!”

Tracy doesn’t hear the thought; Tracy does not want to hear the thought.

Daniel E shouts loud enough for all to hear. “Stand up, soldier!” and kicks Tracy on the sole of his boot.

Tracy gives him the look that says “That’s a mistake!”

The on-looking soldiers exchange looks with each other that say “That’s a mistake!”

But more than anyone, Rex looks at Daniel E with a look that says “That’s a mistake!” Rex is a lot more expressive. Bared fangs, a snarl and a pounce convey a clear message to Daniel E. Kennedy. Rex claims the space between the two men to protect his handler.

Captain Kennedy jumps backwards in a reflexive movement. And lands knee-deep in a bog of muck. Out of this humiliation, Daniel E sees a way to save face – shoot the damn dog. The sound of the shot would be subdued down here in the trench, and the death of the dog would be viewed as apt punishment for Tracy’s insubordination. He would come out unscathed and with the upper hand – unscathed, but not untarnished. Daniel E thinks fast, but does not act fast enough. Before he can discharge the shot he feels a thud on his face; he hears a sound from inside his head, but the inside of his head feels like it is 20 meters away – it is the sound of his own nose being broken; he is falling; he is drowning. Now struggling to stand, to breathe, to see. Agh! The pain hits him and he screams. To the onlookers it is much more graceful and satisfying. Faster than most could register, the inert Tracy had catapulted himself at Daniel E with a shattering blow to the nose, rendering him flat on his back and submerging him under a half meter of muck. Some soldiers fish him out before he drowns. His military uniform is entirely soaked in muck, he is blinded by filth, his nose is pouring blood, and he is howling in pain and spitting mud.

Rex takes off into no-man’s-land at Tracy’s command. Tracy is arrested for striking an officer, to be tried by court-martial and executed, inescapably, the following morning.

CHAPTER FOUR

DISTRICT OFFICER FOX

AT DIVISIONAL HQ, CASTLEBAR

Wednesday 25 June 1947

All district officers had been summoned to Divisional HQ to receive instructions regarding de Valera’s forthcoming visit to Mayo scheduled for the weekend of 27/28 September. Éamon de Valera was then Taoiseach (Head of Government) and was bolstering his support to face the threat of a new party, Fine Gael (Tribe of the Irish) that was increasing in popularity.

Fox was put in command of security for the route and for the venues. Dev’s personal bodyguard would be responsible for his personal safety. Castlebar and Dublin would work together on this. For the month of September, Fox would be posted in Castlebar, and would be on call 24/7, answerable directly to O’Neill. Fox is in his element here, straightening his collar, using his serious face and speaking with his old formal ‘correct’ RIC accent. He is relieved that he had not been overlooked. He was dreading the meeting with O’Neill in the light of the ruckus over Murf’s recent court incident. He was expecting the worst for Murf – dismissal from the force – and had prepared to argue in his defence. Or, if necessary, resign from the force.

At the end of the meeting all are dismissed. Fox is exiting the door when O’Neill says, “Fox! A moment of your time. And shut the door!” O’Neill has a very official-looking form in his hand.

Ultan O’ Neil, at 55 and bald, is an old warrior, standing just short of 6’0”. He was once a member of the Irish Republican Police (IRP) that operated under IRA brigades from June 1920 to February 1922 in defiance of the British. He is as tough as nails and takes no nonsense from anyone. He is also on first-name terms with the leaders of the ‘Old IRA’, many of whom are ministers in the current government. “Have a seat, Fox. Do you know what I am holding here?” brandishing the form.

Fox swallows. It is bad news.

O’Neill continues. “This!” waving the form for emphasis “is Inspector Murphy’s suspension. One month’s suspension from active duty. We have one month to come up with a credible defence for Murphy. If we fail, Murphy is dismissed from the force.”

Fox swallows and says, “Murf had a row with Justice Daly, the circuit court judge.”

“It must have been a helluva row. The Ministry of Justice has demanded the garda commissioner treat this expeditiously. The commissioner is rankled that Justice is dictating to him about disciplinary matters; he is supposed to have autonomy in that; but he was reminded that he IS appointed by Justice, and he is answerable to Justice.” O’Neill regards the Department of Justice as too closely modelled after the British system – it is not as ‘Irish’ as An Garda Síochána.

Fox continues, “Murf was in court…”

“Why in hell WAS Murf in court? He’s not allowed in court for the very reason that he argues with judges!”

“He was not meant to be in court. He had escorted a prisoner to another division, and they asked him to deliver the prisoner to the court. He obliged.”

O’Neill leans both elbows on his desk and places his hands over the pate of his bent head. “Go on. I’m listening.”

“It was a case of sheep-stealing. The defendant pleaded ‘guilty’ and the state had a signed voluntary confession. The case should have been over in minutes. But Judge Daly likes to be theatrical, and because he’s a judge he is humoured. He said something like ‘Well, who can argue against a signed voluntary confession?’ It was a rhetorical question, but Murf took him literally. Murf raised his hand for attention. The judge was about to strike his gavel and declare ‘Guilty!’ when he noticed Murf standing there with his hand raised.

“Daly looked at him over the rim of his glasses and asked enquiringly ‘Yes?’

“‘I can, Your Honour!’

“‘You can ‘what’? Hm...hm...and who are YOU?’

“‘Inspector Murphy, John Patrick Murphy, but you can call me ‘Murf’.’

“‘Can I now, MURF? And what is it that you can do?’

“‘I can argue against a signed voluntary confession.’

“Daly expected to humiliate Murf by agreeing to have the confession read aloud, and thus put him on the spot. At the judge’s instruction the clerk of the court read the confession. Murf then pointed out that the accused, being fully familiar with sheep, would refer to the animals in precise colloquial terms. The confession was worded too literate for one who could only express himself in colloquial language. For example he would not say ‘sheep and lamb’, as was in the confession, he would refer to them as ‘yeo and lamb’ – he gave the colloquial pronunciation as ‘yeo’ rather than ‘ewe’. Daly then made fun of Murf’s use of the word ‘yeo’, and corrected him –‘You mean EWE and lamb, surely!’ and laughed. The room laughed also, humouring him.

“‘No! Your Honour! I mean ‘YEO’!’ Murphy then attempts to educate the judge on terms such as hoggets, gimmers and theaves. ‘...these are all ‘EWES’ but none of them are ‘YEOS’.’

“His point was to expose the confession as a contrived confession, possibly a forced confession, and hence its unreliability in evidence. Unfortunately, the judge regarded Murphy’s opinion of the confession as a criticism of the judge himself. By this time the judge was red-faced and salivating in anger. The judge shouted ‘An idiot can see that this man is guilty!’

“To which Murf shouts back, ‘Yes, Your Honour!’

“Now there is wholesale laughter. The judge storms out, then turns back and orders Murf arrested and detained for contempt of court.

“To which Murf shouts ‘I’m the only garda present. Am I to arrest myself?’ More laughter.”

O’Neill remains still for a few moments. He knows that Murf is a great detective – all the divisions in Mayo lean on him for help. He also knows that Murf rubs authoritative figures – judges and chief superintendents – the wrong way. O’Neill empathises with Murf, having been tempted himself in similar circumstances with pompous judges. Only O’Neill always bit his tongue in time. He comes to a decision. Murf is too good to lose. He lifts his head and says, “Fox! For now, assign Murf to non-policing duties – filing papers or counting sheep. Bury Murf in Blacksod Bay! He is not to come east of, or south of, Killbawn.” He notices an envelope placed on his desk, presumably from Fox. “What’s this, Fox?” pointing to the envelope.

“It’s my resignation. In the event that Murf goes, so do I.”

O’Neill takes the envelope, and without opening it, tears it in pieces and drops it in the trash basket. He lifts his phone. “Get me the chief commissioner’s office, and ask for Chief Administrative Officer Chris Fagan!” Fox gets up to leave. “Sit down, Fox, you need to hear this!”

His phone rings. He lifts the receiver. “Chief Superintendent O’Neill, Castlebar.” He is drumming his fingers. Then he shifts in his chair. “Fagan!” he shouts into the phone. “I’m looking at a piece of paper here, and I don’t know which trash bin to shove it in!

(Pause) “Murphy’s suspension and threat of dismissal is what I’m talking about! Whose idea is this? And whose arse did it come from?

(Pause) “It came from ‘Justice’? Did it now?

(Pause) “Hold it, Fagan! If Murf is dismissed, you’ll have half the guards in Mayo out for your blood – and you will undoubtedly have some resignations too.

(Pause) “Oh-ho! No! You’ve got it wrong there, Fagan!

(Pause) “No! I won’t apologise! The only apology is for the commissioner to recognise the positive work of Murf and members of the garda, how they have earned the trust of the people. It has taken us over 20 years to shake off the distrust we inherited from the police image in ‘the Troubles’. And you’re undoing it all now?

(Short pause) “Keep it quiet, you say? Too late! The ‘Connaught Telegraph’ and the ‘Western People’ are already on the story.

(Pause) “Revoke this asinine suspension!

(Long pause) “You’re such a shoite, Fagan!

(Short pause) “Oh! de Valera is going to love this one! He’s comin’ to Mayo next month. And will he answer why the Fianna Fáil Justice Minister is putting the heavy on the guards? – unlikely to happen if Fine Gael gets in!”

O’Neill shifts the phone receiver away from his face and holds it out with both hands. He shouts at it. “Fagan! Fagan!” He looks at it with surprise. “The shoite hung up on me,” and slams the receiver down with such force that the phone is propelled off his desk and it shatters on the floor. He goes to the door and shouts out, “McCann! The phone is broken again! Get me one that works properly!” He turns back to face Fox. “Fox! NOW you can go! And bury Murf in Blacksod Bay! If the suspension is not revoked, he is off the force in 30 days!”

As Fox is leaving, the phone rings at the front desk. He delays his departure to listen.

“Chief Superintendent! It’s the garda commissioner himself on the phone!”

O’Neill, whose office phone is broken, takes the call in the general office. The entire office is hushed, including a few of the divisional D.O.s from the morning’s briefing. “Commissioner! This is Chief Superintendent O’Neill here.

“Yes, sir!

“It was a bad line, sir. We got cut off.

“No, sir! ‘Imprudent’ might be a better word.

“Well, maybe, ‘ill-founded’.

“Yes, sir! …Yes, sir! …Yes, sir! …Thanks for your understanding!” and hangs up.

They all exchange looks and raise eyebrows. The commissioner was ‘understanding’? O’Neill looks around at everyone faking busyness. He then returns to his office.

CHAPTER FIVE

27 SEPTEMBER 1918 –

COURT-MARTIAL AND THE

SECOND BATTLE OF THE SOMME

27 September 1918, at 06:00 hours, the C.O., Lieutenant-Colonel Browning, is clearing his paperwork. Browning is dressed in battle fatigues. He is in his 60s, thinning grey hair to his 6’2’’ – now more like 6’0’’ due to the droop of fatigue. His cheeks are hollow and there are dark circles under his eyes. The strain of the war is taking a toll on his health. He hates paperwork. He is a soldier fighting a war. Paper just gets in the way. He usually dispenses with it as quickly as possible, trusting his aide to draw his attention to important matters. His ‘office’ is actually a root cellar at an abandoned farm. It is the most comfortable, driest and quietest place this close to the front lines. The darkness is dispelled by the light emitted from an oil lamp on a wooden bench, which also serves as his desk. The air is thick with the smoke from the lamp and smoke from his cigarettes. Through the haze and gloom one can make out the few shelves that once held potatoes and turnips. Now they contain a few files and some of his personal belongings. Compared to the smells at the front lines, this place smells clean – just the smell of burning oil mixed with stale cigarettes, potatoes and turnips. The other farm buildings here are unsuitable. The farmhouse itself is unsafe due to the collapsing roof; the barn is large and dry, but very draughty due to the air currents whistling through the slats and planks; the pigsty is structurally strong, but is low and cramped. So Lieutenant-Colonel Browning is here in the root cellar.

His aide, Corporal George Smithson, 24, looks more like a bookworm than a soldier. In a uniform that is one size too big, he looks smaller than his 5’8’’, his ginger hair plastered down with hair oil, and glasses that continually slip down the bridge of his nose. He is an excellent aide and Browning relies heavily on him. Smithson places two files on Browning’s desk. “We have a problem, sir!”

With a major offensive about to occur, what could be the problem that his aide couldn’t handle?

File-1 Recommendation for a medal of honour and promotion for Sapper Terence Prior.

He could not see any problem with that – Tracy Prior exhibited great courage and bravery in the exercise of his volunteer duties.

File-2 Court-martial; Striking an officer; Punishment by firing squad – Sapper Terence Prior.

“Oh God! Corporal Smithson!”

“Yessur!”

“Make this go away!”

“Sir! Which one?”

“All of this!” handing both files to his aide.

“Sir!...”

“That’s an order! Just do it!”

“Yes! SIR!”

Saluting and exiting the office, Smithson enters the outer office. This is a tent erected at the entrance to the cellar. From the outside it all looks like a small tent erected up against a small hillock. The tent conceals the entrance to, and evidence of, the root cellar within the hillock. This is currently the command centre, since they could be on the move any day. Smithson slaps the file down on a card table, nearly collapsing it, and exits the tent. He looks up at the sky and shouts “Bollocks!” Corporal Smithson needs to work fast. He has no significant rank, at least not in relation to Captain Kennedy.

Captain Kennedy is in sickbay. He is preparing for the court-martial at 08:00, and is fussing with his uniform. Smithson convinces the medical-officer-in-charge to delay the release of Captain Kennedy until noon – “the wishes of the C.O., and all that...” And to enforce it with M.P.s if necessary. It makes no sense to the medical-officer-in-charge who clears non-serious injuries out of the way as early as possible. But the C.O. has his reasons. Smithson says a private prayer. “Thank God he didn’t ask for a written copy of the order!”

The M.O. goes to Captain Kennedy. “Captain! You are under observation for six hours. If you are considered out of danger at that time, you will be discharged!” And to the two M.P.s, “See that Captain Kennedy remains safely here until then!” And spins around and leaves before anyone can reply.

The Court-Martial – 27 September 1918

The court-martial is held in the barn, the dry but draughty barn, one of the four structures in the rectangle of the farmyard. It is diagonally opposite the farmhouse and at right angles to the pigsty on the right, and the root cellar on the left.

The first poor chap to be tried has the charge read. He mumbles something incoherently; he is found guilty and is led out to execution. All under five minutes.

The next prisoner is Sapper Terence Prior. “Lance Corporal Terence Prior! You are charged with striking an officer! How do you plead?”

“NOT GUILTY!” shouts Corporal Smithson, sliding his glasses up the bridge of his nose. (And when was he made ‘lance corporal’? Did he not ‘kill’ the paperwork this morning, rescinding the promotion?) This interruption is a surprise and brings a sudden stop to the proceedings. “Corporal George Smithson, if it pleases the Court, counsel for the accused!”

Smithson is uncertain if this makes sense. He is unfamiliar with court-martial procedure. He feels that the presiding officer is about to order him to cease, and maybe even court-martial him, when a gentle cough from the back of the room attracts the attention of the presiding officer.

There is a hesitation. Then “Present your case, counsellor!”

Smithson addresses the court. “Is it not for the prosecution to present the case? Please instruct the prosecution to present the case, and present evidence for cross-examination!”

Another gentle cough from the back of the barn. Unprepared for this interruption, papers are shuffled to and fro. Eventually an aide finds what is required and places a paper on the judge’s desk. He calls for “Captain Daniel Edward Kennedy!”

The clerk/aide calls, “Captain Daniel Edward Kennedy to the stand!” But Captain Kennedy is not here.

Smithson speaks. “If it pleases the Court, since no evidence is presented against my client, there is no case!”

The officer-in-charge queries, “Is there ANY evidence to present in this case? Anyone?”

Another gentle cough from the back.

“Case dismissed for lack of evidence! The prisoner is free to rejoin his duties!”

Smithson has time to briefly glimpse the C.O. exit from the back of the barn. Smithson, with the helping coughs of the C.O., has pulled it off.

Tracy, who had remained silent throughout the proceedings, exhales loudly. Smithson, who has a mountain of urgent paperwork to cope with, exits promptly. Tracy does not get to thank him. He is ordered back to his unit and leaves as quickly as possible, relieved that he has dodged a bullet – literally.

There is a lot of activity in his unit. The current tunnelling and bomb placing has been at an urgent pace. But suddenly the engineers are withdrawn from the tunnels, all except a few key explosive experts. Tracy is not one of them. The sudden inactivity is more tense than the previous high activity and many of the sappers are unable to relax notwithstanding their fatigue. Tracy requests, and is granted, permission to make one of his forays into no-man’s-land. This time he is given coordinates restricting the area of his venture, and he is issued a time limit within which he must return. He enlists the help of two sappers eager to remain active and he requests explosives to his specification.

On the night of the 27/28, Prior makes his last foray to the German Western Front. Captain Daniel Edward Kennedy does not appear. No shouting to the Germans and threatening to make sausages out of them. No ranting with gun in hand. With his nose bandaged and the memory of his encounter with Tracy still fresh, he is a laughing-stock for the moment. The incident, however, will lose interest as soon as the next military engagement commences. It will be forgotten by all except by the two antagonists. For Kennedy and Prior it is not just an incident – it is a demonstration of their contemptuous disregard for each other.

For Tracy Prior, this night is a priority. Allied Command wants to weaken the German defence line in preparation for an assault. Prior is required to plant a series of connected explosives to collapse an entire section of German fortification.

As Tracy and the two sappers crawl through no-man’s-land, he is troubled by a nagging thought. Is it his conscience? He takes comfort in no-man’s-land. He is, after all, a no-man himself. He is more at home here than with his regiment. Why, he wonders, does he take satisfaction in killing Germans? He doesn’t hate them. If he were to set about killing those he hates, he would put the Butcher Haig on top of his list. Field Marshal Douglas Haig, commander of the British Expeditionary Force on the Western Front – now that’s the enemy. Halfway across no-man’s-land his thoughts are interrupted. He sees the floating fireflies that are Rex’s identifying spots. Rex runs to him. He struggles to have Rex remain focused and calm, but the mastiff is too overjoyed at the reunion. “Sitz, Rex! Platz!” He cannot risk a frisky dog so close to the German line, so he holds back while the two sappers place the explosives as they had been instructed.

The two sappers are well-trained in setting explosives. With the explosives planted strategically in place, they set and activate the timers. Ten minutes should be enough time to clear out. It is delicate due to the nature of the multiple bombs that are interlinked for simultaneous detonation. Prior draws back toward the Allied line, lest the sound of the dog’s excited panting and snorting should carry to the German trenches. “Hier! Braver Hund!”

Then an explosion fills the air and one sapper flies into pieces; the other sapper stands up in panic, is silhouetted against the flash, and is ripped apart by gunfire. Tracy and Rex hug the dirt beneath a ridge as a barrage of bullets flies inches above them. After the last bullet has sounded, they lie for another three hours. Then crawl slowly, very slowly, back to the British trenches. The timers tripped prematurely? Not likely. Kennedy’s timers are accurate.

On 29 September 1918, British, Australian and American forces spearhead an attack in a single combined force against the German Siegfried Stellung of the Hindenburg Line. Under the command of Australian General Sir John Monash, the assault achieves all its objectives, resulting in the first full breach of the Hindenburg Line. The Great Offensive along the length of the line convinces the German high command that the writing is on the wall regarding any hope of German victory.

Tracy has Daniel E in his sights; just as Daniel E has had Tracy in his sights. They now have their own private war. Tracy and Daniel never cross paths again in the Somme. But there is life after the Somme – and death.

CHAPTER SIX

AT THE GARDA COLLEGE

June 1947

Matthew (Matt) Slevin, TD (Teachta Dála – Member of Parliament) for Galway South, more importantly, Parliamentary Secretary to the Minister of Justice, pays a surprise visit – unofficial, of course – to the Garda Headquarters in the Phoenix Park. Someone from ‘Justice’ visiting Garda HQ is not unusual. Notwithstanding its autonomous administration, the national police service is answerable to the Department of Justice.

Matt Slevin is one of the ‘hot boys’ in Fianna Fáil. In his early 40s, he is of average height with a trim active body. He is one who is going places – and fast. He talks fast, thinks fast, walks fast, drives fast. He even dresses fast in a snappy well-fitting blue suit, red-blue regimental style striped tie, and well-polished black oxford (Irish made) shoes. His black hair is well-groomed, even to the point of a few locks deliberately out of place to give a boyish active appearance. His eyes, a rich hazel, are always alert and twinkling through slightly closed eyelids – ‘smiling eyes’. His teeth and mouth are naturally well-designed to present a pleasant smile. That same smile, without any physical change whatever, can be equally threatening. He never forgets a face or a name, and always knows where he is going – as he does now.

“Good Morning, Deputy Slevin! May I help you?”

“No thanks, Garda! I know my way around!” he replies in his warm western tone. Matt makes his way to the Garda College.

The minister was concerned about some tiff between Justice and An Garda Síochána – an internecine dispute – and Matt was trying to ferret out information. The name ‘Inspector John Patrick Murphy’, known as ‘Murf’, came up. How many times has this name come up? He could not remember, but this is not the first time. Murf is currently under suspension, and is on the chopping block, likely to be booted off the force.

Problem: Murf is efficient and is popular with the rank and file, and any squabble within the department would reflect poorly on the government – not a good time for this to happen. Fine Gael were making serious inroads, and Fianna Fáil are in danger of losing the 1948 election. At present, the Taoiseach, Éamon de Valera, is touring the country to bolster support. He is due in Mayo next month – in Mayo, the flash-point of the quarrel.

Matt, who could read his boss very well, sensed that he was looking for a way to save Murf rather than nail his coffin – it might very well be the minister’s own coffin that is in question. But like so much in politics, nothing was said lest it come back to bite.

Ah! Here is the training room. The instructor is Sergeant Joseph Dunleavy, a known ‘Murfite’. Matt slips into the room, observed by Sergeant Dunleavy, who immediately calls the class to attention. “Aire! An Teachta Ó Sléibhín! Chuirtéis!” The entire class of 20 cadets rise to attention and adopt the formal salute.

“It’s all right, Sergeant. This is not an official visit – no need to be formal. I’ll just sit here at the back. Just carry on!”

“Shocracht! Suighigí síos!” And the class resumes. English is the common administrative language, but proficiency in Irish is a requirement, and a number of formal duties – including some training classes – are conducted in this medium.

Sergeant Dunleavy, who is lanky and tall at 6’6’’, and speaks with a mid-Ulster accent, reverts to English. “Today’s case study should be of interest to Deputy Slevin, who is sitting in with us today.” As he passes out the case study papers, he comments, “There is a popular perception that it is good policing to apprehend robbers; …arrest them; …bring them to justice; …punish them with fines or imprisonment. Today we will examine that!” He finishes by giving a copy to Deputy Slevin. “You are given a case – a real case with the names changed, but a real case nonetheless. Once you hear this case you will break into four groups of five. On your papers you will find 20 questions. Each of the four groups will present their answers to the class. The class will challenge your findings, and you will be required to argue your case convincingly.”

Matt thinks to himself, “Dunleavy is a step ahead of me. This is for my benefit. Okay, go ahead Sergeant.”

Dunleavy, to the class: “Garda John Patrick Murphy was instructed to deliver a summons to Mrs. ‘Shop’ for littering – a fine of 5/-. Mrs. ‘Shop’ had recently moved from County Tyrone for the sake of her husband’s health, and ran a fruit-and-vegetable shop in a Donegal fishing town. The sidewalk outside her shop was frequently littered with bits of fruit and vegetable pieces.

“Some minutes before Garda Murphy’s arrival at the shop, it had been robbed by two youths who played out a scene from a motion picture of the previous night. They asked Mrs. ‘Shop’ for a packet of Aspro, for a headache, and requested a cup of water. When Mrs. ‘Shop’ returned with the cup of water from her kitchen, she discovered her till had been emptied and the two youths had left. When Garda Murphy arrived she asked for his help. She did not know the names of the two youths, but was sure she could identify them if she saw them again.

“Garda Murphy approached ‘Paddy the Fish’ who was sitting on a window ledge at a pub a few doors away. Paddy was a retired fisherman and local inebriate. Garda Murphy feared that a direct question to Paddy would elicit the response ‘I didn’t see anything!’ He engaged Paddy with comments about the poor state of the fishing industry and the poor state of the economy. Paddy lamented that there was no money anymore, but strange that some young ones had enough money to go drinking in the morning. Paddy inclined his head to indicate to which pub he referred.

“Garda Murphy entered the pub, and escorted two youths from there to Mrs. ‘Shop’, who immediately identified them. The youths confessed and Garda Murphy induced them to return the money, which Mrs. ‘Shop’ found to be short by 5/-. Garda Murphy directed the two youths to clean up the sidewalk, and to clean the shop. He convinced Mrs. ‘Shop’ that it was worth the expense of 5/- to have her place tidy and her goods neatly displayed. He got a further assurance from the youths that they would assist her with stacking and packing and tidying the shop every day for half-a-crown a week, to which Mrs. ‘Shop’ agreed.

“Garda Murphy did not deliver the summons to Mrs. ‘Shop’. Garda Murphy did not arrest the two youths.

“Break into teams! You now have 30 minutes to answer the questions and present your arguments!” Sergeant Dunleavy walks to the back of the room and sits facing TD Slevin.

Slevin flashes his trademark smile, “That case study was for me, wasn’t it?”

“I can guess why you’re here.”

“Can you now? And what happened to Mrs. ‘Shop’ and the two youths? If it’s true.”

“Mrs. Brannigan returned to County Tyrone two years later, after her husband’s death. One of the youths, ‘Chucky’ – his nickname – got a full-time job in her shop up until she left. ‘Big Joe’ – his nickname – joined the guards and is now an instructor in the Garda College.” Joseph Dunleavy pats the case study paper lying on the table and slides it toward Slevin. “Here! Take the case study back to your boss, and have him answer the 20 questions.”

“Sergeant, you may have answered the one question the minister wants to know.”

“And what question is that?”

“Oh! The minister didn’t ask; neither did I. But you have answered it all the same.” Matt stands up and places the copy of the case study in his pocket. He pauses at the doorway. “Thanks! Big Joe!”

CHAPTER SEVEN

AFTER THE SOMME 1918 –

BACK IN ENGLAND

The euphoria of victory is short-lived. Unemployment and strikes are common. Worker discontent is running high. The police force experiences two strikes in 1918 and 1919. Terence Prior joins the Communist Party.

Kennedy, on the other hand, prolongs the illusion of euphoria with wine, women and song – three engagements in which he excels.

In January 1919 Prior visits Germany. He greatly admires the German military/police-dog training, and works closely with a Hundezwinger, a relationship that would endure for twenty-eight years notwithstanding British/German hostilities.

He easily secures a job in a government quarantine station, and is able to kennel Rex there during his six months quarantine. He also obtains two more dogs from Germany and engages in developing skills – both Tracy’s own skills and the dogs’ skills. In July 1919, Tracy’s dogs clear quarantine.

Prior’s political activities bring him into contact with the London Irish members of the Connolly Club. The club is named in honour of James Connolly (Séamas Ó Conghaile), one of the leading Marxist theorists of his day. In Dublin, Connolly established the Irish Citizen Army with Jack White, both former British Army. In 1916 the Irish Citizen Army joined with the Republican Brotherhood and Sinn Féin to occupy the General Post Office on O’Connell Street (previously Sackville Street), Dublin. Connolly was the commandant of the Dublin Brigade, and was de facto commander-in-chief. The revolt was successfully crushed, due in large part to the Royal Irish Fusiliers who had been sent to quell the rebels. For his part, Connolly was executed by British firing squad. Tracy remembers that Captain Daniel E. Kennedy is RIF. Connolly’s vision of a ‘Gaelic Socialist Republic’ intrigues Prior. The Irish situation warrants close attention.

In January 1919 Ireland declares an independent Irish Republic. They also declare the Irish Republican Army (IRA) the official army of the state.

In the same month, the Irish Republican Army begins the Irish War of Independence. Tracy Prior is convinced that this is a class war. In August 1919 Tracy and his dogs travel to Dublin. The Connolly Club in Dublin is expecting him, and receives him well. English Tracy Prior and his German dogs join the IRA.

Daniel Edward Kennedy’s high living is about to come crashing down. Wine, women and song have drained his available cash. The Stoat brothers’ nightclubs had provided him with all the pleasures that the Manchester underworld could provide – nightclub life with ‘extras’.

His most recent ‘extra’ is gambling, which Bob and Tony Stoat run in back rooms. The Stoat operation is run by ‘Ma’ Stoat, the tough old matriarch of the family. Ma works from home, delegating on-site management to her two sons.

Daniel E had taken to gambling in an attempt to raise enough money to pay off his overdue nightclub account. But, alas! He falls still deeper into debt, so deep that by January 1920 he is faced with selling assets in Ireland as the only way out. He is not so naïve as to expect his father, Donal Kennedy, to welcome back the prodigal and bail him out. What to do? On 02 January, after running up further expenses due to New Year’s celebrations, on Friday night/Saturday morning, two of Stoats’ debt collectors engage Daniel E at the club. They extract ‘interest payment’ from him by removing the tip of his finger from the upper knuckle – the little finger on the left. Tomorrow, Sunday, they would extract more ‘interest payments’, and every succeeding day until Kennedy comes up with full payment. Sunday’s deadline is 3:00pm. In the Stoats’ experience, the first ‘interest payment’ is enough inducement to extract instant payment in full.

On Sunday, Ma, Bob and Tony Stoat are at home waiting for news of Kennedy’s anticipated payment. They are joking as to how they had shaken up the ‘T’ick Mick’ with a little finger-snipping. What they fail to take into account is that Daniel E, who had his wound treated, had gone to the chemist shop to obtain fresh bandages. He had also purchased some other supplies from the chemist, and has obtained a few more things from the hardware shop next door – things that he can skilfully apply to wipe out his debt and clean the slate. The Manchester Corporation Gas Undertaking unknowingly provides the final ingredient.

Currently, the British Government is seeking men willing to ‘face a rough and dangerous task’, to boost the ranks of the Royal Irish Constabulary (RIC) in policing an increasingly anti-British Ireland. There is no shortage of recruits, many of them from unemployed army veterans. On the Saturday afternoon, 03 January, following his purchase at the chemist shop, ‘Edward Daniel’ signs up to join the Temporary Constables of the RIC, a group made up of ex-army officers. In the urgent rush to rapidly post the men, background checks are waived, relying on the honour of the recruits to accurately state their previous rank and experience. Actually, any man with a ‘past’ would be preferred to a ‘gentleman’ in this campaign. He is instructed to report for duty on Monday 05 January. This gives Daniel E enough time to settle his financial affairs.

Sunday 04 January is a quiet Sunday afternoon in Manchester. At the Stoat’s dining table, Ma Stoat and her two sons are jokingly speculating on Kennedy’s debt repayment. They detect the odour of gas. Ma goes to the kitchen to check the oven. Suddenly the Stoat house is wrecked by an explosion.

“Die you rats! Ma-Ma Stoat-rat! Baby Stoat-rats!” Here is Captain Daniel E. Kennedy, dressed in RIF army uniform and shaking his service revolver at the burning house. An acrid smell from the blast permeates the street, followed by the odour of burning flesh – a smell familiar and satisfying to Kennedy. No one survives the explosion; the entire crime family is wiped out in a single foul-smelling blast as repulsive as their corrupt criminal operation. Kennedy calmly walks away before any of the shocked citizens are fully aware of what has occurred.

And Captain Daniel E is not finished. The two ‘debt collectors’ are engulfed in flaming petrol when their car explodes. The driver is trapped against the steering wheel and is killed almost instantly. The second occupant stumbles from the burning car and runs blindly into a wall before collapsing in a fiery heap on the ground. The final death toll is five. The three nightclubs are set ablaze by petrol bombs igniting and exploding simultaneously. No one suffers directly from these three explosions, but five people, employees and patrons of the clubs, sustain minor injuries in the ensuing panic to evacuate the burning buildings. All three buildings are extensively damaged rendering them unsafe and unusable.

The results are immediate and widespread. Not only is the Stoat crime family wiped out, other underworld operators are struck with fear. Hundreds of poor denizens of Manchester, in attempting to circumvent the severe rationing, had been ensnared into debt by criminal elements that provided black-market goods on credit. These poor people, hitherto trapped in unattainable loan repayments due to punitive interest, are suddenly freed from the Stoats’ debt. Thanks to Captain Daniel E. Kennedy, Stoats’ loans are rendered uncollectible. People are newly-emboldened. They resist loan sharks and black marketers, and cooperate with police. Organised crime loses its grip and Manchester sighs with relief.

Unlike trench warfare, killing in Manchester results in a police investigation. It takes some time, but the Manchester Police piece together enough information to seek the arrest of the prime suspect, the man observed leaving the crime scene in RIF uniform. They endeavour to apprehend Daniel Edward Kennedy.

There are many Manchester citizens who would gladly clap him on the back, rather than clap him in gaol, for cleaning up the Stoat blight that for years had been beyond the reach of the police.

Daniel E is no ‘T’ick Mick’. His exit plan works. On 09 January 1920, four days after reporting for duty, Second Lieutenant Daniel, Edward (having dropped ‘Kennedy’ from his name in favour of ‘Daniel’ as his newly-altered surname) commences training in the Temporary Constables of the RIC, and on 25 March, he arrives in Ireland. He is not the only member of the unit to have a chequered past or dubious name. The overriding requirement is to ruthlessly crush the IRA.

The Manchester Police are stymied in their attempts to locate Daniel E. Kennedy. Clearly, he had left the local area. The regiment in Armagh could provide no clue either. He had failed to rejoin his regiment after a post-war furlough and is currently listed as AWOL. In the hopes of locating him in Tipperary, where he might have reconnected with family or past friends, the Royal Irish Constabulary is co-opted into the investigation. That too fails to locate him. Police forces in England, Wales, Scotland and Ireland are advised to be on the lookout for him. On 01 April 1920, wanted posters are issued to all police stations. Daniel E. Kennedy’s picture appears in wanted posters in police stations everywhere, and a reward is offered for ‘information leading to an arrest’ – £1,000

Daniel E has found a job well-suited to his talents and temperament – a battle-hardened killer-Irishman in the Black & Tans.

CHAPTER EIGHT

TD SLEVIN MEETS WITH MURF

June 1947

Matt Slevin, TD for Galway South, Parliamentary Secretary to the Minister of Justice, pulls his car to the side of the road. The road is so narrow that his black MG 1½-litre Y-type car takes up half the width of the road. Across the stone wall he could see two men and a border collie at a tin shed in a field. No! He couldn’t call it a field – it is a small fenced area with an undersized tin shed against the stone wall. There are no fields around here, just rolling treeless countryside at the Atlantic coast. The fenced area contains a small flock of sheep. The two men, in Wellington boots, are foot-bathing sheep – walking them through a trough of 10% zinc sulphate solution; after which they jam wads of cotton wool, soaked in pitch and 10% zinc sulphate solution, into the cleft of the hooves of each sheep before releasing them out of the pen. What a smelly disgusting job.

“Excuse me!” he shouts across to them. They don’t appear to have heard him. He shouts louder. “Excuse me! I’m looking for…”

“…Murf!” one of the men interrupts. “You’re looking for Murf! Right, Matt?” The man, almost totally splattered in dirt, climbs over the stone wall. He is shouldering a short snub-bladed spade.

By contrast, Matt is dressed in light-tan cavalry twill slacks, dark-tan sports coat over a brown narrow-striped shirt with a well-fitted collar (custom made) and a moss-green soft tie; his shoes are light-brown and spotless; a dark-brown Stetson tops off his wardrobe. This would be Matt’s ‘rural attire’. “Yes! I’m looking for Inspector Murphy! I was told I could find him with John-Joe McCafferty at the sheep shed on the road to Dundon! And how do you know me as ‘Matt’?”

“Yon is John-Joe!” and turning back to the shed, “Give Deputy Slevin a wave, John-Joe!” and back again to Matt Slevin “and here we pronounce it ‘Dún Duinne’!” He extends a hand smelling of sheep foot-bathing solution. “I’m Inspector Murphy! Everyone calls me ‘Murf’!”

Matt reluctantly steps forward and shakes his hand, and to make small talk, asks, “Why do you use the local Irish pronunciation?”

“Well, investigation requires local knowledge. Local word usage identifies the character of a place; the anglicized form may hide it!”

“Ah!” says Matt. “‘Dún Duinne’ – the ‘Fort of… Brown’!”

“That’s right!”

“So you’re investigating?”

“I’m under suspension! And you’re standing in mud!”

Matt looks down at his shoes, and steps back onto the dry road. He looks at the ring of mud that has collected around the side of his soles. He goes to brush the mud from his shoes on a clump of grass.

Murf catches his arm. “No! Don’t brush the mud. You’ll brush it in and stain your shoes! It’s just ‘blue till’. It will quickly dry to a light-grey powder that you can blow off!” Murf leads him back to the centre of the road. “I thought you were not due in Mayo until Dev’s visit to Castlebar in September. So you’re stirring up support for the party in advance?”

“Just making sure that the ‘Long Fellow’ is still loved by the people. We can’t be having any discontent...”

“...between the guards and the circuit court judges?”

“...distracting the people from the path of achieving a republic. Right, Murf? Anyway, the minister asked me to drop by to say ‘hello’.”

“Ah! For the sake of the Republic – on your way home, like.” Murf had started to walk down the road in the direction of the ocean, the spade balanced on his shoulder. “Walk with me, Matt! You want to talk with me?”

“Where are we going? We can take the car!”

“You won’t see anything of interest from the car. You’ll miss a lot unless you step into the place – the smells, the feel... Just consider what a place like this could reveal. Or what could it hide?”

“Hah! So you’re on a case, are you?”

“I gather you were talking to the lads at the station! What did they tell you?”

Matt falls into step with Murf. He should be annoyed, but there is something about Murf that tugs at his curiosity – and it is truly a pleasant July day for a walk by the sea. “The guards at the station say that there is a case of a runaway girl. She ran off to Dublin with some boys that were holidaying in Achill. Her parents are upset. The guards in Dublin are following up with the boys; they got their names from the hostel in Achill where they were staying. You don’t agree?”

“The dots connect, but that is not the picture that emerges.”

“Sergeant Joe Dunleavy says that you connect dots. Is that what you were doing with the sheep? Connecting dots?”

“Not exactly. I was gathering information from the sheep, and from John-Joe. Both have excellent local knowledge. But you, Matt, are going to help me connect the dots.”

“To solve a crime that may not be a crime at all?”

Murf does not answer. Instead he says, “Teresa McDaid was a pleasant girl (Matt noted that he said ‘was’, not ‘is’), but she was easily swayed by flattery. The Dublin boys flattered her. It thrilled her to be with ‘bad boys’. But, no, she was not so foolish as to run off with them.” Murf looks down at Matt’s shoes. “Your shoes are dry now. Give them a whack with your hanky.” Sure enough, there is a powdery dusting on his shoes that blows right off without leaving a stain.

Murf continues, “Her parents came into the station yesterday to report her missing. They gave us a recent photograph of her and a description of her clothes – last seen in a blue wool coat and red beret. Charlie Mulligan was with them. He was the one who took the photograph just a week earlier when they were gathering dillisk. At the interview, Charlie Mulligan was quite talkative. He was clearly distraught and offered all kinds of suggestions to the guards, mostly pointing to the Dublin lads. There was talk that Charlie and Teresa might get married next year. The talk seemed to come more from Charlie than from Teresa. The girls at Casey’s General Store think otherwise – they update me on all the news.”

“That would be Mrs. Casey’s local intelligence services,” Matt comments, thinking aloud.

“Teresa, known as ‘Tee’ to her friends, is a cousin to Tessie who works in the store.”

“Two ‘Teresas’?”

“Three. There is a grandmother too. Anyway, Tessie is of the opinion that Tee likes to lark about a bit and is not yet ready to settle down. The story, as best I can put together at this point, is this. A couple of nights ago, Tee and her cousin Tessie, and Tessie’s twin sister Bessie, met up with three Dublin lads, and the six of them went off to hear the ‘Flyin’ Fiddler’...”

“The ‘Flyin’ Fiddler’ who plays at ‘The Hovel’ in Westport?”

“So you know it, Matt?”

“The best céili music and come-all-ye singing in the West.”

“Well, afterwards Tessie, Bessie and Tee return from Westport before midnight and, according to Tessie, she and Bessie were dropped off at The Cross.”

“And Tee went off with the lads?”

“At that point, yes. But we don’t know if she went the whole way to Dublin with them. Or did they drop her off further down the road, like at the mill at the corner of her laneway?”

“But you, Inspector Murphy, don’t think she went to Dublin?”

Murf declines to answer. They continue to walk further out the headland, and Matt holds the brim of his hat because of the sea breeze.

Matt turns to Murf attempting to get more information. “What about the interview, Murf? At the interview, did Charlie give you any important information?”

“Yes.”

“What did he tell you?”

“Not so much what Charlie said, so much as what was revealed by the photo and his shoes. There was a ring stain crusted on the edge of his soles – not blue till, not bog peat, not any of the farm soils from around Killbawn – a dun colour like brick.”

“And the photo?”

“The background was the wild Atlantic.”

“So you came out here to consult with sheep?”

“Sheep wander over a wide area, but they have favourite spots while the grazing is good. Do you know that you can predict the weather by observing where they graze? Their hooves can tell you a lot. And John-Joe knows sheep, and he knows the whole area around here intimately. He knows where there is peculiar brown mud.”

“Where is this taking us, Murf?”

“Dúndon. We’re almost there – a mile from where you parked your car.”

Matt looks back in disbelief, and admits to himself that he could not make out the location of where he parked the car.

Murf just continues to walk and talk. “The sheep told me to come here. Actually the high incidence of hoof rot in this grazing area tells me that drainage is so bad that there is no soil. No other place in the sheep-grazing area is as bad as this, not even the bog.”

Murf hands the spade to Matt. “Here, Matt! Step off the road and try jamming the spade into the ground.”

Matt tries it and it feels like hitting solid rubber. He tries harder, and gets the same result.

“See, Matt! There is a thin film of dirt, just a fraction of an inch. The grass – you can’t really call it grass – is stunted here. In lots of places the subsoil is visible.”

They had reached the loop at the end of the road, guarded by a solitary trash bin. Beyond the road, the sea is crashing against the rocky cliff face, and overlooking it all is the ruin of an old fort. The smell of sea spray and wrack fills their nostrils, and Matt wipes his wet nose with his white handkerchief and jams his hat more firmly on his head. It is a lonely spot.

Matt asks, “Does anyone come here?” looking at the trash bin.

“Yes! The Boscos (Don Bosco Athletic Club) have their weekly ten-mile race from Maggie’s cross to here and back – and don’t always manage to put their trash in the bin; in spring, the farmers harvest kelp for fertiliser; when weather and tides are favourable, people harvest dillisk. At night the area is dark, except for the white glow of the crashing surf – very romantic.”

“Romantic? For Charlie and Tee, perhaps? Murf, I’m picking up on where you are going, on what you are connecting.”

“See here, Matt! Here is an area – from here to the ruins – where the dun-coloured subsoil is exposed. See how slimy and slippery it is?”

Matt agrees.

“Matt! You need to get down and feel it. If you slowly rub the ground with your hand pressed flat, the slimy subsoil curls like butter.”

Matt does so, and is surprised at how easy it is to curl up a portion of the surface, yet it is so resistant to a jab from the spade.

“This stuff, Matt, clings to your shoes, building an encrusted ring around the soles. It can be moulded like putty. When dry, it hardens to brick; but when damp, it gets slimy and rubbery again. It is totally useless. See how they used it for the walls of the fort, and how it all collapsed.”

They are approaching the ruined fort. Matt makes out the building stones in the mud and imagines how this was once a fortress. “Murf! Did you know this all along?”

“Somewhat. But I’m still filling in as we go along. Keep focused on gathering information!”

Matt realises that he is still carrying the spade. “Hey! Murf! Do you want your spade back?”

“No! You’ll need it inside the ruin.”

“I’m going inside the ruin?”

“Yes, Matt!”

“Why?”

“Have a look and have a poke around. See if you can find something of interest. That’s why we came here.”

“So what am I supposed to do?”

“See if you can dig a hole two feet deep in fifteen minutes.”

“That’s impossible.”

“You’re a politician, a ‘Soldier of Destiny’, Matt. You’ll find a way I’m sure.”

“Are you not coming to help?”

Murf is walking away. “No. You go ahead. I’ll be hoking through the trash down here.”

Matt looks around, talking to himself. “How could anyone dig in here? If it isn’t the rubbery mud, it is the stone slabs. Ah – the stone slabs. By moving some stone slabs I could dislodge enough to have a hole in no time. I can use the spade as a lever to move them. Now there is a likely pile. No need to tell Murf that I found an easy way to dig a hole in this place.” He levers off the top slab and lets it slide off the mound. Then sets to moving a few more. His spade strikes something soft, like a piece of cloth. He lifts another slab to get a better look and sees blue wool fabric.

“Murf! Murf!” he shouts. His body is immobile at the expectation of seeing something untoward. “Murf! Murf!”

Murf comes to him. “Steady on, Matt! Here, hold this!” placing a shattered Kodak in an evidence bag and passing it to him.

Murf continues to move rocks and dirt until the body of Teresa McDaid is revealed. They assume it is her. The description fits, and she is wearing a blue wool coat. No sign of her red beret. Murf pats her pockets and finds a roll of film.

Matt asks, “How did you know that she would be here?”

“I didn’t know – not for sure! I needed someone who thinks like a killer, someone smart and dishonest, to chose the right spot! You were perfect for it, Matt!”

“God, Murf! Now I know what Fox means when he says ‘You’ll hate him, but you’ll love him’.” Matt is slapping his hands together to dislodge residue of brown slimy mud. He gives up, resigned to an overall browner hue than his wardrobe warrants.

“Matt, I’ll stay here. Run back to your car and fetch the lads. They’ll need to tell Castlebar to get forensics out here. Give them the shattered camera and roll of film. It may be the evidence needed to nail this one down.”

The body is positively identified as Teresa McDaid. Charlie Mulligan is arrested. The muddied shoes and the prints on the broken camera and the pictures from the developed film all put him at the scene. He confesses, is tried, and is convicted of manslaughter – the result of a fit of jealous rage.

As to Murf’s suspension – it is revoked the day following TD Slevin’s visit.

Fianna Fáil – The Republican Party, the ‘Warriors of Destiny’ – however, suffered a drop in popularity. They failed to obtain a majority in the election held on 04 February 1948. Even with 46% of the seats, they were unable to form a coalition. Six minority parties and 11 independents, united only in their common distaste of Fianna Fáil, formed Ireland’s first inter-party government. This lasted three years, at which point Fianna Fáil swooped back into power.

CHAPTER NINE

TRACY PRIOR IN IRELAND

In August 1919, Tracy Prior has no trouble connecting with his socialist comrades in Dublin. An English communist former British Army soldier is no great stretch for party members who admire James Connolly, who himself was born in Scotland and who had also served in the British Army. Joining a flying column of the IRA might prove to be a greater leap. Tracy’s go-between is Finnegan. Finnegan is highly-educated, but is not hesitant about getting his hands dirty. He is portly, in his 40s, and of a pleasant disposition. For three days he prepares Tracy by moving him around to sample the many faces of the party.

Under Finnegan’s guidance Tracy observes that in rural Ireland there are regional idiosyncrasies of speech; and within each region are four (or more) segments – ‘Country Speech’, ‘County Speech’, ‘Town Speech’ and ‘School Speech’ – much the same as in England. Finnegan, who is from Tipperary, slips in and out of dialects and accents with ease, sometimes changing mid-sentence (as in ‘things’ and ‘t’ings’) to render a different import. This is a common linguistic tool. By juggling literalisms and euphemisms with irony, and by employing homophonic words, an outsider (as Tracy would be) might take a meaning quite different from what is communicated between insiders. It is essential to fit in right from the beginning, and Finnegan is preparing him.

Tracy is to meet the IRA where they are most active, in County Cork. They set out from Dublin in a 1919 Ford Model T Pickup, built in Cork, according to Finnegan. There are no front doors, but being August, Tracy doesn’t mind. The window/hatch at the back opens onto the flatbed and is ideal for the three mastiffs that accompany him. Tracy is dressed in working-class army-issue trousers and jacket with non-regulation brown cloth cap, brown shirt and black ‘daisy-roots’ boots, the clothes one buys cheaply at any Army & Navy Surplus Store. His merchant seaman’s donkey coat is thrown in the back with his duffle bag and the black-brindled mastiffs.

Finnegan is wearing a dark-blue pinstriped three-piece suit, over a white pinstriped shirt with detachable collar – the collar he changes every day, the shirt not quite as often. His tie is burgundy, tied in a simple sling knot. He wears black laced cap-toe oxfords and grey wool socks. As always, rain or shine, a dark-grey felt Stetson is jammed on his head. Because it is a hot day, Finnegan has removed his jacket, revealing a waistcoat with watch-and-chain that is struggling at the buttons, some of which are not fastened. He smokes Players Medium Navy Cut cigarettes, one of which is always dangling from the corner of his mouth, and permits the ash to drop on his chest. At most villages he passes through, he stops for a ‘half-one’. He is so quick at this that one must assume that the whiskeys are already set up and waiting for him at each stop.

Tracy, picking up on Finnegan’s instructions, “How? ‘Homophonic’ words?”

“Well, words like ‘Jew’ and ‘dew’ are pronounced the same; ‘mourning’ and ‘morning’…

You’ll likely meet ‘Joker’ or ‘Choker’ Kelly.” And Finnegan demonstrates the homophonic words.

“So should I address him as ‘Joker’ or ‘Choker’?”

“Tracy, you have a bit of a problem there. Try ‘Choker’ on the job and ‘Joker’ off the job. He’s a good soldier, but his mouth can be a pain in the arse.”

Ten hours after leaving Dublin, Finnegan shouts, “Ah! Here we are!” as they round a corner, and turn up a laneway to a farmhouse. The sentry gossoon recognises Finnegan and greets him, waving him through. Approaching the farmhouse, Tracy hears loud voices from inside.

“My God! They’re all singing!”

“Ah no, Tracy! That’s the way they talk here!”

“Do they always sing like that when they talk?”

Finnegan turns off the engine, slaps him on the back and says, “No! Sometimes they actually sing!”

At the door Finnegan hesitates. “Tracy, prepare to meet the ‘Byes from Cark’” slipping into yet another vernacular. He knocks the prearranged code, and the door opens.

“Hey! It’s Mr. Finnegan himself!”

“And jaepers if it isn’t that English communist fella that’s with him...”

“And three big German-speakin’ killer-dags!”

“Say something in German to the dags!”

Finnegan holds up his hands and hushes the crowd of 30 or so. They are all in their teens, farm boys mostly. If there was any suspicion of Tracy Prior, it disappears with the presence of the dogs. All these lads know work dogs. They are all comfortable around dogs, and acknowledge a dog’s space.

Tracy says “Sitz!” and the dogs sit.

All the lads are intrigued and curious, looking over each other’s shoulders.

Finnegan has them well in hand, and says to Tracy “Time to meet the North Cork Flying Column 22!”

“Is this not them?”

“No! Not the flying column! They’re in the back room...” waving him onward, “...waiting to meet you. Go on! The dogs are fine here. I’ll explain to the byes.”

“Bleib!” and “Braver Hund!” Tracy speaks to each dog in turn with an added gentle nudge. Sounds of approval and admiration from the lads.

Tracy Prior enters the back room and meets the North Cork Flying Column 22. Now this is a different atmosphere from the outer room. There is no sing-song jollity in this room. Tracy inhales, holds his breath, and exhales slowly. So this is a flying column, Tracy reckons, as he sizes up the company.

Their leader is Taigh Mór O’Toole – leader most of the time. At 24, three years older than Tracy, he is the oldest. They have no formal ranking. Taigh Mór is their acknowledged leader due to his bravery and prudence, and they admire the skills he exhibits. They are one of the elite IRA ‘Flying Columns’, which means that they operate anywhere in the country as required. There are eight in the squad. That is small, but not unusually so. Flying columns are highly mobile at short notice. This squad moves around the country in two cars to complement local units in engagements, usually comprised of 20 to 30 local men. They had just lost a member, and are in no mood for niceties.

Taigh Mór sizes up Tracy. He looks right – in his army-issue battle gear. His three monster dogs sitting outside the doorway give him an ominous aura – like a dark angel with hellhounds. Rather than interview Prior, Taigh Mór decides to put him to a test.

“We have a raid in five minutes! Are ’ou ready?” He looks at the other six and communicates by eye contact that Prior would either pass the test or die. He winks at Joker Kelly, who he appoints to have a gun ready at Prior’s back at the first hint of instability. There was no immediate raid planned. Taigh Mór decided this on the spur of the moment – but there is always an RIC barracks worth hitting.

Taigh Mór tosses a Lee-Enfield at Prior. “Five minutes!”

Prior immediately starts to dismantle the rifle.

“Don’t you understand ‘five minutes’? Now four minutes!” swinging his pocket watch.

Prior ignores him. He dismantles the rifle and reassembles it in 90 seconds and tosses it back at Taigh. “This gun is dirty; it’s inaccurate! At best it will miss target; at worst it will blow up in my face! I prefer to use this!” displaying his Webley Mk VI.

From the back, Joker Kelly says to his comrades “Now isn’t he smart!” – pronouncing it ‘shmay-irt’ to denote a ‘know-all’. The others snigger in agreement. “…going into battle with a handgun!”

Leaving the dogs behind at the safe-house, not needed in this engagement, they drive for half an hour and then walk through fields for ten minutes. The drivers stay with the cars and the remaining six go on ahead. The RIC barracks is a solid stone building. Its doors and windows are sand-bagged with coils of barbed wire draped over the entrance. Tracy moves his position to take advantage of a few gaps in the fortifications. He could make out the face of one policeman and the back of another’s head through the doorway.

Taigh Mór cries “Fire!” and Tracy nails both his targets in two rapid shots. There is a lot of gunfire. The Flying 22s shoot at the stone building causing no damage. And the police fire wildly in the direction of their shooting. Taigh Mór cries “Withdraw!” and they run along the hedge to the cars – a three-minute fast pace. They are gone.

Back at the safe-house, the Flying 22s are celebrant with their success. There was no purpose in the engagement – not to occupy the building, not to capture munitions – other than to test Prior. Now, however, Prior’s killing of two constables is an unexpected bonus. Finnegan and the ‘byes’ are gone, and the dogs appear not to have moved since they had left. Tracy greets the dogs. Eight fighting men and three fighting dogs have the house to themselves. They compliment Prior. “Well done! Two dead! Good job!”

Taigh Mór says. “Congratulations, Prior! You passed the test!”

Prior’s response is unexpected. “But YOU didn’t pass MY test...not one of you!” He continues. “What is the police compliment for that barracks? How many were present at the raid? What is their strength and chances of retaliation?”

“Hey! Hold on there, Prior! It was just an RIC barracks!”

“And you’re a bunch of country boys shooting at a stone wall!”

Everyone is shouting now; the dogs agitated and snarling.

Taigh Mór cries, “Stop! Enough!” to bring calm.

And continues, “This Prior fellow just demonstrated that he can handle a gun. We were informed about him before he came, about how experienced he is!” And then addresses Prior. “All right, Prior! Talk to us!”

“Number one: Clean your guns and align the sights; Number two: Never engage a target until you have assessed his strength and have worked out a strategy; Number three: The enemy is not the police force; the RIC are Irishmen like yourselves. The enemy is the British administration – the advantaged people who influence the government, the British Army, the British Auxiliary Forces!”

“Is that all?”

“No! But it’s a start!”

Shouting starts up again, but Taigh Mór subdues it. “First your number three: We have determined what our legitimate targets are, and the RIC as supporters of the British administration ARE on our list. Your number two: Tonight’s raid was just your introduction into our squad; we did not expect any casualties; the barracks is known to be severely under strength, that is until the Black & Tans arrive. Your number one: And here you are correct. Our guns are in poor shape. Are ’ou able to show us how to fix them?”

“Fair enough! Let’s start with the guns.”

“All right, Byes! All guns on the table! Let’s start taking them apart!”

Prior sets about showing them the proper procedure to clean and maintain a gun. While the seven men rub and polish and clean, he sits down on the floor to nap with his dogs.

Joker Kelly is complaining. “How come an Englishman is telling us what to do. Aren’t we supposed to be killing the bastards? And Lord, look at him now resting comfortable while we work.” The rest of the squad ignores Joker – he is always on about something, and they do not take him seriously.

Joker goes over to Tracy and dangles his polishing rag in his face. “Tickle! Tickle! Englishman – wake up. Tickle! Tic…”

Quicker than a blink, Tracy has Joker in a stranglehold. And Joker feels a knife edge slide across his throat that draws blood. Tracy then launches him with a kick that sets him flat against the wall, and collapses him to the ground. Joker’s first instinct is to check his body for injury. He is relieved to find that the cut in his throat is no more serious than a shaving nick. He stands up and moves about. Satisfied that he is only bruised, his next reaction is to retaliate. He grabs his gun from the table and realises that it had not yet been reassembled. He appeals to the squad. “See that! See! He tried to kill me! Let’s get him!”

Taigh Mór stands up from the table, leans over to Joker and slaps him hard on the mouth. Joker goes down to the floor a second time, his lip bleeding.

Taigh Mór addresses Tracy. “Good move that, Tracy! Do you have any more?”

“Lots more!”

“Could you show us?”

“Sure. Right after the guns are cleaned and sighted.” And so it starts. Tracy Prior trains the North Cork Flying Column 22.

Tracy’s obsession is in destroying the properties of the gentry and in undermining British administration, as inspired by the Bolsheviks in the Russian Revolution. The squad’s short-term objective is the RIC, but in the long term it is to dislodge all British administration and establish an independent country.

As IRA activity increases, many RIC are deserting. Some RIC barracks are no longer manned. The British administration is slipping. The Irish Provisional Government operates a shadow government and appoints republican police and judges to provide law and order. By March 1920 the North Cork Flying Column 22 is fully trained. They provide a deadly welcome to the Black & Tans, the British paramilitary police sent to bolster the RIC. Then in July 1920, on the heels of the Black & Tans, the auxiliaries come. These are the British flying columns.

The 22s disregard all protocols of conduct. Their codeword for a raid was ‘payday’ or ‘deliver pay’. In deference to Tracy and his East London manner of speech, they change the codeword to ‘pie-day’ and ‘delivering pie’. They are ruthless in their treatment of the enemy. Charges of misconduct and atrocities are levelled against them. They care not a whit. They scour the country from south to north, from west to east, delivering ‘pie’. They become the most efficient and most feared IRA flying column in Ireland.

They permit newspapers to photograph them, and their names are freely given. All of them, that is, except Tracy Prior and the dogs. Tracy does not appear in photographs; the squad does not want it known that one member is English. Rumours and speculation arise about the unidentified eighth member, the one with German hounds in tow. This adds to the mystique.

The British post rewards for all of them. And it is not only the British administration that denounces them. The Church excommunicates each one of them. And when their home parish continues to shield them, the entire parish is placed under interdict. The squad is hated and feared by the authorities, both temporal and spiritual. Only the devil and the people are on their side.

An Irishman had joined the Black & Tan auxiliaries, and now an Englishman is in the IRA.

CHAPTER TEN

DANIEL E. KENNEDY IN IRELAND

On 25 March 1920, Second Lieutenant Edward Daniel arrives in Ireland. A total of 9,500 had been recruited into the Special Police Force. So many that uniforms were not ready. Instead, army uniforms with RIC or British police tunics, caps and belts were supplied. There was nothing ‘uniform’ about the issued dress except as a way to distinguish them from Regular RIC and army. Hence the RIC special force’s nickname, ‘Black & Tan’.

In November 1920, Daniel E. Kennedy, under the pseudonym Edward Daniel, makes a successful transition to the Auxiliary Division of the RIC (ADRIC), generally known as the auxiliaries. His display of military skill and leadership earns him a promotion. He is appointed leader of a flying column – heavily armed and highly mobile – within one of the fifteen companies mandated to operate in the south and west of Ireland where the IRA activity is greatest. Auxies are permitted to wear RIC uniforms, or their old army uniforms with police badges. Daniel E chooses to wear his old captain’s uniform.

The object of the Black & Tans and auxiliaries is to break both the IRA and the newly-established Irish Government, Dáil Éireann. The ‘Irish problem’ is regarded as a ‘police matter’ by Britain. The British Army is not employed, notwithstanding their large presence in Ireland. From the British perspective this is civil war within the United Kingdom, and use of the army could lead to public condemnation. Another problem is that, due to the large number of Irish serving in the British Army, mutiny is likely. The army remains in Ireland, but avoids engaging in direct combat. Unofficially, some British serving in Ireland sympathise with the rebels, and assist them by leaking sensitive information to them. Thanks to sympathetic English civil servants in the British administration, a number of the IRA leaders avoid assassination.

Daniel’s flying column is comprised of 30 men, all ex-officers and veterans of trench warfare. The men regard Daniel’s accent as ‘posh-Irish’, common in Irish officers in the British Army. As section leader, his official rank is second lieutenant. Notwithstanding, he dresses in a captain’s uniform, except for the Glengarry cap the auxiliaries are required to wear. Technically, this could be regarded as a breach of army regulations, but the protocol on army uniforms is sufficiently blurred that it is not enforced in the Auxiliary Division of the Royal Irish Constabulary. In any event, Daniel speaks like a captain, struts like a captain, and acts like a captain. The men address him as ‘Captain’.

On Sunday 21 November 1920, the IRA assassinates the Cairo Gang in Dublin. The Cairo Gang were Irish undercover intelligence officers working for the British. Ten members of the gang are killed. Also killed – an RIC constable, a civilian informant and two auxiliaries. Five additional British intelligence officers are wounded.

Daniel and his flying column fly into action. The GAA (Gaelic Athletic Association) is suspected of harbouring IRA members. On that same day, at the GAA’s Croke Park, Dublin and Tipperary are scheduled to play a Gaelic Football match at 3:00pm. Daniel’s squad joins the British security forces/RIC under the command of Major Mills that descend on the park about 15 minutes into the game. Some RIC, including Daniel and his squad, rather than wait for orders on engagement, commence firing into the crowd, killing fourteen civilians and wounding dozens more. They later claim that they were first fired upon by IRA ‘sentries’. They round up three IRA suspects and bring them to Dublin Castle. There they beat them to extract information, after which they shoot them ‘trying to escape’.

Daniel’s squad is attached to K Company, active in the south and west, from Cork to Mayo. What Daniel learns at the castle prompts him to go post-haste to Cork. They set out in a convoy of Crossley Tenders 25/30 hp with their .45 Webleys, firing shots into residential streets along the way.

‘Captain’ Daniel addresses his squad, “Pigs! And rats! That’s what you’re up against! Pigs you kill with one shot to the head; the rats you make suffer before you kill!” ‘Pigs’ are republicans; ‘Rats’ are Republican Army.

The squad would roar into a village – Captain Daniel had a sense of where republican sympathisers might be – jump out of their lorries, firing shots and ordering all the inhabitants out of doors. Men and women, old and young, sick and infirm would be lined up against a wall with hands up to be questioned and searched. Some would be beaten with the butt end of Webleys to teach ‘respect’. And then on to the next village, gathering more information and making more enemies.

It is only 21 days since the Croke Park killings, but so much is happening that it feels like much longer. The sense of urgency that is instilled in the men keeps them tense and restless, and ever ruthless. They stop in Riverstown, Tipperary, on 11 December, en route to Cork. Riverstown is Daniel’s boyhood home. But under present circumstances he could not risk visiting his family at the Kennedy Stud Farm. Still, he is eager to see the place. They park their tenders away from the property in a laneway, well out of sight of the farmhouse. They approach the house by way of a wooded area so as not to be observed. When they come upon it, they see a devastated ruin of a building. Flying overhead is the flag of the Republic. The IRA had been here. The stables appear to be intact, but there is no sign of life. Daniel falls to his knees and slams his head into the ground with an agonising wail. The auxiliaries assume that he is over-stressed and is suffering from nightmare memories of the trenches. They are all veterans of the Great War; and all, without exception, endure frequent disturbing mental flashbacks.

When Daniel composes himself, he leads the men to the local village. He goes into the solitary pub there. Inside, he asks the barman about the destruction of the Riverside property. The barman recognises them as auxiliaries and is reluctant to cooperate with them. Daniel shoots at the spirit bottles behind the bar, picking them off one at a time. Liquor is spilling and splashing over the bar, and shards of glass fly around. The barman has good reason to fear for his life.

“So tell me, Pig Barman! Who burned down the Riverside Farm?”

At the first “I don’t know!” Daniel shoots the barman in the knee. Then, “The 22s, the 22s! In the name of God, don’t kill me!”

“And where do I find the 22s?” Daniel readies his gun for another shot.

“They travel all over the country. God knows where they are now!”

The gun levels at him…

“They are all wild and fanatical; one of them even has German dogs! He was the one that led the raid!”

An image of Tracy Prior flashes across his inner eye. He discharges the pistol an inch to the right of the barman’s head, and storms out. The barman remains immobile for as long as he can hold his breath. Then fear is replaced by the pain of his shattered knee.

In Cork, the squad meets up with K Company. K Company had suffered 13 seriously wounded that same day, 11 December, at Dillon’s Cross. When Daniel’s flying column joins them, they commence retaliation by looting, burning and destroying a substantial part of Cork City Centre. Daniel throws himself into the work with greater zeal than before.

The next day, Daniel transfers ten of his men to other squads in K Company. The company major approves his pursuit of the 22s with his remaining 20 men. When located, the 100-strong company would rally its flying columns to engage in the extermination of the North Cork Flying Column 22.

“We’re going north!” Daniel announces to his squad. This unexpected declaration takes the men by surprise.

“Hey, steady on, Captain!” they respond. And one of the men reminds him, “We were instructed not to go into ‘the North’!”

“The 22s have gone north to support the nationalists in West Ulster – that’s the intelligence we received. There is talk that the country might be partitioned and the ‘Shinners’ (Sinn Féin) want to secure a foothold in the nationalist areas there. We’ll catch them as they return south. It’s likely they’ll rest up in Mayo. Castlebar is our next stop!”

Daniel regrets not having better firepower. He intends to set up a base from which to strike, and devote some time to developing bombs. At Castlebar, he is told he could move into the RIC barracks at Ballycorry. The sergeant in charge of RIC Ballycorry is David Fox, a dedicated policeman, but not suited to anti-IRA fighting. It is a wonder the RIC barracks had not been abandoned like so many other rural stations; but the IRA is only mildly active in the region – mostly farmers who conduct a part-time campaign. The more dedicated members of the IRA are active in the cities. But Mayo is an important resting point for southern units of the IRA active in West Ulster – units such as the Flying 22s.

As Daniel E sets out, little does he know that the North Cork Flying Column 22 is in Ballycorry, just five miles from the RIC barracks. They are resting their fatigued bodies before returning to Fermanagh where they will relieve one of the other flying columns. But they are alerted by a report of the imminent arrival of Black & Tans coming to bolster the RIC contingent in the barracks.

The auxies’ journey from Castlebar to Killbawn is uneventful, and only a few more miles to Ballycorry. But on the road to Ballycorry they are ambushed. The ambush is brief and deadly. It is clear to Daniel that this is no local IRA hit. This is a flying column supported by local Shinners. Daniel loses half his squad – two killed and eight wounded. He dispatches the injured back to army barracks in Castlebar, and Daniel with his depleted squad of ten finishes the journey to Ballycorry.

At the RIC barracks, Captain Daniel introduces himself to the sergeant by thrusting a squad list at him. The auxiliaries regard the RIC as too soft on the IRA. And there is no doubt that this group of auxiliaries disdains the RIC, a contempt they display at every opportunity. There are 31 names on the list, with some markings and margin notes. Daniel does not bother to introduce his men by name. Sergeant Fox, the officer in charge of the barracks, notes that there is no ‘Captain’ on the list, but it is clear to him that the squad has undergone serious personnel depletion, and it is likely that transfers had occurred. The auxies are weary. And ignoring all protocol and courtesy, they take over the barracks to collapse in bunks and beds and anywhere they could rest.

The following morning, Daniel makes no effort to introduce himself or his men to the constables. The only acknowledgement is to demand food and supplies. After breakfast, Captain Daniel takes his remaining men out to the bogland behind the barracks and trains them in dodging bullets.

“You dodged bullets in the trenches! Have you forgotten how?” firing live rounds at them. “Get down! And fast! A half-inch of head above the rise is enough to get you killed!” He wounds two of his men in this ‘training’ – a nicked calf and a holed earlobe. Nothing serious, but he has Sergeant Fox transfer them to another RIC barracks that is undermanned. Now there are nine auxies – the eight fiercest of the bunch and a pathological captain. This brings the barracks complement to 13 – nine auxiliaries including the ‘Captain’, and four RIC.

The captain settles in and orders supplies for the manufacture of explosives. They arrive from Dublin inside a week.

The burning of Cork is reported in the newspapers in England. There is widespread reaction against the British handling of the Irish War. Even the King is upset. Churchill issues orders to the Black & Tans and auxiliaries to observe proper conduct. Too late. They have totally alienated the people, even those who regard themselves as ‘British’ Irish, including many of the Royal Irish Constabulary.

In January 1921, the RIC barracks in Ballycorry gets a phone call. It is the army in Castlebar asking for the officer in charge of the auxiliary flying column. Due to the uproar in England over reports of misconduct, orders are issued to ground all flying columns. They are to withdraw to centres from which they would be deployed by central command – in this case, the army barracks in Castlebar. Any RIC barracks that is understaffed would be supplemented by Special Forces and auxiliaries, but they must operate under the command of the RIC officer-in-charge. Ballycorry’s RIC complement is for ten policemen. Second Lieutenant Edward Daniel remains there with five of his squad – the rest he sends to Castlebar Army Barracks where they will be stationed.

David Fox, the RIC sergeant, is in charge of the barracks, and Daniel is to submit to him notwithstanding Daniel’s superior rank. Daniel is also ordered to provide a written report on the state of his squad and an account of his operations since arriving in Ireland. His wings are clipped but he is still afforded a lot of opportunity for independent activity. And he has time to devote to his other passion – explosives.