James Joyce and the Kingdom of Rats

The sequel to James Joyce and the Battle of Portobello. It picks up months later when James is transferred to Frongoch camp in Mid-Wales. Here he and his comrades are held in spartan conditions by the brutal commandant. However they manage to keep thei

JAMES JOYCE AND THE KINGDOM OF RATS


“Prisoner 11982374, you are getting moved in one hour, start getting ready.”

James took the instruction with no small measure of surprise.  He had been in Wakefield prison nearly a month and he was nicely settled in.  Some inmates knew why he was there, others guessed.  James just told people he had shot a man in a pub, a slight understatement under the circumstances.

He was still bitter about his fate, and angry with himself about misjudging the mood of the Irish nation.  He had thrown his life away for a nation that had sided with it’s oppressors in it’s darkest hour.

He was split up from the rest of the republican prisoners now, and that was the way he wanted it to stay, he didn’t want reminding of his past.

His cell in Wakefield wasn’t exactly brilliant but it wasn’t that bad either, the bed covers were scratchy and the walls were damp.  His cell-mate wasn’t much better, a petty thief called Simon from Rotherham who constantly asked him questions about Ireland. The whole room was about ten feet by ten with two beds and a bucket.  Between them they were trying to acquire a small chair and a table.

“So that’ll be you off then will it?”  Said Simon, more sad than he would admit to be losing his rather morose companion.  “Where you hoping for?  Strangeways?”

“Tower of London maybe, along with the other dangerous prisoners.  Do you want these cigarettes?”

“Aye, pass ’em over.  So they set a date for your trial yet?”

“No, it’s all a bit strange with the war and all.  They are worried about the media swaying the jury.”

The hour soon passed and James said his goodbyes.  The guard locked his wrists into cuffs and led him out into a sealed van that took him the short distance from Wakefield prison to Westgate station.  He was made to stand in on the platform cuffed to the guard waiting for a train along with the other travellers.  Some were business men, one old couple, and two young ladies travelling apparently on their own.  James smiled over, he hadn’t seen a woman since he left Ireland.  In fact the last woman he saw was built like a barn door and was trying to beat him with a plank of wood.  These two didn’t look the sort to be carrying on like that, they were dressed in thick dresses and flowery hats.

The platform was large and busy, with cars and buses dropping off people and picking others up.  He could smell the hops and malt of Clarke’s brewery, just around the corner from the prison, a stark reminder of lost liberty.  It was warm in the early summer sunshine.

Eventually the train chuffed it’s way into the station, ten carriages long with a special cell carriage on the back.  James was disappointed, he was rather hoping he would be in the same carriage as the two young ladies, although he knew it really wasn’t likely.  The latches were pulled back and he was led by the arms into the hot sealed carriage.  There he was re-cuffed to the wall and just left.  The inside was dark except for the air vent he was held next to, and he could just see out.  The guard locked him in the near-darkness on his own.

For hours the train jolted and clanked it’s way along the Great North Eastern line, south through the Pennines, and into the Midlands.  Maybe several hours had passed when the train stopped and the guard re-appeared at the door.  He unlashed his prisoner and led him through a huge crowded station.  James noted that the sign on the wall read Birmingham New Street.  He was led from platform to platform until he was shoved into another carriage almost identical to the one he had just been led out of.  The guard gave him a few cups of water and a small loaf of bread for sustenance before locking him in again.

From there the new train made it’s way further south, through the midlands, and curved west.  Late afternoon turned to early evening and dusk was falling as the train finally stopped.   James was led out and bundled into a van at Cardiff station.  They then drove for an hour and a half, and he felt physically colder.

Eventually they stopped and he was led out on to what looked like scrub land.  For a second he wondered if they had led him all the way here to shoot him for treason.

Then the van moved aside and he saw a strange complex of buildings ringed by barbed wire fencing ten feet high.

He was led up to a main gate and into the Commandant’s office.  He was made to stand in the small wooden office while the smart man went through his papers.  The name plate on the desk identified him as Colonel Heygate Lambert.

“Mr Joyce, you have chosen to join us at a busy time.  We have many suspected rebels being screened through and space is tight.  Breakfast is at six, lunch is at noon, evening meal at six.  Mass is said at nine on a Sunday morning.  This is a military camp and you are subject to military jurisdiction.”

He places the palms of his hands on his desk.

“Now here are the rules.  There is to be no unnecessary noise out of you, no running about, no climbing around on the cabins and no speaking to the sentries.  Furthermore you are to keep five yards distance from the nearest guard post, and eight feet from the inner fence.  You are to stand to attention when ordered to do so and you are to salute my officers when appropriate.  Any escape attempts or insurrections will result in severe treatment.  We have a cookhouse here, an infirmary, recreation halls, a small shop organised by the red cross, a post office and even a barbers shop, all strictly monitored of course.   You had better settle down, my lad, because we could all be here for some time.”

“Yes sir.”  James decided he was not to play the rebel any more, he just wanted to serve his time quietly.  Maybe they might parole him if he was on his best behaviour.

He was dismissed and led through to a small store.  The quartermaster issued him with a bed roll that was in tatters and marched him out.  Another guard marched him out into the darkness.

“Right prisoner…halt.  Now my lad, you follow that path there, and that will take you up to Little Dublin.  It is a two minute walk and you are on your own.  Goodnight.”

James was left in the middle of the field and followed what little track he could see on the moonless night.  The ground was soft and he nearly slipped in the mud.  He followed the track for a few minutes, wondering where the hell he was going.  Eventually he saw the faint outline of a small range of wooden huts in the distance.  He trudged up to the first, and lost his footing in the mud in the process.  James fell on his side, bruising his hip and covering his blanket in mud.

He stood up, cursing, and dusted himself down.  He arrived at the door of the first hut and listened for noise from within.  He could hear none.  He knocked.

“Who da f**k is dat?  Sean if that’s you, you can go steal a smoke somewhere else, I haven’t got anything.” Said a voice.

“No, this isn’t Sean.  Um, I am a new arrival, could you let me in please?”

A dark face appeared as the door was pulled ajar.

“Who the f**k are you?”

“James Joyce, from Dolphins Barn, Dublin.”

“Who sent you here?”

“Lambert sent me.  Look can I come in or not?  I’m bleeding freezing my mickey off out here.”

“Alright come on in, but you are sleeping on the floor, we have no more beds.”

The man ushered him and shut the door.  James was stood in a tall long room with a corrugated tin roof   In the dim light he could see four rows of bunk beds , three high.  A small table at the back held a single lit candle.  Each bunk held a prisoner.  Some awake and chatty, others sleeping.

Several more men were asleep on the floor.  James unrolled his mud-caked  bed roll and found a space.  The man who met him at the door came and sat next to him, curious of the new arrival.

“I’m Donal Kavanagh, formerly of Drumcondra.”

“How do you do.”

“Nicely, thank you for asking.  You can sleep in the corner there, it is first come, first served as far as the bed situation goes.  So how did a young man like yourself end up here?”

James made himself comfortable.

“Well I was Irish Citizens Army since 1914.  During the Rising I held the Portabello bridge for three days with a small handful of friends.  But we couldn’t hold out forever and they soon outflanked us.  After my arrest I was moved about a lot, then stuck on a boat for Britain.  They kept me in a few different prisons before sending me here.  So what is this place like?”

Donal shrugged his shoulders “Alright, I suppose, under the circumstances.  The Commandant certainly has a ram-rod up his arse.  The rest of the guards are just soldiers, kids in their early twenties, like you.  They are the lucky ones that didn’t get sent to the western front, though you wouldn’t think it to listen to them.  They feel very hard done by.  The fence is barbed wire, very new and strong.  The facilities are grand, though.  We have our own little base here.  And our own little command structure, which you will find out about as time goes on.  Anyway we will talk tomorrow, it is late.  Goodnight James.”

“Goodnight Donal.”
***2***

At exactly 5.30 am a steam horn sounded, loud and echoing, through the valley.  The doors flew open and guards roused everybody from their beds.  Soon bed rolls were squared away and the men were sent on a forced march around the perimeter of the camp.  It was a grey, cool morning and the ground was still slippery.  The prisoners were forced marched in a circuit around the inside of the perimeter fence.  James noted the faces around him.  Some were familiar from the Rising and the drills in the weeks before.  Others looked like they had no place there at all.  He was later to find out that the Dublin Metropolitan Police were just grabbing any suspect they could find after the rising and putting them into camps for processing.  Old men and some mere boys.

Breakfast was little more than bully beef with a bit of stale bread and some lukewarm stewed tea.  Jimmy sat opposite Donal and learned a bit more about the man and his part in the rising.

Donal Kavanagh was a former Guinness drayman.  As James was a barman it was surprising the two had never met.  He was recruited because of the contacts he had built up on his rounds, and his infinite knowledge of the streets of Dublin.  During the rising he was passing messages from post to post dodging snipers bullets.  He was eventually cornered and captured.  It seems to have done little to lessen his zeal for a free Ireland.

After breakfast the men were left to their own devices within the wire fences.  They came and went freely from hut to hut.  The small post office-cum-shop seemed to sell everything you would need.  It was run by an cranky old git called Joe Ryan.  If you fed that man coal he would s**t diamonds, Donal said.

Donal gave James the full guided tour of the camp.  It was roughly divided into two camps, the north half consisting of wooden huts of a semi-circle shape.  The southern half consisted of similar huts but also an old distillery which now acted as the main administration building.  In the North camp there were four watch towers, about twenty or twenty five feet up.  There was also several pill-box emplacements on the front gate and one other halfway through the main path.  According to Donal the camp guards worked three eight hour shifts, but sometimes they did twelve hours.  There were about a hundred staff in total, and quite a mixed bunch at that.  The officers were your typical Eton-educated toffee-nosed eejits.  The Non-commissioned officers were virtually the walking dead, they were that old.  Some sported one arm, or one eye.  And the rank and file guards were barely old enough to hold a rifle.   Others were a bit older but were recovering from wounds received on active service.

So Jimmy did his best to settle into a routine, meet the other inmates and serve his time.

It soon became apparent that the prisoners were outnumbered three to one by rats.  Big nasty brown b******s they were too, they had been initially attracted to the site when it was a grain store, and they just got a little too settled.  They bit and chewed their way through wood, metal and any fabric you could name.  They ate anything that they could find.  Many prisoners wore their shoes to bed for this very reason, and tied string around the ankle of their trouser legs.  James often found himself involuntarily shuddering when they came near him, which was a lot.

He went over to the post office and paid what little change he had left for a small postcard.  He wrote to his parents, informing them of his new address, and saying that he was in good health, and signed off with, Your son, James.

His parents were in their fifties and both out of work.  They had taken their son’s actions with dignity, but they feared for his future in a British jail.  The other prisoners were busy writing letters of their own, not just to wives, sweethearts and relatives, they wrote political testimonials.  They wrote letters to Members of Parliament , Newspaper Editors, and Foreign Embassies.  Some letters would be posted out in the regular mail.  Others would go out through various couriers.

Over the days the route marches grew longer until, to James’ amazement, the prisoners were allowed out of the perimeter fence for a longer run.  They did so accompanied by the old guards who had the unenviable job of running with them while carrying heavy rifles and belt kit.

The surrounding area of Bala was not at all unlike the Irish countryside.  Under difference circumstances they could be very happy here.  Thirty or so prisoners were accompanied only by five or six armed guards who looked like death the whole time.

It turned out the guards were Welch Fusiliers who had fought, grudgingly for Great Britain for hundreds of years.  The residents of Bala told stories to their children of the war of resistance to English rule by Llewelyn Ap Gruff.  Eventually he was captured and chopped to pieces by Edward the First.  After the English subjugated the Welsh they moved on to Scotland, raising the towns and murdering the families.

As a consequence the locals had nothing but respect for the rebels, they even sent food packages into the camp, and every time the route march passed travellers they would get cheered on and waved at.  A far cry from James’ last public appearance in Ireland.  Maybe he should have fought for Welsh Independence instead.

The route kept them well away from the town but it did go past isolated cottages and farms.  The old guards were actually good company and told many tales of service in Sudan and South Africa.  They loved to describe the dervishes of the Madhi army, who fought all but naked in strange fuzzy hair styles and loin cloths.  They charged the machine guns in a fashion similar to methods currently being used on the Somme and Gallipoli.  And they fought like lions.

One of the guards was a veteran of the Dardanelles campaign.  On the march he described his landing on ‘Y’ beach.

“It was hell, Jim.  The Turkish gunners had our range from half a mile out.  Three of the lads in our boat got hit in seconds.  The blood gushed out right into my eyes, it stung like hell and blinded me for a second.  All we could do was jump out of the boat into the sea.  Myself and Archie jumped out and hid behind the stern.  We held on and kicked the boat towards the shore, out of sight of the gunners.  Eventually they gave up on us and we drifted round a cliff.  Once the coast was clear we left the boat and swam to the shore, which was a narrow strip of sand under a huge imposing cliff.  Above us the cliff was overhanging and dry, and we knew we would have to scale it.  We didn’t have any rope or anything so we just had to feel our way up.  It took us well over an hour, feeling our way, grabbing sharp rocks, or roots of plants.  We got to the top and I could hear Turkish voices, close, very close.  Our options were limited, we didn’t have a hand grenade to throw and we didn’t have pistols, being riflemen.  Our rifles, were slung over our backs and the recoil of firing them would knock us off the side of the cliff, so that was out.  So we decided to wait till nightfall.”

“Then what happened?” Asked Jimmy

“I tell you what, if you lot can get through tonight without causing us any bother I will tell you on the march tomorrow.  Do we have a deal?”

Jimmy gave a short laugh, he had to admire the old man’s idea.

 

***3***

Dinner was the usual shite consisting of bully beef and a few badly cooked potatoes and a fried onion.  Apparently they were keeping the potato peelings to make some poitin when they had the right equipment to distil it.

After dinner he sat out on the step of the cabin with Donal and enjoyed the warmth of the early evening.  It was mid July now and still quite warm, even at nine at night.

“So what’s your plans from now on?” Asked Donal.

“That’s a pretty open ended question, for sure.  I guess I will stay here and rot wit’ youse, then I may go home before my teeth fall out.”

“Aye, God willing.  Then what are you going to do?”

“I have no idea, maybe try and get a job in the Bar trade again, not that I come too highly recommended.”

“So you feel you have done your bit for your country and that’s it?”

“Aye, that’s about it.  They didn’t want us remember?  You might not have been there but when they marched us down through the town the people were spitting at us and trying to tear strips off us.  They hated us more than the British, and they took their side in the end.  No, Donal, that’s it for me.”

Donal took a drag on his cigarette before he replied, picking his words carefully.

“Jimmy, look.. The people had just been through a terrifying week, they were in a state of shock and anger.  Their town had just been shot to hell, their neighbours falling around them.  Of course they were angry, and for a minute, yes, I think they thought they owed salvation to the British.  But what do you imagine happened after that?  It was just a knee jerk reaction that’s all.”

Jim turned to face him “Yeah the knee jerked right in my mickey.”  Donal laughed at the image, and it broke the tension.

The former dray-man persevered “You don’t think atrocities were committed by the British?  Summary executions?  Internments without trial?  Torture?  Interrogation?”

“Possibly.  Alright, probably, so what?”

“Soon Ireland will be boiling for revenge.  Pearse, Connelly, Clarke, Plunkett, all of them shot.  No trial, nothing.  Ireland will not stand for such injustice.  We will get a second chance for independence my friend, mark my words.”

“Well you will have to do it without me.” James huffed.  His rebel days were behind him. “Anyway what makes you think we will get out of here before we are old codgers?”

“Well there is always a chance.  I mean it isn’t exactly difficult is it?  I mean the guards are so old they would die before they caught you.  The others are either wet behind the ears or invalids.”

“You want to escape my friend, be my guest.  I am staying here till they let me out and then I am going home.  And that is it.”

“Fine, suit yourself.” And with that Donal walked off towards the perimeter fence to chat with another guy.

James shook his head slowly.  Some people never learn.

On the route march the next day the old soldier continued the story of the Gallipolli campaign.

“So nightfall came, desperately slowly.  I could hear feet marching backwards and forwards through the day then they tailed off.  We stuck out heads up slowly like a pair of lemurs, and checked the coast was clear.  Right, says I, lets get moving.  We pulled ourselves up over the lip of the cliff and cocked our rifles as quietly as we could.  It was very dark and we moved forwards.  We had no idea where we were, where our friendly forces were, or where  the enemy was.  Friendly forces could mistake us for the enemy, the enemy could mistake us for their comrades.  We had no food or water and our throats were burning.  Our legs were shaky and we felt weak.  We knew if we went down hill it should take us back to the beach and our comrades.  So we felt our way back down, slowly.  We stood like statues every time we heard footsteps.  We continued to creep our way back, ever so slowly.  After half an hour we could smell the sea, then hear it.  The greater danger now was being shot by our own side.  We were, after all coming from the direction where the enemy should be.  Eventually we saw the silhouette of an Australian forage hat, you know the one turned up at one side?  We whispered in English, but we knew no passwords for this section of the line.  Luckily the Aussie saw us for what we were and let us through.  They gave us some water and a few nuts.  Christ that was the scariest five hours of my life.”

Later that evening Jimmy and another lad called Bryan had a look around the back of the old distillery, searching for bit for their Potcheen still.  Among the cobwebs and bits of wood they found a rusty copper kettle, a few bits of old piping, a few salvageable wooden chocks.  From the kitchens they pinched a few jam jars, which were like gold.  They took them back to the shed and hid them under their bed.

The Commandant, Heygate-Lambert was unhappy with his current posting out here in the Welsh hills.  His career had been fairly mediocre until the start of the Great War.  Finally when he thought he might see some real action they post him to run a prison camp for German prisoners of war for six months.  That was two years ago.  At least the Germans had been real soldiers fighting a real war.  They knew proper discipline, drill and acted like soldiers, even after they became prisoners.  But this Irish lot..
They were a different kettle of fish, and frankly it was a bit insulting to Lambert to have to baby sit a bunch of rebels.  They should, rightly, be hanging from the gallows, not hanging around in a prison cage in Wales taking up valuable men and resources.  God only knows what he had done to deserve this.  Furthermore they were a political hot potato, which would hardly concern a soldier like him, if it were not for the endless stream of letters from various Irish lawyers such as Gavin Duffy constantly enquiring about their state.  All he wanted to do was command a battalion in the field and here he was, reduced to a common jailer.

Donal, and indeed many like him, were still angling to get ‘his boys’ as he called them back into the fighting spirit.  He had the heart alright, but none of the know-how.  Little did they know that the professor of the university of revolution was about to get the attention of the class.

***4***

Lambert looked up from his papers to greet the new arrival.

“Mr Collins, welcome to Frongoch.  Here are the rules.  There is to be no unnecessary noise out of you, no running about, no climbing around on the cabins and no speaking to the sentries.  Furthermore you are to keep five years distance from the nearest guard post, and eight feet from the inner fence.  You are to stand to attention when ordered to do so and you are to salute my officers when appropriate.  Do I make myself clear?”

Mick gave him a few seconds awkward silence before replying.  “Certainly sir.”  He had spent the last minute making an assessment of his future opponent.  Late forties, smartly uniformed, clearly as much a prisoner here as the rest of us  Perhaps he wasn’t the best or the brightest, as most of the sharpest tools were deployed in France.  He probably walked like he was holding a penny up his arse, thought Mick.  Clearly a product of Sandhurst, although the bottom of his class, he reasoned.  He wore a wedding ring, had a neatly clipped moustache  and highly brylcreamed jet black hair.

A guard marched him out towards the north camp over the road.  The guard was equally smart, early twenties.  How many guards were there?  Where was their barracks?  What time did their shifts change?  How long had they been based here?  When did they get paid last?  How much?  How much were they getting taxed?  Could they be bribed?

In the early summer heat he was marched out over the road, it seemed quiet, but well maintained.  And up to the guard post.

The guard admitted him into his new prison.  He looked around at the guard posts, the gate, the machine guns and search lights.  All of this was filed neatly into his brain.

A prisoner approached him from further down the fence.  “Howd’ya do?  I am Jim O’Connor.”

“Mick Collins, I’m good thanks.  Where do I sleep, where do I eat and where do I s**t?”

“Up this way, we have a few spare beds still now a few people got moved out.  The cookhouse is off to your right, and the toilets, sinks and showers are off further to your right.  I take it Buckshot gave you his rules of engagement?”

“That, he did.”

“Well these guards are all youngish, bit wet behind the ears and not earning much money.”

“Will they get us what we want?”

“Aye probably.”

“And who is running this show on the inside?”

“Well, nobody really.”

“Good.”

James was making himself a cup of warm, thin black tea when he first heard the rumour.  Mick Collins was in the camp.  He hadn’t seen Mick since Good Friday when he received his final briefing from James Connelly.  Mick had been Connelly’s aide-de-camp back then.  They shared an admiration for Connelly that had survived the months.  But Jim would be embarrassed to meet Mick now his revolutionary fever had cooled a little.

What does one say?  Howya Mick, by the way I gave up on the Republican stuff months ago.  It was like telling the Pope you were kicking Catholicism into touch.  Eventually though, he knew he would have to face him.

Donal and a small crowd had gathered around Mick, and brought him a drink.  Mick was looking around the faces, seeing a few he recognised, a few he knew on sight, and a few that had no reason to be there.

“Where were you held?”

“Did they mistreat you, Mick?”

“Where are the other leaders being held Mick?”

“Is it true you have been in prison with Eamon De Valera?”

“Mick, were you speaking to the papers about where we are being held?”

“Are they going to put us on trial Mick?”

 “No lads, I have heard nothing yet.  Now will somebody get some tea on the go?”

Some of the lads started to drift away.  Mick picked out a slim, bookish lad.

“You, what’s your name?”

“Peter McGuire sir.”

“Can you read and write very well, Peter McGuire?”

“I can sir, top of me class, in English.”

“Right, well, Mr McGuire, I need a secretary, and guess what?  It’s you.  Get some paper, lad, and a good few pencils.  We will also need envelopes, the best you can get..  What you can’t buy, you steal, got it?”

“Got it, sir.”

“Now, tea, milk, one sugar if any.  Please.”

Early the next day the commandant was in his office reading the morning paper.

“Colonel, your visitor is here.”

“Show him in, please.”

Lambert straightened his tie and dusted the ash off his shirt.  A middle aged, slightly portly mad strode into his office.  He wore a dark flannel suit with a black hat and a maroon tie.  Some people didn’t know how to dress in this day and age.

“Colonel Lambert, pleased to meet you, I am Arthur O’Brian of the Irish National Relief Association.  We have been in correspondence.  Thank you for agreeing to this visit.”

“Not an inconvenience, I assure you.  We are always glad of a little company out here, it can get rather dull in this line of work.”  The Commandant gave his best fake smile.

O’Brian took out a notepad and a pencil.

“How many men do you currently hold in this camp?”

“943 at present.  The numbers go up and down as new rebels arrive and some are released.”

“Could you tell me about their diet?”

“Certainly.  They receive standard army rations, along with a few red cross parcels and any fresh vegetables that can be bought locally.  Unfortunately that amounts to very little at the moment as there is very little getting through.”

“Do you have an idea as to why that is?”

“Why it is the increasing threat of the U-Boats, old boy.  They are slowly strangling our food supply from Europe.  I tell you this in confidence, you understand?”

Art nodded.

“We do our best to give them what we can, but as long as the war lasts, food will be in short supply.  And with the deadlock on the western front it looks like dragging on for a while at least.”

Art asked him a few questions about the camp amenities.  Lambert explained about the kitchens, the hospital and surgery, barber shop and workshops.  Art took notes and nodded.

“Would it be possible to take a quick tour of the camp?”  Art asked, hopefully.

Lambert had anticipated this and agreed to a tour of parts of the south camp, and a view of the north camp, but from a distance.

“Shall we have a look around then?” Lambert ushered Art out of his office.

The early summer noon heat swamped the two men as they left the office.  In the cobbled building it had been blissfully cool.  The tour took in such sights as the barely equipped hospital, the dining room with it’s rickety tables and even more rickety chairs.  The surgery, which was, it had to be said, spotlessly clean.  Some of the workshops were in use with men working at benches and lathes.  None of the prisoners made eye contact with Art, though they did notice he was not a guard.  Maybe a politician?  They would find out later.

Art found himself involuntarily coughing in the damp, musty air.  He was taken to some of the dormitories, that had once housed the distillery equipment.  His coughing got worse.

“Colonel Lambert, how the devil are men supposed to live in air like this?”

“I suppose the same way men worked in here when it was a distillery.  They worked twelve hour days in this very room, in hot steamy air.  It didn’t bother a hardy Welshman.”

“Perhaps not, Colonel, working away, keeping warm in their own work.  In their own clothes too, I would wager.  But a prisoner sat here in the cold and the damp is a different story altogether.  How many of these dormitories have you got here?”

“In the south camp, five.  They are nominally used as punishment cells for chaps we have to keep a close eye on.”

“Do any of them have any ventilation at all?”

Lambert bristled.  Who the devil did this man think he was, interrogating him about his camp?

“The whole block has some ventilation, but it leaves room for improvement I grant you.  It is something we are working on, but camps like this are some way down the army’s list of priorities.  We are, I hate to say it, sometimes forgotten.”

“Well then petition the home office for the bare minimum funding.  The work could be carried out by the locals.” God, show some initiative, man.

“It is something we will look into by your next visit.”  Time to go, in other words.

Art took the hint.

“Thank you for this opportunity to visit the camp, Colonel.  I will return in a month, and I will be in correspondence in the meantime.  I will give you plenty of advance notice of my next visit.”

“It has been a pleasure Mr O’Brian.”

And with that, a guard took Art O’Brian back to the entrance to the camp, where his car awaited.***4***


Mick Collins burst into James’ hut with a loud yell of “Surprise!” and promptly wrestled him off his bed onto the floor, pinning his arm behind his back.

“Howya Joycey, ya missed me?”

“Get the f**k off me Mick ya f****n’ heavy b*****d.  Course I missed you, fuckwit.”

Mick relented and the two men sat on the edge of the bed.

“So how have you settled in?  They been looking after you alright?”

“Ah, not bad, the same as the rest of us of course.  The camp isn’t so bad.  I am guessing you are going to upset the apple cart am I right?”

“Ah, son, there will be apples all over Wales by the time I am done.  The cart will be good for nothing but firewood.”

“How is the food?” Mick asked.

“It is shite lately, but it used to be good for a while.”

“What do you do for exercise around here?”

“Well we get route marches but that’s it.”

Collins raised an eyebrow “Well we will have to do something about that won’t we?  Can’t have you lot getting skinny and unfit.  That is no fate for the cream of Irish manhood.”

“What you got in mind, Mick?”

“Well Gaelic Football for a start.  We have a ball?”

“Aye.  It is more battered than your face.”

“Your just jealous Joycey, of my gorgeous features.”

“Is that right?”

“’Tis so.  Hurling. we need Hurleys too.”

“There is a workshop in the south, some carpentry equipment there.”

“Can I leave you in charge of that?”

Jimmy hesitated before answering.

“What’s up, you too busy with other projects?”

“No it’s -”

“Good, I will leave you in charge of finding the wood.  Remember, we need at least twenty.  Good quality too.”

“Right, Mick.”

“I think you are just sore because you Jackeen’s never did too well on the ould stick.”

“F**k you, ya bog monster.” Jimmy grinned  Mick was from Cork, a rural county famous for it’s victories on the Hurling pitch.

“Right, I’m off, got letters to write.  Remember, good wood.  Take it from the bed frames if you have to.”

And with that Mick made his way back out of the hut.

Jimmy had to laugh, it was good to see the human whirlwind again.  It looks like he had wood to gather.

After a brief lunch Mick went into session with Peter Mc Guire at a small desk   Peter took three if the sheets of pristine white paper the Administration block wouldn’t be needing.

“Now Peter, I hope your good at this secretarial business.  Some of these lads couldn’t spell potatoe.”

“That’s potato with an o Mick.”

“I knew that, Peter, I knew that, I was just testing you, is all.”

Peter shook his head at the mad Cork git and dipped his pen in ink.

“Shall we start?”



“To the Spanish Ambassador to Great Britain.

Today’s date please

Sir,

I offer my greetings and hand of friendship in the name of a free Ireland.  As you saw from events occurring over Easter this year, Ireland struck for it’s freedom and paid a heavy price.

I am writing to highlight our aims for Ireland as a sovereign state, free and living in the light of God, unshackled from British rule and influence.
 
My remaining comrades and I are currently being held in Frongoch camp in mid Wales.  Our political situation remains unclear, as we are not recognised as soldiers of a sovereign nation, yet we are in practise treated as such.  We have not been given a date for trial, nor does any look likely to be appointed.

The leadership of the Irish Revolutionary Movement now falls to Eamon De Valera, who is also held in British custody, away from us.  As he is held  incommunicado it falls to myself to be the spokesman for our movement.

I would be grateful if you could petition the British minister for Foreign Affairs to raise the case for Ireland in the house of commons.  I feel your voice would prove very influential to our case.

Yours sincerely


Michael Collins
Frongoch Camp.

How does that sound?”

“Good, Mick.”

***5***


A few weeks passed and May turned into June.  Life in the camp went on with little real fuss.  James was given the lovely task of laying ash from the wood-burning boilers into pathways between the huts.  The Frongoch sports started, as did the Frongoch choir, and some lectures on literature and mathematics.  Occasionally after dinner they had sing-songs if they were bored.  Some lads told stories, invariably Fenian parables.  It seems most of the lads were becoming more and more determined for a second throw of the revolutionary dice.

James found some decent wood and began fashioning Hurley bats out of bed boards, floorboards, draw-fronts and old wardrobe doors he found in a pile.  Donal and he spent many evenings in the craft hut sawing and sanding Hurley bats.  A request for a ball was posted to the Gaelic Athletic Association, and in due course they sent a box of four.

In truth life was fairly settled for a few weeks, then things went rather wrong, rather quickly.

It all started when a lad called Patrick Daly failed to report for a route march.  James never got to the bottom of why he failed to report but the end result was that he was put in the punishment cells for seven days on a bread and water diet.

What was all that about?  He may have had a reason, but no effort was ever made to establish what it was.  The same cells Arthur O’Brian was concerned about was used to hold Daly in solitary confinement.

James organised a whip-round for some warm clothes for his ordeal.  He was refused permission to provide them for Daly.  This injustice soured the mood of the camp immediately.  Things got worse once word was received that Daly was refusing food.  Without food the cold and the damp could cause pneumonia in a matter of days.  Two tense days later a guard told them he had been transferred to the infirmary.  Other rumours of beatings and abuse soon ran riot.  Prayers were said for Daly.

That night he was carried out on a stretcher and taken to the hospital wing, where he remained for some time.

A young, sympathetic guard was posted outside his door and he passed on some information to Daly’s peers.  After a few days he recovered and was sent back to the north camp but he was notified that he was being charged with failing to clean his punishment cell, and refusing to eat his food.

Mick Collins was livid at the treatment of his comrade, as was everybody.  He demanded an audience with Lambert.

He was ushered into Lambert’s office the following morning while Lambert spoke on the telephone.  He spent a minute standing there like a dummy while Lambert listened to some report from somewhere.

Then he started to lose his patience.  He just didn’t seem to have his attention.

Mick stuck his hand out and slammed the palm of his hand onto the phone cradle, cutting the call immediately,

“You and I need to have a little talk.”  Mick glared at the commandant.

Lambert looked at him for a second in total surprise, then he got his voice back.

“Who the bloody hell do you think you are coming in here, Collins..”

“Your treatment of Paddy Daly was totally unnecessary..”

Both men were shouting at each other in equal volume.

“You are nothing but a common bunch of..”

                          “..it smacks of nothing but inhumanity..”

“Collins!  You will shut up and come to attention.”

                      “..inhumanity, of cold authoritarianism..”

“Collins I said SHUT UP!”

Mick shut up for a second, but glared at Lambert with unbridled hatred.

“That boy could have died, and for what, tell me?”

“For the preservation of order in the camp.  I will.. I will teach you Fenians the meaning of discipline if it is the last thing that I do.”

“You have done nothing but turned the humour of the inmates into a cauldron of hatred.  You just think about that.  Sir.”

And with that Mick turned and walked out the door.   

Lambert glowered as he watched him go, then instantly realised that he had not even dismissed him.

Mick was marched back to the north camp by a young guard.  As the youth closed the gate behind him, Mick turned and cheerfully said: “Sure, that went well didn’t it?” and winked at the lad.

That night most of the usual gang were congregating in a large hut.  Paddy Daly was there too, lying on a bed under a pile of sweaters the lads had donated.  He was given tea, more blankets, the full five star treatment.

The lads were in fine voice that night, with fine renditions of The Wild Rover, Seven Drunken Nights, and the fields of Athenry.

Donal was talking about Padraig Pearse and the moment the proclamation was read out in front of the General Post Office.  He said it was the most exhilarating moment of his life.

Pearse stood up, he said, and standing on the steps, in a clear voice he read those magic words accompanied by cheers and the sound of smashing glass.

James had heard different.  Pearse was not in such good voice that day, typical of Donal to exaggerate.

“So how did he say it Donal?”

The older man gave a little smile, then jumped onto a table by the wall that just held his weight.  He spread his arms theatrically.

“Irishmen and Irish Women.. In the name of God and the dead generations from which she receives her old tradition of nationhood, Ireland, through us, summons her children to her flag and strikes for her freedom.

Having organised and trained her manhood through her secret revolutionary organisations, the Irish Republican Brotherhood, and through her openly military organisations, the Irish Volunteers and the Irish Citizen’s army, having patiently perfected her discipline, having resolutely waited for the right moment to reveal itself, she now seizes that moment, and, supported by her exiled children in America and by gallant allies in Europe, but relying in the first on her own strength, she strikes in full confidence of victory.

We declare the right of people of Ireland to the ownership of Ireland, and to the unfettered control of the Irish destinies, to be sovereign and indefeasible.  The long usurpation of that right by a foreign people and government has not extinguished the right, nor can it ever be extinguished except by the destruction of the Irish people.  In every generation the Irish people have asserted their right to national freedom and sovereignty:  six times in the past three hundred years they have asserted it in arms.  Standing on that fundamental right and again asserting it in arms in the face of the world, we hereby proclaim the Irish Republic as a Sovereign Independent State, and we pledge our lives and the lives of our comrades-in-arms to the cause of it’s freedom, of it’s welfare, and of it’s exaltation among the nations.

The Irish Republic is entitled to, and hereby claims, the allegiance of every Irishman and Irish Woman.  The Republic guarantees religious and civil liberty, equal rights and equal opportunities to all it’s citizens, and declares it’s resolve to pursue the happiness and declares it’s resolve to pursue the happiness and prosperity of the whole nation and of all it’s parts, cherishing all the children of the nation equally, and oblivious of the differences carefully fostered by an alien government, which has divided a minority from the majority in the past.

Until our arms have brought the opportune moment for the establishment of a permanent National Government, representative of the whole people of Ireland and elected by the suffrages of all her men and women, the provisional Government, hereby constituted, will administer the civil and military affairs of the Republic in trust of the people.

We place the cause of the Irish Republic under the protection of the Most High God, Whose blessing we invoke upon our arms, and we pray that no one who serves that cause will dishonour it by cowardice, inhumanity or rapine.  In this supreme hour, the Irish nation must, by it’s valour and discipline, and by the readiness of it’s children to sacrifice themselves for the common good, prove itself worthy of the august destiny to which it is called.”

He stopped and took a deep breath.  “Now how was that?”

The whole room gave him a noisy standing ovation for several minutes, followed by a rendition of A Soldier’s Song, the national anthem to-be.

It was well said, James had to admit.  There must have been some dust in the hut as his eyes were watering slightly.

***6***   


The numbers of prisoners waxed and waned.  New internees came, and old ones left.  The new lads were extensively interviewed by Mick Collins and his team for all relevant new details.  It seemed the tide of public opinion was slowly starting to turn against Britain.  Opinions in pubs were questioning British actions, and re-evaluation the actions of the rebels during the rising.  The Great War had continued apace, causing unending misery for all.  Newspapers were full of statistics of dead and wounded.  Masses were said for the dead and missing.  Some boys returned home telling stories of horror, of mud and shells, of sucking chest wounds and frothing lungs from gas weapons.

Letters of support flooded in, causing a nightmare for the censors.  They had to check the names, the addresses and any signs that could be code for something.  At the height they had to go through a thousand letters a day.

The route marches continued.  James was near the front one day with the old Welch Guard having a chat about Welsh History.  It turned out they had been fighting the English longer than the Irish.  

He told them the story of Llywelyn, the last Welsh prince of Wales.

“He was born into Welsh aristocracy, you know, back when we were a mostly independent nation.  In the early days he fought battle with his own brothers for control of some of the country.  Some parts of the country were under the control of Prince Edward of England, who treated his subjects appallingly   Llywelyn lost his patience and took a small army to relieve Gwynedd Is Conwy of it’s invaders.  He taught the young Prince Edward that the Welsh soldiers were a force to be reckoned with.  Apparently he learned this lesson very well indeed.

Llywelyn took his army south, taking shelter where they could, they deposed Welsh Princes who had thrown in their lot with England.

He was finally anointed as the Prince of Wales and lord protector of the Welsh people.

A few years later things took an interesting turn.  Simon de Montfort captured the king of England whom he hoped to depose.  He and Llywelyn agree to a truce to concentrate on their internal disputes.  Sadly this did not last as Montfort was killed in battle shortly after.

King Henry the Third of England is restored , but his power is much weakened and he agrees to accommodating terms with the Welsh Prince.

At that point his own brothers turned on him for the second time and tried to have him assassinated.  Lucky for him the assassins were delayed in a snow storm and he was spirited to safety.  His brothers fled out of his reach.

The old king of England, Henry, died that year and his son, the tall, ruthless Prince Edward became King.  He was styled ‘Long Shanks’ because he was tall and powerfully built.  His reign would be one of endless war and conquest.
Llywelyn married the daughter of a Plantagenet princess by proxy, but she was captured by the evil king before she could join her prince.  Longshanks kept her prisoner in Windsor castle while he drew his plans against Llywelyn.

In 1277 the English invaded Wales in force with an army of thousands, burning crops and pillaging villages.  Most of the Welsh princes were extremely frightened and made peace.  Llywelyn was forced to meet terms with Longshanks, but he was given his Princess back.

The two were married in Worcester cathedral, and the marriage itself was turned into a stained glass window that you can still see today.

For another period England and Wales lived in relative peace.  But the Welsh princes were unhappy with the treatment and interference by the English officers who oversaw their affairs, and took what plunder they desired.  Something had to give.

The spark was lit when Llywelyn’s brother Daffyd made war on the English and went campaigning in the south of Wales.  Llywelyn threw in his lot with his brother and matched his country in war with England for which there was very little preparation.

His luck caught up with him within a few years.  There are many differing accounts of how he died, but the general consensus is that he died in battle against Edmund Mortimer and Roger Dispenser.  His head was presented to Longshanks, who had it carried on a spear all the way to London where it stayed on the city gates for fifteen years.

That was the end of an independent Wales.  His brother was captured, and hung.  Though while he was still alive they cut his organs and genitals out and had them burned before him.  Finally he was hacked to pieces.

The other members of his family were either put into prisons or convents.  The ruling dynasties of Wales were essentially destroyed forever.

So don’t you Fenian boyos go thinking you have the monopoly of hating the English and their dominance of your nation right?”

The boys around the old guard laughed, and either clapped or slapped him on his back.  It was nice to hear that stories of rebellion against England were not exclusively Irish.

That night James sat with Donal, and Peter McGuire the scribe enjoying the culinary delights of Frongoch canteen.

The meat was some kind of lamb tinned in enough grease to lubricate a locomotive, old potatoes long gone soft, and vegetables that you wouldn’t feed to a rabbit, they were that rotten.

“We really should do something about the food in this place.  Can we not have a word with the Commandant?”

“Mick did that already.  The war is making it hard on everybody, people are nearly starving in Britain.  It’s the U-Boats, James.  They keep torpedoing supply ships from Europe.”

“Well the sooner Britain surrenders, the better.”  Jim said in a voice loud enough to be heard by the guards.

Donal looked at him for a second.  “What’s up with you?  I thought you were hanging up your revolutionary spurs?”

Jim stopped in mid chew, then shrugged his shoulders.  “I suppose I have, but it doesn’t mean I like them any more than you.”  He took a second to compose what he was trying to say.

“What I am saying is that England will always be here, next to us  It is never going to float off into the Atlantic.  We need to find a way to deal with these people.”

Peter finally piped up.  Normally a quiet lad, he was still thoughtful and intelligent.

“No, James, I think if we make them sick to the back teeth it will be them that has to deal with us.  First we need to escalate this conflict to a point where public opinion is divided on the best way to deal with us.  Their solution to the problem we present must be a political settlement.”

“And how do you suggest we do that Pete?”

“Well I think public relations is becoming a front in modern warfare, be it on the battlefield or in the political arena.  We must learn to fight our cause through it.”

“You mean in the papers?”

“Yes exactly, at home and abroad, especially America.”

“Right, well go tell Mick your theories, Pete, don’t be keeping them to yourself.”

“I will so.  Now can I tempt anybody with a cup of dirty hot water?”

“Would a cappuccino be too much to ask?”

“Ah not at all, if they don’t mind driving me down to Cardiff.”

“Somehow I can’t see that happening but good luck anyway my friend.”

Paddy Daly’s court martial was set for 21st  June, incidentally..

That night James managed to get hold of a copy of a newspaper that had been doing the rounds.  It was torn and yellow but still legible.

Five whole pages were dominated by the battle of the Somme, which had been dragging on since the beginning of June.



THE DAILY EXPRESS HEADLINE

THE SOMME OFFENSIVE IS UNDERWAY


 
Following a week long bombardment the soldiers of the Kings Own Yorkshire Light Infantry began their advance on Berlin.  Virtually nothing stood in their way and they advance nearly a mile.

Many miles north on Hawthorne ridge British sappers detonated a mine consisting of 18 tonnes of explosives.  Several tonnes of earth were sent skywards, and the Royal Fusiliers rushed to take control of the crater.

In the centre the infantry of the British Third Army advanced, preceded by a barrage of gas bombs.  Some men charged the trenches holding wet rags over their mouths, such is their courage.

Field Marshal Haig gave us this exclusive interview.  “At Gommecourt the London Division attacked north and  performed with excellence.. Making use of the new trench they had dug in No Man's Land, their regiment captured the whole of the German front-line system a mile each way.  They also captured maps, plans and field telephones.”

The next three pages were full of optimism in spite of the slaughter they portrayed.  God cursed Ireland with such blood thirsty masters.  Maybe the Military traditions of Protestant Ulster will bleed itself out on the Somme too, pondered James.  Either way the British Army was getting weaker and weaker.  He wondered too, if they would introduce conscription in the south of Ireland.  Now that would be a disaster for both parties in the argument.  The Irish would be badly trained, badly led, and slaughtered like pigs.  The British would have to spend more time trying to train and control the rebellious Irish, who would never conform to their authority after recent events.  Consequently they would be slaughtered either way.  No, that would be a disaster.

He put the paper in the latrines where it would serve a more useful purpose.

***7***

Paddy Daly’s court martial date arrived and he was led out of the camp to the Administration block.  He was nervous but he was damned if he was going to show it.  He put on his cleanest shirt and a pair of shoes he polished for well over an hour last night.

He was marched through the corridors and was seated on a bench in a corridor outside while various men came and went from the room they had prepared.

Finally a man in a sharp pin stripe suit approached him, wearing glasses and about a years supply of brylcream on his hair.

“Mr Daly, I am Gavin Duffy, I am your lawyer.”  Duffy sat down beside the young man.

“How do you do.  I can’t believe this is the first time we have been allowed to meet.  You don’t even have a statement from me.”

“I know, but look, just leave the talking to me, got it?  I have been doing this ten years.”

The two men were ushered inside.  Heygate Lambert sat at a desk at the back looking very magisterial.  Next to him was the clerk of the court and another guard, that was about it.

The court martial didn’t take long, literally ten minutes and it ended with a suspended sentence of 30 days solitary confinement.  As long as Duffy didn’t try anything silly all would be forgotten.

When he got back to the camp Duffy passed on the good news.  Maybe Buckshot wasn’t as thick as he was made out.

On the following Sunday it was time for the first hurling match.  The teams had been picked by province, as there was not enough men from any one county who played to fill a team.  Consequently the big four were Leinster, Ulster, Meath and Connaugh.

The nets were really just two posts and a cross bar they had nailed up.  As long as the wind didn’t change, they would stay up.  Unfortunately the whole pitch was on very muddy un-level ground, but they did their best.

The players kit consisted of the clothes they stood up in.  One team played bare chest, as they had no other means of recognition.  The two team captains of Leinster and Ulster stood facing each other in the centre circle of the pitch.  The referee had no whistle so he had to shout ‘play’ as loud as he could.

With the sound of wood on wood echoing around the camp huts, the match was on.  The boys of Dublin, Kildare, Wicklow and Meath cheered on Leinster, while the lads of Tyrone, Down, Donegal and Fermanagh cheered on Ulster.

The Leinster captain knocked the ball back behind him where a midfielder caught it with his right hand, before throwing it and catching it on his Hurley tip, bouncing it twice and launching it forward to where a team mate had advanced.

Unfortunately it was intercepted by an Ulsterman who grabbed it and ran through the Leister defences, ducked and dived between men like they were statues, and gave it an almighty whack into the Leinster goal.

“Ah, f**k!”

Three nil.

Leinster bounced back, gathered their strength and forged forwards in numbers.  Liam Kelly, from Tullamore, caught the ball on the tip of his hurley, and carried it forward two steps,  bounced it once, carried it two more steps, and then whacked it hard for a good twenty meters, knocking high over the bar but definitely between the posts.

Three - one.

If the ball goes into the goal it is three points.  If it goes over the goal but still between the posts it is one point.  The scores get added up at the end.

By the time the match was twenty minutes in the two sides had cancelled each other out.  The sound of wood cracking against wood echoed around the huts.

There was a long pass by Leinster, swiftly followed by a foul.  The ref cried out “Yellow Card!” Because he had none to hand as of yet.  A free kick was awarded to Ulster.  Tim McCarthy took the kick, digging his Hurley deep into the soft clay under the ball, lifting it up high and knocking it with all his might into the top corner of the Leinster goal.

Six - one.

By now the Ulster supporters were up on their feet singing, clapping and cheering on their boys.

The Leinster boys just looked at each other, hardly believing this was happening.

The referee announced half time at thirty five minutes.  A whole game of Hurling only lasts seventy minutes, which is just long enough, it is generally agreed.

The lads took a sip of water, some swilled out the salty blood in their mouths.  The dentist would be busy tomorrow.

The coach, Mick Delahunty brought them together and delivered a mouthful of abuse, but no real direction.
The second half commenced, with the cocky Ulstermen jumping around the pitch, showing off to their countrymen.

The two captains once again joined battle in the centre, blocking each other’s attempts with the Hurleys.  Leinster hooked the ball back behind them where a Leinster mid-fielder picked it up on his Hurley only to loose it a second alter to an Ulsterman.  The Ulster mid-fielder knocked it high and forward to one of his forwards, who caught it and made a dash to the Leinster goal.  He had got no closer than twenty feet he was intercepted by a wary Leinster defender who was awake for once.

The defender passed it forward to a mid fielder, who threw it in hand to his captain, who caught it and hit it hard forward with his Hurley.  It was caught by an Ulsterman defender who was challenged by two Leinster players who had weaved through the Ulster lines.  They took the ball and worked in tandem to dodge the Ulster defences.  One carried it on the tip of his Hurley to within ten feet of the goal, and passed it to his collegue.  The other Leinsterman caught it in his free hand, threw it in the air and knocked it hard into the goal.

Six - four.

Forty minutes gone, then fifty.  A free kick gave Ulster an extra point, then, before Leinster had recovered from the shock, they won another.

Eight - four.

Ulster took the ball again, and knocked it back to their defenders, trying to wrong-foot the Leinster  defenders.

One Leinster defender tried to tackle the Ulster forward, slipped and hooked his Hurley at the ankle of the Ulsterman.  Totally by accident.  In seconds players from all over were homing in on the two shoving and pushing with hands and then sticks.  One stick collided with a Leinsterman’s ribs, another handle hit an Ulsterman’s ear.  Before you knew it there were little scraps of men brawling all over the place.

The referee stood in, using his big fists and loud voice to resume order.

The players disengaged and stood glaring at each other while they go their breath back.  The game resumed and Ulster were awarded a free kick.  They passed it once, twice, and scored another goal.

Eleven - four.

James breathed  a stressed sigh, glad he had the sense not to take a bet on the result.  

The match continued up and down the pitch.  Ulster caught the ball and scored another point,

Twelve - bleeding - five.

Then things started to get interesting.  The brawling may have done more damage than first anticipated.  Some Ulstermen were limping, one was clutching his ribs,.  More than one had huge swollen eyes.  At that point there were not enough Hurlers in the prison teams to have substitutes as well.  You had to make the best of what you had.

Leinster, who were in better shape, made a sharp attack up the left side, a triangle of three forwards, they took the ball from a sloppy pass by an Ulster player, and scored a goal on the third attempt from ten yards distance.

Twelve - eight.

Ulster rallied, and controlled the ball as best they could, holding off Leinster and keeping their lead.  Their defensive play worked for a good ten minutes but Leinster had the smell of blood in their nose.  In some cases literally.

The match was getting bad tempered now, some guys ran into each other because they could barely see.  One hit the back of another’s head with his Hurley because his eye was so swollen.  Pandemonium ensued.   More broken sticks, more bruises and cuts were prescribed.  Those who had no stick left played with their hands.  Technically it was illegal but who was watching?

The Leinster captain caught the Ulsterman off guard and scored a tremendous goal all the way back from the forty meter line.

Twelve - eleven.

The match went into extra time, with no side able to take and advantage.  The two minutes ticked away slowly.  Finally in the last seconds Jim Moran took a swipe at the Ulster goal from twenty meters or less.  He lined it up in the dying seconds, hit it high and launched it.

It hit the post and bounced off.

Seconds later the referee announced that the match was over.

Twelve - eleven full time.

Cries of victory erupted from the Ulster side.  Leinster clapped them off the pitch, and wished them well.  Fair play for a good match, lads.

Even the guards, watching from the watch towers, had been spell-bound by the match.

The lads took gasps of cool, barely clean water and sat with their backs against the hut.  

“Christ, what a match.”  Said Leinster Captain Kevin Danagher.  Standing bare chested with blood dripping from his ear he looked like he had just fought in a medieval battle.

“Yeah, brilliant.”  Agreed most of the team.  Most were too  tired to move and their limbs were seizing up.

***8***


The following morning was bright and cool.  After a light, unappetising breakfast the internees went on their usual route march.  This time they were a lot slower, and a few were still limping.  The old guard berated them as unfit and soft and threatened to poke them with his bayonet.

The Hurlers protested that they had some injuries from yesterday but he was having none of it.  They should stick to tiddlywinks in that case, he reckoned, chuckling to himself.

After they came back there was a roll-call, then everybody was left to their own devices.

Mick Collins called the boys into the main meeting hut, it was time for the University of Revolution to give it’s first lesson.

“Come in lads, file down the line, come down the front, there is plenty of room.”

The lads pulled up what chairs they could, some creaked, some had splinters, one even had no seat, but was covered by a wooden slat.

“Right lads, the subject of today’s lecture is one of the first recruits of the Irish Republican Brotherhood, Mr Jeremiah O’Donovan Rossa.  I will hand you over to Mr Arthur Griffin who will give the lecture.”

Mick nodded over to Arthur who took his cue.

“Rossa was born to Irish tennant farmers in 1831 in Rosscarbery, County Cork.  His father, as an Irish farmer was worse off than the poor of London.  90% of the Growth Democratic Product of Ireland was exported to Britain in leau of rent.  Remember that figure lads, ninety per cent.  It’s inhumane, it’s criminal, it must never be allowed again.  And it is our God-given mission to make sure it never does.

From 1845 the famine took hold of Ireland, killing millions, and forcing millions more into exile.  Their crops withered and died at their feet.  Jeremiah’s father left his desolate farm and worked as a road builder in order to feed his family, but he caught the fever and shortly after.

All of this had a huge impact on Jeremiah, as well it should.  He later said it was an blasphemy to blame the famine on God.  He said it was the fault of the English masters who allowed the famine to fester in order to subdue Ireland and make a fast profit.

In 1856 he established the Phoenix National and Literary Society.  His aim, like ours, was ‘The liberation of Ireland by force of arms.’  A three years later he amalgamated his organisation with the Irish Republican Brotherhood.

For his acts of defiance he was imprisoned without trial and held for over a year.  In 1865 he was arrested for plotting a Fenian rising, and tried for high treason.  His sentence was penal servitude for life due to his previous convictions.

His sentence was carried out in various prisons that would become infamous in Irish history.  Portland, Pentonville, and Chatham.  Often he was fed on bread and water for 28 days at a time.  Other days he was cuffed with his hands behind his back and he was forced to eat his food on all fours like a dog.  So count your blessings.
Then the Irish people elected him to parliament for Tipperary but the election was declared null and void because it was won by a man held at her majesty’s pleasure.

He entered prison, so he once said, determined to keep his temper and obey his instructions.  However the guards seemed determined to trample over the docile and intimidate the bright.  He discovered that in prison he was still as much the rebel and he declared a one-man war on his jailers.

They restrained him, they fed him only bread and water, they put him in stress positions.  Nothing, boys, nothing would break his spirit.  They judged him by the same yard-stick as the thieves and the rapists, and their judgement came up short.

Eventually they saw sense, and he was given an easier time.  Furthermore he was allowed paper to write and extra correspondence.

Finally in 1870 there was a general amnesty of Fenian prisoners, and he was allowed to go into exile.  His limited choices were America and Australia.  In the event, he chose the former.

He arrived in New York in the autumn of that year and joined the clan na gael movement.  As a cover he ran the Chatham hotel.

During his time in America he became a very successful fundraiser for the armed struggle for a free Ireland.  He ran for office against the mayor of the time and only narrowly lost.  For the rest of his life he struggled on, from the sidelines.  Eventually he died in America, and his body was returned to Ireland for burial.

His funeral in Glasnevin was attended by some thousand people, including a few among us.  Pearse gave his finest piece of oratory here, saying of Rossa:

‘The Defenders of this Realm have worked well in secret and in the open. They think that they have purchased half of us and intimidated the other half. They think that they have foreseen everything, think that they have provided against everything; but the fools, the fools, the fools! — they have left us our Fenian dead, and, while Ireland holds these graves, Ireland un-free shall never be at peace.’

Now, lads I recommend you all pay a visit to his grave on your return, and remember the fathers of the struggle who pass their baton to us.”   

Arthur Griffin took his seat to a round of applause.

Cathal McInerie, a former Irish Guard spoke next.  His subject was good old dynamite.

“We have this thing in Ireland that has proved a useful tool in our arsenal for a good fifty years.  Dynamite was invented by a brave soul with no eyebrows left called Alfred Nobel.  It has many uses in mining and quarrying, and it has been used extensively by the military.

It consists of three parts nitro-glycerine , one part diatomaceous earth and a small admixture of sodium carbonite.
The biggest factory of Dynamite is in South Africa,  the de Beers factory, who have no love of the English, and we are making approaches for a free sample, as it were.

Over time, the dynamite will "weep" or "sweat" its nitroglycerine, which can then pool in the bottom of the box.  Crystals will form on the outside of the sticks.  This, lads, creates a very dangerous situation. While the actual possibility of explosion without a cap is minimal - do not, I repeat,  move or handle the damn stuff.

So where do we find it again?  Raise your hands anybody?!”

“Mines and quarries, sir.”  Said a voice at the back.

“That’s good.  So when we get back some of you will be taking new names and will train as apprentice blasters.  Once you are licensed you will apply for as much Dynamite as you can get your little hands on, and then disappear with the lot.”

A ripple of laughter ran through the room.

The next old soldier brought over a blackboard on an easel and turned it to face the men.  The blackboard showed a diagram of a Vickers machine gun.

“This, me lads, is currently a soldiers best friend on the western front.  Soon it will be the rebel’s best friend on the Irish front too.

This bad boy was developed for use on the western front to replace the Maxim gun that caused such havoc in colonial Africa.

It weights 34 pounds unloaded, or 50 pounds with a full load.  It fires .303 rounds at a range of up to 610 yards at a rate of 500 rounds a minute.”

James gave a low whistle.  Imagine being on the receiving  end of that lot.

“It also holds 7 pints of water to sustain it’s evaporative cooling system.  When firing sustained bursts you may see steam coming out of the gun as well as smoke.  Don’t worry too much about that, just keep your hands free of the forward barrel.  It will be so hot your hand will stick to it as it roasts.

It’s average belt holds 250 bullets.  It normally comes with a tripod for accurate fire.  It isn’t the kind of thing you can carry around one-handed you know.”

After an hour of hearing about the Vickers machine gun, the meeting adjourned.  The hour’s recess consisted of a kick about on the lop sided football pitch, a cup of thin black tea and a few cigarettes.

After recess it was the turn of British shoulder weapons to come under scrutiny.

“Gentlemen, some of you will already be familiar with the Lee Enfield rifle, as we had many of them pointed at us in recent months.  Well now you get to know your foe rather better.  Mr Enfield’s rifle is the shoulder weapon of most of the modern British army, and one of the best in the world.  Like the Vickers machine gun it takes .303 bullets, and it works on a bolt-action recycling system.  It is fed by a double spaced magazine that holds ten bullets.  It has seen service in some of the hottest and coldest climates in the known world and it gives very little trouble to it’s bearer.”

The next blackboard slate showed a picture of a revolver.

“This, my lads, is the Webley Revolver, as currently issued to officers of the British army.  It holds six .455 bullets at a time in a revolving cylinder   It fires an effective range of 50 yards.  It’s most distinctive feature is that it opens from the top and bends it’s cylinder forward to be loaded from the rear.

It is light and effective.  It is easy to clean and operate one handed.  One last thing, boys, is that there is an RIC variant due to be released soon that has a double action, which makes it virtually semi-automatic.”

The boys nodded.

“Alright boys, everybody up, we are going to have a bit of imaginary rifle practise.”

James passed around his home made Hurleys, which he had designed specially so they could be used as dummy rifles.  All you had to do is pull off the hand grip to reveal the sight and thin end of the barrel.

The former Irish guard taught the men the correct position in which to hold a rifle, with the butt in your shoulder, how to aim down the barrel and how to squeeze the trigger.

They repeated this over and over for an hour before being allowed out for lunch.

“I can’t eat this shite.”  Donal, said, throwing down his knife and fork.

James had to admit it was pretty awful.  Barely warm bully beef and one dark brown potato with a bit of stewed cabbage.  He had eaten his as fast as he could before it could rape his taste buds.  He could barely remember a meal he had enjoyed.

“Seriously, we need another word with his royal Commandant-ness.  This place is disgraceful.”

“Donal this is as good as it gets in here, so stop giving me grief.”

“James, what about all the red cross parcels and stuff from home we are supposed to be getting?  It scarcely comes in at a trickle. They are keeping it all for themselves, that’s what, or selling it to the locals women for sexual favours.”

“Donal, keep your voice down.”

Arthur Griffin on the next table looked over.  Unfortunately so did two of the guards who were posted in the canteen.  They marched straight over to Donal, who by now was well on his soapbox.

“You did, didn’t you, ya little b******s, you sold the food the free people of Ireland pledged to their friends and loved ones.”

“Prisoner, I suggest you shut up right away.”  Said the first guard, a Corporal.

“I don’t know how you b******s sleep at night, treating us the way you do, locked away here surrounded by battalions of rats, this camp is a disgrace, a crime against humanity…”

“I said BUTTON IT!”  The guard spat, inches from Donal’s face.

Donal shut up for a second then raised his finger to point at the guard, who slapped it down with his hand and draw his baton. He poked Donal in the chest, and in return Donal pushed the guard back against the table.

In seconds, there was a melee, one guard grabbed Donal from behind, locking his arms, the other guard struck him in the midriff with his baton.  James grabbed one guard just as the other one blew his whistle.  Arthur Griffin stepped in, trying to separate the two parties and Mick Collins came bounding over.  Collins grabbed the guard with the baton in a rugby tackle and the two men landed on a table that promptly collapsed.

At that point the canteen doors flew open and half a dozen guards flocked on the knots of men on the floor.  As James wrestled with his opponent something fell out of the man’s pouch, a small card that, in the middle of it all, James had the foresight to pick up and pass to Peter.  At that moment the guard recovered himself and punched James full in the face, re-breaking him nose.  James fell to the floor, knocked out.

Three guards were on top of Donal, who looked like he had no fight left in him.  Arthur Griffin grabbed Mick Collins, and physically threw him back towards a crowd of his fellow prisoners, where he blended in in seconds.  Not for the last time, Mick Collins ability to become a face in the crowd at will would save him.

Donal was frog-marched out of the canteen, towards the main administration building.  The rest of the men were made to form up in lines outside the canteen.  After a few minutes of being shouted at, the prisoners were sent back to their huts without any dinner.

James was lying on his bed while Peter stuffed small pieces of rolled up newspaper up his nostrils.  Anything to help it clot.  His head felt full of static and he was sore all over.  He lied down and gave himself an afternoon rest.

Mick Collins was holding his sore knuckle in a bowl of water as he boasted to his hut-mates of the fracas.  Naturally he added a few embellishments, but you have to, havn’t you?

Colonel Heygate-Lambert was mid way through his lunch, and the Daily Express when the knock came.  The Sergeant-at-arms marched in and informed him that there had been a riot in the canteen, and that one man had been apprehended.  The others had been confined to their huts.

“Damn it, Sergeant, why didn’t you take their names?  They should all be up for court martial.”

The Sergeant looked sheepish.
“Well sir, it was only the one who we have outside who was causing the bother.  The others just got drawn in.”

“I see, and was our friend, Collins involved?”

“I cannot say sir.”

“Right, well send this troublemaker in and lets deal with him.”

The Sergeant went back out and called the prisoner and his guard into the office.

Donal was marched in.  His head was held high and his eyes were level.  He was a good  example of Fenian manhood.

The Commandant looked up from his Daily Express, and looked Donal up and down.

“Mr Kavanagh, I thought I was quite clear when I explained the rules of my camp when you first arrived.  I don’t know who you Fenian buggers think you are but if you ever disrupt my camp again I will break you, you Paddy scum.”

Donal spoke “Sir I would like to protest that the food in the canteen is -”

Lambert nodded to the guard who hit Donal in the kidneys with his baton.

With a thump Donal fell and lay double on the floor.

“Mr Kavanagh, please remember that you only speak when spoken to.  Now I think you need a lesson in respect, my lad.  Thirty days in solitary confinement.  Sergeant, take him away.”

The Sergeant and the guard picked Donal up on their shoulders and carried him off to the confinement cells, the same ones that caused some concern to Art O’Brien.

Lambert went over to the window and lit his cigarette.  If he couldn’t teach this lot some respect, no one could.  He tried not to let them darken his mood, surely soon he would be posted to the western front.  Surely.

***9***

James had been busy most of the morning.  He had managed to salvage some newspapers from the latrines and some other plain paper and pencils from the shop.  He had even managed to get his hands on a set of coloured pencils for his next objective.

The card he had pinched off the guard had turned out to be his I.D. card.  That would prove of some use later.

But for now he was working on his first lecture.  While James had been working at Davy’s pub his main custom came from the soldiers of Richmond Barracks.  As a result he was something of an expert at identifying different regimental uniforms and symbols.

From the newspapers he had cut out pictures of every military dignitary he could find and stuck them to pieces of paper with their names and titles underneath.  He also had members of the cabinet, members of parliament, and the Royal Irish Constabulary.  The faces of these men would one day form the hit list of the I.R.A.

The following day after breakfast the men crowded into the main hut again and took their places for their latest lesson.  Some of them were eager, others were like boisterous schoolboys.  All of them took their seats in the cool, musty cabin.

Arthur Griffin spoke first, again.

“Good morning gentlemen, glad you could all choose to join us today.  As some of you now know we are missing Mr Kavanagh as a result of a small disagreement with the restaurant staff at Chez Frongoch.  He is now in solitary confinement, and I would thank you all to be careful that you do not join him.  We don’t need more men rotting away with their brains going soft.  Ireland has enough martyrs.”

He turned to James.

“And now may I introduce this black-eyed Susan beside me.  Gentlemen, please show your appreciation for the all-Ireland boxing champion, Mr James Joyce.”

James made a few rude hand gestures to Griffin as he took his place on the floor, half smiling.  His eyes had indeed swelled up awfully and his nose was blocked.

“Good morning Gentlemen.  The subject of today’s first lesson is Military uniform recognition.

As many of you know the British army has many different units and often the only distinguishable thing about them is how they are dressed.  Also you need to be able to distinguish a soldier from an officer, even in near-darkness.

He took his first sketch out and passed it around the front row.  The army ranks wear, as we know, different symbols on the arms to distinguish themselves.

He handed out his first flash card.

   

“This, boys is the arm mark of a Lance-Corporal, the second lowest rank, after private soldier, in the army.  His average age is 19 and he has very little say in what is going on.  His nominal command would be, at the very most, four to six men.”

The second flash card did the rounds.



His big brother is the Corporal.  His job is to command half a section of a platoon.  He may also command a machine gun fire team.  He commands an average of eight men.

The third card followed



The sergeant is the standard platoon commander you will meet on the ground.  He commands twelve men, and compared to some armies, he has quite a deal of autonomy.   They often come from poor backgrounds, and are often badly educated.  This does not mean they cannot be extremely resourceful and determined customers.

There are other types too, Colour Sergeants, Staff Sergeants, Sergeant Majors and so on.  You are less likely to meet them on the street as the battlefield, but have a look at their insignias any how.



This is a Sergeant Major’s arm badge.  



And this is a Regimental Sergeant Major’s badge”



The cards made their way round a few rows of chairs   The lads looked thoughtful, as though they were still taking it in.  James moved on to Officers.

“Now, the boyos who are worth the big points are the commissioned officers.  They start at the very bottom with the wet-behind-the-ears officer cadets.  They are usually the sons of officers or local businessmen or dignitaries.  Their shoulder epaulettes mark their rank.  For example here is the first card:

  

They don’t know their arse from their elbow half the time, and need a batman to wipe their bottoms and tie their shoe laces.



 The real bottom rank for the officer classes is Lieutentant.  They are just your typical deputy-sherriff types who don’t really do feck all unless ordered to.  But there are a few out there who are thrusters so watch out for them.  If you can take one out with a shot the Captain will have lost his main go-for.



The boy you see with the three pips on this card is the captain.  He commands a company of between 75-200 men in up to five platoons.  He is the brains on the ground, the boss of an army unit.  If you can get a good shot you splatter his brains on the ground.”

The lads laughed.  Peter McGuire kept watch out of the window in case any soldiers fancied making a friendly house call.

James continued.  “The next guy I am going to show you is a Major.  He can command up to two companies or a full detachment of a regiment.  He is not on the front line, he is usually in his dug-out or back at headquarters.




Is that enough for today or do you want to go on?  Is it all sinking in?”

Some of the lads murmured yes.  Others yawned and others passed notes and whispered.  James could tell the class was growing stale, it was time for a break.

“Alright, that’s enough for now, time for a cup of tea and a game of footy.”

Donal was left in his cell alone, after a quick examination by Peters, the camp doctor.  He lay on his bed dreaming of O’Donovan Rossa and the republican prisoners of years past.  In a way it was quite exhilarating to think he may yet be joining them in martyrdom.

Two cups of tea and a game of footy later the lads were re-convened for further briefings.

James had stuck various photos from newspaper clippings to card back-boards.

“What I am about to pass around next are the faces of our top targets at the current moment of time.  They are to be targeting for assassination if the opportunity arises and only if we have approval from the army command.  No target is to be eliminated without specific order, is that understood?”

“Yes sir.”

They called him sir.  Well that was a first for James.



“This is Sir Henry Wilson, he is the current chief of staff of British armed forces.  He answers directly to the war office and is known as a master tactician.”

The next photo was passed around.

This next chap is Sir William Robertson.  He is the only British General to have been promoted from the ranks.  He is a tough, inspirational fighter, and a ruthless General.







William Robertson

Another photo was passed around, the first one not in military uniform.  



“This is David Lloyd George, currently the man to watch in the British Cabinet.  He is a versatile thinker and he is the driving force behind Britain’s ability to make war.  Should his energies ever be employed against Ireland he would bring much trouble to us.”

The next photo was a clipping of the famous Sydney Street siege of 1911.



“Now the next fellow needs no introduction.  Most of you remember the Sydney Street fire, and the burning of the Anarchists inside.  What some of you may not know is that the fire brigade had been given orders not to interfere.  Subsequently the Anarchists burned to death where they were trapped.”




“The man who gave the order was this man, Winston Spencer Churchill.



Although this man is relatively low profile since the retreat from the Dardanelles he still carries a lot of weight in the House of Commons.  He may yet prove a tough opponent to Irish Rule.”

The photos made their slow route back to the front of the room.

“So for the minute boys those are the big four we want.  Asquith will be gone as Prime Minister soon, if my sources are correct.  Kitchener had a little accident in his boat a few months back so it is yet to be seen who will fill their shoes.  But when we do know, we will hammer them all.”

A cheer erupted from the room and the class was dismissed.

For the rest of the day the men were left to their own devices.  They amused themselves with football, reading, writing letters and nattering like old hags.

***10***

After breakfast, or what passed for it in Frongoch, the men were paraded outside their huts.

Heygate-Lambert came marching out in his best uniform.

“Gentlemen, you have been given a chance to stretch your legs and see a bit more of the lovely Welsh countryside.

You have been invited to work outside the camp, helping in the chalk quarries.  You will also be required to fetch ash from the nearby Barracks to continue work with our pathways.

You will not be required to wear chains but you will be under close guard at all time.  Enjoy this small taste of freedom and we will work hard to improve the dining conditions of the camp.”

He then marched off.   James could swear he could hold a penny up his arse as he walked.

Mick Collins gave a side wards glance to William O’Brien who was running the other end of the camp.  Both had decided then and there on the course of action.  Within minutes orders had gone around the camp that nobody was to do this work.  Sinn Feiners were not common criminals and they would not be required to do normal criminal’s work.  It would reduce their profile as Prisoners of War.

It seems it had not occurred to them that German Prisoners of War were subject to the same labour conditions.

Nonetheless the twenty men were picked from the huts later and marched over to a van.  They refused to get in.  The guards beseeched them, then threatened them, they still refused.    Names were taken this time, and all twenty men were marched over to the main prison block.

Later that day the men were re-assembled later that day by a furious commandant.  Heygate-Lambert looked fit to explode.

“Have I not made myself clear?!”  He yelled at full pitch. “Prisoners in this camp are subject to Military jurisdiction, and will obey order at all times.  When ordered to get up you will get up.  When ordered to eat, you will eat.  And when you are ordered to work you will bloody well work!  I have never seen or heard of such a surly, stubborn unruly shower of so called freedom fighters in my life.  Who would turn Ireland over to such a motley arrangement?

Well here you will learn the meaning of discipline, my lads.  I will have a disciplined camp, even if it is a camp full of rotting bodies.  Now I will pick twenty more and those who do not work will be confined to the punishment cells on a bread and water diet.  That’s if the rats don’t take your food first.”

The boys’ hearts hardened against the man who was no longer just their jailer, now he was their tormentor.

Heygate Lambert called out twenty names, and not a man budged.  Lambert twitched then threw down his clipboard and grabbed the arm of the nearest man and dragged him physically over to a waiting van.

James, who was next nearest moved forward two inches, but he was very aware of the guard watching over him with his shotgun levelled.

The guard wasn’t young, he was one of the invalids from the Western front, and it was likely he had seen action.  Would he shoot?  Hhmm, probably.  James decided not to chance it.

Heygate-Lambert grabbed James by the arm next and led him over to the van where he sat next to his colleague.  Eighteen more men followed in a minute.

“Right, now I order you to work.  Get in the van.”

Silence, not a man budged.

“I will tell you men one more time.  Get in the van.”

Still no one budged.

“Right, to the punishment cells with all of you b******s.  Bread and water for thirty days.”

James and his friends were marched off to the prison cells.

Heygate-Lambert turned to the remaining men.

“Now tomorrow we will try again, and this time we will reach an agreement.  I will have discipline in this camp even if I have to start shooting people.”

Donal was rather amazed when his peace and quiet was shattered by the arrival of so many new cell-mates.  After a few days in solitary you can get strangely contented with your own company.  The new arrivals felt like an imposition him.

The first twenty were moved into the large dormitory next door where they made a lot of racket and chatter, which made him rather irksome.  He had only just got used to all that when twenty more men were marched into the cell he was occupying.  Among them was his old friend, James Joyce.

“So much for f*****g solitary, I need to have a word with the hotel manager.  What are you doing here Joyce, you get lost or something?”

“I won a free holiday in Wales with the Irish Independent.  I am not sure about the accommodation though, I would have expected a balcony.”

“Service is shite too.”  Laughed Donal.

The twenty men each found a bunk.  There was one bucket between twenty of them, a bed each with a  few spares with no room between beds to stand up in.

So the men settled in as best they could.  It was the first time James had got to know some of them, they had been so busy with other projects.

That first night was very uncomfortable in the cool, damp air.  Mould was growing on the walls all the way up.  Rats polluted the place, infesting the beds with fleas.  Lice would shortly follow, wriggling into a man’s hair, under his arms and in his groin.

What little bed rolls were available were in ragged condition.  They were best worn wrapped around the waist and shoulders.  You had to remove your laces and tie them around your ankles to prevent the rats crawling up your leg.

The following morning one man was elected to take the bucket out to be poured away.  Joy of joys, it had to be James.  The bucket had no handle so he had to pick it up by the edges.

The guard who escorted him on his duty was something of a local dealer who knew everything and everybody.  He told James that the war was going badly for Britain and food supplies were becoming more intermittent.  After a quick wash of the hands James was sent back to his cell.

To their amazement later that morning there was a sound of breaking wood.  What was going on?  Donal looked out of a crack in the door to see a guard with a claw hammer removing the nails and planks that  closed off the cells that had been deemed unfit for human habitation.

Sure enough, later that morning twenty more men were marched into the punishment cells.  Donal managed to get a message over via a guard, and it seems Heygate Lambert had done the same pantomime as yesterday, and still no man had budged.  Subsequently they too had been marked for the bread and water diet.

The men did their best to keep their spirits up.  They tried to train the rats, but they were wilful vermin.  They told stories of the famine and the coffin ships, compared to which, their current circumstances were luxurious.

One house-proud fellow took it upon himself to wipe all the mould off the walls with a rag.  For an hour James watched him work away while he dreamed up plans of action.  Then he noticed his chest was feeling tight.  He wanted to cough but it came out as a wheeze.  Soon he could barely breathe and he had to lie down, his breathing laboured.

Donal was the first to notice the start of an asthma attack.  His little sister had suffered the same thing.  He hammered on the door for a doctor.  A guard came to the door and told him he could not open the door without two other guards in attendance, both armed.

Donal looked at James in desperation, his eyes were red,  His lips and fingernails were turning blue.  When you have asthma it is like trying to breath with an elephant sat on your chest.

The guards eventually arrived and marched into the cell.

“We can arrange a Doctor, but first we need the prisoner to state his name.  Commandant Heygate-Lambert has left specific orders on this subject.”

Donal rolled his eyes, where the f**k did they get these idiots from?  Did they breed them specially?

“The prisoner is having an asthma attack, he is in respiratory failure.  He is therefore unable to give his name.  I hereby give his name as James Joyce, with God as my witness.”

The guard, an obnoxious little man from the Midlands who had no love of the Irish repeated his statement.

“We need him to give his name.  It cannot be presented for him.  Until he does so he is not eligible for treatment.”

Donal gnashed his teeth.  He was going to lose it with this man in a second.  He drew near and did the smart thing.

“Get out of my site before I kill you with my bare hands.”

The man turned and walked out.  Donal turned to the next guard, the one with the shotgun.  He spoke politely and calmly to the man.

“If you would be so kind, could you find me with a paper bag of some sort?”

The guard didn’t say anything but turned and the three guards marched out of the room, closing the cell door behind them.

The other lads were fussing around James.  One undid his shirt and listened to his heartbeat which was quickening.  Another checked his pulse, it was quite high too.

His eyes were shut, and his breathing was hard and heavy.  The effort, combined with the stale air, the bad diet and his blocked nose meant he was deteriorating rapidly.

One of the boys reckoned it was the spores in the air from the mould on the walls that had caused the attack.

The prisoners were preparing to give him last rights when something was shoved under the door.  It was a large brown envelope that the guard had liberated from the administration block for them.

They got James up into a sitting position and leaned him forward, then made him breath into the envelope.  Slowly, surely he got his breath back but he was still wheezing.  His lips went back to their usual pink and his eyes opened.

He was weak but he would live.  James was ordered to rest as long as possible.  The next morning James was led out of his cell to the camp infirmary.  One guard half-carried him there, as he was still having terrible trouble breathing.

Doctor Peters sat him on a couch and listened to his breathing.  James explained in gasps that the mould on the walls had been wiped off, and the spores in the air had triggered the attack.  The Doctor nodded and made a few notes.  He told a guard to take James back into the yard to get some fresh air, as it was a lovely day.

He then paid a visit to the Commandant, to explain Joyce’s situation.

“Ah Peters come in.  What was the sudden emergency?”

“One of the prisoners, Joyce had an asthma attack down in the punishment cells.  We believe it was brought on by one of the prisoners wiping the mould off the walls.”

“Ah, that is never a good idea.  So where is he now?”

“I have him under guard in the main yard.  He can’t get out of there, the fence is too high and he is no condition to be running marathons.”

“I see, well the spores will soon settle.  Send him back in there before dark.”

“Sir, the air down there is damp filthy, it is not fit for habitation down there.”

Heygate-Lambert threw down his pen and pointed his finger at the physician.  

“Peters, don’t you bloody start with me, I have enough earache from that bloody O’Brian fellow.  Now I made myself clear, Joyce is to return to the punishment cell before dark.  He will remain under close supervision.  If he wanted fresh air he could have gone and worked on the outside in a nice clean quarry or on the roads.  But no, he chose to go to the punishment cells.  Do you understand Peters?  He chose not to work and now he must pay the penalty.”

“Sir, if you send him down there he might die.  We have sixty men down there now in cells with virtually no ventilation.  How much longer must this madness go on for?”

“Peters, it will go on for as long as it damn well has to.  We have to show these Fenians who is in charge around here.  They cannot be allowed to think they can make us a laughing stock “

“Sir, I think pride is creeping in here.  Don’t let this become personal, it blinds your judgement.”

“You are well out of line Doctor, I suggest you keep your mind on your job and let me do mine.  And I will do my job, Peters, you just bloody watch me.”

“I see this conversation is leading nowhere sir so I will leave you to it.  I shall see you again when you are in a better mood.”

“You may leave.”  Said Lambert, turning away.

Peters got up and went over to the door.

“And Peters, you make bloody sure he goes back in before sunset.  That is an order.”

The doctor was bristling with agitation.

“In that case sir, I will require that order in writing.  It would be good to have in the event of an inquest.”

Peters left the room without waiting for an answer.

Heygate Lambert slumped in his chair and undid his collar.  This camp was going to be the death of him.  He picked up his Afghanistan campaign medal and wondered how the hell he had ended up here during the biggest war man-kind had ever fought.

He had to win this little battle of wills.  The trouble with the Irish was that they were too stupid to see when they were clearly beaten, it was exasperating frankly.

***10***

James was a bit surprised to be going back to his cell, but he didn’t argue.  In truth he felt a lot better since he was sat in the yard.  His breathing was back to normal but his chest was aching from it’s earlier efforts.

Donal was equally surprised to see him back, surely the commandant didn’t want a corpse on his hands?  Imagine the paperwork.

“Jesus, James, we thought you would be back out in the north camp.  I can’t believe they sent you back here after yesterday.”

“Oh believe it, boy.  I think I must have done something to upset him.”

“Well sit down and join us, anyway.”

That night the twenty men sat or slouched where they could.  They swapped life stories and future plans.  Often they would discuss the two things they missed the most.  Decent food and women.

None could agree the benefits of Dublin girls over Cork girls.  Nor could they agree who would be most likely to give you a knee-trembler, a convent girl or a state-educated girl.

James had no sweetheart in the real world.  He was too busy either working or training with the Irish Citizens Army.  Would any woman want a broken rebel now?  James doubted it.  He thought of the girls in his neighbourhood who would sneak into the pub to flirt with the soldiers.  He wondered where they were now.

Not long after breakfast the next morning the inmates heard the sound of the guard with the claw hammer opening up another condemned cell, clearly more men had refused work.

Sure enough no less than twenty more men were marched into a cell.  They settled down and made themselves comfortable in the cell.

By now some of the boys were discussing the possibility of going on hunger strike.  Others talked of blanket protests and dirty protests.

To their amazement the following morning the final cell was opened and twenty more men  were admitted.  That meant that they now had no less than a hundred men in the punishment block in five cells, three of which had been condemned.

A week went past, achingly slow.  The air was thick with sweat and germs flowed freely.  If one man had a cold they all had it.  One of the other cells reported an outbreak of scabies.

It would only take one case of Spanish flu or meningitis and they could be wiped out in no time.  Their bodies had no food to boost their natural defences.

One case of dysentery in these conditions soon turned into three, then six.  Buckets soon overflowed, the smell was unimaginable.

Back in the north camp Peter McGuire managed to get a letter out via a sympathetic soldier.  Wrote under the name of Michael Collins, the letter was addressed to the home office and described the situation in the camp.  In his best imitation of Collins’ prose, Peter requested that action be taken immediately to close the camp and pacify the Irish nationalist sentiment that was on the rise in Ireland.

James was concerned that the men he had trained would die here in the camp before they had a chance to put him theories of guerrilla warfare into practise.   What a waste.

The camp doctor paid a visit to the man packed in like sardines and made a lot of notes.  He seemed to be very sympathetic to their plight.

The following morning a telegraph arrived addressed to Heygate-Lambert.

Receiving reports from the press about the treatment of prisoners stop under executive order 188367 we require you to remove prisoners from punishment cells stop the order to send internees to work outside the camp is retracted stop effective immediately

The commandant felt the bile rising in the pit of his stomach.  The b******s were deserting him!  The same b******s he had served for fifteen years chose to back down to these Fenian swine.

He called in the Sergeant, Meadows.

“Sergeant, it seems we have been left to our plight.  Could you remove the prisoners from the punishment cells and have them returned to the general population?  Thank you.”

Meadows took it in his stride.  After all he was three pounds richer now, most lads expected them to be back in the north camp last Friday.  Oh, happy days.

Once the Sergeant had left the room Heygate-Lambert turned around, and in a fit of frustration swept everything off his desk and overturned it with one hand. Never in his life had he felt so bitter, so angry, so damn frustrated.

The lads returned to the north camp a fair few pounds lighter.  Their celebrations were subdued as everybody still felt physically awful.  The dispensary was raided for kaolin and cold remedies.

James’ lectures continued as best he could.  The inmates ate every scrap of food they could find, and slowly  returned to reasonable health.

Michael Collins had a new project on the go, a national insurance company that would be the front for fund raising activities.  The over worked Peter McGuire was soon busy making records, designing forms and writing letters to everybody and anybody.

One day he dropped his sack of letters off at the censor’s office.  The young man on the desk groaned as he looked through the pile.

“Do you have any idea how much time and effort it will take to read through this lot?”

Poor Peter lost his cool just this one time in his incarceration.

“How do you think I feel?  I had to fecking write that lot!”  He yelled and stormed off.

***11***

It was now mid-October and the nights were cold.  Wood was hard to find for the stoves, so the Hurleys were broken up for fire wood and everybody played Gaelic Football instead.

The route marches still continued.  At several check points James made his men drop and give ten press ups to build up their upper-body strength.  The guards just looked on, bemused.  What were this lot up to now?

Friday night became Irish dancing night, which was fine if you liked that sort of thing.  James had to admit, some of them were brilliant, but there was no damn way he was going to get up there.

One day they had a visit from a man called Art O’Brian, who turned out to be from the Irish Aid Association.  He lobbied their case to the Commandant who allowed a few comfort packages into the camp, and a lot of letters.

One lad called Bryan Gallagher bought the entire dispensary’s supply of bandages and disappeared into his hut.  Nothing was seen or heard of him till after dark when they heard a moaning outside.  Suddenly the door opened slowly and in walked Bryan, dressed as a mummy!  A truly hideous version at that.

Just at that point the lads realised it was Halloween.  So they all set to work designing the best outfits they could manage under the circumstances.  One man painted his face green to look like Frankenstein’s monster, another threw a sheet on himself to be a ghost.

Bryan even went to sleep in the bandages that night, he said it was much warmer that way.

For a giggle they paraded for roll call the following morning, still in their costumes.  Heygate-Lambert had a face like thunder but the soldiers all came out for a look.  They just thought it was funny.

Outside the little world of Frongoch the war continued on the western front.  It was difficult to make out what was happening from the British press.  All they knew was that the Somme campaign had started and the British were not boasting any significant victories.  The news was full of lists of missing and dead, most of the lads younger than the men in the camp.

It had been reported that Lord Kitchener was dead. His boat, the H.M.S Hampshire had hit a mine in the North Sea and killed everybody aboard.

Letters of support had flooded in from America, where the Rising had fired their romantic imagination.  Many promised funding for further activities, and words of encouragement.

Colonel Heygate-Lambert was having his morning coffee when his mail arrived.  Among the usual nonsense from the Irish Aid Board he saw a letter with the unmistakable seal of the War Office.

This was it!  This surely must be his posting to the Western Front, after all these months.  He opened it and read through the first few lines.

Alas, no.  It was a letter demanding a conscription for the front line, but not for him.  It was in fact ordering that every internee in the camp who was born in Britain would be required for service in France at the first available opportunity.

Heygate-Lambert sat back, feeling totally crushed.  Surely this was a joke?  They didn’t want a capable middle-ranking officer but they did want a lot of second rate mutinous Irish layabouts to take on Jerry?
He leaned forward and buried his face in his hands, laughing hysterically for a moment.  Then it started to dawn on him that he was now in for another round of conflict with his inmates.  Christ could things get any bloody worse?

Of course they could.

At roll call the next morning he made sure he had a double guard on duty, not armed with shot guns, but with batons.  The inmates did take note of this, and did wonder what was coming.  None guessed correctly.

Lambert cleared his throat.

“Good morning men, it seems that some of you have been given a unique opportunity to prove your courage once again.  I have a list of names eligible for conscription for service in His Majesty’s Armed Forces.”

A murmur erupted from the men, who were naturally surprised and horrified.  They had been reading the accounts of the front in the papers all summer.  The numbers of dead and wounded were horrifying.  Furthermore now most of the men had gained combat experience in the Rising, they were fearful of another battle.  They had all seen the dead bodies in the streets, the blood, the wounds.  They had heard the cries of the wounded and the death moans of the dying.  Those noises still haunted them in their sleep.

Lambert produced the list and read off the first name.  He knew he was wasting his breath but he had to follow procedure.

“Hugh Thornton, please step forward.”

Nobody moved, nor had either side expected them to.  Forty more names were called out.

“None of you will step forward to do your manly duty to defend your country from the Germans?”

Still silence.  Lambert knew what they were thinking, they thought only of Ireland as their home and as an independent nation.  It never occurred to them that the war in the trenches was anything to do with them.  They thought only of England as the enemy.  Perhaps they always would.

“Well then you give me little choice, you are all hereby confined to your huts till further notice.  Inmates dismissed.”

The soldiers pushed the men physically into their huts, where they would be held.  Lambert had had the innovation to buy a dozen pad-locks from a lock smith in Bala, thereby saving him cramming men into small punishment cells.

James and Donal were sharing their hut with Peter McGuire and twelve others at the time.  They sat on their beds discussing strategy for the latest round of the struggle against the Commandant.

“Well this is going to be an interesting place to be from now on.”  Said James, wrapping his jacket around his shoulders.  He had taken his bed blanket and used it to line the inside of his coat, then he just wore that to bed along with a smaller blanket over his legs.

“You’re not wrong, my old mate," agreed Donal.  “At least you and me are safe enough for now.”

“Speak for your bloody self!” Said Peter.  “I was born in Irishtown, Manchester, you know.”

“No we didn’t know, Pete, sorry.  I guess that puts a new slant on things.  He didn’t read out your name though.”

“Aye but it is only a matter of time.  I can’t go there, James, I can’t!  Not fighting with men like f*****g Lambert.  I would get blown to bits or shot to f**k like so many poor boys before us.”

“Now Peter, you showed bravery in the Rising, for sure.”  Said Donal.  Rumour had it that young Peter had pulled two men from a burning building while soldiers took pot shots at him.

“Aye perhaps I did, but I tell you a suicide charge of a machine gun post isn’t my idea of a heroic ending.  I don’t want to die for some stupid objective or strong point.  I would only give my life for Ireland.  I regret now that I did not.”

James sat down on the bunk next to him.

“Look, we are stuck here for now so let’s not start worrying until we have to.  Don’t forget this is the most stupid idea they have had yet.  Can you imagine them letting Fenian scum like us get among the ranks?  Think of the dissent and mutiny we could cause.  They must realise that this idea is ridiculous.”

“Don’t be so sure, they are crying out for men for the front line.  I guess they have ran out of suckers to take the King’s shilling.”  Peter said, looking physically pale.

“Well just wait and see.”

So they waited and they saw.  What they saw was Hugh Thornton and his hut mates being marched out of their hut towards the main block, doubtlessly to the punishment cells.  Here we go again, thought James.

Now they were isolated they could do virtually nothing but wait.  They knew that the Commandant had no pictures of any of them.  He had a few prisoners, such as James, and Mick Collins, marched into his office when they arrived. to greet them.  But they were the exception rather than the rule.

The Commandant’s whole power of identification relied on each man answering his name honestly on the roll-call.

At roll call the next morning the men were paraded once again.  The Commandant called out the names:

“McGinnell?”

“Here sir!”  Said about three voices from the parade.  When the Commandant looked up from his clipboard the men were all silent.

“O’ Connagh?”

“Here sir!”  Came several voices, some in mocking high-pitched tones.

Heygate-Lambert put pencil away and called out the name Cullen, staring straight at the parade.

“Here sir!”  Came three voices.

“Sergeant Meadows, would you take the Cullen brothers to the punishment cell please?”

“Which ones are they?”  Meadows answered, not sure of the Commandant’s wisdom.

“Pick any three you like.”  Lambert hissed.  He was not going to be fooled again.  He would use their new found bonds of brotherly compassion against them.

The three men were marched away to the punishment cells where they would be kept on a bread and water diet.

Lambert addressed his subjects:

“Mr McGinnell and Mr O’Connor, if you are still here we are holding your friends as hostages until you identify yourselves.  You have all the time you need.”

It seemed the Commandant had decided to play hardball.

James, Donal and Peter sat down later to a council of war.  Their options were very limited but there was always one weapon in the prisoners’ arsenal.  The hunger strike.

None of them took the decision lightly.  They knew of the hunger strikes of the last century when men died after weeks of horrible pain, blindness, muscle wastage, dysentery and illness as a result of their bodies slowly shutting down.

Furthermore it would be a waste of time if nobody knew about it.  From now on they could not receive their letters without revealing their identities, so that was out.  They could not send letters through the normal channels.  That only left the option of bribing a guard to smuggle a letter out to post in the town.  Few of the guards were really trusted by the inmates.

But the idea of sending their newly trained freedom fighters to the Western front was unthinkable, so they decided to go for it.

***12***

Lunchtime room service was due at noon.  The boys agreed Donal would do the talking.  As soon as the guard opened the door Donal barred the way.  He took the glasses of water but refused the food.  It didn’t look that appetizing anyway.

The guard was surprised to have the door slammed in his face but he thought fair enough.  He decided he had better report the matter to the commandant, and he somehow found himself in a queue at the office door.  It turned out every hut was refusing food.

Heygate Lambert summoned his medical officer, Peters, and his Sergeant, Meadows for a discussion.  Also he brought his watch sergeants and senior guards.

“Gentlemen, it seems we have an interesting development here.  We are in the midst of our second hunger strike.  Now there is no need to panic just yet.  It just takes a little bit of firmness and time and they will come to their senses.  Hunger strike take a terrible strain on the body, as the women of suffrage have shown.  And with the discipline this lot have shown so far it isn’t set to last.”

Sergeant Meadows wasn’t so sure.  He knew the rebels had great discipline, they just chose not to show it to the commandant.  He had seen them train and organise themselves into a body of soldiers.  At this rate they would be dead bodies.

“I will now turn you over to Doctor Peters who will explain the effects of hunger on the body and mind.”  Lambert said.

Doctor Peters had a few diagrams set up of human organs on an easel.  Then he began to speak, nervously.

“In the first three days the body is still using energy from glucose.  After this date the liver will start to process the body’s fat.  Now bear in mind their current condition and the diet they have been on this past few months.  You could hardly describe any of them as tubby.  After three weeks the body officially goes into starvation.  At this point the body starts to undermine itself.  It starts with the muscles, eating them slowly.  Then lastly it moves on to the vital organs, starting with the kidneys, then the pancreas.”

“So how long have we realistically got?”  Meadows asked.

“It is hard to say but I think they could starve to death within a month.”

“Do you think they realise this?”  Asked Lambert

“I doubt it considering the level of their education.”

“Tell us more about the starvation point?”  Lambert queried.

Peters rubbed the back of his neck where the muscles were tightening with tension.

“Well sir, after the body has used up all the fat it goes to work on the muscle.  At the same time the stomach will shrink causing less of a feeling of hunger. There may also be symptoms of anemia, scurvy, dysentery, skin rashes, and irritability.

They will also become unable to feel thirst and they may become dehydrated.  All movement will become extremely difficult and painful due to atrophy of the muscles.  Their natural resistance to disease will fail, naturally.  Swallowing will become painful as fungi can develop under the oesophagus.

Their energy levels will reduce to virtually nothing.  They can become apathetic to their environment.  The individual may have hallucinations and delusions.

Starvation can result in total mental breakdown.”

Peters took a sip of water and let the words sink in with the men in the room.  There was a distinctly cold air in the room.

“Our options Gentlemen?”  Heygate Lambert said, trying to sound determined.  He was fooling nobody.

“Force-feeding, Sir.  We feed them through a tube.”  Said one of the guards, who had known of it being used on the Suffragettes.

“How do you suggest we force feed a hundred and fifty men?”  Lambert snapped.

“One at a time.”  Said the guard, evenly.

Meadows stepped in.  “Look,”  he said “it is risky and we don’t have the manpower, nor are we likely to get it.”

Lambert could only agree.

“What are our legal obligations in a case like this?”  Meadows asked Peters.

“Well it is not us who are starving them.  Remember we did everything we could to improve the food conditions in here and we have the correspondence and delivery notes to back up that claim.”

“That’s irrelevant.  What can we do about them?”  Lambert said, irritable.

Meadows spoke eventually.

“We educate them.  Doctor Peters I would like you to design flyers with diagrams explaining everything you have just told us.  I will have them copied and we will post them under the doors of the huts.”

Lambert and Peters murmured agreement.  Peters was racking his brains about the cat act or something, that the government had used against the suffragettes years ago.  He would look it up in a while.

Back in their huts the boys were starting to feel the first pangs of hunger.  They tried to ignore them, then they tried to embrace them.  This was pain felt for the love of Ireland.  They should enjoy them in a weird way.  What they were feeling was history.

***13***

They had to pick November to go on the hunger strike.  James had never felt so cold in his life.  He physically ached with it.  The small wood burning stove barely heated the room.  Now there were just the three of them in the hut, since so many suspected rebels had been released, so they used all their strength to break up the extra beds for firewood.  That made it a bit warmer.  James watched the flames like an exotic woman doing a mating dance.  He was too cold and miserable to really think about sex.
 
The guards came again the next morning, and once again the food was refused.  The water was however, gratefully accepted.  James knew well from dealing with many alcoholics that the body lasted longer with nothing to eat rather than nothing to drink.

Later that day a pamphlet was slid under their door, and they all gathered around for a read.

It was just the usual threats from old Buckshot-Lambert with a bit of medical lecture from the camp commandant and  a few diagrams.  It did provide a bit of useful knowledge about starvation, however.

Imagine an Englishman lecturing the descendants of the famine survivors on starvation.  It should be the other way around.  However it did give the men, both inmates and guards, some idea of the timeline of the next few weeks.

Days four and five were hard.  James’ hunger pangs started to really kick in.  He felt physically terrible, coughing and sweating even in the cold.

Doctor Peters had done some more research on the subject of hunger strike and learned there were a few tricks to it.  If you want to prolong a hunger strike you add salt to the water once in a while, to prevent low blood pressure.  You could also add unrefined sugar or powdered lemon juice to prevent scurvy, like they did on war ships.

This tied in with Heygate-Lambert’s strategy of buying time.

However in wartime Britain such luxuries as sugar were hard to come by.  He managed to get his hands on a small consignment of lime powder from Bristol, then later a big bag of salt that he purchased on the black market.  Lambert would go mad if he knew, but stuff him.

Donal was the first to notice a slightly salty taste in the water.  Peter went mad, accusing the soldiers of doing it deliberately to make them vomit.  In fact it would take a lot more than the pitiful amount dispensed to cause such an eventuality.

On day six Donal managed to get a message out via a guard he had bribed with a few quid to deliver a message to the Irish Aid Association.  The guard seemed very worried about their condition and offered what help he could out of humanitarian concern.

Doctor Peters held an emergency summit with Heygate-Lambert early on day seven, to discuss the cat and mouse act.

“The what act?”  Asked Lambert, not amused.

“The Prisoners (Temporary Discharge for Ill Health) Act 1913.”

“So, tell me then?”

“In 1913 the Government passed an act that made legal the hunger strikes that the Suffragettes were undertaking at the time and it stated clearly that they would be released from prison as soon as they became ill.”

Lambert stood for a second trying to take it in.

“Stephens are you seriously suggesting that we allow the prisoners to fall ill from starvation and then just release them?“

“I thought you wanted to get out of here?”  Stephens asked, exasperated with his commandant.

“I..I do but I cannot abandon my duties here.  Yes it would be nice but I cannot just release these dangerous men back into the world.  They are an enemy army for heavens sake, regardless of what the solicitors like to call them.”

It sounded too good to be true.  Considering his luck so far it probably would be.

After checking closely it transpired that their political status prevented them from  prosecution under the act.  It could not be used on them, simple as that.

Lambert considered his options, it was time to get tough with this lot.  He knew he couldn’t force feed a hundred and fifty  men, but he did have four in the punishment cells.  He would divide and conquer.

He ordered Peters, in spite of his protests, to force feed those men in the punishment block until the one who was due for conscription submitted.

It would take place that night.

Doctor Peters had been reading up on how you would force feed a prisoner, and the more he read the sicker he felt.  By the time he had finished reading up on naso-gastric feeding tubes his mouth was dry.  What he was being asked to do was monstrous.  He had a tube small enough to just about do the job but he knew it was risky and most definitely painful.

A guard came to fetch him at eight o’clock that night.  The prisoner was ready.  Peters drew a breath and gathered his bag.

He took the short walk down to the punishment cells where he found five guards in one cell with a man tied to the four corners of a bed.  He was stripped to the waste and clearly in a distressed condition.  The ravages of hunger were evident on his body.  Pale, sore skin and bare ribs.

In the next cell were three more men, one of them Hugh Thornton.  All they could do was look on, shout, bang, and curse.  It just added to the charnel house atmosphere.

Peters looked down at the pathetic figure looking up at him in total fear.  Peters was a gentle man, the idea of somebody actually being afraid of him was uncomfortable.  He spoke.

“Prisoner I am going to administer a naso-gastric supply to your nose.  You… may experience some.. Discomfort.  I want you to try and breath normally through your mouth.  Do you understand?”

The man spoke: “No.. no lads don’t do this.  I chose to strike, this is my will.  I am a prisoner of war, not a convict.  You cannot do this.”

Peters took out the nasty looking hose.  The prisoner physically flinched when he saw it.

“No, you are not doing this to me, now.  Behave lads, this isn’t right.  Stop.. Look just stop, right?”

Peters held back the mans nose and tried first to get the hose to fit up his nose.  He could barely get it a centimetre in.  He thought about putting it down the throat instead, but that would be even more dangerous.  He tried pushing it in further but the man just kicked and screamed.  The guard held him down with a rough grip.  Another guard punched him hard in the chest.

“Stop!  Stop that at once soldier!”  Ordered Peters.

The guard, who had respect for Peters,  obeyed.

Peters got up and went out into the corridor to collect his thoughts.  He couldn’t do this.  He could not do it to a brave human being.  Nor could he look at the men in the cell to his right.

Booted footsteps echoed down the stairs.  Unmistakably Lambert.

“Is it proceeding?”  The Commandant asked.

Peters couldn’t look at him, he just paced up and down the corridor, tears in the corners of his eyes.

“Peters, will you just get on with it?”  Lambert yelled in the narrow space.

“We cannot do this, we might kill him, he is weak.”  Peters voice was breaking.

“The only thing weak here is your stomach, Doctor.”  Lambert levelled his pistol at the doctor.

“Now get in there or I will shoot you here for refusing to obey a direct order.”  Lambert’s beady eyes met the doctor’s.

Peters stumbled back into the cell.  He took the hose between a shaky finger and thumb.  He put it into the nostril of the man, and he pushed as hard as he could.

The man screamed in agony, he kicked, he thrashed, he cried for God, for home, for mercy.

The men in the next cell gripped each other in the tension.  One man put his hands to his temples and screamed.  Another pulled at the bars, like he could pull them open with his own hands.

Peters pushed hard again, and he felt something puncture.  Blood and snot leaked out of the mans nose.  He blew blood bubbles out of his nose.  He had bit his lip, which mixed with saliva.  His hands gripped the bed rails.

Peters pushed again, and the tube went in an inch.  He too, felt the man’s pain.  The tube was in now about two or three inches.  Peters wasn’t sure if the pipe had gone into his stomach or his windpipe.  If he got this part wrong he would kill him.

He took his stethoscope and put it to the mans stomach.  He then syringed some air into the pipe.  He could hear it hissing into the stomach, much to his relief.

As he reached over he caught a look in the mans eyes.  Sheer panic, unimaginable horror lay within the windows of his soul.

He filled a large syringe with the mixture of milk and nutrients he had picked for the meal.  He just hoped it stayed down, or it could get very messy.

Peters nodded to Lambert who stood in the doorway, gun in hand.

Slowly he pressed the plunger and the nutrients made their way down the tube, into the man, who just wouldn’t calm down.  He shook his head, in immense pain.

Suddenly a voice from the next cell spoke, then shouted something.

“Colonel Lambert…. COLONEL LAMBERT!  My name is Hugh Thornton and I hereby volunteer my person for service in his majesty’s armed forces.”

Lambert raised his hand to Peters, stop.

He moved over to the next cell and put his face to the bars.

“You had better not be codding me, boy.”  He growled.

Thornton just looked back, determined not to show anger.  He somehow, only God knows how, managed to keep his voice even.

“I repeat,  I am Hugh Thornton.  I hereby volunteer for service in the armed forces.”  

This time Lambert nodded slowly, glad to accept.

The poor soul on the bed had the tube slowly removed, causing a torrent of blood.  When he got up from the bed he was violently sick and fell to the floor.

“Somebody get this man a mop and bucket, he has some cleaning up to do.”  Lambert ordered.  True to his word, the made he poor fellow clean up the mess on the floor.

Eventually he was put back into the other cell with Thornton and his comrades.  They fussed over him and held paper bandages to his nose.  Thornton held him like a child, tears in his eyes.
The Doctor, the Commandant and the guards eventually made their way outside for a smoke.  The second the fresh air hit him, the Doctor leant forward and vomited violently.

Lambert looked at him with a slight smile.  “Gracious, old boy, don’t you start as well.”

Peters steadied himself, drew his hands into fists and advanced on the Commandant, no longer responsible for what he might do.

Luckily the guards noticed him just in time and dragged him away,  Eventually he retired to his quarters, and he would not be seen for days.

Heygate-Lambert shared his cigarettes out amongst the guards and took a celebratory drag of his smoke.  One down, fifty nine to go.

***14***

James had been lying on his bed trying to sleep when the knock came.  It was a guard telling him that Hugh Thornton had volunteered for service and the three other prisoners were to be returned to the north camp.  And with that the door was left unbolted.  A piece of bread and a bowl of water was left on the step.  In fact it was left on all the steps.

James and Donal took their first faltering steps in the camp grounds, squinting in the brightness.  Peter McGuire was in no shape to move, he lay on his bed somewhere between life and death.

Other men also made their way outdoors.  They looked slim and pale, like ghosts, with thin cheeks and hollow eyes.

They all looked freezing, wrapped in whatever they could find.   James thought of the pictures he had seen of refugees of the famine, and these lads looked just like them.

From round the corner came Michael Collins and William O’Brian, both unsteady on their feet.

From the far side of the camp came Bryan  Callaghan.  Amazingly he actually looked fatter, then James noticed he was still wearing his bandages from Halloween.  He decided he would always refer to his as the Mummy after that.  At least he was warm, lucky b*****d.

A camp meeting was called in the recreation hut.  O’Brian and Collins had decided to call a halt to the hunger strike, as it caused great harm to the bodies of the soldiers of Ireland for very little return.

Later that day a roll-call took place.  Lambert called out the names of three men for conscription, including Peter McGuire..  No man would be dismissed until the men came forward.  After ten minutes the inmates began to sway and fall, still horribly weak from hunger.  One after the other collapsed in a dead faint on the floor.  Eventually one man stepped forward to volunteer himself, then a second man.  James approached the Commandant, and politely explained the situation regarding Peter and his breakdown.

In a rare moment of humanity Lambert dismissed the rest of the men then he had Peter McGuire taken to the infirmary.

Afterwards the men were sent to the canteen for their first meal in days.  Most found the food inedible on their shrunken stomachs.  James could hardly swallow without excruciating pain.  In the end he became his own dietician.  He took a soft potato and mashed it down with a spoon in a glass of water then did his best to drink the solution.  It barely worked, but at least it stayed down.

The bread and water diet was now retracted.  All they could do is hope it would stay that way.  In the recreation hut the man who had been force fed had given a harrowing account of his treatment, to the horror of his comrades.  Some wanted revenge, others wanted to start a riot.  Some talked of escape.

Arthur Griffith called the meeting to order.

“Gentlemen, I do not wish to hear another word of revenge.  We have a job to do here, and that is to train the nucleus of a new army.  The treatment of prisoners in this camp will be duly accounted for with the Irish Aid Association and our various lawyers.  What we do here is important.”

It was now early December and bitterly cold.  The soldiers seemed bored and listless.  A lot had been transferred in and out, some of the new faces looked shell-shocked.  Some of the men were in no fit state to be on active duty.  If you slammed a door too hard they jumped a mile.  One man turned up drunk every day for a week before he was dismissed.

Doctor Peters had hardly been seen in camp, and when he was he looked almost as pale and thin as the inmates.  Frongoch had taken it’s toll on many men in many ways.  He had treated Peter McGuire as well as he could, but it seemed now that the young man had suffered almost total mental collapse.  Peters chose to have him sent to a military asylum, but Heygate Lambert refused, as McGuire was not a political prisoner or even an actual soldier.  So instead, he was sent to an ordinary asylum in Cardiff, where he would remain.

The hunger strikes continued on and off, here and there.  One man for one thing, another for another.

Commandant Heygate-Lambert was, as usual, in his office when the mail came.  At the time he was on the phone to Art O’Brien explaining why he felt justified to carry out force feeding.

One letter was from the War Ministry.  Lambert knew by now not to get his hopes up.  He opened it anyway with some grace.

To:  Colonel Heygate-Lambert

From:  GCHQ

As of today Frongoch camp is to be cleared of all inmates and personnel.  Inmates are to be released, as many at a time as is convenient, and repatriated to Ireland via Holyhead.  They can only land at either Rosslare or Kingstown.  NOT Dublin North Wall Docks..  Camp is to be shut down by 31 December 1916 and all staff are to be mustered at Aldershot Barracks 3 January 1917.

Finally they were all going home.  Lambert sat back and breathed out a long sigh.  At long last, they were going.  He sat up and ordered Meadows to roll-call the men.

To say the news was greeted with some scepticism was an understatement.  They thought it was the latest trick to uncover the missing conscripts.

Michael Collins went to see the Commandant in private and he saw for himself the message from GCHQ.  He also saw the tickets and clothes that had been left for them.  It wasn’t just that that convinced him.  The mood among the guards was much improved, they actually smiled at him!  If Lambert was lying, then he was lying to everybody.  Or somebody in turn was lying to him.

Collins was eighty per cent certain the notice was not a trick.

The first men left on 17 December 1916, in an open topped truck that drove them in bitter condition up to Holyhead docks.  By 23 December it was the turn of James and Donal.  They were issued extra clothes, five pounds and some food.  Then they were taken in an  open topped truck on a bitter cold drive up to Holyhead through the bleak Welsh winter.  When they arrived there they found it a mass of soldiers and the munitions of war.  Battleship stood shoulder to shoulder with ferries and even a new submarine.  Their ferry journey was uneventful, in fact they slept most of it.  Very few people would go near them as they looked rough and dirty.

Commandant Lambert watched them go.  His troubles were finally over and his job here was done.  Ah, all’s well that ends well.  He had carried out his duties and nobody had escaped or died.  Surely they owed him a commission on the front line now.  Suddenly Sergeant Meadows opened the door, looking rather pale.

“Sir, it’s Doctor Peters sir.  He..  “ His voice trailed off.

“He what man?  Spit it out!”

“He is dead sir.  It seems he drowned himself in the river this morning.”

Lambert sat back, stunned.  What on earth had made him do that?  Peters' work here was done now, he could go home.  He just couldn’t understand it.

A short search of his office revealed a letter from the Irish Aid Board stating that they wished to prosecute over the force feeding incident.  So that was what had made him do it.  Lambert scrunched up the letter and swept everything off the desk in a fit of fury.  He knew GCHQ would not take the news lightly.

Those Fenian b******s had had the last laugh on him after all.

James and Donal arrived in Kingstown harbour at noon on Christmas eve and made their slow progress home.  The two men stopped at a pub for some lunch and a couple of celebratory pints.  In fact they just ate what they could and left half their beer, as they just couldn’t finish it.

From there they caught a lift with a hay cart that took them up to Booterstown where they spent a night at  Donal’s aunt’s house.

On Christmas morning James made his way back to his family’s home in Dolphin’s barn.  Nobody was in and he had no key so he waited for them on the door step, slowly getting used to the noises of Dublin city.

It was a great surprise gift for Alphonse and Mary Joyce and their daughter to find their son sat on their doorstep when they came home from church.  In fact his parents thought it was the greatest blessing and the best Christmas present ever.



The End


At least for a while