By such arguments we convinced the Headquarters Staff. The Flying Columns were organised and on them fell the brunt of the war for the remaining twelve months. Perhaps the most successful aspect of this system was that it enabled active counties like Tipperary and Cork to send columns from time to time into places like Kilkenny and Waterford, where, owing to the apathy of the locals, the British were having too quiet a time.
During these autumn days of 1920 poor Dinny Lacy was constantly with me in Dublin, and many an exciting adventure we had together, dodging or defying “G” men, or spies who got on our trail.
Dinny, whose name figured prominently in the events of 1920 to 1922, was born in Goldengarden, in the heart of Tipperary. He was educated in Donaskeigh School in the parish of the patriotic Father Matt Ryan, the “General of the Land War.” Dinny was a great sprinter and footballer; in fact he was an all-round man. His home was only about a mile from mine, and we knew each other from boyhood. He went to Tipperary town as a boy, and soon became his employer’s most trusted man as manager of a big coal and provision premises. He never smoked or drank and he was always extremely religious, and could be seen at Mass every morning in Tipperary. He was always a keen student of the Irish language and he became an enthusiastic Volunteer from the very start of that force. In Easter Week of 1916 he was one of the small band who answered the call to mobilise for action at Galbally, six miles from Tipperary, but the countermand sent him home, and like the rest of the men of Tipperary, he was given no chance of striking a blow that week.
In the summer of 1916 he was one of the most enthusiastic in favouring the reorganisation of the Irish Volunteers as a fighting force. Modest and unassuming he was always on the look-out for a rifle or a revolver, and he spent all his own money in making such purchases. He gave everything, even his life, in the cause of freedom.
During 1917 and 1918 I came into frequent contact with him again. He took part in the big fight at Kilmallock in May, 1920, and shortly afterwards he had to go on the run. Henceforth he became one of the most daring and successful fighters against the British. So much was he hated by the Black and Tans that they actually burned down the house in which he had lodged in Tipperary. Poor Dinny! He escaped the bullets of the English only to be killed by the Free Staters in an encounter in the Glen of Aherlow early in 1923.
However, I must resume my story. I knew my days were numbered if I remained in Dublin. The British had spies and “touts” and “spotters” everywhere. They had promised liberal rewards for information, and were at this time making desperate efforts to restore their Secret Service and to match it against ours. Everywhere one saw the khaki and the guns and the lorries. It was quite a common thing for an ordinary pedestrian to be held up and searched by troops on the streets six or seven times in the one day. They jumped off lorries and searched and questioned passers-by. They boarded tramcars and searched every passenger. They surrounded whole blocks of buildings and remained for days with a cordon drawn around while every house was being searched from cellar to attic. All these things were not rare, but daily occurrences.
At the same time people were brought to the Castle and tortured for information. Letters were opened in the post; hotel servants were bribed, and an elaborate and speedy system of telephonic code was arranged for the touts and spotters. Is it surprising that in such circumstances I was often hard-pressed to escape? I was being shadowed at every step and I knew it, but I always carried my gun strapped to my wrist, and concealed by the sleeve of my coat, ready to meet whoever challenged me.
At last came an adventure which I thought would prove my last. I was standing one Friday night alone at the Henry Street corner of Nelson’s Pillar. I had arranged to spend the night at Carolan’s, between Drumcondra and Whitehall. The Whitehall car came along and I jumped on board, going on top. At once five men sprang on to the same car and came up the stairs at my heels. Two of them I immediately recognised as members of the Castle murder gang which had recently been organised by General Tudor, Commander of the notorious Auxiliaries. This murder gang consisted of a number of Irishmen and Englishmen who were instructed to shoot any prominent I.R.A. officer whenever they got the chance, whether he was a prisoner in their hands or in whatever way they got the chance. This, of course, was known to Sir Hamar Greenwood and had his approval, the members of the gang being not only specially paid, but assured that no matter what evidence was brought against them they would never even be tried. They did, as a matter of fact, succeed in murdering a good number of our men here and there through the country. One of the leaders of the gang was a Head Constable, who had served as an ordinary constable a few years previously in my own part of the country round Tipperary.
The organisation of this murder gang was kept a close secret, even from military and police officials. We, of course, knew all about it from our own Secret Service. We knew most of the members’ names and the murders in which they had taken part. In addition, Headquarters had supplied photographs of some of them to our Brigades.
So when I recognised two of the gang on the tramcar that night I did not need to be a Sherlock Holmes to make up my mind that their three companions were also of the same ilk. But it was not the history of the murder gang I was recounting when I realised my predicament. I was in a tight corner. To attempt to retreat from the car would be a plain invitation to them to open fire. Besides there was the bare possibility that their presence on the car was a mere coincidence. Perhaps they did not recognise me at all. Perhaps they were really on some other job.