Chapter Nineteen
Reflections Of An Officer
It was barely nine o'clock on what would otherwise have been a beautiful summer's evening here in County Dublin.
Captain Miles Stathum M.C. late of 1/5th The Suffolk Regiment, and now attached to the 2nd Manchesters stationed in Dublin, sat on the wide running board of the Crossley 20/25 staff car smoking yet another a cigarette. He was beginning to get pins and needles in his feet. Wearily, he uncrossed his long legs, and leaned cautiously back against the bullet scarred bodywork of the motor, dispassionately surveying the scene of carnage before him with, in equal good measure, a mounting sense of annoyance, distaste, impatience, and irritation.
Evidence of this evening's engagement lay all about him. Broken glass and spent bullet casings littered the road, while the smell of cordite and spilled motor oil still hung heavy in the evening air. Up ahead, close to the bullet ridden Morris Oxford, which the Shinners had used to form a makeshift barrier with which to try and block the road, several bodies lay motionless on the now bloodstained surface of the lane. His own men were now moving cautiously from the immediate scene of the fight, spreading out in all directions, down the lane, into the neighbouring fields, the adjacent farmyard, gathering up discarded revolvers, rifles, and clips of ammunition as they went; their former owners now no longer had need of any of them.
Christ, would these bloody bog Irish never learn? Why, only less than a year ago, not long after the fight at Gaza, where in November 1918 he had won his M.C. just before the whole damned show had finally ended, even Johnny Turk had realised when the game was up, and then surrendered.
But as for these ruddy Shinners?
Oh no.
Mind you, at least he himself had always had a sneaking regard for Johnny Turk. After all, when he decided to bestir himself and wasn't spending his time buggering some poor young Arab boy senseless, then Johnny Turk was half way to being a decent fighter. Although, on reflection, thought Stathum ruefully, that … that was probably also in no small measure due to von Falkenhayn, the former German Chief of Staff who, late in the war, had been given the unenviable task of instilling discipline into the Ottoman army, putting some backbone into Johnny Turk, and so leading to a spirited, if ultimately futile, resistance against Allenby's inexorable advance on Jerusalem.
But as for these damned Shinners, Stathum had nothing but the greatest possible contempt. No discipline, no uniforms, mounting ambushes, commando, and guerilla raids, just like the bloody Boers had done nigh on twenty years ago in the late South African War.
Sooner or later thought Stathum, it was inevitable that the army would have to assume a greater degree of control over here in Ireland. Martial law must be brought in too; the sooner the better. After all, it was obvious that the Royal Irish Constabulary simply couldn't cope with the increasing levels of both lawlessness and violence. And if he, and others like him, could see it, then so too could the bloody Shinners.
Loathe as Stathum was to admit it, he could see that the enemy was starting to gain the upper hand, striking in their own way, and in their own time, at the railways, at the postal services, burning police barracks, seizing weapons and ammunition, shooting government officials, those they considered to be informers in the pay of the British, then melting away into the bogs and the mists, harassing the patrols sent out to search for them. Not all their operations were by any means as bungled as tonight's little fracas had been; this had been little more than a sideshow of a sideshow. But while the Shinners might never be in a position to drive the British out of Ireland, they might just yet manage to make our position here untenable and our military activities ultimately futile.
God, what a bloody mess! Of course, it didn't help matters that while the British Administration in Dublin Castle controlled the police, the army still came under the War Office back in London. And as for the fifty-one army battalions deployed over here in Ireland, it all sounded terrific on paper.
In practice?
Well, it was a different story altogether. Most of them were not even up to full strength, filled with green recruits, and expected to cover vast areas of the country. Privately, like several others of his rank, Stathum also was beginning to think that the British Administration in Dublin had lost the plot; had heard several not so guarded comments made to that effect in the officers' mess; that if they were not damned careful, the British would lose any advantage they presently possessed.
One simply couldn't afford to be squeamish in dealing with these bastards. Stathum agreed with both the Prime Minister and with Churchill the Colonial Secretary. Send in more troops and sod the consequences. Stamp down hard on the Irish, burn Dublin to the ground, torch the whole damned country from end to end if necessary, and deal with these ruddy bastards once and for all.
It was rumoured that the Colonial Secretary had said he was strongly in favour of using poisoned gas against uncivilised tribes. True, Churchill had been speaking about Mesopotamia or some such other godforsaken place. But, if the use of poison gas could be justified against the ruddy Arabs, then why not use it here in Ireland on the bloody papists? After all, the bog Irish Catholics were no better than the Arabs. So use it here and have done with it. Do anything in fact that would give Ireland peace. After all, did it really matter so very much how many of the Shinners and their sympathisers were executed, how many of their houses were burned? And, if they wanted to go on hunger strike, then let them.
As for Irish independence … God Almighty, Stathum shook his head in disbelief. His parents were landed gentry, who hailed from near Lavenham over in Suffolk, in the east of England. They owned an estate here in Ireland too; had done for over three centuries - Mountgrace House, not far from Limerick. His father was both a retired colonel and a magistrate. When in residence, their family provided local employment up at the big house and throughout the year their tenants continued to farm the surrounding land. Neither he nor his parents were going to give in to intimidation, let their home go up in smoke without so much as a fight. Why the bloody hell should they? After all they had as much right to live here as anybody else. And make no mistake thought Stathum, what we have; we'll keep. No doubt about that. None whatsoever.
As for this evening's stupid, bloody shindy - Stathum would not even deign to dignify it with the term "action" - fought here on a quiet country lane north east of Dublin actually achieved? Precisely nothing. Not a bloody thing.
And all for what?
Another failed, misguided, useless attempt to seize arms from a military convoy; this time on its way up from Howth to Dublin. Clearly the bloody Shinners' intelligence wasn't up to much, otherwise they'd have known about the reinforcements accompanying the two heavily laden motor lorries loaded with munitions.
"Sir?" Statham was jolted out of his reverie by the appearance before him of his corporal. His boots crunching on the gravel of the lane, the young NCO snapped smartly to attention and saluted. Wearily, Statham rose to his feet and returned the salute.
"So, how many have we lost this time, corporal" he asked tersely.
"Three, sir. Sergeant Maxwell killed outright with a bullet through the head, and Privates Cooke and Jones have both sustained flesh wounds. Cooke's lost a lot of blood, sir. the bullet's smashed his arm. As for the Shinners ..."
"Damn the bloody Shinners man!" He saw his corporal visibly blanch under his unexpected outburst; realised immediately that he'd been too harsh. The fast deteriorating situation here in Ireland was getting to them all. He relented and spoke in a more measured tone. "Tell me then. How many of those bastards did we get?"
"Four sir. So far. We're presently searching the farm buildings, conducting a thorough sweep of the immediate area. And …" The corporal paused.
Stathum looked up at him.
"And?" He saw the corporal swallow hard.
"Out with it man!"
"Over in the farmyard sir". The corporal nodded in the general direction of the neighbouring farm buildings. "If you don't mind me saying so, I think you'd better come and see for yourself".