life.’
‘That’s true of most of us. It’s not so hard, although some of the men resent it. They think it’s aping the British. But the Big Fellow says we need to change from being fighters into soldiers. Discipline wasn’t strong among the Volunteers at the best of times, and drill and turnout are important. You’ve been allocated a room in the Officers’ Mess.’
Tomas, who has difficulty thinking of himself as an officer, gets his uniform the following day and spends the next fortnight in a squad of a dozen lieutenants, drilling in the morning and learning their duties in the afternoon. The instructors are ex-British Army and not all of them have impeccable War of Independence credentials.
‘There were thirty-six of us at the Kilmichael ambush, and I’ve met forty-eight of them in the past three months,’ says Donal.
Tomas tolerates the drilling every morning, although some of his companions have two left feet. Nevertheless there are moments when The Squad halts or presents arms as one, and Tomas admits to himself, although not to the others, that these are curiously satisfying. He stops the heavy drinking when Donal takes him to one side in the Officers’ Mess.
‘Tomas, I don’t know the cause of your drinking and I don’t care. I do know you’ll be out on your ear if it goes on any longer.’
He makes a half-hearted attempt to see Kitty, watching Station Road from a safe distance early one Sunday morning in the hope of intercepting her on the way to Mass. Instead he sees Frank O’Gowan leaving the house, and the violent jealousy that overwhelms him is followed by a return of the despair that had turned him to drink. He goes back to Ballincollig, realizing that he cannot see Kitty or Frank again. He asks Donal about Frank.
‘Frank O’Gowan’s got a company in the second battalion. They’re at Macroom,’ says Donal. ‘I’m not sure for how long – he’s an out-and-out Republican, doesn’t try to hide it. Weren’t you with him at Staigue?’
‘I was.’ Tomas does not elaborate further, thinks that the twenty miles between Ballincollig and Macroom is distance enough.
In the second week they take it in turns to drill The Squad, and all but two are deemed competent to take on their new roles as platoon commanders. Tomas’s platoon, three sections of ten men each headed by a corporal, is slightly below full strength. His sergeant, James O’Connor, is a Connaught Rangers veteran who had fought in the Boer War and survived the German spring offensive in 1918. Tomas and he have a careful respect for each other. Tomas knows O’Connor has been a proper soldier, O’Connor knows Tomas has been one of The Squad.
Most of Tomas’s platoon have seen, or claimed to have seen, some action in the many skirmishes and ambushes of the War of Independence. Once the novelty of their new uniforms, regular meals and a sound roof overhead wears off they are easily bored. Tomas’s and Sergeant O’Connor’s solution is ceaseless activity. Drilling, a ten-mile route march once a week, weapons training, firing practice, Gaelic football and hurling are the best possible substitute for war. There is no time for disaffection. The Ballincollig bar is off limits, and the prohibition is strictly observed after two members of No. 3 Platoon are caught there and sent home.
Tomas finds the transition to lieutenant difficult, sustainable only by acting the role, a role largely improvised with few stage directions and a brief script. It is reassuring that his brother officers clearly feel the same. Only Donal seems entirely comfortable.
‘He’s one of nature’s adjutants,’ Tomas says to O’Connor. ‘He does it all without breaking sweat.’
In the Officers’ Mess the play-acting is at its most pronounced. They are waited on by women from the village, they eat off plates bearing the crossed lances of a departed British cavalry regiment with the King’s broad arrow underneath, and they stand to drink the
‘That’s true of most of us. It’s not so hard, although some of the men resent it. They think it’s aping the British. But the Big Fellow says we need to change from being fighters into soldiers. Discipline wasn’t strong among the Volunteers at the best of times, and drill and turnout are important. You’ve been allocated a room in the Officers’ Mess.’
Tomas, who has difficulty thinking of himself as an officer, gets his uniform the following day and spends the next fortnight in a squad of a dozen lieutenants, drilling in the morning and learning their duties in the afternoon. The instructors are ex-British Army and not all of them have impeccable War of Independence credentials.
‘There were thirty-six of us at the Kilmichael ambush, and I’ve met forty-eight of them in the past three months,’ says Donal.
Tomas tolerates the drilling every morning, although some of his companions have two left feet. Nevertheless there are moments when The Squad halts or presents arms as one, and Tomas admits to himself, although not to the others, that these are curiously satisfying. He stops the heavy drinking when Donal takes him to one side in the Officers’ Mess.
‘Tomas, I don’t know the cause of your drinking and I don’t care. I do know you’ll be out on your ear if it goes on any longer.’
He makes a half-hearted attempt to see Kitty, watching Station Road from a safe distance early one Sunday morning in the hope of intercepting her on the way to Mass. Instead he sees Frank O’Gowan leaving the house, and the violent jealousy that overwhelms him is followed by a return of the despair that had turned him to drink. He goes back to Ballincollig, realizing that he cannot see Kitty or Frank again. He asks Donal about Frank.
‘Frank O’Gowan’s got a company in the second battalion. They’re at Macroom,’ says Donal. ‘I’m not sure for how long – he’s an out-and-out Republican, doesn’t try to hide it. Weren’t you with him at Staigue?’
‘I was.’ Tomas does not elaborate further, thinks that the twenty miles between Ballincollig and Macroom is distance enough.
In the second week they take it in turns to drill The Squad, and all but two are deemed competent to take on their new roles as platoon commanders. Tomas’s platoon, three sections of ten men each headed by a corporal, is slightly below full strength. His sergeant, James O’Connor, is a Connaught Rangers veteran who had fought in the Boer War and survived the German spring offensive in 1918. Tomas and he have a careful respect for each other. Tomas knows O’Connor has been a proper soldier, O’Connor knows Tomas has been one of The Squad.
Most of Tomas’s platoon have seen, or claimed to have seen, some action in the many skirmishes and ambushes of the War of Independence. Once the novelty of their new uniforms, regular meals and a sound roof overhead wears off they are easily bored. Tomas’s and Sergeant O’Connor’s solution is ceaseless activity. Drilling, a ten-mile route march once a week, weapons training, firing practice, Gaelic football and hurling are the best possible substitute for war. There is no time for disaffection. The Ballincollig bar is off limits, and the prohibition is strictly observed after two members of No. 3 Platoon are caught there and sent home.
Tomas finds the transition to lieutenant difficult, sustainable only by acting the role, a role largely improvised with few stage directions and a brief script. It is reassuring that his brother officers clearly feel the same. Only Donal seems entirely comfortable.
‘He’s one of nature’s adjutants,’ Tomas says to O’Connor. ‘He does it all without breaking sweat.’
In the Officers’ Mess the play-acting is at its most pronounced. They are waited on by women from the village, they eat off plates bearing the crossed lances of a departed British cavalry regiment with the King’s broad arrow underneath, and they stand to drink the
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