An Cosantóir

An Cosantóir March 2016 www.dfmagazine.ie 22 | by JOHN MCGUIGGAN, BARRISTER AT LAW W ho were they and where did they come from? Those stern-looking English soldiers marching from Kingstown through the spring sunshine into the second city of their empire to crush rebellion, looked so young to the mostly cheering citizens, but they were the teeth of an empire, and were about to be unleashed upon those who would dare to question that empire's rule in Ireland. Terribly young and inexperienced, some amongst their marching ranks had not yet even fired their weapons on the ranges, let alone in anger against a determined foe. Almost none of the privates were experi- enced in war and none of them in the urban warfare towards which they now marched. They were all volunteers but they had signed on to fight in Belgium and France, not Ireland. Despite the casualty lists they were still prepared to sign on and to die for their country, but in Flanders, not Dublin. They were from the North Midlands Division, recruited from a great slice of England running from the seaside towns of Lincolnshire, across the great agricul- tural plains to the coalfields of Notting- hamshire, through the hills and dales of Derbyshire, down into the industrial heart- land of Staffordshire, Birmingham and the Black Country, before rising again towards the Welsh border. These khaki-clad soldiers were fishermen and shepherds; tradesmen and unskilled workers from mills and factories; coalmin- ers, gun makers, tool makers and brewers. Many would have been as poor as Dublin's poor, coming from overcrowded industrial slums or primitive rural cottages, stunted by deference and class; cannon fodder for Flan- ders. Most didn't have the vote but they were loyal and brave enough to die. But dying in Dublin would not have crossed their minds before they marched with loaded weapons towards the risen city. The Sher- wood Forest- ers led the march. They were without machine guns, hand grenades or mortars, and even if they had had them, most lacked the training to use them. But overwhelming numbers would count in the crushing of the rebellion and they were numbered in their imperial hundreds. The officers were exclusively public school, which by then had effectively become officer factories, such was the casualty rate in the trenches. The adjutant leading the march was married to an Irish girl who had played hockey for Ireland and whose brother had died at the Front only the month before the Rising. She and her two small children were over from Nottingham to spend Easter with her parents in Blackrock. When she saw the soldiers marching along the coast road, she would have been amazed to see her husband at their head, when she thought he must have been in France. The adjutant fell out from the ranks and embraced his wife and children. War had kept them apart but the Fates had conspired to bring them together. It was a too-brief embrace, as the captain had to rejoin his marching soldiers, but perhaps they could meet for tea on Sunday? As he rushed back to the front of his battalion, waving goodbye, there would probably have been some smart remarks from his soldiers, maybe even some coarse banter. However, the sergeant major would stop that fairly quickly with a firm "Settle down, lads!" No need to shout, they weren't on the parade ground now, they were marching into battle. The sergeant major, who had worked as an apprentice in the cloth trade and taught at a Methodist Sunday school before the war, was twenty-two years old! You wouldn't usually make corporal by that age, but the Great War was killing on an industrial scale; great cohorts of NCOs and officers were being systematically wiped out in the trenches, and new men, experienced well beyond their years, were being promoted to ranks they would never attain in a peacetime army. But twenty- two! Sergeants major should be veterans, feared on the parade ground, mentors in the field; mature, wise, experienced, reliable; looked up to by both officers and men. If the most senior NCO of this army advancing on Ballsbridge was but twenty- two then God bless the youths who were the sergeants, corporals and privates that he now steadied. They were becoming more cautious now. Shots had been fired at them; inef- fective shots from isolated rebels, but enough to increase the tension as they approached the edge of the city. What must they have thought as they marched down Northumberland Road, a quiet, leafy avenue of grand houses that could be anywhere in England. Like Nottingham, where the adjutant lived in just such an avenue, alongside barristers, doctors and well-to-do businessmen, with servants, well-tended gardens and an air of prosperity. What on earth were they do- ing, advancing down this so British-look- ing, peaceful place, holding loaded rifles? The prettiness and ordinary familiarity of the place would surely have relaxed them. Their fear would probably have been British soldiers on Northumberland Road during the Easter Rising 1916. Photo: UCD-OFM Partnership/South Dublin Libraries

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