JO

Say what you like, boys, the war with England was
only a squabble between friends. A squabble that
is beside our war. For I seen both, and believe
me, they were won and lost by different
men.... Let me give you an example.

When the first draft was setting out for Limerick
I noted the Marshal amongst them.  Now, the
Marshal was not one of our lads; he was the son
of a British soldier who lived close by Cork
Barracks. He had never done a day’s honest work
to my knowledge, nor to anyone else’s, and though
I have no desire to speak ill of the dead, he
wasn’t the sort of man that people like you or me
would care to chum up with. But, of course, I had
nothing to say to that. He joined the colours
with the rest, and in a few days’ time went off
to Limerick with a good soldier’s rifle in his
fist. I don’t know that he could even use the
same—with ability, I mean.

Sitting beside him on the lorry was our Jo— Jo
Kiely that is. Jo was a tall, thin, pasty-faced
lad with high cheek—bones, that used to work in
the haberdashery—he’s in America now, so I can
freely tell the tale. Jo and myself were always
good pals, but all the same—I say this, remember,
without malice—Jo was another of the latter-end
battalion. Speaking from memory, he was what
you’d call a real, nice, good—natured fellow,
though that free-and-easy smile of his had been
spoiled by him having two front teeth knocked out
in a tap-room row. There was a wild streak in
Jo. Two nights before he joined, in the dews of
dawn as you might say, didn’t he knock me up with
some daft scheme or other for stealing an express
train and posting overnight to Dublin (where, you
may remember, there was a big fight on). That was
Jo, to the life.

I bid good-bye to the rest of the lads, and then
I leaned on the edge of the truck and talked
particularly to Jo. So the Marshal asking me did
I think there would be much fighting in Limerick
I naturally said I hoped there would, and the
hell of a lot of it. A queer question that was
for one soldier to ask another, Would there be
much fighting? He didn’t take his answer too well
either, as I duly perceived by his face which was
very fat and purplish-like, with big, raw, womany
gills. So then the lorries whizzed off. I stood
there cheering, and our lads all cheered, and Jo
stood up in the lorry and blazed all round him
with pure pleasure. But the Marshal didn’t let as
much as a squeak out of him, and I went away
wondering in my own mind what had the likes of
him out with the Irish Republican Army.

Well, as you may remember, the way we lost the
war was the two sides coming to a treaty in
Limerick while our lads were being blown
helter-skelter out of the Four Courts in Dublin.
So there being no war to speak of, the Marshal
came home on leave in a day or two and then went
back again. It was some time after before I was
up their way. I was driving a Lancia car, and
when I got as far as Kilmallock I seen it was
only too true what we heard: that the truce in
Limerick was after being treacherously broken and
our army beaten out of the town. I drove into
Croom that night, and found my own company
stationed there, so when I gave them all the news
from home I went off, very pleased to be able to
spend the night with Jo. Strange to relate, I
found him sleeping with the Marshal, and had, of
course, to roll in, three together.

Next morning, when Jo and I went off to scrounge
a packet of Scottish Field from the
Quartermaster, I remarked in confidence it was a
surprise to see him so pally with the
Marshal—because the Marshal wasn’t exactly our
class— so it turned out that Jo knew the
Marshal’s father well, a really good sort though
a bit gone on drink. Jo told me, too, in
confidence that the Marshal was after making well
out of the Limerick joint, Jo having searched his
kit at the time and found four watches and a
dozen of silver spoons, not to mention other
articles that weren’t in the regulation
equipment. This was no surprise to me, seeing who
the Marshal was, and the strange fact that he
asked for leave a few days after getting to the
front; but, to be fair to all, I must say that
you could never be certain of what you heard from
Jo, for he had a strong imagination.

Anyhow, Jo was for keeping a quiet eye on
him—because there were some things Jo wouldn’t
put up with, and that was one—but, otherwise,
they were good pals. The same night Jo sniped a
bottle of booze out of the local public, and the
three of us drank it together.  Afterwards, I
drove a lorry-load of prisoners home to the city,
so I didn’t see either of them again for a
while. But I brought messages home for them, and
had a long talk with the Marshal’s father, who,
as Jo said, was a really good sort. He was in bad
health, and had only six shillings a week pension
from the British Army, and his wife drank, so you
can imagine what an unpleasant thing it was for
me to go there at all: still they brought in a
half-dozen of stout while I was there, and the
father said (which was only right) that his
feelings had always been with our lads, and that
he was proud of the Marshal having fighting blood
in him, as he said.

After this Jo and the Marshal and the rest of our
lads came back, and they were in the fighting at
Passage when the other side landed. We lost the
war again at Passage—the most lamentable day of
my life, I must admit, because my best pal was
killed there, and because our lads, that were as
fine a lot of soldiers as ever did right wheel on
a parade ground, were being blown right and left
like sheep without a shepherd. When I reported at
the barracks for instructions I seen clearly what
a hopeless mess we were in, With our rotten
Commandant astray in his wits, shouting to all
and sundry to escape, and our gallant Michael
Desmond crying like a child because he couldn’t
stop the scare.

That evening, with my own hands I drove the last
batch of our lads, out of the city; a lonely,
lonely feeling that was, I remember, so that half
the time I felt like crying myself. It was a hot
summer’s day and still bright daylight; far away
on a hill—top you could see the Victoria Barracks
sending up a blast of yellow smoke. As for the
road, you couldn’t keep your eyes open for dust,
and at every side of you was the baggage our lads
had dumped out to make the cars go faster.  God!
they hadn’t half the wind up, that misfortunate
day! A lump as big as an apple used to rise in my
gullet when we passed people on the road, and I
seen by their smiles what they thought of us.

Jo was sitting beside me at the wheel, and every
now and then he cursed something deplorable, and
remarked how he had a revolver drawn to plug the
Commandant, only someone dragged him off. But
again Jo was like that, and though I felt for him
in my heart I knew he was easily moved to believe
he did things that he never did at all. He told
me that the Marshal had whipped his kit and
stopped behind, and was blaming himself that he
didn’t shoot the Marshal too.

We slept that night in the castle of Macroom and
next day we were paraded by Michael Desmond and
told to go back to our homes quietly. He spoke so
well, and we all loved him so much, that we could
hardly keep our eyes dry.  When we were dismissed
most of the crowd started out to walk the twenty
miles back home, but Jo and I stayed on for the
night, and, to relieve our melancholy feelings,
got mad drunk and proceeded to shoot up the
town. I was told after that I split one man’s
head with the butt of my revolver.

I think now maybe our little spree did us good,
for when we went back we weren’t half as sick as
some of the others; and Jo and I and two lads out
of the company began chucking bombs at the other
side and always went about with a Webley in our
pockets in case we got a chance of hitting
anything. We heard when we got home that the
Marshal was after joining up the other side, and
Jo blamed himself again that he didn’t shoot him
when he had the chance—a man, he said, that had
disgraced our flag with theft and cowardice.  But
this time Jo was more easily consoled, because he
walked back into the arms of a sweet little girl
who thought him the finest thing God made; and,
anyway, as we both agreed, the Marshal was no
good to any side.

Jo was becoming very wild and, I must admit, a
real good shot, which in such dangerous warfare
as ours (a dead man being a dead man) is of
more advantage than in open fighting. But we
weren’t such pals as we used to be before the
girl came along, because he thought I was in
love with her and would give him away to the
other side just to get rid of him. He was real
mad about that. This will show you what an
imaginary man Jo was when roused. So he used
to go off some nights from wherever we happened
to be sleeping with a pal of his called Alec
Gorman, who was as daft as himself and do a job
on his own, and myself and another fellow would
then do a job on our own to wile away the time.
This was not very pally as you will naturally
remark, but it came about, as I tell you,
through Jo’s imagination.

So one night when we were sleeping in a cottage
about five miles outside the city it came into Jo’s
head that fighting was better than lonesomeness,
so he and Alec sneaked off on their own. After a
bit myself and my pal noted what they were up to
(because they had taken their rifles), but there
was nothing to be done about it, so we turned in,
taking a bed apiece.

It was long after daybreak when they came home. I
was awake but I was so offended that I didn’t
speak to them at all. Then, seeing me so hurt Jo
got into bed beside me, and as it was the first
time he had done that for a month I felt a bit
mollified.

After a while he turned on his side and whispered
into my ear that he was very fond of me and
wanted to be friends again. I was very pleased,
and we shook hands heartily on it, he being, as I
perceived, hot and excited; and he said he was
sorry for the misunderstanding about the girl and
about me not being with them, because the other
side had come on them, and I couldn’t wish for a
better fight. So we solemnly agreed there and
then never to go out again without one another.

I left before the others were awake that day,
taking care not to disturb Jo, with whom I felt
friendlier even than before the falling out. I
had a bit of work to do in town seeing the
Quartermaster, and lo and behold! what was my
surprise to read on the paper that there had been
a big fight on the railway line and that the poor
Marshal of all men was killed.  Of course, I knew
it must have been Jo and Alec and some others who
were on the job, but for all that I was very
sorry for the poor Marshal, who, with all his
fear of death, had not succeeded in escaping the
natural end of man. That evening, being anxious
to do the neighbourly thing, however strange it
might appear, I went towards the barracks to tell
his old father how sorry I was, when who should I
see sail smiling down towards me but Jo! I will
say for Jo that he was a real, daring man.

‘Call me a hypocrite, quick, Jack! says he.

‘Hypocrite what?’ says I, not understanding.  ‘Do
you know where he was plugged?

‘Did I plug him myself?’ says Jo blandly.

Well, I looked at him and my mouth must have been
fit to drive a carriage and pair through.

‘Listen to me,’ says Jo, suddenly becoming
serious and pulling me in as his way was till he
had me against the wall.

‘This morning we stopped on the way out for a
drink, Alec and myself. It was damn near dawn
when we got to the railway line, too late to do
much damage, so we agreed that as a matter of
principle we’d just tear up a few of the rails.
We were usefully employed on that occupation when
about ten of the other side attacked us from the
road. Alec ran up the cutting and the other side
followed him, but I hid behind a clump of bushes,
thinking no one would be left and that I could
get to some commanding position and take them in
the rear. After a few minutes, things having
quietened down, I lifted my head, and if I did, a
bullet popped by it as clean. as tuppence.

‘There was no trouble about getting away. All I
had to do was to creep down the far side of the
embankment, and skip off in the opposite
direction.  But I knew there was a man on the
bridge waiting for me to appear, and at that
minute it was as plain as the breaking day to me,
that the man was the Marshal, and no one but the
Marshal, and there was nothing in the world I
wanted more than to put a bullet in the Marshal’s
thick skull. I made one run across the line to
get at him, and he must have guessed who I was,
for all at once he went wild and as I got close
to the pathway by the bridge he leaned over the
side and sent shot after shot down on top of me.

‘Now, as I remarked, it was dawning day. The
railway cutting was all foggy and dark (which
probably saved my life), but there was a white
light on the bridge, and when I looked up and
seen his fat baby face all shaking with
excitement and the bolt not slamming home quick
enough for him, by God, I went wild too! Instead
of climbing the pathway up the side I stood there
on the rails and lifted my rifle as if I was
trying to bring down a bird. I think the fool
must have been half-mad with fright not to take
cover, but there he hung over the top blazing
away wildly and every second making him a more
certain mark for the Angel of Death! I didn’t
even duck from one of his shots; I took my aim as
cool and determined as if he was only a cockshot
at a fair. I fired three times running, and
before I could fire a fourth Babyface was down on
top of me like a sack of meal. I had to jump out
of his way or he’d have knocked me flying. He went
bash between the rails, his cap sailed one Way
and his rifle another, and when I looked at him, I
seen his head twisted skew-ways; he cracked his
neck in the fall. But two of the shots had got
him, brother, two out of three!’

‘Did you look for the other?’ says I, by way of
no harm. ' .

‘Oh, two it was all right,’ says he, without a
smile.

‘And how did you feel like talking to the old
man?’ I asked him after a while.

‘I felt like hell,’ said Jo. ‘That was the worst
of it. Somehow, I couldn’t resist the temptation
to say a word to him, and when he seen me what
should he do but throw his two arms round me, and
go on about having only one child and the Lord
God taking him. Then he fell to crying and said I
should have been there to save him.  Imagine me
saving him! I tell you I felt like hell because
I’m fond of that old man!’

‘And was the Mar—was the corpse, I mean, inside?’
said I.

‘It was,’ said Jo. ‘’Tis a nasty sight!’

‘God rest him!’ said I, meaning the Marshal.
‘He wasn’t a bad sort himself.’

‘God blast him!’ said Jo between his clinched
teeth. ‘He was a bastard and an enemy of the
Republic, and I swore to be quits with him. Go on
in now before you’re too late. They’re drinking
the dozen of silver spoons inside.’

‘I will not,’ said I a bit short. ‘I was only
intending to be neighbourly.’

On those very words we parted, and somehow I
could never bring myself to be pally with Jo
again. Though, as I said before, he was an
imaginary man, and didn’t always mean what he
said, there was a terrible wild streak in him.

And after that, too, I never spoke a word to
Jo’s girl again.