Love and Courage
by
Philip Coogan
Strategic Book Publishing and Rights Co.
E-book edition © 2014
Print edition © 2013 Philip Coogan - ISBN: 978-1-62516-237-3
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission, in writing, of the publisher.
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Love and Courage is a true story. This book I dedicate to my loving family: wife Patricia; children Aileen, Philip and Brenda; and to the memory of deceased family.
My thanks to people in the medical profession and a friend who, hearing of my journey, suggested that I could write and tell my story. My gratitude to those around me, who suffered and endured; and to my wife Patricia, for keeping our family and three young children together, all standing shoulder to shoulder with me during the darkest years of my life, being ill and of little help to anyone. Be assured all are constantly in my thoughts.
Table of Contents
PART ONE
Chapter 1. Spirit of My Ancestors
Chapter 2. Royal Irish Constabulary
Chapter 3. 1921 Offaly Burnings
Chapter 4. Philip Joins the National Army
Chapter 5. Born in Manchester
Chapter 6. A Schoolboy’s War
Chapter 7. Near-Death Experience
Chapter 8. Priesthood Call
Chapter 9. Border Incident
Chapter 10. Crossroads
Chapter 11. Arrested
Chapter 12. Taken Prisoner
Chapter 13. Thousands Flock to Ardboe
Chapter 14. Escape to Dublin
Chapter 15. Ambitions
Chapter 16. We Open Shop
Chapter 17. Internment
Chapter 18. A Visit to the Shankill
Chapter 19. Get Out of Town
PART TWO
Chapter 1. December 7, 1971
Chapter 2. December 8, 1971
Chapter 3. Holding On
Chapter 4. A Drink in Belfast
Chapter 5. Bloody Sunday
Chapter 6. Help from Reverend Ian Paisley
Chapter 7. The Waiting Game
Chapter 8. The Lion’s Den
Chapter 9. July 12, 1972
Chapter 10. Death of the Innocent
Chapter 11. Gift to a Young Soldier
Chapter 12. The Meek Shall Be Murdered
Chapter 13. The Stranger
PART THREE
Chapter 1. Forced from Our Homeland into Exile
Chapter 2. The Granary and the Path
Chapter 3. A Place to Work
Chapter 4. Just One Cortina
Chapter 5. First Christmas in Roscommon
Chapter 6. The Perfect Building Site
Chapter 7. Christy’s “Blue Suede Shoes”
Chapter 8. The Best-Laid Plans
Chapter 9. A Time for Prayer
Chapter 10. Déjà Vu
Chapter 11. The Blood of the Lamb
Chapter 12. Final Straw
Chapter 13. Night Falls
Chapter 14. The Kindness of Neighbours
Chapter 15. Families’ Generosity
Chapter 16. Return to Knock Shrine
Chapter 17. A New Beginning
Chapter 18. Healing
Introduction
I have lived through a period of unprecedented times. Out of the Flames was my first book, published in 2009, for which I received many five-star awards. Love and Courage is a much more comprehensive and extended read.
My parents were married in County Leitrim, Ireland, in 1936. They then went to Manchester, England, where I was born in 1937 and my father, Patrick, was a motor mechanic.
Patrick’s brother Owen, who was eleven years older than Patrick, was in the old Royal Irish Constabulary until it was disbanded in 1922. During the war of independence in 1921, Grandfather, Grandmother and nine of the eleven children had to flee to County Tyrone in Northern Ireland after their home was burned down by the freedom fighters. My father and mother left Manchester shortly after I was born to live at Ardboe, County Tyrone, not far from Coalisland, where my Uncle Owen was stationed after joining the Royal Ulster Constabulary (RUC) in 1922.
In 1939, World War II started. Cluntoe Airfield, Ardboe, had a large contingent of American troops stationed on the base. These troops had a fleet of trucks and Jeeps; my father was employed to oversee the repairs so that the thousands of vehicles were roadworthy and ready for a massive land invasion of Europe.
Going to school at Mullinahoe, Ardboe, everyone had to be careful, as trucks and Jeeps were always on the move. It was at this period I discovered that somehow I had the gift of healing. My school pals, when seeing a small songbird on the edge of the road, would ask me to work my magic. Picking up the lifeless little creature, I cupped it in my hands for a few minutes and often longer, until its wings began to flutter. Opening its eyes, looking up at me as I opened my hands, the songbird started flapping its wings and took to the air, watched by all present until it had gone out of sight.
At the age of nine years, I developed tuberculosis, or TB, and spent a year in bed being very ill. I had been anointed by a priest. I had a near-death experience and saw hell and heaven.
After a miraculous recovery, I was able to go back to school. The war was over, the army base quiet and peaceful. The troops had left for home. Gone were the constant drones of war planes flying night and day.
While still attending school, I had a wonderful experience while out walking across the field during my school holidays. I was reading my prayer book, when for some unexplained reason, I looked up, and there in front of me, I saw the Blessed Virgin Mary floating as if in a mist above three lovely red rose bushes in full bloom. I wanted to become a priest. While arrangements were going ahead, my parents decided the foreign missions would be bad for my health. I was near school-leaving age when my father decided to leave Ardboe and return to Lisnaskea, near Coonian, where he had grown up on the family farm. Still working away on the homestead was his brother Jim.
Being the oldest of eight siblings, I began helping in my father’s motor business at a very young age. Financial difficulties arose, and as it was costly to become a priest, I thought of joining the police force. The RUC changed my mind about that when I had a warrant issued for my arrest for a ten-shilling fine that I had already paid, concerning on a false charge regarding a repaired motor car. I went to Dublin and got married to a lovely, kind girl in 1959. Years later we had three loving children and a thriving motor business with fourteen people employed at Donaghadee, County Down, Northern Ireland. We were a very happy and peaceful family; our dream was working out for us. We had a lovely bungalow on its own ground and an expanding business.
December 1971 saw our lives shattered when a bomb destroyed all that we had ever worked for. My wife, children and I were threatened by Loyalist gangs. I suffered posttraumatic stress disorder and other illnesses. As I was not allowed to rebuild my garage, our bungalow was then repossessed by the building society. Now in 1973, we had no income. What were we to do? Were we to flee from the assassins in Northern Ireland, like a mirror image of my grandfather fifty years ago in 1921?
My journey cannot be yours, and many of my past events I would not wish upon anyone.
Now read my extraordinary true story, by one who had always looked for peace and justice.
Chapter 1
Spirit of My Ancestors
“Here’s a little treat for you, young man,” my grandfather James Foy said kindly, dipping his hand into his pocket and offering me some chocolate or other sweet thing. Grandpa Foy is like a fellow out of a picture book, with a round black hat and sporting a large, protruding moustache. I reached forward and took the gift from his hand. I looked up at him, saying thank you. He smiled, and there was trust between us.
I always looked forward to our family trips by motorcar from our home in Ardboe, County Tyrone, Northern Ireland, to visit Grandfather and Granny Foy, going through a customs check point. With car and documents all stamped, we crossed the border into Southern Ireland. An hour later, we arrived at their two-storey house and farm in Cloone, County Leitrim. As kind-hearted an old couple as a young lad could wish to have as grandparents, the Foys were my mother’s parents, and the family had farmed in Leitrim for several generations.
My great-great-grandfather, a Catholic, was born years after the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland Oliver Cromwell had left. During his reign, he was unable to reconcile various political and religious factions and crush the Irish resistance until the massacres of the garrisons at Drogheda and Wexford in the late sixteenth century. On September 11, 1649, around two thousand people died in the storming and massacre of Drogheda. One month later, on the afternoon of October 11, Cromwell and his officers expressed no remorse of the massacre at Wexford. Returning home to Britain as Lord Protector Cromwell, he reorganised the national church and established Puritanism. Ireland, although under British rule, became very unstable for hundreds of years to follow, with forced land transference to Protestants in the seventeenth century and the repressive Penal Code against Catholics. After the Catholic Emancipation Act in 1829, the sectarian divide in Ireland remained largely unaltered.
My great-grandfather Philip Coogan was born in 1835 and married Jane Godfrey. Both were Catholics and were married in the Anglican Church of Ireland. During Victorian times, Catholics by law had to marry in the Anglican Church of Ireland. Couples could then have a second marriage in a Catholic church if they so wished, but only the first marriage would be valid in law.
My grandfather Owen Coogan was born in County Monaghan in 1858. A few years after the Great Famine of 1845 to 1852, large parts of Ireland suffered devastation, with the population decreasing at an alarming rate, as history tells us. Thousands died daily from starvation and disease. Life was hard, and work scarce to come by, with children leaving school and looking for employment at a much earlier age in those days. Owen decided on an army career, and after making his way on foot to Crinkle Army Garrison, Kings County, a distance of approximately one hundred miles, he joined the Prince of Wales Leinster Regiment. Grandfather, as a young army volunteer, sailed in 1877 to serve overseas. After serving twenty years in the British Army, Grandfather had seen action at the battle of Jamurd, Khyber Pass, and lastly at the seaside port of Umballa, East Bengal, India. The Leinster Regiment, having served an eighteen-year tour of duty in India, sailed homeward bound in 1895. Grandfather had been promoted to the rank of colonel before his retirement back to the Crinkle Garrison, his successful army career marking him in other’s eyes as a sworn enemy of the Nationalists.
Owen married Bridget McCormack, age nineteen years, from Whiteford, Holycross, Elogarty, North Tipperary, at Saint Brendan’s Catholic Church, Birr, King’s County, on October 2, 1897. Bridget was the daughter of his long-serving comrade John McCormack. Grandfather and John both played musical instruments, and between them wrote a valuable manuscript of Celtic music in the late 1880s, while serving during the war in India. A short time after the wedding, John died at his home in Whiteford from a combination of illness and war wounds.
In November 1898, Owen and Bridget’s first child, Philip, was born. Two years later, on April 9, 1900, a baby sister named Mary was born. On February 23, 1902, Owen—named after his father—was born. Bridget’s mother came from Tipperary and lived with them around this time. Grandfather Owen purchased a farm and home at Rathbeg, district of Killyon near Sharavogue, very close to the districts of Kinnitty—Cadamstown, Kings County, now known as County Offaly. The former ancestral home had been somewhat like Coonian, plentiful in trout in the little River Brosna that flowed through the land. There also had been wild deer that roamed freely and came down from the Slieve Bloom Mountains to feed among the wild geese and mallard at the water’s edge. The old Georgian home had a coach house and outbuildings. There was an enclosed orchard to the rear, and the estate was bounded by a high wall of stone.
It was here that my great-grandmother, Bridget McCormack, was to spend her last years, close to her daughter, son-in-law and grandchildren. Bridget died on the 25th of February, 1910, at the age of 72. This lordly abode was the birthplace of another family legend. My own father, Patrick, was born in 1913 at Rathbeg.
The Coogan family by now became well-known in neighbouring districts of Kinnitty and Cadamstown, not far from the Crinkle Garrison. They were friends with everyone, helping out when they were needed, and that included their Protestant friends, the Pearson family of Cadamstown. They had purchased Coolacrease House and the large farm holding, consisting of around 341 acres in 1911, and much resented by slanderous outbursts of land envy by some who wanted, and expected, the farm to be divided. The Pearsons had only recently moved as strangers to the area, the oldest Coogan and Pearson children being of around the same age. The Great War of 1914 was now about to begin, and for the Coogan family, having a military background, it was not unnatural for the oldest son, Philip, upon reaching the age of sixteen, to follow this tradition in some way. Philip enlisted in the Royal Flying Corps, and after several months of training as a cadet, he became, on graduation day, one of the youngest officers to receive the Royal Flying Corps cap badge. One night while his master was away on active service, Uncle Philip’s pet dog rose from the hearth and began to howl pitifully at the moon. This was not uncommon among dogs, but when the animal’s distress continued thus for several hours, the family became perplexed. Next morning, a military man called at the family home to inform the parents that their son Philip had been shot down on a mission over France, and his condition was unknown. The time given was exactly the hour at which his beloved dog had begun to cry out.
The family had an agonising few days’ wait until the word arrived that Philip survived the crash, more or less in one piece. As soon as his injuries allowed, he did as the heroic fighter aces did in those pioneer days of flying: he rejoined his squadron and went “straight back up.” The boys of the Royal Flying Corps were known as the “Twenty Minuters”— as they spent on average just twenty minutes in the air before being shot down, and usually killed. However, Uncle Philip continued flying missions until the war almost ended and lived to tell the tales. Many folks believe animals have second sight and other powers, too. Doubtless to say, whenever Uncle Philip was in a dogfight with the Red Barron’s crew, his own dog—snug by the old home fire, must have worked a lucky charm or two for his master. At the Crinkle Garrison, Philip had already become a well-known figure for the motorbike he rode while off duty (and continued to do now). During the conflict, he flew a single-engine fighter plane that he later flew from the Crinkle airfield, built in 1917 on a part of the fourteen-acre garrison site to accommodate a small number of planes. At the end of the war, he left the Royal Flying Corps with memories of flying over the battle-torn terrain of Flanders Fields, where the victorious allies had emerged flushed with victory over the Germans. No doubt as he rode his motorbike, he could hear in his head sounds of machine gun fire across no-man’s land—his comrades at arms dubbed “The Old Contemptibles” by the Kaiser when they dared to oppose the might of the Hun. It was true that the war could never have been won without the Americans— “Here come the doughboys now!”, as the catchphrase ran. Squared up to by The Royal Flying Corps and the British Tommies, the Kaiser had soon changed his tune (perhaps the Tommies’ own melody, “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary” played its part, too—and who knows, maybe Grandfather’s music from India, along with his comrade and friend John McCormack, who came from Tipperary, provided a helping hand or inspiration for the song.)
Chapter 2
Royal Irish Constabulary
There was a particular reason for Philip’s visits to Coolacrease House, for it was here that Matilda Pearson, a very good-looking girl, the same age as himself, twenty-one, and with strong views and personality, had become his girlfriend. With the increasing unrest in certain parts of Ireland, though, Philip was uneasy.
At that period, the Royal Irish Constabulary could not cope with the frequent attacks on their barracks by both the Irish Republican Brotherhood and the IRA. In 1919, the British government placed a newspaper advert for ex-servicemen who were prepared to “face a rough and dangerous task” in Ireland. Jobs being scarce on the mainland, there were plenty of takers for the “King’s shilling.” The pay was, in fact, ten shillings a day. There was little training. The first units arrived in Ireland in 1920. On arrival, it quickly became apparent that there were not enough uniforms for all those who had joined up, more than 8,000 in all. The RIC wore the black police uniforms; these were not sufficient to go around. Some of the volunteers wore their old tan military khakis—hence the label Black and Tans that became a household name in Ireland. The Black and Tans were sent to Ireland to keep the peace and assist the RIC. A large number of the Black and Tan units all but terrorised local communities. Their brief was now to make Ireland “hell for the rebels to live in.” And anyone who thinks their trigger-happy reputation was a propagandist myth might consider the guidance issued by the Black and Tan’s commander, Lt Colonel Smyth, who told his men after arrival in 1920, “You may make mistakes occasionally. Innocent persons may be shot, but that cannot be helped, and you are bound to get the right parties sometimes. The more you shoot, the better; I will like you, and I assure you, no policeman will get into trouble for shooting any man.”
The “freedom fighters”, as they were known, had stepped up their fight for independence since the arrival of the Black and Tans. There were frequent reports of violence, burnings and killings. In West Cork, feeling ran high against Protestant farm families, and intimidation was being used in an attempt to drive them off their holdings. Uncle Philip, in 1920, having left the Royal Flying Corps, decided to go back into uniform, but this time with a difference. He would now join the RIC.
His younger brother Owen, now age eighteen, had, in fact, already enlisted in the RIC the previous week to help enforce the law and order. Owen was sent to Tralee RIC barracks in County Kerry for a period. Philip, meanwhile, was to witness the local RIC barracks at Kinnitty burned down by the IRA (Irish Republican Army) on August 8 that same year.
Soon the Coogans, with their notable British background, were identified as enemies of the freedom fighters. The story goes that Uncle Owen, when out on patrol on his bicycle, instead of keeping his revolver in its holster, would place it fully loaded in the pocket of his coat. One day while patrolling in County Kerry, he found himself confronted by a gunman. One hand steered the bicycle, and the other gripped the revolver in his pocket.
In peril of his life, it was said Owen fired his revolver through his coat pocket, wounding the man in the leg and sending him to the ground. Owen then pedalled away hard, gathering speed while weaving from side to side, toward the bend in the narrow road, only to be followed by a hail of bullets from the injured man’s comrades who had been hiding in the field.
Philip, the young man on the motorbike, had not gone unnoticed, nor had his frequent journeys to see his girlfriend, Matilda. One day shortly before Christmas 1920, he made a visit to her home, as always unarmed and in plain clothes, for he knew the danger he could bring upon the Pearson family if seen there in his RIC uniform. As they sat together in the house, Matilda, facing toward the window, suddenly let out a scream. Philip asked what was wrong, whereupon she pointed across the fields. Philip, looking out, could now see what alarmed her. In the distance, a group of men were walking along by the hedge, flanked by some tall trees. They appeared to be coming toward the house. Matilda urged Philip to go, assuring him she would be all right, but that he must not be found there. She told him she would see him later that evening. Philip left the house, kick-started his motorbike and rode away. He returned after a few hours and was met by Matilda. She told him that the men had not come near their home, to which he replied to thank God for that. That evening saw Matilda sitting with her parents, William and Susan, by the log fire, along with her younger sisters, Ethel and Emily, and four brothers—Richard, a year older than Philip; Sidney, age twenty; Abraham, eighteen; and the baby of the family, David, now thirteen. Philip had gotten to know them all very well and was always received warmly into their home.
Christmas was over, and the New Year of 1921 had started on a happy note, for both the Coogan parents, Owen and Bridget, and their children, for on January 7, a baby girl was born, bringing the family up to eleven children, although most of the others were now grown up. That baby sister, who was given the name Elizabeth, was to live eighty-seven years, passing away in 2008.
Chapter 3
1921 Offaly Burnings
As the weeks of 1921 passed by, the rebellion became more vicious. It had come to my Uncle Philip’s notice that a few threats were made against the Coogan family. Late one evening while Philip was away on patrol, the IRA arrived at their family home and ordered everyone out. My grandfather, being an old soldier, knew what could happen and kept very calm, saving his loving wife and family who were at home, including the newborn baby Elizabeth, just christened. Grandfather Owen asked if he could collect some blankets and clothes, but one perpetrator armed with a shotgun shouted back, “Nobody moves!” and ordered his cohorts to burn the place. Their home and outhouses were swiftly set on fire. Experiencing such an act of terror, Grandmother Bridget fainted, as Grandfather and the crying children gathered around. Grandfather tried to comfort his wife, who had now begun to speak, looking up at the fierce burning fire, as the IRA fled. The memory of that terrible evening remained with them; my own father was eight years of age. The family pets, Philip’s much-loved dog and the hens, all were given away to kind neighbours. Children were sobbing now, having lost everything. The few cattle still remained on the land.
Now homeless, the family was, for their own safety, taken into custody by the RIC. Philip was furious and had a good idea where most of the IRA men were from by the descriptions given, though his hands were tied. Over the next few days, Philip and his brother Owen had special leave to look after their parents and siblings. The family made a decision to leave Kings County and migrate to Omagh, County Tyrone, in Northern Ireland. The livestock was taken to the Pearson farm to be looked after and sold. The Pearsons were sad and felt great sympathy for all the family; although the Coogan children were much younger, they had grown very fond of them.
Shortly after the move in 1921, Grandfather purchased an eating-house with a home bakery shop attached (a café, it would now be called) at Bridge Street, Omagh, from savings he had put aside. Owen said cheerio to his older brother before travelling on to his barracks in Tralee, County Kerry. The only member of the family staying on in the Cadamstown district was Philip, who had now been accepted by the Pearson family as one of their own; Matilda and Philip had become much closer, and when off-duty, Philip would spend his spare time helping out on the Pearson land, having missed the work on his father’s farm.
Springtime passed, and the recent civil unrest simmered down a little. Come the summer, though, it was heating up again. Trees were cut for roadblocks. Ambushes were frequent, with gunfire exchanged. Most of these attacks were hit-and-run fire fights, without any noticeable success for the IRA. The RIC was determined to apprehend the perpetrators. One day it was reported that something strange was happening around the Cadamstown area, close to where the Pearson family lived. Philip was at the Pearsons’ home earlier that day. In the evening, an RIC patrol decided to cover the road leading into the Pearson farm. It was not long before some activity was observed; a large tree in the process of being cut down. The IRA, taken by surprise preparing their ambush, immediately engaged with the RIC in a fierce gun battle that left wounded on both sides, and it was said, a fatality among the IRA, who quickly withdrew under the cover of darkness.
For several days, joint army and RIC patrols were stepped up in the area to root out the gunmen. The hunt covered a vast area of the county, but to no avail. The IRA had either gone completely to ground, hidden in safe houses, or had escaped the area. Because the RIC barracks in Kinnitty, four miles away, had been burned down the previous August, all RIC patrols now came from Tullamore, a distance of around fourteen miles.
Talks began to try to bring about some sort of peace in the country. Discussions regarding the partition of Ireland under the 1920 Act became a reality on May 3, 1921. The six northeastern counties were to be split away and become part of the province of Ulster. Rumours were now rife that the British Armed Forces would be leaving southern Ireland; a peace treaty was underway and would be signed sometime soon.
This turn of events gave further incitement to marauding gangs, and it was during these dying days of the war of independence that a small number of IRA raiders carried out some atrocious killings of innocent people, shooting and looting for money or anything of value. On the evening of June 21, 1921, a tired, scared young Protestant lad of fourteen years old rode a rickety old bicycle the fourteen miles to Tullamore RIC barracks, calling on the way with Dr Woods of Kinnitty, a journey of four miles, and informed him of the shooting. Arriving later at Tullamore, David went bursting through the door. He became hysterical, screaming at the RIC officers— “My brothers have been shot—my brothers have been shot to death!” The concerned officers spoke kindly, trying to calm the frightened lad. “What’s your name?” asked one.
“David Pearson,” he cried.
Philip Coogan, hearing his distraught voice from an adjoining room, came rushing in and, seeing the look on young David’s face, knew at once that something terrible had happened.
“It’s the Pearson family of Coolacrease House, near Killyon,” Philip shouted.
His colleagues instantly grabbed their guns and rushed outside. Soon a full complement of RIC officers was on the move, while young David sat on the back seat of one Crossley Tender, alongside Philip, sobbing his heart out. As they drove, Uncle Philip thought of his own mother, father and siblings having to move away from the area only a few months previously. Shocked with grief for David’s brothers, he also was filled with dread as to the fate of his girlfriend, their sister Matilda. David’s distress was such that it was difficult to obtain any clear information from him about the condition of the rest of his family. Driving along the winding road close to Cadamstown, the rising flames and black smoke were to be seen high in the evening sky. Philip caught sight of the Pearson home, the once-beautiful house ablaze, the smell of burning timber filling the air. As the Tender drove close to the fire, policemen could feel the heat coming through the burned-out windows and doors, the partly destroyed roof still in flames. Desperately, Philip’s eyes sought the immediate vicinity for Matilda, and soon he saw her. Normally a girl of strong will, she was understandably pale and trembling as Philip took her in his arms. She was holding on to him tightly, sobbing, saying that they had shot Richard and Abraham. Philip was himself filled with remorse.
“No!” he cried out. “I should have stayed here this morning—I should have stayed!”
Through her tears, Matilda replied, “No, Phil—they would only have killed you, too. I thank the Lord you are safe.”
The other RIC men had meanwhile made their way forward to console the weeping family, while Philip, taking Matilda by the hand, went over to speak with her mother who, deeply shaken, put her arms around him. He was very special to the family, one day perhaps to be her son-in-law. Philip had learned from Matilda’s mother, Susan, the ghastly details of what occurred. Between thirty and forty grown men arrived at Coolacrease House to carry out their murderous deed. Mrs Pearson’s two much-loved sons were both shot by an inexperienced nine-man firing squad that failed to fire a final shot to the head. They were left in their back yard, bleeding from various wounds, while the sisters tried to stop the blood flowing. The doctor arrived two hours later by bicycle, as other family members were forced to look on. Susan was sobbing throughout her ordeal.
“Susan,” said Philip, earnestly taking her hand, “I promise you they shall be brought to justice.”
Susan gripped his hand tightly.
“But how, Phil?” Matilda asked.
“I shall hound them down,” he replied, his voice now rising in anger. It was clear that vengeance had gripped his heart. The RIC waited, spending some time looking over the charred debris. A doctor had arrived, and Philip arranged for the two brothers to be taken to the military hospital at Crinkle Garrison, where they were later officially pronounced dead.
William and son Stanley were both away on business that day. In the late evening, Susan and her family were taken by the RIC to the private military quarters attached to the hospital at Crinkle Garrison for their own safety.
Here, the whole family spent the following few days under military care and were well looked after. Susan, William and Matilda made arrangements to move in with relatives. William took care of the sale of livestock from their former farm. .
On the early Sunday morning of July 3, 1921, a short private funeral ceremony was held under a cloak of secrecy. The two Pearson brothers were taken from the military chapel and put onto the Crossley Tenders at Crinkle. They were then driven to Ballygeehan, Ballacolla, County Laois, a distance of thirty-two miles, for burial. The funeral arrangements were jointly carried out by the Army and RIC. Philip joined the Pearson family and travelled with the brothers’ remains, along with Susan, sons Stanley and David, daughters Matilda and Ethel, and other family members who followed behind. The two graves had already been opened, with security in place. Soldiers took up positions around the graveyard when the leading Tenders arrived. When the two coffins were removed from the Crossley Tenders, both Stanley and David, along with the RIC, carried the remains.
Behind the coffins walked Matilda and Ethel, both sobbing bitterly. Susan and other family members were fearfully upset during the short walk to the burial spot. Susan, seeing her two boys’ coffins lowered swiftly into the two newly dug graves, became very upset. No prayers were said as soldiers quickly backfilled the clay.
The graves were left unmarked for a time, for reasons known only to the family. In the weeks following the atrocity, Matilda saw very little of her boyfriend Philip. Joint patrols of the RIC and army were on the move night and day, looking for the forty or more gunmen. It had emerged that in addition to shooting the brothers, they had demanded and taken money and valuables before burning the Pearson home and would not allow any of the family back in for clothes or personal belongings. This detail seemed to compound their cruelty in Philip’s eyes, and on almost every patrol that went out, he was to be seen there, blaming himself for what had happened to his girlfriend’s family. Philip also was known to reflect that maybe if he had not been an agent of the British Crown, the family might have been left alone to live in peace. Matilda, the strongest minded of the Pearson girls, was now the oldest child of the close-knit family. Matilda was looking after her mother and siblings and might, against her better judgment, have been thinking the same. Whatever the reason, Matilda and Philip somehow drifted apart. Matilda and most of the family left for England shortly before Christmas, followed by her father, William. A partial amount of compensation for their farms and lost stock had now been paid to both the Pearson and Coogan families.
On December 6, 1921, the Anglo-Irish Peace Treaty was signed. Everyone now thought that Ireland would become a land of peace, but it was not to be. On February 13, 1922, the British Army marched out of Crinkle Garrison for the last time, taking with them only the trophies and silverware that had been won on the sports field and rifle range, and the garrison was handed over to Captain Felix Cronin, representing the new Irish National Army. On March 11, the British Army issued orders for the disbandment of the Prince of Wales Leinster Regiment, along with the five other corps and battalions of infantry. When the Leinster Depot staff marched out of Crinkle for the last time, they left the cutlery, linen, pianos, furniture and the empty garrison to the Irish state.
A bitter civil war had now begun, which was to rage from June 1922 until May 24, 1923, often with families fighting each other, brother against brother. On July 13, 1922, the Crinkle Garrison was looted. Leading citizens of Birr and Crinkle and the general area pleaded with the irregulars that to carry on would destroy not only the garrison but with it the whole local economy. The warning was to no avail. The building was burned from end to end after a small band of the IRA had stripped out everything of value. (The ruined garrison remained, but in 1985, was declared a dangerous structure. All the internal buildings were demolished, including the landmark clock tower. All that exists today is the perimeter walls and gates.)
As the weeks and months slowly passed, no one, apparently, had any knowledge or sighting of the large group of freedom fighters. Philip and the RIC remained active and vigilant in gathering intelligence regarding all the shootings. Looting was believed to be the work of those who burned the Pearson and Coogan homesteads. The following month of August, many people in Ireland, including Uncle Philip, were affected by further dramatic events. It was on August 22, 1922, after having accomplished “the impossible” in creating an Irish Free State, that Philip’s friend Michael Collins was assassinated in an ambush at a place known in English as the “Mouth of Flowers,” in his native County Cork. It was near where he had been born on October 12, 1890, at Sam’s Cross, West Cork.
Chapter 4
Philip Joins the National Army
One week later, on August 31, the Royal Irish Constabulary was disbanded. This played a part in Philip’s life; he planned to join the newly formed Irish National Army. The RIC members had the choice to retire or go north and rejoin as part of the new Royal Ulster Constabulary (RUC).
It was on December 6, 1922, in accordance with the Anglo-Irish Treaty, that the entire island of Ireland became a dominion within the British Commonwealth. The following day, the House of Parliament in Northern Ireland exercised its right to opt out of the dominion and instead to be known as Northern Ireland and part of England.
Uncle Owen had travelled from County Kerry to Kings County, now known as County Offaly, to meet his older brother Philip on his way north to enlist with the new RUC and to visit his family. Philip decided to stay behind, both brothers having already handed over their uniforms and firearms. Once again, they were civilians, though still in danger of being shot.
The two brothers were delighted to see each other again. Talking over happier days, Owen was getting eager to leave and have the lift to Dublin. Philip said to his brother, “Take this going-away present,” as he took a bag from the press. “You won’t have any protection going north to Omagh.”
Owen replied, “I don’t need anything.”
Philip said, “Take it anyway. It may come in handy.”
Owen opened the small brown paper bag, thinking it was sweets. He looked up and smiled. “Yes,” he said, “that may come in useful.”
Owen first took the train to Dublin, then changed to another to go over the border. The old steam engine chucked and swayed as it bumped along the track gathering speed, the smoke from the boiler flying past the window, blocking the countryside view at times. The whistle blew as the train squealed to a halt at a small town. Owen was in a partly empty carriage, when suddenly four or five men came and sat a few seats away, watching him, as the train began to roll on again on its journey north to the next stop, Dundalk. Being a former policeman, he could tell when trouble looked to be brewing, and he changed his position to another seat. One of the men then got up, looking directly at him, while the others also watched. Without a word, Owen put his hand into the brown paper bag, which looked like it contained perhaps a quarter of bull’s eye sweets, and took out a hand grenade.
Quickly, Owen put his finger on the firing pin. “Now, boys,” he said, “if you are looking for me, sit down together in them seats.” No one answered. Owen continued, “If you have come to get me, this goes off.” He stared the hard-looking men right in the face, and still none of them spoke. They remained silent and motionless, until the train stopped at Dundalk. Seeing the men get up, Owen snapped, “If you’re getting off, keep them hands where they can be seen.” One man nodded, and they began alighting from the train. Owen quickly changed his seat again, placing himself away from the window, as the men departed. Other passengers gave him frightening, astonished looks when the train left the station. Uncle Owen pushed the half-pulled pin back into the grenade, making it safe, and placed it into the brown paper bag. It was late evening as Owen arrived in Omagh. His parents and siblings were waiting and had a great welcome for him.
Philip went home to Bridge Street, Omagh, County Tyrone, in the new dominion of Northern Ireland, for Christmas. A big family reunion, including Owen, awaited him.
Naturally, a joke had to be told over Owen’s train journey north from Dublin and the brown paper bag of sweets, to the amusement of the nine other siblings. Overall, though, there was a sense of loss over what had happened to the old home, and, of course, to their dear friends, the Pearsons.
Christmas now over, Philip sadly said good-bye to his family, not knowing if he would ever return to see them again. Taking his motorbike, he rode back to Crinkle, where he enquired about Matilda from some of his close friends. With no news nor a letter for him, he rode off toward Ratnbeg, Kilcolman, where his family home and farm had been. Nine months later, it lay in ruins after the burning. Leaving his motorbike in a field off the road, out of sight, he walked through the land down to the little Bronsa River.
Watching the fast-flowing icy water, swollen by recent heavy rain, he thought of his school days. It was here that he had spent many a quiet day or evening fishing for trout or shooting wild fowl while on leave. He reflected on how unhappy his family had been back in Northern Ireland over Christmas, compared with the previous Christmas. Though the civil war had been raging, it had not yet touched them, and they had been happy times for the family, especially awaiting the arrival of a new baby sister, not knowing they were soon to be left homeless and frightened.
Philip, his mind filled with these past events, pushed his motorbike back on the road and headed toward Dublin. There, on January 20, 1923, he enlisted in the National Army, his regimental number 32291, at the rank of sergeant due to his experience. He requested to be stationed in the Curragh Command, County Kildare, the nearest command post to County Offaly, the bordering county. His new commander-in-chief should have been Michael (Mick) Collins, whom he had known, but Collins, of course, had been assassinated one week before the RIC had been disbanded. Philip, having spent spare time on his own gathering intelligence of IRA movements and having served part-time in the old RIC, had information that was now very valuable to the National Army, which was set on bringing an end to the continuing civil war and restoring peace with the co-operation of the new Irish Police Force named as An Garda Síochána.
Eoin O’Duffy, a close friend of the Coogans, was appointed the new commissioner of the Garda. Daily patrols were constantly on the move, and Philip took his unit mainly in and around Killyon, watching and looking for information. Although no one was giving any, Philip could put together certain small pieces of intelligence and knew that a large unit of IRA existed within the area.
One morning, information came to the Curragh Command that a group of men had been seen throughout the Killyon district, most likely the group responsible for the Pearson murders and the burning of their and the Coogan homesteads. Uncle Philip requested that his unit be sent to stake out the area; having been born and grown up there, he could find his way around very well. From what I have been told by my father, Philip and a hand-picked unit were dropped off at a particular spot Philip knew under the cover of darkness. They went prepared to conduct a stake-out of several days, making their way up to a hill overlooking a coppice beside an old disused quarry, running alongside the sandy road. It was a perfect place for an IRA hideout. Just before the break of dawn on the third day, a large group of men could be made out coming up the road. Marching and running quickly as they approached the coppice, they slowed and went in between the trees and bushes. It was not yet full daylight and hard to tell exactly the numbers involved. Reinforcements were requested from the Curragh Command and the area pinpointed. All that had to be done now was keep quiet and hope the IRA made no move until the army tenders had arrived.
Well hidden, Phillip’s National Army unit waited several hours before three or four old Army Crossley Tenders came up the road, slowing down near the coppice. No one was sure who the IRA ambush was being set up for or whether the groups were just resting while in hiding. The IRA had known that Philip had joined the National Army and was looking for them, and thus he was already a marked man. After a while, it became apparent that the IRA regulars had seen the tenders. Knowing they were under surveillance now, they began to open fire from the old quarry. Some of the soldiers sustained wounds, and heavy gunfire was returned immediately. Philip and his unit had already broken cover from behind the coppice, closing off any retreat.
A fierce gun battle ensued, as Philip gave the order to open fire again. He could now see up to fifty men as they tried to break for cover. These same IRA men were identified as having caused havoc, suffering and pain in the surrounding area over a good many years. No mercy was shown at either side. My father never told me if there were any survivors on the IRA side. After this, the trouble in the area came to an end, but too late for some families. In May 1923, the civil war was over, and everything became quiet. Philip, having heard no more from Matilda, left the National Army at the rank of captain and was discharged on February 14, 1924. He returned to Dublin and took up a government job at the Customs House, connected with births, marriages and deaths. He never married and died at Shankill, County Dublin, Ireland, where he had lived. Matilda, as far as I know, left for Australia never to return and married late in life.
Grandmother Bridget became very ill late in 1925 and was unable to continue working. It is likely the stress and trauma that the family had suffered, and now the hectic toil of the kitchen, had brought this on. The youngest child, Elizabeth, was by this time four years old. Eventually, the eating-house and home bakery had to close. Grandfather bought a small farm at Coonian, Brookeborough, in County Fermanagh. The modest compensation for the burned family home and farm came to the rescue. Grandfather was hopeful that, now freed from the demands of work and in the peace and quiet of the farm at Coonian, his wife’s health would improve. She was to have four more years, dying on May 3, 1929, at the age of fifty-one, from a broken heart after fleeing the homestead in Kings County, leaving behind the youngest in the family, Elizabeth (Bunny), only eight years old. Grandmother was buried in the parish graveyard at Aghavea, Brookeborough.
Grandfather’s health slowly deteriorated, and he died on September 5, 1934, at the age of seventy-six. He is buried alongside his loving wife at Aghavea.
My own father Patrick, age sixteen years, was now serving his apprenticeship as a motor mechanic, following in his oldest brother’s footsteps. He purchased a motorbike for travelling to work.
Chapter 5
Born in Manchester
My own father was now twenty-one years old, living at home on the family farm. Three younger sisters and an older brother, Jim, were busy running the old homestead. Both brothers played Scottish and Irish music together, taught by my grandfather; Jim the violin and Patrick the saxophone.
The Coogan Ceilidh band, as it was known, played in the local halls and in the counties of Cavan and Leitrim. My father moved to Dromod, County Leitrim, in 1934, along with his three youngest sisters, shortly after playing in a hall at Riverstown, Cloone, County Leitrim. It was here that my father met the dance hall owner’s daughter, Elizabeth Foy, who worked in the post office at Mohill, a short distance away.
On January 29, 1936, my father and Elizabeth were married in Cloone Church, Mohill, County Leitrim by the parish priest, Father Peter Conefrey, P.P. Both my father and mother left Ireland. They travelled to England by ship from Dublin to Liverpool, along with two of my father’s sisters, Elizabeth, now fifteen, and Noreen, eighteen.
My father and his new bride went to Manchester, where he obtained a job as a mechanic in a large garage. Michael, the singer in the dance band, may have travelled along with them, for in later life, he married my aunt Elizabeth, who died on November 10, 2008, in England and was buried in County Wicklow, Ireland.
On January 25, 1937, I was born within the district of Withington, Manchester South, England. Some months later, my parents left Manchester and moved to Ardboe, Coagh, County Tyrone, Northern Ireland. My father’s brother Owen, now a long-serving policeman in the Royal Ulster Constabulary, was stationed in Coagh.
My Uncle Jim continued the running of the family farm in Coonian, County Fermanagh. In fine summer weather, my mother, father and I, along with my young brother Desmond, would make the few hours’ journey from the shores of Lough Neagh to stay for a week’s holiday and help out our uncle by working on the farm.
Coonian being a mountainous region, most of the pasture lay on the slopes of the valley where the grass grew long. In the glen below, at the bottom of the valley, flowed the fast River Coonian, a plentiful freshwater trout stream. This enchanted place, with its rich, silvery treasure flashing hither and thither in the sunlight, had to be a fisherman’s paradise! Many were the happy hours I idled away watching the wild rainbow trout scurrying in abundance through the clear, shallow water until disappearing into the larger holes of the riverbed.
In haymaking time, my brother Desmond and I would eagerly help with the work. Indeed, as soon as we could walk, we were told, we’d be out there with the men, gleefully pitching the golden stalks into the air.
Life on the farm isn’t all work. There is always time in the evenings for talking long and unhurried over the events of the day. At sunset, the neighbours who’ve been helping each other with the harvest call at Uncle Jim’s homestead and gather around the open turf fire. Whenever the conversation pauses and the kitchen is quiet and still, you can hear crickets chirping among the ashes at the back of the hearth. Above the fire is mounted an iron crane from which hangs the large black kettle for making the tea. The crane can be adjusted according to the height of the fire at any particular time. As the water slowly heats and the homemade soda bread (always a little over-salted) and butter is prepared, Uncle Jim, my parents and the neighbours discuss the day’s events. Whether it is the bringing home of the hay, the rounding up of the sheep from the hill, or the cursed changeable moods of the weather, it is all examined and ruminated over in amiable detail. Sometimes, there is talk of the following day’s tasks—plans for going to the bog and saving some turf or leaving early to take some sheep or cattle to the local fair.