1972 by Morgan Llywelyn

Seán South, who nodded agreement.
    McCoy continued, “Eventually the IRA withdrew Garland from the British Army before they could sniff him out. Now he’s going to be in charge of you lot, and I expect you to make me proud of you.
    â€œYour second in command will be David O’Connell. Dave’s only nineteen but don’t let that fool you. He joined Sinn Féin in 1955 and then the Volunteers. He was appointed over Vincent Conlon, the former quartermaster general of the IRA, so that tells you how highly he’s regarded at headquarters.”
    The Volunteers waited with heightened anticipation. For a long time nothing happened. At last a redheaded man on a motorbike
appeared around the bend in the road. A second man was riding pillion with his knees drawn up to keep his feet from dragging the ground.
    Séamus McCoy gave a relieved shout: “Hullo, you two! I was beginning to think you’d got lost.”
    The bike growled to a halt. The pillion passenger unfolded himself and nimbly stepped aside so the driver could dismount.
    The redhead strode up to McCoy. “Shay, you old rogue,” he said in a hard Dublin accent. “What d’ye have for me?”
    â€œYou’re looking at them, Seán. This unlikely lot sprawled all over the road.”
    Seán Garland gestured toward his former passenger. “This is—”
    â€œDáithí Ó Conaill, in the Irish,” the man interrupted, stepping forward. “My friends call me Dave.”
    O’Connell had a domed forehead and receding hairline that gave him the appearance of a much older man. But this was not the reason the Volunteers were staring at him.
    Dave O’Connell was six and a half feet tall.
    â€œThey must feed’em good where he comes from,” Feargal murmured in awe.
    S EÁN Garland took over the column with smooth professionalism. “We’re getting you out of sight as soon as possible,” he told the men. “I don’t want to lose you to the RUC before I’ve had time to learn your names. Down the road now, and on the double.”
    Barry cast a pitying glance at Feargal, who winced as he crammed his swollen feet back into his shoes.
    Within an hour the Volunteers were snugly billeted in a barn belonging to a republican family. “From now on you’ll take your orders from me or Dave,” Garland told them, “and no one else. Each column is relatively autonomous. The Army wants to keep them as separate as possible because the less one group knows about another, the less chance there is of an informer giving out valuable information.”
    The mention of informers gave Barry a jolt. His vision of the Irish Republican Army was pure and noble. Ned Halloran had never said anything about informers within.

    â€œOur primary mission,” Garland continued, “is to disable and demoralise the enemy. That will involve cutting their communications, obstructing roads and railways, and putting their facilities out of commission. In short, making matters as difficult as possible for the occupying forces. We’ll use explosives to gain entry to their military installations and …”
    â€œAnd blow open the odd prison door?” McCoy suggested.
    Garland gave him a wintry smile. “The only explosives we have right now are gelignite and paxo. Paxo’s made from potassium chloride and paraffin wax and it’s pretty volatile stuff. Of course we can always make Molotov cocktails with glass bottles and petrol,” like the freedom fighters in Hungary, thought Barry, “but they’re almost as dangerous to the man who throws them as they are to his target.
    â€œOur friends across the pond are buying American war surplus for us—anyone with dollars can buy American war surplus—but we don’t have any mortars. Other weapons are coming on stream, though. We’ll take whatever we can get. So let’s have a look at your