VII The Intrepid Irish
“There’s been a divil av lot av talk about Irish disunion,” says Mr. Dooley somewhere, “but if there’s foightin’ to be done it’s the bhoys that’ll let nobody else thread on the Union Jack.” That is the Irish temperament all over, and in these days when history is being written in lightning flashes the rally of Ireland to the old flag is inspiring, but not surprising.
Political cynics have always said that England’s difficulty would be Ireland’s opportunity, but they did not reckon with the paradoxical character of the Irish people. England’s difficulty has indeed been Ireland’s opportunity—the opportunity of displaying that generous nature which has already contributed thousands of men to the Expeditionary Force, and is mustering tens of thousands more under the patriotic stimulus of those old political enemies, Mr. John Redmond and Sir Edward Carson. The civil war is “put off,” as one Irish soldier expresses it; old enmities are laid aside and Orange and Green are fighting shoulder to shoulder, on old battlefields whose names are writ in glory upon the colors.
No more cheerful regiments than the Irish are to be found in the firing line. Their humor in the trenches, their love of songs, and their dash in action are manifested in all their letters. An English soldier, writing home, says that even in the midst of a bayonet charge an Irishman can always raise a laugh. “Look at thim divils retratin’ with their backs facin’ us,” was an Irish remark about the Germans that made his fellows roar. And when the Fusiliers heard the story of the Kaiser’s lucky shamrock, one of them said: “Sure, an’ it’ll be moighty lucky for him if he doesn’t lose it”; adding to one of three comrades, “There’ll be a leaf apiece for us, Hinissey, when we get to Berlin.”
In the fighting the Irish have done big things and their dash and courage have filled their British and French comrades with admiration. Referring to the first action in which the Irish Guards took part, and the smart businesslike way in which they cut up the Germans, Private Heffernan, Royal Irish Fusiliers, says they had a great reception as they marched back into the lines: “Of course, we all gave them a cheer, but it would have done your heart good to see the Frenchmen (who had a good view of the fighting) standing up in their trenches and shouting like mad as the Guards passed by. The poor chaps didn’t like the idea that it was their first time in action, and were shy about the fuss made of them: and there was many a row in camp that night over men saying fine things and reminding them of their brand new battle honors.”D
A fine story is told of the heroism of two Irish Dragoons by a trooper of that gallant regiment. “One of our men,” he says, “carried a wounded comrade to a friendly farm-house under heavy fire, and when the retreat was ordered both were cut off. A patrol of a dozen Uhlans found them there and ordered them to surrender, but they refused, and, tackling the Germans from behind a barricade of furniture, killed or wounded half of them. The others then brought up a machine gun and threatened the destruction of the farm: but the two dragoons, remembering the kindness of the farm owners and unwilling to bring ruin and disaster upon them, rushed from the house in the wild hope of tackling the gun. The moment they crossed the doorway they fell riddled with bullets.” Another story of the Irish Dragoons is told by Trooper P. Ryan. One of the Berkshires had been cut off from his regiment while lingering behind to bid a dying chum good-by, when he was surrounded by a patrol of Uhlans. A troop of the Irish Dragoons asked leave of their officer to rescue the man, and sweeping down on the Germans, quickly scattered them. But they were too late. The plucky Berkshire man had “gone under,” taking three Germans with him. “We buried him with his chum by the wayside,” adds Trooper Ryan. “Partings of this kind are sad, but they are everyday occurrences in war, and you just have to get used to them.”
The Dragoons also went to the assistance of a man of the Irish Rifles who, wounded himself, was yet kneeling beside a fallen comrade of the Gloucester Regiment, and gamely firing to keep the enemy off. The Dragoons found both men thoroughly worn out, but urgency required the regiment to take up another position, and the wounded men had to be left to the chance of being picked up by the Red Cross corps. “They knew that,” says the trooper who relates the incident, “and weren’t the men to expect the general safety to be risked for them. ‘Never mind,’ said the young Irishman, ‘shure the sisters ’ll pick us up all right, an’ if they don’t—well, we’ve only once to die, an’ it’s the grand fight we’ve had annyhow.’”
One of the most stirring exploits of the war—equaled only by the devotion and self-sacrifice of the Royal Engineers in the fight for the bridge—is that of the Irish Fusiliers in saving another regiment from annihilation. The regiment was in a distant and exposed position, and a message had to be sent ordering its retirement. This could only be accomplished by despatching a messenger, and the fusiliers were asked for volunteers. Every man offered himself, though all knew what it meant to cross that stretch of open country raked with rifle fire. They tossed for the honor, and the first man to start-off with the message was an awkward shock-headed chap who, the narrator says, didn’t impress by his appearance. Into the blinding hail of bullets he dashed, and cleared the first hundred yards without mishap. In the second lap he fell wounded, but struggled to his feet and rushed on till he was hit a second time and collapsed. One man rushed to his assistance and another to bear the message. The first reached the wounded man and started to carry him in, but when nearing the trenches and their cheering comrades, both fell dead. The third man had by this time got well on his way, and was almost within reach of the endangered regiment when he, too, was hit. Half-a-dozen men ran out to bring him in, and the whole lot of this rescuing party were shot down, but the wounded fusilier managed to crawl to the trenches and deliver the order. The regiment fell back into safety and the situation was saved, but the message arrived none too soon, and the gallant Irish Fusiliers certainly saved one battalion from extinction.
In one fierce little fight the Munster Fusiliers (the “Dirty Shirts”) had to prevent themselves from being cut off, and in a desperate effort to capture the whole regiment the Germans launched cavalry, infantry and artillery upon them. “The air was thick with noises,” says one of the Munsters in telling the story, “men shouting, waving swords, and blazing away at us like blue murder. But our lads stood up to them without the least taste of fear, and gave them the bayonet and the bullet in fine style. They crowded upon us in tremendous numbers, but though it was hell’s own work we wouldn’t surrender, and they had at last to leave us. I got a sword thrust in the ribs, and then a bullet in me, and went under for a time, but when the mist cleared from my eyes I could see the boys cutting up the Germans entirely.” The losses were heavy, and the comment was made in camp that the Germans had cleaned up the “Dirty Shirts” for once. “Well,” said an indignant Fusilier, “it was a moighty expensive washin’ for them annyway.”
How Private Parker of the Inniskilling Fusiliers escaped from four Uhlans who had taken him prisoner is an example of personal daring. His captors marched him off between them till they came to a narrow lane where the horsemen could walk only in single file—three in front of him and one behind. He determined to make a bid for liberty. Ducking under the rear horse he seized his rifle, shot the Uhlan, and disappeared in the darkness. For days he lay concealed, and on one occasion German searchers entered the room in which he was hidden, yet failed to find him.
Private Court, 2nd Royal Scots, pays a tribute to the gallantry of the Connaught Rangers, and tells how they saved six guns which had been taken by the enemy. The sight of British guns in German hands was too much for the temper of the Connaughts, who came on with an irresistible charge, compelling the guns to be abandoned, and enabling the Royal Field Artillery to dash in and drag them out of danger. Another soldier relates that the Connaughts were trapped by a German abuse of the white flag and suffered badly when, all unsuspecting, they went to take over their prisoners; but they left their mark on the enemy on that occasion, and “when the Connaught blood is up,” as one of the Rangers expresses it, “it’s a nasty job to be up agin it.”
Stories of Irish daring might be multiplied, but these are sufficient to show that the old regiments are still full of the fighting spirit. “Now boys,” one of their non-commissioned officers is reported to have said, “no surrender for us! Ye’ve got yer rifles, and yer baynits, and yer butts, and after that, ye divils, there’s yer fists.” A drummer of the Irish Fusiliers who had lost his regiment, met another soldier on the road and begged for the loan of his rifle “just to get a last pop at the divils.” Sir John French is himself of Irish parentage—Roscommon and Galway claim him—and there is no more ardent or cheerful fighter in the British army.
“It beats Banagher,” says a jocular private in the Royal Irish, “how these Germans always disturb us at meal times. I suppose it’s just the smell of the bacon that they’re after, and Rafferty says we can’t be too careful where we stow the mercies.” From all accounts the Germans taken prisoner are about as ill-fed as they are ill-informed. Private Harkness of the same regiment, says the captives’ first need is food and then information. One of them asked him why the Irish weren’t fighting in their own civil war. “Faith,” said he, “this is the only war we know about for the time being, and there’s mighty little that’s civil about it with the way you’re behaving yourselves.” The German looked gloomy, and, added Harkness, “I don’t think he liked a plain Irishman’s way of putting things.”