FROM THE ARCHIVES:Chris Ferguson, a trade unionist and political columnist for
The Irish Timesin the 1950s under the pseudonym Aknefton, described this Christmas Eve respite in Civil War hostilities in Wellington Barracks (now Collins Barracks) where he and 100 or so anti- Treaty IRA men were being held. –
JOE JOYCE
TO MY horror, the prisoners were fraternising happily with the Free State officers and N.C.O.’s.
A meeting of the prisoners was called, and I explained that we were still volunteers under orders of the General Headquarters Staff, and that we must elect a camp council and then obey its instructions. As the only officer among the prisoners I was elected Camp Commandant. My first act was to pin up a large “No Fraternisation” notice on the wall of the “gym” .
Later on in the day parcels were arriving for the prisoners – cigarettes, sweets, fruit and cakes. Yet we were all thinking of our own homes, our own families and our own friends. Somehow, things just weren’t right. You couldn’t overlook the barbed wire and the ugly snout of a gun which covered the exercise yard.
When it grew dark the Sergeant of the Guard came into the “gym” and read my “No Fraternisation” notice. “Who is this guy?” he said, pointing at my signature. Thinking he wanted a row, I stepped forward. “Me,” I said, “so what?” He pulled me aside. “Look,” he said, “the guard is on duty until tomorrow morning. Everyone has a right to enjoy himself at Christmas – why don’t we get together?”
“What?” I asked incredulously.
“We’re prepared to take our stuff over here and share it with you if you’re prepared to give your word that none of your boys will try an escape.”
Gladly we gave our word.
At seven o’clock that evening the members of the guard arrived in the prisoners’ quarters with crates of stout, bottles of whiskey and wine and every conceivable kind of food. We ate and drank and sang until three in the morning. I think that every known national song was sung – “The West’s Awake,” “The Croppy Boy,” “Easter Week,” “The Grand Old Dame Britannia.” The only songs we didn’t sing were civil war songs. It was a great Irish Christmas.
We lay down on the mattresses, all together and slept until seven. I woke at the same time as the Sergeant because his elbow had been resting comfortably against my ear. The poor man was obviously terrified of the wrath to come from the “brass hats” and ordered his men immediately back to the guardroom. They grabbed their rifles, which were all mixed up with the coats, legs and arms of Republican prisoners and scuttled away as fast as possible. The prisoners, too, looked a bit sheepish.
There was one last bit of Christmas when the priest asked one of the prisoners to serve Mass and the prisoners and guards joined together in the “Adeste Fideles.” That was the end.
The guard was relieved and the “cold war” in Wellington Barracks started all over again.
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