THE ODD ANGLE

Auckland Star, Volume LXXV, Issue 64, 16 March 1944, Page 4

THE ODD ANGLE

(By MacCLURE) • IN SEARCH OF IRELAND With Eire very much to the fore in the news of late the thoughts of many a returned soldier who spent his leave in the "Ireland" of those days must turn with mingled feelings of love for the old land, sorrow for its unhappy political condition, regret that its unforgiving, and unrelenting but at heart grand people felt they had to choose as they have. I, for one, having on two separate occasions partaken of the many courtesies extended to New Zealanders (in particular) at that period, having poked pretty thoroughly over the Dublin of post-Easter rebellion time, and seen something of the land and its people for myself, make no apology for to-day treating of that "Ireland in this column. • PHOENIX PARK ENCOUNTER My first experience of Irish hospitality was, when stepping forth from Phoenix Park east gate a tram conductor (a red-hot Sinn Feiner his motorman later told me) grabbed at my tunic and demanded to know, "Phwat are you wearing this for?" I knew it was a rotten fit but, as I explained, "You evidently don't know our quartermaster, he s a (bad word used by soldiers for anything distasteful)." "Sure and I don't loike it," he kept muttering. "Me either," I agreed. "Tell me?" he insisted. "What will you get out of this war?" It was a fair question but in our eagerness to join up neither old Alf nor I had ever worked that one out. I knew, in a vague sort of way, of course, that we were making the world safe for (or from, I'd forgotten) democracy. Then a horrible thought struck me. Supposing ? "What my mate got, I suppose," I replied. "And phwat did he get?" he asked. I explained. In detail. "Och, ye're a broth of a bhoy—far too foine a lad to die. Come md have a cup of cocoa." The notorman joined us. Later they drove me to farfamed Donnybrook, where, of old, skulls were cracked and King Rafferty ruled and each man was under obligation to bury his own dead. But Donnybrook to-day is a respectable suburb of nearly 20,000 souls. • BRIAN BORU STARTED IT In a side street the previous night before the 10 p.m. curfew regulation gathered us in, I had met the Aussie, the "kangaroo feather" in his hat a little moulty, perhaps, and a wild look in his eye. He'd just arrived back from a trip to Killarney, which (in utter confidence) he suggested be renamed "Bologney." As we stood in front of a shop window gazing at packs of playing cards, displaying on their backs the whole range of Irish kings, an irreverent remark of ours was overheard, and suddenly, without even an ultimatum, from every nearby alley reinforcements poured forth, and MacClure, believe it or not, had the wind up proper. I, "the heir to all the ages, nourishing a youth sublime," having so far escaped death aiad mutilation (and several other things), felt the shadow of something worse hovering too darned near for my liking. In a flash I saw the old home, the gutter spouting dad was always going to fix, Bill Massey Avaiting needlessly on the Auckland wharf to wring my hand and—well, we beat it, doing the half-mile in one and three-fifths. Phew! "That'll larn you," came the Aussie's comforting voice in the darkness. It did. Of course, we had it coming to us— sacrilege, idiocy, call it what you like, looking back—at fifty-five—one realises the folly of youth.

• PRIVATE KELLY, N.Z.E.F., A.W.O.L. It was at Donnybrook that I met the "Kelly Sisterhood," an association of aggrieved females pledged to search the ends of the earth for one Kelly, a private (A.W.0.L.) of the New Zealand Army—"as foine a broth of a bhoy as ivir was but—" And, having (if ever) found him, these infuriated ladies had already decided in caucus what to do with "the poisonous varmint," whose falling from grace had occurred when he failed to deliver the goods—said "goods" to have been bottled and brought back from Dublin with the sisterhood's finance (for Kelly, bless his black sowl, had none of his own) eked out by many and various items of their jewellery, gathered together in a tarpaulin muster. Life was ever hard on trusting females, and, alas, the wickedness of servicemen seemingly knows no geographical boundaries. No, I had not seen Kelly, I assured them a thousand times. And if I did meet him, I inwardly resolved I could do no less than put him wise to the awful fate that awaited him should he ever set foot again in the Emerald Isle.

• DE VALERA NOT AT HOME The Aussie had an invitation ticket to see through the worldfamous Guinness' brewery, but I had other ideas. De Valera himself— then in his early thirties—was in town and I felt that I must meet him. I had a notion that he was to be found at Liberty Hall, a place which figured prominently in the Rebellion, having been shelled by British ships from the River Liffey. After persuading the Aussie to postpone the brewery trip, I ran him round to Liberty Hall and together we sauntered to the top floor. All was emptiness. Except that a caretaker of sorts went mad when he sighted us and became too clogged up to speak intelligently. Instead, he vigorously pointed down the way we'd come up. Ignoring him we pretended to leisurely take our time, but inwardly I felt that the sooner we were out of it the better. Even then I had no actual knowledge of the sacrilege our action represented till the Dublin Y.M.C.A. explained exactly how our action in stalking through the hall would have been accepted. "And you in the King's uniform!" they exclaimed, aghast. Just how we missed de "Valera they couldn't explain, except to say it was the merest fluke. "All I can say is you entered the place at one of those odd moments when none of the leaders were in—a man couldn't do that again in a thousand times." But as the Aussie explained, "once was quite enough."