CHAPTER 25: THE BLOWING UP OF IRELAND (PART THREE)
Continued from Chapter 25 Part 2.
Let’s just say it was a very ugly, four-month-long execution, and Sean Tubridy O’Reilly and Tancred Moorphy M’Nally went through a great deal of pain before being dragged the sixteen miles across wet bogland on the back of a cart by rope. And thanks to Judge Rarely-Smyled’s vile and distasteful sentence on those two martyrs, Ireland is today generally regarded as a nation of bejudgers.
Sean Tubridy O’Reilly and Tancred Moorphy M’Nally survived their execution, of course, and the Irish Civil War gradually got worse and worse, and the pro-Treaty side winning against the anti-Treaty side, but that deVilera remained on the scene, never one to be unspiteful and to let things go, and twas often that he was highly respected when he should never have been, thanks be to God.
With my broken arm still on me and the fighting getting worse and worse, I managed to escape from the hospital and I fished Sean and Tancred out of the bog in which they had been buried up to their very heads. But fish them out I did, with the fishing rod of the late lamented John Fisherman O’Reilly God rest him. So I airlifted the two lads out of the Burren Prison Bog with a fishing line and a biplane. And just as well, because when I dropped them to safety on a rugged rock among the Blaskets just off the coast, Ireland exploded.
I have to stress, now, I had nothing to do with it – but as I flew over the blast zone, flames as far as the eye could see, I saw Ai Bang Mi Fa Ki Ni and her husband, Wai Yu So Tan, paddling across the Irish Sea in a canoe. She waved up when she saw me, cupped her hands around her mouth, and shouted:
“I so sorry, Paddy Franackan! I so sorry, but I brew up Ilerand by mistake! I bake you big tart next time I see you!”
I sat back in my cockpit, contemplating my next move. I pulled a photo from my flight jacket – it was the photo that I had taken from the body of our former British prisoner, Eaglekins – a man who had been like a dog to me. The photo was of his sweetheart, Dyll Oblong, a byootherful and exotic looking woman-girl.
So with Ireland blown to smithereens for the moment, and all of the survivors in my homeland in tatthers from the bomb blast and having to undergo an economic recovery by placing excise taxes on rosary beads, I checked the petrol gauge on my dual motor biplane engine.
Sure enough, it became apparent that I had just enough fuel to get me across to England. I dipped the plane east, and headed off towards the runways of His Majesty Some Beardy Fella.
Continued in Chapter 25 Part 4.