Easter Week 1916 seemed so unreal that now still it seems like a nightmare.
Here was I doing night duty as part of my training in the Rotunda Hospital. At the time I was doing special (in an isolation ward), to a case of puerperal [postpartum] mania. It was not a nice job, as the patients were kept under sedation during the day and the unfortunate night nurse had to put up with everything during night hours.
I had spent two years in France, saw the start of the 1914-18 war, enough to put me off wars forever. It was with great joy I returned to Ireland to peace, quiet and happiness. I thought my head would burst with joy when I saw dear old Ireland rising up out of the sea with the morning sun shining down on her. After a short spell at home I went to Dublin.
Up to this time, in the country, we took part in everything Irish – language, singing and dancing – but at no time did we ever hear of anything militant.
Easter Sunday we all attended our various religious duties. Monday we sat at our windows looking out at gay crowds going to the races and enjoying their freedom.
Bed and try to sleep in a room on the front of the house looking at Parnell dominating O’Connell Street. Funny how one can get used to noise. It was like a lullaby, something like background music. A door banging in the hospital or something falling would wake one up, but never the “rumble”.
I waked up and it was still quite bright – what on earth was happening? There was not a sound on the street and nobody seemed to be moving. What an extraordinary state of affairs, was my final thought. I could only sit pretty until called for night duty.
The volunteers have taken over Dublin, was the news. We followed routine and betook ourselves to our various posts.
Bonfire closing in
Soon there was noise enough but not the placid everyday hum of ordinary movement. Shots and explosions were then the order of the day. We did our work, ate our short ration and slept when we could. The British military were stationed in the hospital. The orders we got: do your work, do not go out of doors and keep away from the windows. Leave windows open a little, up and down, and do not lock your doors. By the end of the week we thought that most of the city had been blown into fragments. It looked as if we were in the centre of a huge bonfire which would close in on us eventually.
The room in which I was with my patient was just over the round room; bullets began to hop off the casing of the windows. We were moved to a room in the middle of the building in which there was another patient of the same kind and another nurse on special. This was better as there was at least somebody to talk to. We two nurses stood at the window in fascinated horror wondering when we would “get it”. The whole sky seemed illuminated.
The patient of the other nurse had taken a rooted dislike to her nurse. The only thing about it is that the old so and so can’t get out of bed. But while we were standing at the window she not alone managed it, but crossed the room and actually had her claws ready for her nurse’s throat. However, the crisis was solved.
We were on alert for the remainder of the night. Funny thing, you must be queer McDonalds as you always seem to get on well with the “queer ones”. This was a fact, and it was the only branch of my job in which I got special thanks. Probably my sympathy overflowed for them as I did feel particularly sorry for them. Whenever these patients came in, send for “Mac” – she’ll manage her. Here we were, with lovely dear old Dublin falling down about us and we trying to calm people who had not a clue about what was happening.
Snipers and prisoners
Of course, we could not sleep in the day. We sat huddled together talking and dozing and wondering. We could not keep away from the window in spite of the warnings. We saw several people shot in trying to cross O’Connell Street; they were dragged off the street and put into our morgue. We saw snipers at work from the top of the houses of Parnell Square. We saw all the prisoners collected into the lawn in front of the hospital and marched away to prison. One, I think was the Countess, judging by the size of her small hands and feet.
When things got quiet and we went out of doors, a terrible sight met our eyes. O’Connell Street in a shambles. We were all struck dumb as I don’t think anybody in the house had any knowledge of what was going to happen. A conspiracy of silence existed, as nobody knew or understood what the whole business was about. A couple of young fellows from home turned up at the door one day at the end of the week. I was overjoyed to see them and to learn that everything was quiet down the country. However, work went on and absorbed all our energies and time.
Later I went to England to do my general training and came home from that into the Civil War, which was a thousand times worse. To think that lads who stood together against a common foe could split and be so bitter. This to me is the tragedy of our time.
This memoir is published with kind permission of the Abbeyleix Heritage Company. You can see a short film about Mary O'Shea's life and work in the Birth of a Nation exhibition, which runs in the Rotunda Hospital until March 31st
