Ulster's Men: Protestant Unionist Masculinities and Militarization in the North of Ireland, 1912-1923 9780773587403

Table of contents :
Cover
Title
Copyright
Contents
Acknowledgments
Abbreviations
Terminology
Introduction
1 Manly Constructions
2 Propaganda and Paramilitaries
3 Armed to the Teeth: Manliness in 1914
4 The Glorious First of July: The 36th (Ulster) Division at the Somme
5 Brothers in Arms?
6 Closing Ranks
7 Institutionalized Dominance, 1921–1923
Conclusion
Notes
Bibliography
Index
A
B
C
D
E
F
G
H
I
J
K
L
M
N
O
P
Q
R
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T
U
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W
Y

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ulster’s men

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Ulster’s Men Protestant Unionist Masculinities and Militarization in the North of Ireland, 1912–1923 jane g.v. m c gaughey

McGill-Queen’s University Press Montreal & Kingston • London • Ithaca

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© McGill-Queen’s University Press 2012 isbn 978-0-7735-3972-3 Legal deposit second quarter 2012 Bibliothèque nationale du Québec Printed in Canada on acid-free paper that is 100% ancient forest free (100% post-consumer recycled), processed chlorine free. This book has been published with the help of a grant from the Canadian Federation for the Humanities and Social Sciences, through the Aid to Scholarly Publications Program, using funds provided by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada. McGill-Queen’s University Press acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund for our publishing activities.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication McGaughey, Jane G.V., 1981– Ulster's men : Protestant unionist masculinities and militarization in the north of Ireland, 1912–1923 / Jane G.V. McGaughey. Includes bibliographical references and index. isbn 978-0-7735-3972-3 1. Unionism (Irish politics). 2. Protestant men – Northern Ireland – Social conditions – 20th century. 3. Masculinity – Northern Ireland – History – 20th century. 4. Men – Northern Ireland – Identity – History – 20th century. 5. Paramilitary forces – Northern Ireland – History – 20th century. 6. Northern Ireland – Social conditions. 7. Northern Ireland – Politics and government. I. Title. da960.m35 2012

941.60821

c2011-907191-6

This book was typeset by True to Type in 10/13 Sabon

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Contents

Acknowledgments ix Abbreviations xiii Terminology xv Introduction 3 1 2 3 4

Manly Constructions 21 Propaganda and Paramilitaries 41 Armed to the Teeth: Manliness in 1914 63 The Glorious First of July: The 36th (Ulster) Division at the Somme 83 5 Brothers in Arms? 109 6 Closing Ranks 133 7 Institutionalized Dominance, 1921–1923 159 Conclusion 193 Notes 199 Bibliography 227 Index 241

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Acknowledgments

Throughout the writing of Ulster’s Men, I have benefited enormously from the generosity, assistance, and wisdom of numerous individuals. I would like to thank the Deputy Keeper of the Records for permission to publish from material held at the Public Record Office of Northern Ireland, and to extend my gratitude to Gemma McCallion and all of the staff at proni who were so helpful during my numerous trips to Belfast. Many thanks to Captain R.H. Lowry for permission to publish from the Montgomery Papers, to M.A.A. Crawford for permission to quote from the Papers of Colonel F.H. Crawford, to Lord Craigavon for permission to publish from the Craigavon Papers, and to Mr B. Dingwall for permission to quote from the Papers of Lilian, Lady Spender. In London, I would like to thank the archivists and staff at the National Archives and at the British Library for their time and assistance. Archivists at the Imperial War Museum, particularly Sabrina Rowlatt, were immensely helpful in providing me with material regarding the Irish divisions, and also in determining copyright for the papers of various soldiers from the Great War. I would like to thank the Brennan family and Mrs Hazel McIlwain for their permission to publish extracts from the collections of A.R. Brennan and J. McIlwain, respectively. The 1915–18 war diary of the 14th Royal Irish Rifles is held at the Imperial War Museum and is particularly rich in its information about the Battle of the Somme. Every effort has been made to trace the copyright holders, and the author and the Imperial War Museum

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would be grateful for any information which might help to trace those whose identities or addresses are not currently known. This book has been published with the help of a grant from the Canadian Federation for the Humanities and Social Sciences, through the Aid to Scholarly Publications Program, using funds provided by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada. I have greatly appreciated the help and advice of Professor Don Akenson, Kyla Madden, Grace Rosalie Seybold, and MaryLynne Ascough at McGill-Queen’s University Press, as well as Philip Cercone, who first heard about this project amidst the mayhem of an exhibit hall in Washington, dc. I am also particularly grateful to the anonymous reviewers of earlier drafts of the manuscript whose constructive criticism and thoughtful suggestions made for a richer and more perceptive history of masculinities in the north of Ireland. Material regarding the Home Rule Crisis and the Battle of the Somme was previously published in Irish Studies in Britain: New Perspectives on History and Literature (2010) by Cambridge Scholars Publishing and in the Journal of the Canadian Historical Association, Volume 20, Issue 2 (2009), respectively. I am pleased to have permission to reproduce these extracts here. Ulster’s Men began as a PhD thesis and would never have been reborn as a proper history without the steadfast support of colleagues and friends in academia. I would like to express my sincere and heartfelt gratitude to Professor Joanna Bourke at Birkbeck College, University of London. Her guidance, criticism, patience, and firm belief in this project have been invaluable. Professors Lori Loeb and David Wilson at the University of Toronto and Professor Jim Smyth at the University of Notre Dame were all important inspirations in the early stages of my career as an historian. My colleagues at the Royal Military College of Canada have been constant companions through numerous drafts of the manuscript and have been very patient whenever I began muttering about Ulster manliness and the Somme. In particular, I would like to thank Denise Moffatt for her unfailing kindness to me. Drs Sean Brady and Carmen Mangion were wonderful comrades and colleagues in London, who offered encouragement, innumerable cups of tea, a delightful visit to the “Old Bushmills” Distillery in Northern Ireland, and steadfast

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friendship. I would also like to mention my gratitude to the following individuals for their support and affection over the years: Kristine Alexander, Jennifer Bracewell, Jennifer Cameron, Stephanie Carvin, Katie Conacher, Sarah Duff, Carina Fourie, Jorie Lagerway, Peyton Lauderdale, Cathy Leekam, Andrea Makowiecka, Joseph Moore, Kendra Nagel, Wilf Neidhardt, Geoffrey Stein, Barb and Dean Stewman, Lianna Vahi, Marguerite Van Die, and Mabel Watt. A special mention also needs to be given to my godfather, K.W. Arnott, whose knowledge of correct forms of address and substantive titles is peerless. Finally, I would like to thank my family – Andrew, Helen, Jetta, Cat, and, most especially, Bob and Elva. They have believed in me, pushed me when necessary, read countless drafts of each chapter, and provided the most wonderful environment for me to grow as a professional. Their love has made everything worthwhile. Thank you all.

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Acknowledgments

Abbreviations

aoh hc Debs. ni inv ira iwm na proni ric ruc spa upa usc uvf uula uwuc ycv

Ancient Order of Hibernians Northern Ireland House of Commons Debates Irish National Volunteers Irish Republican Army Imperial War Museum National Archives, Kew Public Record Office of Northern Ireland Royal Irish Constabulary Royal Ulster Constabulary Special Powers Act Ulster Protestant Association Ulster Special Constabulary Ulster Volunteer Force Ulster Unionist Labour Association Ulster Women’s Unionist Council Young Citizens’ Volunteers

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Terminology

When analyzing Irish history, language is everything. The terms “Unionist” and “Unionism” indicate a specific political affiliation with the Ulster Unionist Party, while “unionist” includes all those who wished to maintain the British connection. Likewise, “Nationalism” and “Nationalist” denote followers of the political party led by John Redmond and Joseph Devlin, whereas “nationalist” in the lower case refers to the larger community of Irishmen, republicans included, who desired some form of Irish independence. The idiom “Protestant-Unionist” is used in the final two chapters to describe a specific group of men who exerted hegemonic power over other northern masculinities. Unless specifically indicated, the term “Protestant Ulstermen” refers to members of the unionist population. I have chosen to use the term “Irish National Volunteers” to describe the militarized followers of John Redmond as of 1913. This is slightly anachronistic, as the split between the Irish Volunteers and the Irish National Volunteers did not begin until the latter half of 1914. I have done this for consistency’s sake and to avoid any confusion between constitutional nationalists who fought in the Great War and republicans who refused to fight in what they felt was a foreign imperialistic conflict, but I freely acknowledge that contemporary accounts predominately used the “Irish Volunteers” terminology. The Stormont era of government in Northern Ireland dated from 1921 to 1972. The Stormont Parliament Buildings on the outskirts of East Belfast, however, were not opened until 1932 and the Parliament of Northern Ireland originally sat in Belfast City Hall

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briefly in 1921 before moving to the Presbyterian Church’s Assembly’s College. To reflect this, I use the term “Belfast Parliament” in referring to the Unionist government between 1921 and 1923. Any specific references to “Stormont” are indicative of the popular nickname given to the regime rather than the geographic location of the government. There are many other names for Ulster, including “the province,” “the north of Ireland,” and “the six counties.” These terms are intentionally spelled in the lower case so as not to be confused with any politically-biased terminology for Ulster after partition. Their use is not intended to denote any particular affiliation or bias, merely to avoid excess repetition. The city of Londonderry/Derry is referred to as “Derry” throughout the text, while the county retains the title “Londonderry” in order to distinguish the region from the city. Prior to 1921, the term “Ulster” refers to the nine counties in the north, including Donegal, Cavan, and Monaghan. When discussing the period after 1920, I predominately use the term “Northern Ireland” in order to distinguish the new state from the ancient province. When mentioned in the 1921 to 1923 period, “Ulster” refers exclusively to the six counties of Tyrone, Londonderry, Fermanagh, Armagh, Antrim, and Down.

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Introduction

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Introduction

In 1923, after more than ten years of threatened and realized violence in the north of Ireland, Lord Ernest Hamilton – seventh son of the Duke of Abercorn, captain in the 11th Hussars cavalry regiment, Member of Parliament for Tyrone North from 1885 to 1892, author, and staunch Unionist proponent – sat down to write an introduction to James Logan’s Ulster in the X-Rays, yet another book on the Ulster question. “In every quarter of the globe,” he began, “where Ulsterman meets Ulsterman and recognises him as such, there follows the same firm clasp of the hand and the same straight look in the eyes. Here, one feels, is a man to be trusted. Here is a man who will stand by you in a tight place and never, as the saying is, let you down, come what may in the way of danger or adversity.” He continued his description of northern unionists by adding that the “Ulsterman is but three hundred years old, but into that three hundred years of his existence he has crowded as many acts of glory as other races can boast of in a millennium. And there is no black spot – that is the really remarkable circumstance – not one solitary example of collective baseness or treachery, such as can be laid to the charge of every other race under heaven ... He judges his neighbour by his own code, which is the code of fidelity and honour, and he judges him aright.”1 This idealized representation of unionist Ulstermen was echoed in countless depictions of northern masculinities in Protestant culture and rhetoric in the early twentieth century. This mythology created a code and language for Ulster Protestant manliness that became a shibboleth for future Unionist

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leaders in their campaigns to distinguish the north of Ireland from the south.2 According to Hamilton, Protestant Ulstermen were trustworthy, loyal, brave, and unblemished in the historical record. They had apparently conquered the memory of a troubled past that, only a year before, had been characterized in Belfast by “foul assassination, murder, and burnings”3 and where “horrors” multiplied in every direction.4 Reality meant nothing; it was the image of the Protestant unionist Ulsterman that was of utmost importance to Hamilton and his readers, not the north’s history of communal strife, antagonism, and violence. Representations of Ulster Protestant masculinities were fashioned in the popular imagination within this tension between lived experience and romantic idealism, creating ironic images of simultaneous fellowship and exclusion that remained powerful social and cultural constructs throughout the rest of the twentieth century. This book explores Ulster Protestant unionist masculinities as represented in the public sphere between 1912 and 1923. The focus here is on social frameworks of Protestant unionist masculine identities, rather than on individuals – in essence, an examination of the collective rather than the singular. For this reason, Ulster’s Men concentrates on representations of warrior masculinities and social fraternities rather than domestic affiliations such as husbands or fathers. The perception of unionist manliness in the public sphere became a measure for power relationships, incorporating such characteristics as fraternalism, leadership, heroism, fellowship, and, conversely, adversarial fractiousness. The years in question have probably been studied as intensively as any in modern history, seemingly exhausted by countless political, social, and military narratives. Historical investigations of public roles allotted to Ulster’s women have appeared, but none for Ulster’s men. Indeed, modern Irish historiography so far has failed to question the role of masculine agency in the past, placing it, as a discipline, far behind studies of modern English manliness such as those by John Tosh, T.G. Ashplant, or Graham Dawson.5 The focus of this book on public representations of Protestant unionist masculinities and notions of manliness in Ulster and Northern Ireland in the years before, during, and after

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the Great War represents a new avenue for analyzing the cultural history of modern Ireland.6 My point is not that masculinity has never been referred to before in Irish historiography, but that Ulster’s Men is the first work entirely dedicated to tracing the complexities of Protestant unionist male identities in the north of Ireland over one of the more contentious periods of the twentieth century. This begs the obvious question: why has modern Irish historiography been so slow in adopting a masculine paradigm for exploring the past? There are no easy answers. Women’s history has had a healthy reception among Irish academics, notably in the work of Maria Luddy, Diane Urquhart, and Rachel Ward,7 but using masculinity as a lens for exploring Ireland’s history remains something of a novelty. Studies of masculinity have been valid fields of academic investigation since the late 1980s, both from a sociological angle, as used by R.W. Connell and Lynne Segal, and for historical analyses from around the globe.8 While “manliness” has been argued to be a term belonging to an historical era concerned with physical prowess, proper comportment, and romantic chivalry, “hegemony” and “masculinities” are decidedly modern idioms.9 Despite the anachronism of using contemporary identifiers for a time period where such labels did not exist, the study of masculinities is applicable throughout modern Irish history, integrated into other socio-cultural themes such as class, race, ethnicity, bodies, and politics. While the backdrop for this investigation is the Third Home Rule Crisis, the Great War, and the Troubles of the early 1920s, a similar gendered approach could and should be used for examinations of Daniel O’Connell, Charles Stewart Parnell, the Fenians, Young Ireland, the 1798 Rebellion, and the Stormont regime from 1921 to 1972, to name but a few possibilities. Of course, in the 1980s and 1990s when masculinity studies were gaining a foothold in academic circles, historians of Northern Ireland were rather preoccupied by contemporary events. The Troubles from the late 1960s to 1998 needed political, social, and military analyses to shed light on the complexities of what was, in essence, a civil war between republican and loyalist paramilitaries and the combined efforts of the Royal Ulster Constabulary and the British Army. However, it has now been over a decade since the

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Good Friday Agreement, and the cultural history of Northern Ireland, analysed through a paradigm of masculine agency and imagery, remains unwritten. Using manliness as a lens for reading Irish history shows us concepts and themes that are eclipsed in primarily political analyses. These include communal beliefs about the roles of heroism, defence, fraternalism, and punishment in northern society at large, and also within organizations with presumed or announced unionist associations such as the Ulster Special Constabulary, the Royal Irish Constabulary, and the 36th (Ulster) Division of Kitchener’s New Army. Alan Parkinson posits that the lack of material on the Troubles of the 1920s is a combined consequence of an historical and journalistic focus on politics and “glamorous personalities,” an over-saturation on the topic in Northern Ireland itself, and a selective atmosphere that recounted only those events which mirrored the Troubles in the late twentieth century.10 These are valid points, but they do not account for the apparent lack of curiosity about concepts of manliness in a region stereotypically known for its popular expressions of masculine strength and solidarity, whether the men wore bowler hats or balaclavas. This is not just a problem in the historiography of Northern Ireland. Scotland and Wales, as well as the Irish Republic, seem to lack the depth of research afforded to English conceptualizations of manliness and the social identities of masculinities within the home, in the workplace, and in all-male associations, each of which conditioned cultural expectations of what manliness represented in the Victorian and Edwardian eras.11 Perhaps, in an era of devolution, political narratives of the past still hold sway in places like Cardiff, Edinburgh, and Belfast, but the archival material is ready and waiting for further analyses of male experience and representation in these regions. The purpose of this book is to explore masculine ideals and images of Protestant unionists as depicted in the public sphere. By this, I mean the realm of popular discourse and consumption, most often constructed through speeches, pamphlets, newspaper reports and editorials, memoirs, and government documents. Ironically, this means that some of the most biased of primary documents are, in this context, among the most valuable in terms of analysing common stereotypes of and assumptions about Protestant Ulstermen.

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Private diaries of individuals, both male and female, provide corroboration for popular opinions of the day, while also illuminating how individual men emulated or disregarded public expectations of manliness. Through these various sources Ulster Protestant masculinity as “an ideal type” was popularized through rhetoric, iconic images, and unionist men’s attempts to conform to the standards set by their community.12 This focus enables a cultural history of topics that, on the surface, appear to belong to socio-political or military narratives. Men’s popular understanding of social, political, and martial organizations predominately involved fraternal metaphors and language which enhanced notions of fellowship and solidarity, either within separate communal groups or, less frequently, across the ProtestantCatholic divide. Connell argues that masculinities reside in gender relations, the practices of engagement between men and women in gendered scenarios, and the implications such practices have in terms of bodily experience, identity construction, and cultural expression. Within this gendered paradigm, masculinities became practiced arrangements that incorporated institutions like the military or the government, economic relations, and interpersonal relationships.13 The power dynamic in Ulster was twofold: dominion over women was part of the inherited patriarchal system, but the power men held over other men was also vitally important, particularly within fraternal organizations like the Orange Order or the Ancient Order of Hibernians, and also within the hierarchies of police networks, paramilitary organizations, and the British Army. Often, representations of Ulster Protestant unionist masculinities were statements regarding what was desired by and for the community at large – essentially, of what seemed to be real, as opposed to actual fact. Appearance mattered more than reality. In many cases, such as political rhetoric regarding the bravery of soldiers or police reports chronicling paramilitary activities, the northern unionists’ characterizations of manliness were no different from those in Britain, Ireland, or the rest of the British Empire, or even from those of their Catholic nationalist rivals in the north;14 however, they believed they were different, which is what mattered. This widespread conviction within the unionist popular imagination that

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their men were the most loyal imperialists in the empire and the bravest soldiers in the trenches shaped the actions and the language which Protestant unionists used to characterize what mattered most in a man. The definition of who qualified as an “Ulsterman” was fluid in the era of the Great War, as it had been for centuries previously and would be for decades to come. The term as a political and cultural designation often implicitly – and sometimes explicitly – excluded Catholics.15 For the unionist community, the term implied a British imperial Protestant identity with “connotations of lawfulness” in perceived opposition to northern Catholic nationalists.16 This paradigm denied the rights of nationalists to lay claim to being Ulstermen, despite their historic and continued use of the term.17 The idiom was also a misnomer after 1921, as its usage by the unionist community to define the six counties excluded one-third of the ancient province of Ulster, making it problematic terminology, to say the least. Protestantism alone was not enough to secure acceptance in the northern unionist community. While certain Protestant individuals like Brigadier General F.P. Crozier (born in India) and Lieutenant General Hubert Gough (born in London) were accorded de facto Ulster identities because of their actions for the unionist community in the era of the Ulster Volunteer Force (uvf) and the 36th (Ulster) Division, the same approval was not given to Sir Roger Casement. Despite his receiving a British knighthood for his work in revealing the human rights abuses in the Belgian Congo and his Irish Protestant background, both of which might have endeared him to unionists, Casement was an Irish nationalist who was executed for high treason in 1916.18 Less than a year after his death, Casement’s name had become a byword for treason, as used by Unionist mp Ronald McNeill.19 While the Reverend James Armour, a noted northern Presbyterian nationalist, attempted to demonstrate the irony of Casement’s charge of treason given the popularity of the kaiser in some unionist circles before the war began,20 Unionists like McNeill and Sir Hugh de Fellenberg Montgomery damned Casement in public and private documents.21

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In contrast to Casement’s perceived treachery, the reputation of Field Marshal Sir Henry Wilson achieved epic status in Ulster during the period of 1912 to 1923, despite his birth in Co. Longford. Whereas Casement had been hanged for high treason by the Crown, Wilson was assassinated by ira gunmen outside his London home in 1922.22 When word of Wilson’s death became public, the unionist Belfast News-Letter declared that Wilson “was ours in a peculiar and very near sense – ours by blood, ours by sympathy and by service; we gloried in the great reputation which he won as a soldier; we took pride in that in the height of his war achievements, with honours thick upon him, he came to us in our need and placed at our new Government’s disposal his services to defend us and his great abilities to support our cause in the British House of Commons.”23 The unionist newspaper proposed that Wilson was an “Ulsterman” through his Irish birth, his military achievements, and his commitment to the unionist cause in the north. The News-Letter then suggested that it was “his very greatness, we fear, in upholding the cause of Ulster Loyalism that provoked his assassination. He died a martyr to the cause of the freedom and liberties of Northern Ireland ... A leader among men has been sacrificed to the insensate fury and inhuman hate of Sinn Féin.”24 While Wilson’s blood-sacrifice for Ulster had made him the very best of men, his killers were lesser men, even inhuman, because of their republicanism. The definition of an Ulsterman for northern unionists was not determined by birth within the nine counties of Ireland, but by a strong identification with the Protestant religion, specific imperial beliefs including the rights of British citizenship, and, where applicable, service in the British military. Complicating these broader concepts were issues of Protestant privilege, strong business principles, and the role of homosocial fraternities. These organizations, such as the Orange Order, the Apprentice Boys of Derry, or the “B” Specials, shifted loyalty to the British Empire, with its numerous national and religious varieties, into a popular set of beliefs that reduced the plurality of empire into a narrowly defined appreciation for local institutions, such as the Orange Order or the Ulster Unionist Party, and their followers. According to this paradigm, a

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true “Ulsterman” was a man who supported the hegemonic ideal of the imperial Protestant unionist north. As a sociological framework, the term “hegemonic masculinities” derives its meaning from Antonio Gramsci’s analysis of class relations; applied to male identities, hegemonic masculinity can be defined as the gendered practice where one form of masculinity is culturally exalted to a position of authority and institutional power.25 This perceived “solidarity” of men from all classes upholds patriarchal power over women and subordinate groups of men.26 Tosh has adapted this sociological concept for historical analysis, theorizing that it is increasingly apparent in British society from the 1880s onwards as popular culture and the printed word began to shape gender identification.27 Hegemonic masculinity encapsulates the distinctions between different categories of men; those in positions of authority had to secure their power through cultural appeal and, where appropriate, demonstrations of force, eliciting support and conformity regardless of economic or political status.28 In the context of the Ulster unionist public sphere, hegemonic masculinity was visible through the political authority of the Ulster Unionist Party and of organized homosocial entities like the Orange Order, the Ulster Volunteer Force, the 36th (Ulster) Division, and the Ulster Special Constabulary. All of these “fraternities” used their power and influence to shape popular acceptance of militarized masculinities as the standard for Protestant unionist men to support and emulate. Because of the value Protestant unionist men placed on their “loyalty” to each other and the empire, there is a need to deconstruct the definition of Ulster “loyalism.” Although the terms “loyalist” and “unionist” are often used interchangeably in northern political and cultural rhetoric, the two are not equal. To be a unionist in the era of the Home Rule Crisis of 1912 was to support the tenets of the Solemn League and Covenant and the actions of the Ulster Volunteer Force, both of which included threats of rebellion against the legitimate government of the day at Westminster.29 The promise of armed insurgency against the British in order to remain British themselves made unionist declarations of “loyalty” both oxymoronic and treasonous. Analyses of the community

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often propose that Protestant unionist Ulstermen were not loyal to the United Kingdom, per se; rather, their interpretation of “loyalty” was predicated upon allegiance to the Protestant sovereign as opposed to the British government, and to Victorian myths of empire.30 The ideological views of uvf members, for example, were highly complex in terms of denominational affiliations and political opinions; the Ulster Covenant, a document based upon a contractual framework of allegiance to the sovereign and not to a government body they believed was subverting the British Constitution, was perhaps the only doctrine uvf men could agree upon.31 Unionist Ulstermen perceived themselves as something more than British and attempted to avoid the condemnation that they were traitors through their specific identification with the Crown and the British Empire.32 In denying the rights of the government in London to dictate their future, Ulster “loyalists” were, interestingly, aligning themselves with the sentiments of Irish nationalists such as Sir Roger Casement. At his trial for high treason, Casement said that loyalty was “a sentiment, not a law. It rests on Love, not on restraint.”33 This same sentimental definition of “loyalty” informed Sir Edward Carson’s position regarding Home Rule. The leader of Ulster Unionism famously declared that he had “been dubbed a rebel and a traitor. At all events I shall never be a rebel or traitor to you. Names cannot alter realities. What is right is right, and no Act of Parliament can make it wrong. If it be treasonous to love your King, to try and save your Constitution, and to preserve your birthright of civil and religious liberty, then I glory in being a traitor.”34 Ulster “loyalists” based their allegiance on their perceptions of proper fidelity to the sovereign, the empire, and the law, ironically “defending” their communities against a lawful government attempting to implement legally constituted legislation. This “defence” of the province was a stand against outsiders – the masculine “other” – even though some of these supposed enemies were, in fact, other Ulstermen.35 At the heart of this “loyalty,” however, was a focus on the local community and solidarity amongst Protestant unionists over all other affiliations.36 This allegiance to the local power base was visible through the communal authority of

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Orange lodges, the Ulster Unionist Party, and individual uvf companies.37 This vision of local and, when it suited, imperial loyalties informed unionist Ulstermen’s supposed distinctive characteristics, including fortitude, discipline, and martial prowess, in contrast to the traits of fickleness, laziness, and disloyalty often applied by the “loyalist” community to northern Catholics.38 Loyalty was a complex issue in the period between 1912 and 1923, with Ulster Protestant unionists denying their own treasonous behaviour while obsessing over the disloyalty of others.39 The invocation of the term in primary sources should not be taken at face value, as demonstrations of “loyalty” in Ulster were yet another variation on the theme of appearance versus reality. Ulster Protestant masculinities were not a single concept or paradigm. It is impossible to have a single, overarching definition of masculinity that crosses cultures and time periods. Masculinity in the singular is a chimera, a mythical and deceptive beast. Rather, masculinities are plural, fluid, and historically informed by ideologies of a specific time, place, and social context.40 Popular conceptions of Ulster Protestant masculinities were idealized traits that individuals in the wider unionist community were expected to emulate, and, simultaneously, institutionalized practices and codes that defined cultural experience, particularly regarding military service and the existence of armed violence in the north. Ulster Protestant masculinities incorporated a variety of images, symbols, characteristics, and representations which attempted to secure universal identification among unionist men through all levels of northern society. That said, however, the existence of multiple masculinities did not denote equality of influence; the dominance of particular masculine ideals, groups, and associations flourished with the consent of the majority of the homosocial community.41 In the Ulster context, the prevailing stereotype created by the press and political rhetoric was that the north was Protestant and unionist, as opposed to the south’s nationalism and Catholicism; northern Catholics were often cast as “the other” in unionist society,42 embodying the opposite loyalties and characteristics to those valued by Protestant Ulster. Consequently, many of the most powerful images and representations of Ulster Protestant manliness between

Introduction

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1912 and 1923 within the public sphere were meant to reinforce traits and loyalties already prized by unionist society. Images of Ulster Protestant manliness found expression in political language, iconography, cultural ideals, social stereotypes, engrained assumptions, and chronicled observances of both a personal and a public nature. Investigating popular conceptions of unionist manliness during a period of heightened tension and sectarian animosity brings a cultural approach to historical events that have, until now, belonged primarily to the realm of political and social analyses. Popular assumptions and expectations about the relationship between masculinities and militarization in Ulster unionist society add layers of complexity to pre-existing notions of loyalty, duty, religious affiliation, political allegiance, cultural belonging, and national pride. One of the most consistent themes in manly representations of Protestant Ulstermen in the public sphere between 1912 and 1923 was that of militarization. The term is defined here as an increased military presence, character, and style within an organization, community, or society, including all social activities leading to or seeming to encourage war or violent conflict. While militarization is a sociological definition, categorized by the level to which social and political entities prepare for conflict, the term “militarism” is a pejorative expression incorporating the glorification of war and an oppressive influence of military values and hierarchies on society.43 While some sections of unionist society were quite guilty of romanticizing war and mythologizing its participants, it would be an exaggeration to claim that either community embraced the principles of militarism between 1912 and 1923. There is also some debate over the term “paramilitary.” I subscribe to the definition provided by Peter Hart and Timothy Bowman, where paramilitary refers to “any unofficial armed and public militia organized along military lines for the ostensible purpose of fighting one another, the police or the official army.”44 Beginning with the Home Rule Crisis, the image of Protestant Ulstermen as a group of armed paramilitaries found resonance in newspapers, social commentaries, and political rhetoric, continuing through the period of the Great War with the 36th (Ulster) Divi-

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sion, and into the Troubles with Protestant members of the Ulster Special Constabulary and Royal Ulster Constabulary fighting northern divisions of the ira. Images of these militarized Protestant masculinities were imbued with implications about “the nation,” even though the north of Ireland was not, itself, a sovereign nation or a singular community.45 A nation can be defined as a named population sharing territory, common myths, historical memories, popular culture, and legal rights. National identity, therefore, involved a sense of political community and suggestions of a “fairly well demarcated and bounded territory, with which the members identify and to which they feel they belong.”46 National or, more precisely, regional identities did not have to correspond to specific state boundaries in order for cultural possession of declared spaces to exist. This meant that both Ulster unionists and Ulster nationalists could assert separate but equal claims to a sense of “nationalism” distinct from the greater boundaries of Ireland and Great Britain, drawing strength from their own “imagined communities” for which they would both kill and sacrifice.47 This notion of a sacrificial brotherhood introduces masculinity into the question of the “nation.” The link between nationalism and gender often has involved the use of male and female stereotypes of strength, weakness, and pride to foster feelings of patriotism. Nations have been culturally represented by female figures such as Eire, Britannia, Columbia, and Marianne.48 Masculinity and nationalism, meanwhile, have most often merged in the realm of militarization and warfare, with the warrior of the trenches in the Great War providing a “climax” to modern concepts of manliness.49 The association of masculine virtue with soldiering and a martial lifestyle was a source of national strength and power during the era of the Great War, with romanticized violence encouraging cultural constructions of heroism, duty, and loyalty.50 For example, the nationalist Irish News wrote of Gallipoli in 1915 as if it was a jousting match between medieval knights, while a year later the Belfast News-Letter talked of its soldiers cheerily marching into a “bath of lead.”51 Importantly, these correlations between manliness and militarization were reserved for men only; women were cast as support-

Introduction

15

ers, comforters, and loved ones, but not as combatants. Full citizenship within a patriarchal state was most often reserved for men, whose blood-sacrifice as citizen-soldiers and warriors was duly privileged and rewarded.52 Militarization was an important part of the relationship between the community and constructs of masculinity in Ulster. Ireland is an island where war and the threat of war have shaped all aspects of society and are key elements in modern Irish identity.53 Certainly stereotypes of Irish masculinity have been influenced by Irishmen’s presumed heritage as a warrior people or “martial race.” The Ulster Protestant soldier occupied an awkward place in the British popular imagination, as he was not as immediately recognizable as a Scottish Highlander,54 but he was not necessarily included in sweeping generalizations made about Irish soldiers, which often were predicated on stereotypes of Irish mania or effeminacy.55 According to Joanna Bourke, the popular belief that the Irish were “innately combative” meant that they were afforded a lower place on the evolutionary scale in Victorian and Edwardian military philosophy, so that their prowess on the battlefield hindered any concurrent political aspirations.56 These associations between regionalism, militarization, and ideals of manhood made the soldier one of the most powerful masculine constructions in Ulster society during the era of the Great War, but also one which could be redefined with a more specific Protestant unionist identity. While other manly images existed in concert with representations of the warrior, militarization was an inescapable theme in the public sphere between 1912 and 1923, making it one of the chief avenues of analysis in the following argument. Before outlining the structure of this book, I must discuss some of the limitations of studying masculinities from this aspect. Looking at communal representations rather than lived realities does not expand our comprehension of male experience on an individual level. As Michael Roper contends, when masculinities are conceived of primarily as social ideals there are unanswered questions about how public codes of manliness relate to the actions and emotions of individual men.57 In particular, in discussions of the impact of the Great War, prioritizing ideology and discourse over experience obscures how the war’s personal consequences might motivate new

16

Ulster’s Men

forms of self-expression or encourage a break with past conventions.58 It can also be argued that no meaningful history of the emotions is possible when approaching the past from a constructionist position.59 Similarly, there can be dangers caused by excluding the unconscious in historical investigations, as one loses the concept of “psychic instability” and fantasy as significant elements in identity construction.60 However, fantasy does have a role to play in popular representations of Ulster Protestant and unionist manliness, particularly in romantic images of war that belied the horrors of the trenches, and also in terms of how unionist and nationalist communities demonized each other, both during the Home Rule Crisis and in the postwar era. While not a perfect balance, cultural representations allow both the complexities of external social construction and fantastic communal fears and stereotypes to colour masculine ideals in the public imagination. It is beyond the scope of this work to include a similar, in-depth analysis of the role of Irish women in Ulster, although the subject has been treated elsewhere.61 The women of Ulster were deeply involved in the various crises and conflicts that occurred in this period, and their influence in the construction of popular masculinities was noticeable before, during, and after the Great War, appearing here as corroboration of popular opinions expressed in political rhetoric and unionist newspapers. Similarly, Ulster’s Men does not thoroughly investigate the construction of northern Catholic or Protestant nationalist masculinities. In the following chapters, northern Catholic nationalists most often appear as “the other,” the foil for Protestant unionist constructions of masculinity in the public sphere, despite their shared experiences and the pronounced similarities which, at times, existed between the communities. Something must also be said regarding the chosen dates and the sources used. This book opens with the near civil war that occurred in Ulster between 1912 and 1914, commonly referred to as the “Home Rule Crisis” and the “Ulster Crisis.” The issue of Home Rule for Ireland began with W.E. Gladstone’s attempts to pass devolution legislation in the late nineteenth century.62 The larger issues surrounding the “Irish” question, of course, pre-date the modern

Introduction

17

Home Rule debates by several centuries.63 1910 was also a possible starting date because of the crisis over veto powers in the House of Lords, the issue that resurrected the possibility of Home Rule for Irish Nationalists; it was also the year that Sir Edward Carson assumed leadership of the Unionist Party.64 However, I find that the most compelling examples of Protestant unionist manly ideals came in the propaganda campaigns of 1912, culminating with the signing of the Solemn League and Covenant on 28 September. This was the moment when unionist Ulstermen publicly announced to the world that they were willing to use “any means which may be found necessary” to fight the British, including armed rebellion, in order to remain British themselves.65 It was the first of many public occasions over the next decade that defined Protestant and unionist manliness through the prism of having something to fight for and supporting those beliefs through the possibility of physical force, whatever ironies might also be present in their assertions and actions.66 Throughout the years in question, unionist manhood was something proven through associations with violence and martial attitudes. By 1923, however, Ulster in its original incarnation had ceased to exist – “Northern Ireland” was the political and social reality for communities in the six counties. The Irish Free State was no longer a nationalist fantasy but a fact, one day to make way for an Irish Republic. 1923 also marked the first year where Unionists in the Belfast Parliament had true control over the north, having defeated the ira through the workings of the Civil Authorities (Special Powers) Act and the physical force of the Ulster Special Constabulary and its infamous “B” Specials.67 The search for identity and a distinct Ulster society that had started with the Home Rule Crisis ended with the partition of the country and the need, once again, to redefine what it meant to be an Ulsterman, this time in Northern Ireland. The first section of the book describes the atmosphere of the Ulster Crisis in 1912. Instances of militarization in Ulster pre-dated the conflict over the Third Home Rule Bill, most notably with the South African War of 1899 to 1902, but 1912 saw the true beginnings of the propaganda campaign and the organization of para-

18

Ulster’s Men

militaries, both of which affected popular ideas about manliness. The period of the Home Rule Crisis played out on a regional level in local communities, in parishes, and in the domestic sphere. Key sources include speeches at public rallies, newspaper reports and editorials, published pamphlets and tracts, and politically-inspired monographs written by committed Unionists. The Public Record Office of Northern Ireland (proni) in Belfast was an essential archive in the creation of this book. That said, its records mainly illustrate a unionist perspective, reflecting the bias of the materials collected from leading Unionist and anti-Home Rule families by Lord Brookeborough, Prime Minister of Northern Ireland, in 1961.68 Documents from the Prime Minister’s Office and the Ministry of Home Affairs, as well as Cabinet papers, have been used in an attempt to balance some of the more melodramatic personal opinions of such figures as Colonel Fred Crawford or Lilian Spender. These were further supplemented by highly informative police reports from the Royal Irish Constabulary (ric) in the records for Dublin Castle and the Colonial Office, held at the National Archives (na) in Kew, London. The second section of the book deals with the Great War. Ulster’s most famous contribution to the war effort was the 36th (Ulster) Division, which fought at the opening day of the Somme, 1 July 1916, and, according to the unionist point of view, sacrificed itself for the empire in the hopes of keeping Ulster united with Great Britain. Reflections of and reactions to the Great War were found in a wide variety of sources at London’s Imperial War Museum (iwm), ranging from official regimental histories to lengthy memoirs and personal effects. The attitudes of Irish soldiers regarding the war, Ulster’s role in the conflict, and their own sense of masculine identity were apparent in the personal papers of both enlisted men and officers. The iwm does not accept all public submissions to its collections, but its materials concerning the Irish divisions were extremely well documented and provided essential information regarding the creation of fraternal bonds and a warrior mystique among recruits from the north. The final section of the book predominantly concerns itself with the Troubles of 1920 to 1922 in Ulster and Northern Ireland and

Introduction

19

how masculine identities in the public sphere reflected the growing dominance of Protestant-Unionist men in positions of power, a hegemonic masculine network that was firmly established by 1923. As well as the aforementioned materials from proni, key sources for this section were contemporary newspapers, housed at the British Newspaper Library at Colindale, London. While heavily biased, newspapers were crucial to this time period, both for their printed opinions and for their conflicting reports of key events and political crises that divided the Protestant and Catholic communities: for example, the formation of the “B” Specials in 1920 or the McMahon murders of March 1922.69 The Belfast News-Letter, The Belfast Telegraph, and the Northern Whig all consistently demonstrated unionist readership and sympathies. Conversely, the Irish News, The Irish Independent, and The Irish Catholic were noticeably nationalistic in their tone and editorials, with the Irish News often providing significant details about political feeling, neighbourhood disturbances, and cultural events in the nationalist community that pro-unionist papers chose not to include. Newspaper coverage from both sides of the sectarian divide facilitated the examination of diverse opinions about such events as Twelfth of July speeches, political rallies, the signing of the Ulster Covenant, battle reports from the trenches, and the expulsions at the Belfast shipyards, all of which added to the complexities of masculinity discourses in the public sphere. Overall, the picture which emerges is one where ProtestantUnionist visions of manliness, embodied in such entities as the Ulster Volunteer Force, the 36th (Ulster) Division and the Ulster Special Constabulary, became the normative form of Ulster masculinities in the public sphere for both the unionist community and, to a certain extent, the rest of the world. The institutionalization of the power afforded to Unionist masculinities proceeded to the point where the greatest stereotype of all – that Northern Ireland was, in the words of Prime Minister Sir James Craig, Lord Craigavon, a “Protestant Government for a Protestant People”70 – became the accepted appearance of the north for nearly half a century, despite the existence of the Catholic nationalist minority. Standards of manliness were debated in the public sphere and contem-

20

Ulster’s Men

plated by private individuals while the struggle to assert dominance over perceived rivals caused men from Ulster to be engaged constantly in some form of conflict from 1912 to 1923. The locations for the creation of Ulster Protestant unionist masculinities involved domestic and foreign regions, as a consequence of the Great War, but the local elements of communal loyalties, religious influence, and political rancour remained. Whether in Fermanagh or Flanders, Ulster Protestant unionist masculinities were constructed in the public sphere through historic mythologies, traditional archetypes, modern militarization, and popular discourse.

Recto Running Head

21

1 Manly Constructions

In Ulster, the period from 1912 to 1923 was defined by political calamities and cultural crises ranging from shipyard expulsions and the slaughter of the trenches to the savagery of the Troubles. These episodes, in turn, affected Protestant unionist men’s sense of identity and how those identities were constructed in the public sphere. Popular images of northern Protestant manliness often involved some form of militarization and the strength of arms, visible in depictions of army divisions, organized militias, violent mobs, and ritualized fraternities. Numerous masculine archetypes, including the warrior, the hero, the defender, the father-figure, the vigilante, and the tyrant, found expression in the public sphere as unionists came into conflict with Irish nationalists and defined their impressions of manliness through various forms of militarization. Throughout the years in question, Ulster Protestant masculinities not only permeated cultural expressions of the time, but were themselves cultural constructs, shaped and informed by those who, for better or worse, approached life as though they were living under siege. The Ulster Crisis of 1912 to 1914 was one of the most significant periods of the twentieth century in determining the shape and substance of Ulster Protestant masculinities in the popular imagination. Events in this period provided a foundation for consequent unionist mythologies.1 However, there were long antecedents to these images of defiance, loyalty, and conflict. Some narratives date the “Troubles” in Ireland as far back as Henry II and the Norman

22

Ulster’s Men

conquest of Ireland in the twelfth century. Then came the advancing Tudor armies, the plantations of the seventeenth century, Oliver Cromwell, the Battle of the Boyne, the United Irishmen’s rebellion in 1798, and the ensuing Act of Union in 1800. All of these events formed part of the catalogue of sins within unionist and nationalist narratives of Irish history, underscoring the “imprisoning power of the Irish past.”2 Nationalists remember the Easter Rising of 1916 rather than the Somme, while unionists celebrate the Boyne but overlook the Battle of Ballynahinch where Ulster Presbyterians fought with the United Irishmen rather than with the British. This kind of selective memory is what Brian Walker describes as the “abuse of history.” In choosing their separate mythologies, unionist and nationalist communities, particularly in the north of Ireland, believed that their past gave them a special, even unique status. “The past is no more important here than elsewhere,” Walker writes, “but people believe that it is, and that gives it a special role.”3 It was this belief among unionists in Protestant Ulster’s distinct status, and its subsequent images and rhetoric, which created the most potent representations of Ulster Protestant masculinities in the early twentieth century. The era of Home Rule in Ireland provided a hierarchy of identities informed by and informing individual and collective manifestations of unionist manliness and Protestant homosocial relations. Homosociality in this context refers to the network of all-male clubs, societies, and institutions that provided an atmosphere for discussion, leisure activities, fraternalism, and social activism, while simultaneously encouraging common religious and political beliefs among men. The homosocial world ultimately reflected the central role of peer approval in confirming and propagating dominant forms of masculinity.4 The power of various popular identifiers, images, and ideals had a direct impact upon Protestant men’s loyalties, which, in turn, forged in those men a renewed sense of self in an increasingly tense and hostile society. The key to dominance in Ulster’s Protestant unionist masculine culture was to project an image of unfaltering strength and power: to be, at once, a mental, physical, and spiritual giant. These qualities were hardly unique to Ulster unionist culture – displays of strength and power were

Manly Constructions

23

equally as fundamental to nationalist followers of Joseph Devlin or Sinn Féin. However, between 1912 and 1923, the unionist community actively cultivated forceful and militaristic representations of their menfolk in the public sphere for three specific aims: to preserve the British connection during the Home Rule Crisis, to justify their participation in the Great War, and to solidify the existence of Northern Ireland as a Protestant-dominated province after the partition of Ireland. The quest for “nation” became a quest for self. The antagonism between Ulster Protestants and “the other” in northern society long pre-dated the Ulster Crisis of 1912 to 1914. The “Irish question” in one form or another dates back to Henry II’s conquest of Ireland, with Protestants in the twentieth century citing the violence of 1641 and the victories of the Glorious Revolution as part of that community’s living history.5 Between 1885 and 1912, relationships between Protestants and Catholics, unionists and nationalists grew steadily worse in the wake of the First and Second Home Rule Bills and the rise and fall of Parnellite constitutional nationalism. The threat of Home Rule posed by Gladstone’s Liberals and the Irish Parliamentary Party in the late nineteenth century provoked a strong emotional response within the unionist community, including a nascent sense of militarization. Drilling occurred in Armagh in 1886 and again in Fermanagh in 1893, although the ric later concluded that there was no paper trail regarding the importation or distribution of arms in either instance.6 Riots targeting Catholics did occur in 1886, however, in west and north Belfast and the city centre, providing a model for twentieth-century disturbances.7 During the time of the Second Home Rule Bill in 1893, Fred Crawford, the gun-runner of Larne in 1914, founded the Young Ulster movement, a secret society operating under the façade of a gymnastics club. This organization of young men foretold the widespread communal participation in homosocial clubs and movements during the Home Rule Crisis of 1912 to 1914. In order to join Crawford’s Young Ulster movement, members had to possess a Martini rifle, a Winchester rifle, or a .45 revolver, underlining Crawford’s belief that force of arms was the answer to Ireland’s problems.8 Worried about the possibility of arrest, however, Crawford let the group die away, a decision which

24

Ulster’s Men

was no doubt reinforced by the defeat of the Second Home Rule Bill in the House of Lords.9 The death of Charles Stewart Parnell in 1891 was followed by a period of intense factionalism in the Irish Parliamentary Party as supporters split between John Redmond and John Dillon. Like the unionist community, which belied its superficial appearance as a monolith of common beliefs and prejudices, Irish nationalism was also a fractured entity at the turn of the century.10 What did unify Irish nationalists, from Redmond to members of the Irish Republican Brotherhood, was their lack of support for the South African War of 1899 to 1902, a cause which unionists supported and which influenced their conceptions of soldiering manliness in the Edwardian era. Professional British soldiers at this time were seen as “a caste apart,”11 serving abroad in the empire and, consequentially, becoming the living manly embodiment of romantic adventurism and escapism. After all, the realm of empire was a man’s business, in terms of both the physicality needed to control it and its place in the popular imagination.12 The war in South Africa against the Boers and its resulting revelations about the apparent unfitness of British troops only inflamed the degeneracy crisis gripping Edwardian society. Irish nationalists were not alone in opposing any involvement in South Africa. French Canadians also sympathized with the Boers, and the imperial war effort caused a notable rift between French and English Canadians during the tenure of Prime Minister Sir Wilfrid Laurier.13 Where Ireland and Quebec differed, however, was in sending troops in aid of the Boers, as John Blake and Arthur Lynch did when they organized the Irish Transvaal Brigades, fighting against the 30,000 other Irishmen who had enlisted to fight for Britain.14 Service in the South African War became a badge of honour within the Ulster Unionist hierarchy, including such names as Sir James Craig, a captain in the 13th Battalion, Imperial Yeomanry, and R.H. Wallace, future Grand Master of the Belfast Orange Lodge, who commanded the 5th Royal Irish Rifles (South Down Militia). The conflict solidified Victorian ideals of soldiering in Ulster, where unionists espoused militarization with a fairly uncritical eagerness. It also damned guerrilla warfare in the eyes of many loyalists, a fact

Manly Constructions

25

that would colour official unionist reaction to the Troubles of the 1920s and provide a basis for the threatened violence posed by the uvf during the Ulster Crisis, as opposed to actual bloodshed.15 During the Ulster Crisis of 1912 to 1914, an increased emphasis on the relationship between manliness, militarization, and a martial lifestyle served as a source for Protestant “national” strength and masculine power in the north of Ireland. The capacity for physical force, both real and imagined, served to impose the will of the dominant masculine social group on the region, namely the authority of Unionist Protestant men who resisted Home Rule through either constitutional means or military threats, though their efforts did not settle the issue prior to the outbreak of the Great War. Instead, the question of a Dublin parliament was “driven ... into the background” by war on the continent.16 Definitions of masculinity were not declared elements of the Home Rule debate, but those with political and social power were predominantly men whose actions, traditions, desires, and statements revealed the variety of masculine representations at work within the province. Among Ulster’s predominantly male institutions, including politics, the military, and law enforcement, Protestant men held a majority of the powerful positions, allowing their heritage, religion, loyalties, and communal myths to hold sway within the overall unionist community. For example, while the ric generally reflected the demographic divide between Catholics and Protestants in Ireland, county inspectors, who controlled the dissemination of information about paramilitary societies and illegal smuggling in their formal reports, were often known to hold unionist sympathies. This, in turn, affected how paramilitary threats like the uvf were portrayed in official government documents.17 The parameters of religious loyalty for Protestants were primarily dictated by the UlsterScots Presbyterians, the Dissenters, and the disestablished Anglicans of the Church of Ireland, a majority of whom bound together to protect the advantages that the Union and economic prosperity had created for them. This notion of a distinct society was a cornerstone of unionist propaganda. The “Protestant Ulsterman” as a political concept arguably came into being at the Ulster Unionist Convention of 1892 on the eve of the Second Home Rule debate. He was

26

Ulster’s Men

fitted out with a unique character, heritage, and destiny, separate from Britain, Ireland, and Ulster Catholics. The popularity of this model became part of the published literature celebrating Ulster between 1912 and 1923, standing as a reflection of the widespread interest in the ongoing Ulster problem during those years.18 The image of a distinct Protestant Ulster also received quasi-political approval as a theory when Arthur Balfour, the former prime minister, wrote in 1913 that “if race and blood be the essential root of Nationalist theories” then “Ulster must be divided from the rest of Ireland.”19 Counter to Balfour’s opinion was that of St John Ervine, one of the minority of Protestant Home Rulers in Ulster and a noted critic of Sir Edward Carson, although he changed his political status after partition and later wrote a glowing biography of Sir James Craig.20 In 1912, however, Ervine was an Ulster Protestant who believed that “Ireland contains only Irishmen ... and there is only one Ireland, whole and indivisible, a nation knit, as all nations are, out of the incalculable dissimilarities of resemblances of its people into an imperishable unity.”21 Clearly, the issue of blood determining nationality was contentious, and especially poignant for an Ulster Protestant who went against the majority of his co-religionists to stand for an Ireland defined by its people rather than its religions. Cultural belonging, the crux of the debate over the “nation” in the north, involved multi-layered identities and different areas of allegiance held simultaneously, which deeply affected social and communal life. Within Ulster, men and women could feel British, Irish, and of Ulster concurrently. Belonging was a very important issue in the north of Ireland, since identifying with a particular community determined a man’s future public actions and loyalties. Furthermore, this sense of belonging, essentially a debate over nationhood, implied a struggle for identity, honour, and soul, with victory for one side causing total defeat for the other and violence often serving as a consequence.22 In the cultural construction of public Protestant masculinities during these years of crisis, where culture is conceived of as a set of statements and actions given meaning by a community, one of the overriding elements of the cultural vocabulary was an awareness of what men chose to believe in and

Manly Constructions

27

fight for. Strength lay in the projected image of unfaltering will and determination among men firm in their convictions and their conceptualizations of Ulster’s place within Ireland, Britain, and the British Empire. As Ervine later wrote in 1949, this time as an Ulster Unionist, “A vital part of the Ulster Unionists’ creed turns on this point, that Ulster does not live by Ulster or Ireland alone, but by every power that proceedeth out of the multifarious life of the English-speaking people; and that its life is so closely knit with the Commonwealth’s that to wrench them apart would be to ruin Ulster irreparably at once and Ireland in the end. They are compelled by this belief to differ deeply and irreconcilably from those of their countrymen who have withdrawn from the Commonwealth and established a republic.”23 Imperialism and the Crown were key identifiers for Ulster unionists, but for the majority of Protestant adherents to the cause, their identity was also deeply tied to the soil they were so determined to defend. Barring the small minority of nationalists like Bulmer Hobson or the Reverend J.B. Armour, Ulster Protestants appeared uncompromising in their efforts to defeat the Third Home Rule Bill. Ernest W. Hamilton, a strong proponent of the Ulster Unionist Party, believed that there was no other place in the world where political sentiment was so deeply rooted.24 Hamilton further argued that Ulstermen had within them a biological imperative conditioned toward self-defence, so that when “law and justice fail him, the Ulster Protestant will infallibly take his own measures for his protection. He is built that way.”25 In this light, Protestant masculinities in the north of Ireland were based on a public perception that mixed political participation with presumed belligerence.26 A song printed in the Northern Whig in the days leading up to Ulster Day in September 1912 made use of this blend of political and physical manliness: “There are stout hearts in Ulster, so traitors stand forth! / Be there ‘brutes’ in the South, there are ‘men’ in the North, / Ten thousand ten thousand all stalwart and true, / Who will gie [sic] their life’s blood for the Red, White and Blue.”27 The lyrics made a clear definition between the alleged barbaric actions of southerners and the supposedly genuine manliness of Protestant Ulstermen in their willingness to sacrifice

28

Ulster’s Men

themselves for the Union. The term “brutes” also implied raciallycharged language, with northern men standing as a symbol not only of strength and duty, but of civilized behaviour against the wild and violent Celts, a damning stereotype familiar to the British public from anti-Irish political writings and nineteenth-century political cartoons in Punch.28 For the Northern Whig and its readers, unionist Ulstermen were the true measure of manliness in Ireland because of their dedicated loyalty to the British connection. The man most associated with Ulster Unionism is Sir Edward Carson, the barrister who famously had cross-examined Oscar Wilde during the libel case against the Marquess of Queensbury, and who assumed the leadership of the Unionist Party from Walter Long in 1910. Carson was, without a doubt, one of the most divisive figures in modern Irish history. He was also a most ironic choice to stand as the symbol of Ulster manliness, as he was a born-and-bred Dubliner who, prior to 1910, had no official connection with the north.29 Carson became the living embodiment of partition, standing as either the man who saved Ulster, or the reviled traitor who single-handedly sabotaged the dream of an independent and united Ireland.30 Unionist accounts from the Home Rule Crisis years indulged in romantic imagery to describe Carson. A Punch cartoon, reprinted in the Belfast Evening Telegraph on Ulster Day, 28 September 1912, depicted Carson as the new Duke of Wellington on horseback, triumphing over his enemies with a pen rather than a sword.31 This was one among many examples that associated Carson’s leadership with heroic iconography, although Punch might also have been mocking Carson’s military pretensions given his lack of personal martial experience, compared to other men in the Ulster Unionist Party who had served in South Africa. Still, the lofty portrayals of Carson were a constant element in the unionist press. A report in the Belfast News-Letter the same month as the Punch cartoon recorded that men in Enniskillen saw Carson as “the champion of their cause; he seemed to enter the lists with knightly mien, and symbolically to unsheathe a sword which, like Saladin’s, could divide a silken scarf or cleave a bar of iron.”32 This directly linked Carson to the archetype of the noble hero, an interpretation of mas-

Manly Constructions

29

culinity that implied tradition, chivalry, and honour, three themes that were highly significant to unionist masculinities throughout the era of the Great War. The News-Letter’s exalted commentary also portrayed Carson as a Crusader knight, interestingly paired with Saladin rather than Richard the Lionhearted, because his rhetorical skills and public presence as a leader were like a Saracen blade, capable of both a soft touch and hard action. Depictions such as this made Carson a symbol for both militant masculinity and gentlemanly virtue. The popular conception of Carson as a crusading Protestant leader was an extremely successful creation of Unionist policy- and myth-makers, notably James Craig.33 The legends fashioned in the 1912 to 1914 era remained some of the most powerful within unionism for the rest of the century.34 Generations of Unionist politicians have earned communal respect for “genuflecting to the men of 1912.”35 To his zealous followers, Carson was a romantic figure, a modern Cuchulainn fighting enemies from the south. This was an ironic mantle for Carson to don, as he himself was a southerner and an outsider to Ulster politics for much of his life. However, his adoption of Ulster occurred quickly upon his assumption of the Unionist Party leadership. Speaking the night before the Covenant was signed in 1912, Carson admitted his previous ignorance about northern Protestant unionist men to the crowd in Belfast’s Ulster Hall. “I must confess,” he said, “that I thought long since that I had understood Ulstermen and all their feeling and all their spirit, their patriotism, their unselfishness, and their determination ... I was wrong. All I thought of them has in the past fortnight not only been confirmed, but all the spirit that they have shown has passed my greatest anticipation.” Portraying unionism as a universal movement, Carson noted he had “seen the evidence of a great brotherhood which has welded men of different classes and of different views together in one solid mass in the face of a great common danger. I have seen the most peaceful, the most lawabiding, the most sober and the most determined body of men throughout the whole of Ulster which any country can boast of ... I have seen the grim determination written upon their faces that never under any circumstances, and no matter what may happen,

30

Ulster’s Men

will they allow to be wrested from them that birthright which is the elemental possession which they have inherited ... Any man might indeed be proud of the followers I have got.”36 Carson appeared to understand the power unionism had in constructing Ulster Protestant masculinities through its ability to unite men in a “great brotherhood” despite their differing classes and opinions. As for his popular appeal, Ulster Unionist party members could not have asked for a more forceful or authoritarian leader. Carson quickly became the political giant that unionists wanted leading their cause in Westminster and in Ireland. However, as an outsider to Ulster, Carson needed some help in the early years of his leadership in order to understand his new followers. James Craig became Carson’s right-hand man and lieutenant, beginning his speedy education in Ulster Unionism. The creation of “King Carson” had begun. One of the key unionist issues in Ulster that Carson had to contend with was the movement’s rising militarization. This was, after all, the age when the image of an Irishman with a gun became a fact instead of a fantasy. Publicly, Carson promoted a militant Ulster, complete with weapons, a viable paramilitary organization, and plans for a Provisional Government if Home Rule came to pass. In a reflection of this attitude, plans were made in September 1912 by W. Copeland Trimble of Enniskillen to have Carson met in the town by a mounted escort in a “display of the young manhood of Fermanagh.”37 In a similar vein, Colonel Robert H. Wallace, Grand Master of the Orangemen of Belfast, wrote to Carson in December 1913, emphasizing that only the leader’s masterly influence had forestalled violence from erupting again in the north as it had with previous Home Rule campaigns.38 Carson’s strength as a leader came from the image of absolute refusal he projected with body, mind, and voice; consequently, his popularity rose to new heights during the crisis. The Belfast NewsLetter encapsulated this phenomenon, arguing that Carson’s “singleness of purpose, the high moral ground of his opposition to Home Rule, his courage and his determination make him a born leader in a just and righteous cause, and therefore his advent yesterday was awaited with impatience, the loyal men assembled desir-

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ing to give him such a welcome as is accorded to but few public men of today.”39 The News-Letter’s obvious bias in favour of unionism promoted the notion that only Unionists were capable of such determined leadership, excluding Nationalist leaders Joseph Devlin or John Redmond from a similar manly image. Descriptions like this demonstrated how unionist organizers and the press worked in tandem to fashion Carson’s image. The arrangement of specific public events, such as the province-wide tour leading up to Ulster Day in 1912, provided the newspapers with occasions to inflate Carson’s image as a man worthy of the people’s loyalty, even to the point of announcing his “advent” as the leader who would bring them salvation from Home Rule. The key to dominance, as it was advanced in unionist culture, resided in the projection of a manly image of unfaltering strength and power which would inspire both party members and sympathizers in Ulster and throughout the empire. Carson’s success in living up to that impression guaranteed his popularity and influence among his followers. However, this crafted personality was also a target for Carson’s nationalist detractors. His adversaries were quick to point out his false status as a Protestant Ulsterman and mocked his over-the-top persona. St John Ervine wrote that Carson played the part extraordinarily well, “almost convincing the innocent beholder that he is the real Irishman, all others being aliens. If the reader will think of the ‘features’ of the stage Irishman, he will discover that Sir Edward has all of them. He is quick-tempered, impulsive, rash in his speech, devil-may-care in his manner (up to a point), obstinate and thoughtless.”40 Ervine’s cynicism was scathing, but an anonymous threat sent to Carson was even more pointed in its castigation of his leadership. The author, a Protestant from Dublin, felt betrayed by the movement’s abandonment of southern Unionists. He wrote that Carson was a “double-dealing villain” and that “as long as there is a bullet or even a stone, you will be left dead on the ground.” The letter also included an interesting twist on notions of chivalry on the eve of the Great War, stating, “If you had been an honourable gentleman, which you are not (low breeding ever comes out), you could have won your spurs easily and handed down an unsullied name to your

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children, for the government are sore afraid of the Protestants of Ireland who have proved their value in a battlefield ere now.”41 This language of honour, battle, winning spurs, and passing on an “unsullied name” emphasized the knightly ethos the author felt should exist among unionist masculinities and which he felt Carson lacked, despite the Belfast News-Letter’s previous opinions regarding Carson’s presumed gallantry. In becoming the leader of the Unionist Party, Carson had irrevocably identified himself from then on in the public sphere as a Protestant Ulsterman, whatever his personal loyalties to Dublin and the rest of the country.42 Conversely, the reported effect Carson had on both male and female supporters was dizzying. For all intents and purposes, the “King Carson” moniker was not far from the truth. Lilian Spender, the wife of Wilfrid Bliss Spender, one of Carson’s key organizers within the uvf, recorded in her diary that when the Unionist leader came to visit the Literature Committee of Belfast in June 1914, “we all sprang to our feet just as if he were Royalty, and remained standing till he left.” Carson captivated crowds and sparked deep emotion in those around him. Spender continued that on the same occasion, “Sir Edward just turned round as he left the room, and said in his low voice, ‘I’m very proud of you all’, and everybody drew a long breath, and came reluctantly down to everyday life again. It is perfectly extraordinary the effect that man has upon everyone; rich and poor, men and women, old and young, they idolize him. I’m as bad as anyone, only it takes me differently, and makes me hold aloof. I hear he had a terrible time at the Lord Mayor’s garden party the other day. Women and men pressed round him, shaking and even kissing his hand!”43 This kind of reaction is exactly what made Carson Unionism’s leading personality and, by extension, the normative standard for unionist masculinities in Ulster during the Home Rule Crisis. He seemed to embody all the characteristics most cherished and desired by the Protestant community in the north: passion for the British connection and the empire, an obstinate readiness to defy the government in order to safeguard Ulster’s link to the Crown, a Victorian sense of gentlemanly honour, Protestant spirituality, and the common touch. However, despite the adoration he generated, he ultimately was not of Ulster. Something else

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– or rather, someone else – was needed in order to complete the image of Unionist leaders as indistinguishable from Ulster Protestant manliness. James Craig, son of a self-made millionaire in the whiskey trade from Co. Down, was Carson’s political lieutenant and the main creator of the leader’s public image. Whereas Carson achieved quasidivine status in the Protestant unionist community, Craig had a more subtle and silent public persona during the Ulster Crisis; behind the scenes, however, he was the voice of authority and decision-making on everything from political contacts to the material culture of unionism.44 If Carson was king, then Craig was his kingmaker. The Northern Whig characterized Craig as a man who “does not cultivate the florid style of oratory. He has the facility for getting quickly to the heart of things, and he places his views before his hearers in a very effective and convincing way.”45 He and Carson mirrored each other and, in so doing, seemed to cover the broad spectrum of masculinities that adhered to the unionist cause. As St John Ervine wrote nearly forty years later, “Each had what the other lacked. Pooling their resources, they became a third and undeniable person ... Time satisfies its own need. It produces the men it wants.”46 Physically, Craig was tall and broad with rugged features, known for being consistently courteous and ultimately imperturbable. He had a distinguished war record from South Africa and built upon the pre-existing paramilitary foundations in the province in order to create the uvf in 1913.47 He became the military man to Carson’s canny politician. Fred Crawford recalled that Craig was “the one leading man in all Ulster who had backed me up through thick and thin in all my plans” for militarizing the unionist movement.48 In the speeches that he delivered during the Ulster Crisis, Craig appeared to be more than willing to satisfy the inflammatory nature of his audience. His wife, Cecil, recalled in March 1912 that he had finished a speech by declaring, “God helps those that help themselves, but God help the Home Ruler that tries to help himself to Ulster.”49 Less than ten days before the mass signing of the Ulster Solemn League and Covenant on 28 September 1912, the Belfast Evening Telegraph reported that Craig had questioned the nature of

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“loyalty” during a public speech at Lisburn. He dismissed Liberal concerns that the unionist movement was “stirring up sedition” and vowed the unionists would “never bow the knee to John Redmond and the Ancient Order of Hibernians.”50 It is something of a sad irony that Craig, alone, was not the sole ideal of political and cultural manliness for unionists during the Home Rule Crisis, since he was a born Ulsterman, knew and planned the intricacies of the movement, was comfortable with the increasing military nature of unionist society, and used clear and simple language in making his opinions known.51 However, he lacked the charisma that was Carson’s natural gift. He could lead his leader, but he could not lead his people, mainly because Unionist Ulstermen wanted Carson’s external experience to lend credence to their movement and party, as though his decision to lead them proved their lot as God’s Chosen. One reason for the fierce characterization of Ulster Protestant identities was the belief among a fair number of Ulstermen and women that they were the successors of the Ancient Israelites and another example of God’s “chosen people.” This belief was expounded upon by Erskine Childers ten years after the start of the Home Rule Crisis. In 1922, Childers criticized such biblical allusions and felt they would fade away if England ceased “to encourage in Belfast the half-demented obsession that its Protestants are the Chosen People, the saviours of the Empire, the guardians of the Ark of the Covenant.”52 It was precisely this kind of Old Testament paradigm that made Ulster Protestants “one of the hardest people in the world with whom to negotiate.”53 Presbyterianism was the Protestant denomination which appeared most comfortable with the coupling of Ancient Israel and modern Ulster. These descendents of Scottish immigrants from the seventeenth century were among the most fervent agitators for the armed defence of the province. The Reverend Samuel Prenter, Moderator for the Presbyterian General Assembly of Ireland from 1904 to 1905, argued that the most vocal and militant Unionists were Presbyterians and Methodists, neither of whom had been part of the Protestant Ascendancy of the nineteenth century.54 In fact, Presbyterians had, until Gladstone’s introduction of Home Rule legis-

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lation, been great supporters of religious equality in the country and some of them, such as the Reverend James B. Armour, did not abandon this position or embrace the unionist cause. Contrary to this were generalizations made in the press, like that of The Times in June 1916, which suggested that the “Irish Presbyterian Church, needless to say, is mainly an Ulster Church.”55 The danger in accepting communal identities depicted in the public sphere at face value is that monolithic depictions of masculinities replace individual complexities. As A.T.Q. Stewart warned, it would be a mistake to assume that Orangemen or unionists represented all Protestants in Ulster, let alone all Presbyterians.56 For those Presbyterians who did oppose Home Rule, their main stated grievance was the belief that Home Rule would create a new religious ascendancy in the country, this time benefiting Roman Catholics over all other religious denominations. According to Prenter, the disestablishment of the Church of Ireland had been a step toward genuine religious egalitarianism in Ireland, whereas the introduction of Home Rule would disturb this long-sought-for balance.57 It was this kind of logic that proposed Home Rule really meant “Rome Rule,” where Irish Presbyterians, numbering 439,876 according to the 1911 Census, once more would be subject to intolerance and oppression.58 In response to this perceived threat, many Presbyterian men joined local unionist clubs in their respective counties, adding to the appearance of a “hermetically sealed Protestant society” where unionism’s popularity among Presbyterians grew ever more entrenched, despite the reality of diverse opinions within the denomination.59 Compared to Ulster Presbyterians, Methodists had a more fixed stance in terms of Home Rule and their sense of identity. The Vice President of the Irish Methodist Conference, the Reverend George R. Wedgwood, stated his opinion just prior to the signing of the Ulster Covenant in September 1912. He felt that “if the men and women of Ulster do their duty ... Home Rule will be killed. At such a crisis there must be no wavering.”60 Earlier in the year, Sir William Whitla, Chairman of the Ulster Methodists, laid out the community’s feelings regarding the political emergency and men’s roles within it. Whitla believed that Methodists had been

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driven into action by the fear that their silence would otherwise be misconstrued as approval for a Dublin parliament. “Such silence,” he wrote, “would be a stain upon our manhood and a crime against the sacred rights of citizenship which we have hitherto enjoyed.”61 Simply put, Whitla proposed that Methodists were concerned that Home Rule would deprive them of their rights as citizens of the British Empire, a notion that also affected their sense of masculine honour. In a statement whose charitable and fraternal overtones surely would have made John Wesley proud, Whitla added, “Brethren, whilst we are here met as Methodists, we do not for a moment forget that we are also Irishmen and lovers of our country, and we love our Southern brother. We love him too dearly to approve of any conspiracy or scheme hatched with a view of ultimately alienating him from the religion which he holds to be his most sacred possession ... He would be no lover of his country or of his fellow-man who would set his seal to an enactment contrived to proselytise his brother into a secularist, infidel or atheist.”62 The Protestant clergy en masse tended to promote tolerance while simultaneously justifying the politicization of religion. It was a rationalization championed by the Right Reverend C.F. D’Arcy, Bishop of Down, who argued that “the men of Ulster are striving for all that is most precious in our national heritage, and most essential for the welfare of our country. When politics take such a form, we dare not hold aloof.”63 For the religious leaders of Ulster Protestantism, manliness and political action were indistinguishable from one another, as the denial of the rights of imperial citizenship was akin to an attack on masculine honour that demanded a response some Protestant Ulstermen were only too willing to provide. While religion was central for some to the Home Rule debate, fraternal associations became increasingly popular social activities for northern men.64 In trying to define their political future, Ulster Protestant men turned to their own homosocial organizations in order to define their place in society and, implicitly, to assert their public masculine image. Some Ulster Protestants, especially within the Belfast working class, were won over by the nationalist rhetoric of Joseph “Wee Joe” Devlin, founder and president of the Ancient

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Order of Hibernians (aoh) and the serving member of the Irish Parliamentary Party for West Belfast at Westminster from 1906 to 1922.65 However, the popular image of the aoh in the unionist press was hardly complimentary. The Northern Whig, quoting Mr A.L. Horner, mp, characterized the aoh in 1912 as “the very essence of all bigotry, terrorism and violence” in Ireland.66 This Catholic fraternity became a powerful bogeyman in unionist literature and rhetoric, which presented its nationalist members as dangerous vigilantes.67 This image, in turn, enhanced the position of the Orange Order within northern Protestant communities. Orangeism had a dramatic renaissance after Gladstone’s attempts to enact Home Rule in the late nineteenth century. The Order, begun in 1795 as an answer to the Catholic Defenders and then to the United Irishmen, had fallen into disrepute for much of the nineteenth century, although it had prospered elsewhere, particularly in Canada.68 When Gladstone raised the issue of Home Rule, however, Orange lodges saw a surge in membership. The Orange Order attracted members from all levels of society and became an enclave for Protestant male society in Ulster, with around 1,500 local lodges active in the province.69 The Order felt very much at home with the Old Testament mentality of Ulster Protestantism. For example, “The Orange abc,” a song for teaching young boys about their culture, included such lines as: A stands for Aughrim where blood flowed on the plain; B is for the Boyne, where the bones they still remain; C is for old Culmore, where crossing o’er they fell; and D my boys, you all know well, is fair Derry’s Maiden Walls … I is for the Israelites who crossed o’er Jordan’s streams; J stands for Joshua, their leader and their King; K is for Knox, the Scotch Reformer, who for the truth did stand; L is for Luther, who true religion formed. M is for Moses, and as he viewed the land; N is for Noah, who built the Ark at God’s command; O is for Orange, the colour we have worn; P stands for the Purple, for with it the ark was borne.70

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Orangemen placed great value on a mixture of Old Testament and Reformation spirituality, as did Ulster Presbyterian society in general.71 “The Orange abc” focused on leaders who delivered their people from perceived danger, with references to Aughrim and the Boyne alongside Joshua and Noah, and Knox and Luther’s religious reformations of the sixteenth century. It promoted the defence of both cities and women in its anthropomorphic characterization of Derry’s “maiden walls.” It also incorporated references to the Ark of the Covenant, emphasizing again Protestant Ulstermen’s belief that they were a chosen people, descendents of the men and women who had signed the Scottish Solemn League and Covenant in 1643 and who were about to make their own covenant with God in September of 1912. Indeed, the only element missing from “The Orange abc” and its litany of the Order’s conventions was the direct inclusion of contemporary references to the Home Rule Crisis and its militarization of northern society. It should not be a surprise that the membership of the Orange Order included those with explicit martial attitudes. Nearly a year before the official formation of the uvf, Loyal Orange Lodges mobilized their adherents to defeat the Home Rule Bill through any means necessary and began to drill and arm their members.72 A letter from Peter McClosky, Secretary for Lodge No. 1540 in Omagh, reminded a lodge brother, “We are determined, even if we have to resort to force, not to be compelled to submit to the conditions of this most pernicious bill and for this purpose we want the assistance of every member of the order, especially those who have been trained in the Army or Navy.”73 This use of fraternal bonds in order to defend the province was a highly effective campaign strategy and eventually transferred seamlessly into the formation of the uvf in 1913. The fellowship of men predominated within the Orange Institution. Although auxiliary networks for women were developed under the auspices of the Association of Loyal Orangewomen of Ireland, the Order was, by and large, the key public representation of masculine society in Protestant Ulster. Many if not all references made by the aoh or the Orange Order about the other were steeped in bigotry. Tracts from the time con-

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tended that anti-Catholic comments were merely said to underscore that Catholic priests had become political players, unlike many leaders of the Protestant denominations.74 The Reverend Patterson declared to his Canadian audience on 23 September 1912 that if Catholics were “as independent of their priests as Protestants are of their ministers, there would be no question of Home Rule.”75 Patterson believed that Catholics were incapable of making political decisions without the assistance or, in a more cynical vein, the interference of their parish priests, causing the dreaded “Rome Rule.” On the other hand, Michael Cardinal Logue, the leading Catholic cleric in Ulster, wondered if compromises made to the Protestants in the event of Home Rule would be even more harmful to his congregation. He feared that “the concessions on the Home Rule Bill will be a bad business for us here in this part of the North. It will leave us more than ever under the heel of the Orangemen.”76 Religious leaders who involved themselves in the Home Rule debate used similar arguments which promoted communal fears and stereotypes about “the other.” Intolerance between the communities was a powerful characteristic informing Ulster identities from the seventeenth century straight through to the eve of the Great War and after. When men sought to ground themselves in familiar religious and cultural traditions in order to gain strength and public authority, the chances for peace and political compromise grew even more remote. The construction of Ulster Protestant masculinities during the era of the Home Rule Crisis was based on religious affiliation, fraternal societies, and communal stereotypes. All of these factors informed how unionist men felt about their various interpretations of regionalism and imperialism, and about nationalists as social rivals and political adversaries. Sectarianism was on the rise. Militarization, thus far, was a largely untapped philosophy in terms of official organization, but some members of the Orange Order, like Fred Crawford, certainly believed that armed conflict might be the only way to ensure that the Third Home Rule Bill was never passed.77 The dominant form of male leadership for Ulster unionists and Protestants during the Home Rule Crisis was

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a mixture of determination and inspired oratory that appealed to distinct visions of Ulster’s place in the empire, the rights of British citizenship, and fears of “the other” more often than it sought to bridge the political or cultural divide in the north. In this stressful atmosphere, propaganda soon turned into paramilitary action, and Protestant Ulstermen found themselves on the path to civil war.

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2 Propaganda and Paramilitaries

With tensions growing ever more pronounced, propaganda and the threat of sectarian violence became two significant elements that shaped popular representations of unionist masculine identities during the Home Rule Crisis. Incidents such as the signing of the Solemn League and Covenant, the formation of paramilitary organizations, and public violence were gendered masculine events that strengthened the image of communal solidarity. These were used to greatest effect in Ulster by the Unionist Party and its followers. In particular, male participation in political campaigns, military training, and physical violence enhanced the impression that Ulster Protestants were a united front against Home Rule. Their involvement in these activities and organizations facilitated the association in the public imagination between unionist men and their idealized roles as warriors for a cause and defenders of their homes, families, and beliefs. Their actions in the public sphere also increased the appearance of intimidation as a unionist tactic in the fight against Home Rule. In 1912 and 1913, propaganda and the threat of violence became the Unionist Party’s chief tools in their political campaign and, by association, two of the most influential factors in the construction of Ulster Protestant masculinities. The propaganda campaign Unionist Party members unleashed during the Home Rule Crisis was inflammatory, dividing the province into those who were for unionism and those who were against it. The campaign’s most provocative action came in the autumn of 1912 with the creation of the Solemn League and

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Covenant, a document signed exclusively by men, pointing to the shared sense of danger they felt Home Rule posed to their common heritage and beliefs. The news coverage of Ulster Day intentionally emphasized embellished depictions of unionist men who would protect and guard both their homes and their land against the forces of “the other,” identified at various times as either Irish nationalists or the British government. The document can also be viewed as a “controlling mechanism” which simultaneously provided a declared sense of identity for its signatories and also prevented precipitate action by vaguely outlining when a provisional government and force of arms might become necessary.1 The Northern Whig reported that the day’s celebrations had “revealed the fact that there are tens of thousands of men who are prepared to surrender personal advantage, personal ambition, and personal ease in order to defend their altars and their hearths.”2 The inclusion of religious language pointed to the assumed threat the Irish nationalist community posed to Protestant congregations, while the discussion of rights of citizenship was angled more toward the British Liberal Party and the alleged coercion of unionists into a Home Rule parliament. The Covenant’s defensive stance was part of a larger mentality in unionist society associated with cultural contracts. Donald Akenson argues that covenants point to “the ability of those inside the structure to defend themselves against the alien and hostile outside world.”3 As such, the Solemn League and Covenant was the definitive public expression of Protestant Ulstermen’s siege mentality. Within the Protestant tradition, the siege mentality in Ulster dated back to the seventeenth century and the Protestant Plantation settlers who were highly suspicious of their Catholic neighbours.4 The concept also has roots in perceived historical repetition, with the Protestant community caught in a never-ending cycle of alleged menace, paranoia, and salvation. The siege mentality involves a carefully constructed reading of the past according to historical tradition and communal expectations of hardship and abandonment. Military episodes associated with the Protestant siege mentality include the Battle of the Boyne and the Siege of Derry in the seventeenth century, as well as modern events like the Home

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Rule Crisis and the Troubles of the early 1920s. However, it was a concept that northern Catholics also adopted, particularly after partition and the creation of Northern Ireland. Its characteristics included feelings of estrangement, desertion, and communal suffering combined with a stubborn determination to defy the will of either the dominant majority or government authorities. In its way, Covenant Day captured expectations and anxieties about the power of northern Protestant masculinities in a single moment. Saturday, 28 September 1912 was the apogee of unionist propaganda in the anti–Home Rule campaign, appalling Carson’s critics and delighting his supporters. Cecil Craig remarked in her diary that “the crowds were stupendous, and stretched right down Donegall Place as far as one could see.”5 The night before the festivities, Carson spoke at the Ulster Hall in Belfast. His words of defiant loyalty summarized the sentiments of thousands of men and women in Ulster while also underscoring the ironic contradictions inherent within the unionists’ promise to rebel against British authority in order to prove their loyalty to British rights and freedoms. With hundreds standing before him in the Hall, Carson announced, “In no spirit of aggression and in no spirit of ascendancy, but with a full knowledge that, if necessary, we and you – you trusting me and I trusting you – we will follow out everything that the covenant means to the very end, whatever the consequences may be.”6 The next day, Carson cemented his role as the masculine ideal of unionist resistance in Ulster. Inside Belfast City Hall, the Northern Whig reported that “there was gathered around the flag-draped drumhead a body of men who represented a very large part of the capital, the talent, the genius and the energy of the city of Belfast ... Photographic shutters snapped and cinema handles turned merrily as Sir Edward stepped forward to the drumhead and signed the pledge.”7 It was an iconic moment in the history of Protestant Ulster. Within the press’s use of language were gendered assumptions that “capital,” “talent,” “genius,” and “energy” were manly attributes that befitted Unionist politicians. Newspapers stated that the entire province had come to a halt as unionists soberly declared themselves to be one voice. Indeed, the Morning Post summarized the

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occasion as the day when “Ulstermen Banded Together as One Man,” a declaration which pointedly excluded Ulster Catholics and nationalists from the definition of an “Ulsterman.”8 As an historical document, the Covenant demonstrated how the Ulster Crisis was a time of great social divisiveness and fostered deeply-engrained “us versus them” attitudes. This was not a benign text; in fact, it was nothing less than treason.9 Based on the seventeenth-century Presbyterian Scottish Covenant that had been used to mobilize radical Protestants against absolutism and popery, the Ulster Covenant of 1912 followed its predecessor’s sharp “if-then” consequences: Being convinced in our consciences that Home Rule would be disastrous to the material well-being of Ulster as well as the whole of Ireland, subversive of our civil and religious freedom, destructive of our citizenship and perilous to the unity of the Empire, we, whose names are underwritten, men of Ulster, loyal subjects of His Gracious Majesty King George V, humbly relying on the God whom our fathers in days of stress and trial confidently trusted, do hereby pledge ourselves in solemn Covenant, throughout this our time of threatened calamity, to stand by one another in defending for ourselves and our children our cherished position of equal citizenship in the United Kingdom, and in using all means which may be found necessary to defeat the present conspiracy to set up a Home Rule Parliament in Ireland. And in the event of such a Parliament being forced upon us, we further solemnly and mutually pledge ourselves to refuse to recognise its authority. In sure confidence that God will defend the right, we hereto subscribe our names. And further, we individually declare that we have not already signed this Covenant.10 In its caption for the Covenant pledge, the Belfast News-Letter referred to it as the “Text of Men’s Obligation,” which was a concise summary of the responsibility placed on the men who affixed their names to it. The unionist press consistently overlooked any dissonance between declarations of loyalty and simultaneous promises

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of insurrection. In part, this was because Ulster Protestant loyalty was predicated upon allegiance to the Protestant Crown of the United Kingdom and the rights of citizenship inherent within the British Constitution and its empire, as opposed to any permanent dedication to the sitting government at Westminster, even if that body was meant to symbolize all British institutions.11 Loyalty was given to the Crown and the government through unstated contracts which could be revoked if the government was perceived to be “untrue to its responsibility of preserving the just and moral character of the state.”12 Within this paradigm, it was not only morally permissible for “loyalists” to rise up against the government, but mandatory.13 This was the social matrix which provided the foundation for Carson’s declaration that he gloried “in being a traitor,” in that he separated loyalty to the government from loyalty to the Crown.14 The Northern Whig did address the issue of treasonous loyalty in rather veiled language, arguing that the thoughts of Protestant Ulstermen in the autumn of 1912 should return to “those stirring times” when northern men had “risked everything for faith and freedom ... Those who would thoughtlessly spurn Ulster know little of her history or of the stern determination of Ulstermen to hold what their forefathers have won.”15 The Ulster Unionist Council declared similar sentiments in more obvious terms only five days before the signing of the Covenant. At their meeting on 23 September 1912, they passed a resolution which declared that “by no law can the right to govern those whom we represent be bartered away without their consent”; that the “present Government – the services and sacrifices of generations of our race having been forgotten – may drive us forth from a Constitution which we have ever loyally upheld” but that they would not be “dominated by men disloyal to the Empire”; and that they remained loyal to “the King, whose faithful subjects we are and will continue all our days.”16 The Covenant, as a gendered document, clearly defined its signatories as “men of Ulster,” separating this document from the Women’s Declaration signed by female Unionists. The assertion of manly authority inherent in the men’s Covenant identified the King as the focal point of loyalty and underlined the “chosen” sta-

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tus some Ulster Protestants felt they had through the stated belief in “the God whom our fathers in days of stress and trial confidently trusted.” This invocation echoed the Scots’ Covenants of 1638 and 1643, and also Judaic precedents from antiquity.17 The Covenant proposed a sense of belonging passed down from previous male generations and imparted, in turn, to their own descendents through the pledge to “stand by one another in defending for ourselves and our children” the possession of imperial citizenship. These words emphasised the “defender” aspect in unionist masculinities, as unionists believed their present actions would protect their children’s inheritance and their own social and political status. This “defence” also implied an exclusion of nationalist men and their families from the unionist imperial paradigm, and could even have been construed as a threatening and menacing gesture for the future, despite the dismissal of the Covenant in the nationalist press as an object of ridicule.18 The martial element of the Covenant involved “using all means which may be found necessary to defeat the present conspiracy to set up a Home Rule Parliament.” These were words which, for the signatories, legitimized the establishment of the Ulster Volunteer Force the following year, a paramilitary organization that men could only join if they had already signed the Covenant.19 It also, by extension, implied the use of force against anyone who opposed the Covenant’s principles. In its language, which stressed collective action, loyalty, and solemnity, the unionist Ulstermen’s Covenant was a document that depended upon mutual assistance and allegiance in order to secure success for their cause. Ultimately, the Covenant was a powerful symbol for the solidarity of unionist men, to the exclusion and possible harm of rival homosocial groups. This sense of a male community was embellished by the press coverage of the day. The Belfast News-Letter, for example, described the massive gathering at Belfast City Hall as “a magnificent sight” that “gave one some idea of the strength and solidarity of unionism in the metropolis of Ulster. One could not help admiring the discipline and order of these men, whose bearing on the march testified to the good effects of their regular drilling, and whose adherence to

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the regulations laid down for them was exemplary.”20 This awareness of “regular drilling” suggested that militarization was already a noticeable part of unionist men’s public image, while the men’s perceptible decorum proposed that signing the Covenant was a sombre action. An article in the Northern Whig dramatically recorded that men “who are divided on almost every other subject have entered into a common brotherhood with a full sense of the responsibility involved. Prelate and presbyter knew no difference, and it was the voice of a devout and united people that rose to Heaven for succour.”21 The News-Letter agreed with this sentiment of distinguished brotherhood, stating that inside City Hall there was “a seemingly endless stream of sober-faced, silent, serious men, intent upon that they held to be a solemn undertaking.”22 To sign the Covenant and then renege, or not to sign it at all, meant automatic exclusion from the unionist paradigm that knit similar masculinities together, as “men do not deliver themselves to perpetual shame by signing a public vow of courage and sacrifice which they do not mean to keep.”23 However, Protestant unionist men were not alone in their involvement in Ulster Day. According to the News-Letter, “while the manhood of the city affixed their names to the Covenant, The Women’s Declaration claimed the attention of members of the gentler sex.” Ulster Day was a gendered event, as women signed a differently worded document because the Covenant was “exclusively for men.”24 The Northern Whig proposed that it was “gratifying to think that the women of Ulster are standing loyally by ‘their menfolk’ in this crisis, are prepared to go the whole way with them, and to take their share of whatever sacrifice the step may entail.”25 Both of these newspapers demonstrated the feeling in the press that women took a significant but supporting role in solemnizing the Covenant. They were not even allowed to use the same building as the male Covenanters in Belfast: the men congregated beneath the illustrious dome of City Hall, while the women went to “various lecture halls and other places” to sign their Declaration.26 The Women’s Declaration solidified the supportive role assigned to women in the unionist campaign, declaring that the signatories desired “to associate ourselves with the

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men of Ulster in their uncompromising opposition to the Home Rule Bill now before Parliament.”27 It was a position that promoted female assistance and association with the movement, but which left masculine agency as the main force in defeating Home Rule. More importance was placed on the men’s Covenant, rather than on the total number of signatories both documents achieved. It is therefore highly intriguing that 234,046 Ulsterwomen signed the Declaration, while only 218,206 men signed the Covenant within the nine counties, a female majority of over 15,000 signatures. Male numbers did not surpass the female tally until a further 19,162 signed in the rest of Ireland, Scotland, and England, bringing the men’s total to 237,368. In the end, Unionism’s anti–Home Rule campaign received nearly half a million signatures.28 These numbers demonstrate that Covenant Day was an event geared to public representations of Protestant unionist masculinity through the use of gender-specific documents, locations, and signatures. This might have been a reflection of the political power men held prior to women’s suffrage, with male signatures having a greater value because men could vote. However, despite the masculine imagery that dominated unionism through its leaders, increasing militarization, and organized events, women were hardly silent witnesses to the social and political processes associated with Home Rule. While the Women’s Declaration and the uwuc may have cast women in a supportive role within the public sphere, they were deeply involved in the political debate.29 Widespread female participation strengthened unionism as a social movement without threatening masculinity’s dominance in the public sphere. This made Ulster Day, in the eyes of the press, a time when “Ulstermen – aye, and Ulster women, too – will not deviate from the path marked out for them.”30 28 September 1912 was also a moment that solidified Protestantism’s role within the construction of unionist masculinities and mythology. Ulster Protestants saw Covenant Day as a time of great reflection and prayer. The Belfast News-Letter’s editorial for the day noted that “the religious sentiment in Protestant Ulster is not something that is carried on the sleeve; the history of the

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Province tell us to the contrary, that religion lies at the very foundation of the lives of the people. Therefore, an act of solemn dedication such as was gone through in the signing of the Covenant means, if called for, the very utmost that can be read into the pledge taken.”31 Considering that the Covenant’s text proposed “using all means which may be found necessary” to defeat Home Rule, the News-Letter’s editorial was a possible sanction for further violence and aggression, based on the significance religion played in people’s daily lives. The night before the Covenant was signed, John Ferguson Peacocke, the Church of Ireland Archbishop of Dublin and Primate of Ireland, sent a signal message to Carson, saying, “May God give you strength and wisdom to guide aright Ireland’s faithful sons in trying to save our beloved native land from degradation, disaster, religious strife and civil war.”32 This message pointedly mentioned only “Ireland’s faithful sons,” underlining the importance the Protestant churches placed on male unionists to protect them from the supposed encroachments of a Dublin-based Catholic Parliament. In his sermon the morning of 28 September, Bishop D’Arcy reaffirmed religion’s place as a male construct, stating, “This is a very great, a very solemn, a very awful day ... Let me say that it stirs one’s soul to see the men of Ulster fired, as they are today, by the noblest enthusiasm which can move the heart of man.”33 Ulster Day was not Easter, a time for joyous religious celebration, but Amos’ Day of the Lord, a sobering, monumental occasion with eschatological undercurrents. Unionist Ulstermen prepared for the reckoning to come by steeling themselves in the belief that their efforts were preordained and carried God’s blessing. On Covenant Day, God was a Protestant Ulsterman. The religious and martial overtones implicit in the men’s Covenant quickly became apparent to the police in Ireland. According to ric reports, in Co. Cavan, “all Protestant denominations are in sympathy with the movement to resist Home Rule,” while in Belfast, “those who signed the Covenant seem quite determined to abide by their decision, and if ordered by their leaders the younger men say they are quite prepared to resist Home Rule by arms.”34 The ramifications of signing the Covenant were immense, as all

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classes of unionists suddenly found themselves as a pledged and united network of like-minded men.35 The Northern Whig affirmed that “we have seen this week the evidence of a great brotherhood” and that “having signed the Covenant, they will shrink from no steps that are necessary to give effect to it. The Covenant itself is only a means to an end.”36 Still, the actual political consequences of Covenant Day were few. While the Covenant caused a sensation in the press, it had little practical value at Westminster.37 Nearly eighteen months later in early 1914, Lord Milner and the British League in Support of Ulster and the Union were inspired to create a British Covenant in support of the 1912 document and to provide possible British recruits to supplement unionist forces in the north.38 The League orchestrated a demonstration attended by nearly half a million people in Hyde Park in April 1914, but much of this support was superficial at best. There was a significant difference between verbal and written support, and actually taking up arms in or for Ulster.39 In 1912 and 1914, Parliament remained largely unaffected by the religious fervour of the day or by the hundreds of thousands of signatures the Covenant received, despite the fact that there had never been a larger mass public demonstration for a political campaign in any part of the United Kingdom before or since.40 The theatrics of Covenant Day emphasised the increasing martial nature of unionism’s position on the Home Rule question and defined, in writing, the tenets of unionist masculine identity. Unionist Ulstermen could now point to the language of the Covenant as the key public representation of their movement as a united brotherhood besieged by forces and conspiracies within and without Ulster that needed to be fought against and conquered. Religious belief and military necessity had informed the creation of the Solemn League and Covenant, and it, in turn, deeply affected the actions and emotions of the Ulster unionists who had signed it. Of course, for Ulster nationalists, who believed in the benefits and justice inherent in Home Rule, the Covenant was a document that showed unionist men to be reactionary, possibly violent, and a threat to civil liberty. Nationalist responses to Ulster Day varied from outrage to ironic humour. Joseph Devlin called the spectacle in Belfast “one

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of the most solemn farces ever enacted,” while Redmond was fairly dismissive of the unionist gesture, likening it to outcries about Home Rule made in the nineteenth century.41 Meanwhile headlines in the Irish News on 30 September 1912 included “Carson’s Covenant Comedy Concluded,” “A Silly Masquerade in Belfast,” and “A ‘Tar’-able Affair,” alluding to the mob punishment of tarring and feathering known traitors. An advertisement in the same paper mocked the Covenant’s solemn language, declaring, “Being convinced, firmly and deeply, that the use in porridge of inferior quality imported Oats would be disastrous to the physical wellbeing, health, happiness, and, therefore, the prosperity of Ireland ... we, men and women of Ireland, subjects of His Most Gracious Majesty King George V ... pledge ourselves not to accept, support, encourage, or in any way countenance any oatmeal other than white’s wafter oatmeal.”42 A more incensed article proposed that no civilized man or woman regarded Ulster Day as “anything better than the device of bullies who hope to intimidate the King’s Government, and perhaps ‘stampede’ a few wavering Liberals by staging an elaborate farce.”43 Pointedly titled “Mind Our Own Affairs,” the same editorial emphasised that nationalists saw the Covenant as a threatening and coercive document that would only serve for increased aggression and intolerance among unionist “bullies.” St John Ervine, in favour of Home Rule prior to the partition of Ireland, actually attempted to win Ulstermen to the nationalist cause by appealing to this “bullying” behaviour. He claimed that Ulstermen would eventually overrun the Dublin Parliament because of their supposed natural belligerence and political will. He boasted that what Ireland really needed was “not Home Rule, but Ulster Rule; and when Ulster has recovered from her sulks, she will take care that Ireland gets it ... The Ulstermen will, of course, speedily win control of the parliament, for it is in the habit of Ulstermen to dominate any society in which they may find themselves. God did not make them Ulstermen for nothing.”44 Despite this, Ervine’s appeal did not carry much weight with Protestant unionists. Fears of “Rome Rule,” constructed by and elaborated upon by male authority figures and propagandists in the Protestant

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community, stopped a majority of Ulstermen from joining the Nationalist Party, let alone the nationalist cause. “Home Rule is a great religious issue,” wrote the Northern Whig, “which threatens the destruction of our most precious liberties and the peace of the country ... We have to defend the integrity of the Empire against the attacks of men who have never been loyal to the British connection ... Home Rule is at bottom a war against Protestantism, an attempt to establish a Roman Catholic ascendancy in this country which would ultimately lead to the overthrow of the British Empire.”45 This defensive mentality among unionists increasingly emphasized militarization as a means of protecting imperial citizenship and spiritual beliefs. Bishop D’Arcy addressed this image of manly defiance, stating, “When we see the men of Ulster filled with that noble spirit of self-sacrifice on behalf of liberty which fired their ancestors, displaying more than any other men today that patriotic devotion which has made Britain what she is, we cannot hold aloof.”46 As we have seen before, religion was paramount in the construction of Ulster Protestant masculinities during the Home Rule Crisis, because threats to its security provoked action among Protestant men that resulted in political division and an increased reliance on physical force. D’Arcy’s statement also characterized “the men of Ulster” as de facto Protestants, entirely excluding the Catholic nationalist communities. The debate over Home Rule encouraged Protestant Ulstermen to declare their opinions publicly, whether through a document like the Solemn League and Covenant or by joining one of the fraternal societies in the province that allowed unionist men to share common views and draw strength from each other for the fight ahead. As the martial atmosphere in Ulster increased, civility between the factions of unionism and nationalism became increasingly uncommon. However, much of this threatened violence between men was just that – intimidation rather than aggressive action. The threat of violence forced each group to assume a defensive position and tap into the siege mentality that pervaded the religious cultures of both Ulster Protestants and Ulster Catholics. Carson attempted to bring his followers to heel in his condemnation of bully tactics,

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writing that soon “the acts of agitation will be used in vain and appeals to violence will fall on deaf ears.”47 However, that was a wish for the future. Even the disapproval of “the Chief” could not stop some members of the unionist community from attempting to intimidate their nationalist and Catholic counterparts. A letter received by the Chief Secretary’s Office in July 1913 threatened Roman Catholics in Belfast and promised that there would be “merry fun in Belfast next month. I am afraid the mickies will have to form the principal part in another game of hare and hounds, the same as last July and September. We want their houses, and them we must have.”48 For some Ulster Protestants, harassing Catholics was a traditional pastime in line with hunting and blood sports. Intimidation was a popular strategy during this period, reflecting intercommunal divisions and the need to control the lives and livelihoods of other men, as seen in the letter’s reference to the forced seizure of Catholic houses, a threat to a man’s ability to provide for and defend his family. Another example of harassment as a gendered power tactic occurred in the summer of 1912 near the village of Castledawson, when politically-inspired aggression defined Protestant men’s actions against their perceived rivals. On 29 June, a Presbyterian Sunday school excursion party of about five hundred people from Co. Antrim ran into a contingent of nearly three hundred aoh members returning from a meeting in Castledawson. One man from the aoh contingent, William Craig, allegedly ran into the crowd of mostly women and children and seized a Union Jack carried by a small boy. A row ensued and police tried to intervene, but were prevented from doing so when people from the nearby village rushed to assist the Sunday school party. The clash included the throwing of debris, stones, and “other missiles,” while the Protestants armed themselves with “forks, shovel shafts and sticks.”49 The following Tuesday, reprisals against suspected aoh members began in the Belfast shipyards. Protestants, supposedly including the fathers of some of the traumatised children, surrounded Roman Catholic workers, beat them, and ordered them to leave the yards. The assaults were so serious and the degree of intimidation so widespread that about two thousand Catholics

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and five hundred Protestant Home Rulers were expelled from their jobs.50 By the time of the Twelfth of July celebrations in 1912, fewer than a hundred Catholics remained working at the docks. Violence had erupted in one of the homosocial enclaves of Ulster economic society, the shipping industry, which had been the epicentre of industrial pride and security in the province for decades. The Protestant workers saw themselves as men avenging their frightened children. Meanwhile, Catholic workers, who did not necessarily have any connection to the aoh members involved in the Castledawson incident, found themselves brutally victimized for something over which they had no control. The Protestant workers were trying to affirm their manliness as the dominant authority in the shipyards, invoking the image of strong men defending the innocent, even while they intimidated those around them. The mass exodus of Catholic workers from the Belfast docks proved that, in this instance, Protestants had triumphed over “the other” in their midst, using positive masculine imagery of defence to counter the reality of violent intimidation that had exiled some 2,500 of their coworkers. However, this action had its critics. In a letter to his son, the Reverend James Armour offered his opinion of the Castledawson situation. He clearly believed that “drink was at the bottom of the unfortunate business” but that it was also “not at all improbable but that some of the mad Orangemen of the locality laid the bait for an attack on the children. It is hard to get at the bottom of an Irish fracas. Certainly it was a dangerous course to take children with banners into a district where the materials for a shindy were quite ready for a flare up.”51 Armour blamed fraternal organizations for the incident, alleging that the aoh members were drunk and that “mad Orangemen” might have planned the entire episode in order to denigrate their Catholic rivals. Fraternal societies had the power to shape the actions of working-class men, as demonstrated in the shipyard reprisals. Something had to be done to channel unionist aggression and hostility, and yet also allow these men to come together in a masculine environment and continue to secure Protestants from further aoh attacks. The

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answer came in January 1913 with the formation of the Ulster Volunteer Force. As early as 1910, Orangemen and other unionists had started training in basic military manoeuvres.52 Interest in forming an official paramilitary institution had been expressed to members of the Asquith government throughout 1912. In a letter addressed to Colonel Seely, Under-Secretary for War, Mr George Knight asked for information as to where he could enlist in the “Ulster Patriotic Reserve.” As an ex-serviceman, he wished to ally himself with “such a grand and noble effort on the part of Irish Loyalists to resist the Irish rebels, who are out to split up this grand old Empire, and I would be pleased to render my services on behalf of Loyal Ulster.”53 By the end of 1912, the ric noted that the uvf in Belfast alone had 22,000 recruits and some 17,000 guns throughout Ulster.54 This new paramilitary force was seen by the unionist press as a “great democratic army” preparing for “the grave issues that confronted it with a dauntless spirit and determination characteristic of the race.” Characteristics that the uvf desired in its recruits included self-restraint, self-sacrifice, abstinence from alcohol, the ability to prevent riots, and the “physical and social advantages of a marked character.”55 Those who enlisted also had to declare that they had signed the Covenant and were to serve in the uvf throughout the duration of the crisis. Enlistment was open to those from eighteen to sixty years of age. Many members were picked by the Locality Leader, based on “his own personal knowledge and from making careful enquiry” as to who would be appropriate Unionist foot soldiers.56 At its height in the summer of 1914, the uvf had as many as 110,000 members and was publicly presented as a powerhouse of militarized Protestant masculinity in Ulster, even though the final tally of uvf men was less than half the number of Ulstermen who had signed the Covenant. In a sermon to the men of the East Belfast Regiment, the Reverend W. Witherow surmised that “history would yet record the fact that in the years between 1912 and 1914, when men’s hearts were failing them for fear of Home Rule, Ulster, once again, as of old and, like the brave, unconquerable

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Spartans at Thermopylae, held the pass against mighty odds.”57 In directly comparing the uvf to ancient warriors, public addresses such as Witherow’s created expectations for modern examples of epic sacrifice and romantic heroism within the popular imagination, idealizing members of the uvf even as they created nearly impossible standards for the men to achieve. Bowman has argued convincingly that the uvf was, in reality, worse funded and better armed than many previous historical accounts have allowed and had the capability in Ulster by mid-1914 to overpower both the ric and the Irish National Volunteers (inv), an organization created to counter the repeated claims from Carson’s supporters that Ulster was homogenously unionist.58 Public impressions supported that reflection of strength, such as when the Inspector for Co. Donegal reported that the uvf was “daily becoming more perfect as a fighting machine.”59 Expectations ran extremely high before a single shot had been fired. However, the focus for this growing unionist aggression was not Irish nationalists, but Prime Minister Asquith. Growing sectarian tensions were theoretically to be channelled into a more sincere effort against the government rather than against other Ulster communities. In an instruction written to uvf members for “Action to be Taken in Emergencies,” the leaders of the uvf told recruits to “[r]emember your responsibility. Restrain the hotheads. In case of trouble with the Nationalists in your neighbourhood or elsewhere, immediately post proclamation. Remember we have no quarrel with our Nationalist neighbours. Do not molest them or be offensive to them in any way. See to details now. Go on training your men quietly. Don’t stand still. Prepare for the worst and hope for the best!”60 On paper, at least, there was evidence that Irish nationalists were not the target of the uvf – the enemy was Asquith’s government in Westminster. This kind of directive is notable in that it demonstrated the division between the organization’s spoken objective of training to fight against the British and the popular belief that the uvf had been created to combat Irish nationalists who supported Home Rule. Even the uvf men themselves failed to identify Asquith or the Liberals as their key

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adversaries rather than fellow Ulster- and Irishmen, as noted by David Starrett in his memoir of the Great War. When discussing the atmosphere of militarization in 1914, he recalled that “the lads of Ulster were ready to fight. We were the Ulster Volunteer Force of Carson’s Army. But little did we think we were drilling to fight not our own countrymen but the Germans.”61 uvf organizers must have been aware of their own group’s capacity for violence in the days of the Home Rule Crisis, as their 1913 directive included a reminder to “restrain the hotheads.” Some members of the uvf apparently needed the discipline of military training in order to win their fight against the government, a belief that made militarization an essential aspect of Protestant masculine construction in Ulster. In July of 1913, the ric Commissioner for Belfast noted that it was “impossible to doubt the fanaticism and determination of the rank and file. Should the Home Rule Bill pass, even if they desire to do so, the leaders will not be able to restrain their followers or protect the Catholic population in the pursuit of their business.”62 Clearly, the ric believed that men in the uvf posed a threat because of their fanatical determination to defeat Home Rule, which, in turn, endangered Ulster Catholics, although this position, expressed on paper, did not always correspond with the ric’s less than severe treatment of uvf gun-running in 1914. Many of the ric’s county inspectors were Unionists, which influenced how they described the size and scope of the uvf movement to their superiors.63 In a letter to Prime Minister Asquith, Augustine Birrell, the Chief Secretary for Ireland, dismissed reports of uvf militarization because of his subordinates’ known sympathy for the Unionist Party. He wrote that Inspector General Neville Francis Fitzgerald Chamberlain was an Orangeman and that the majority of reporting officers most likely would have signed the Covenant had they not been policemen.64 According to uvf pamphlets, those who signed up for service in the force vowed to serve “for the mutual protection of all Loyalists.”65 They believed themselves to be a militarized force protecting unionist homes and the Protestant faith. The difference between this pledge and the Covenant

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was that the uvf meant to secure Protestant Ulster through force of arms, something only hinted at in the text of the Covenant. The ric Inspector for Co. Down noted that by the autumn and winter of 1912 “rifles were being purchased by individual members of the Volunteer Force for their own use from pawn brokers and traders in arms in Belfast.”66 The smuggling of arms and ammunition into the province was to become one of the iconic images associated with the uvf during the Home Rule Crisis. The organization’s embrace of the threat of violence gave itself a sense of importance and encouraged the men to see themselves as brothers-in-arms on the brink of war. Prior to the large-scale importation of arms at Larne in April of 1914, the uvf began bringing guns into the province in an unregulated manner. Fred Crawford, in his role as chief Unionist smuggler, slowly eradicated any opposition to his plans for arming the uvf. Through a variety of shipping contacts in England and Germany, he was “able to get some thousands of rifles passed through and some hundreds of thousands of rounds of ammunition to different parts of the country,” concentrating on areas where unionists were a minority.67 In July 1913, the ric Inspector for Co. Down remarked that his information led him “to believe that the arms for the Volunteers have been earmarked abroad, and ready to be shipped at a few hours notice, should occasion arise. This is done as the leaders do not wish to put them in the hands of irresponsible persons now.”68 Clearly, the uvf high command was aware of what was occurring with the community’s growing militarization policies and had considered how their weapons would be best put to use; similarly, the ric was aware of smuggling operations but did not outline plans to suppress the illegal activity in their monthly reports. The uvf was in a position to back up their onceempty threats with arms and ammunition, demonstrating their outfit to be a viable, if subversive, military unit and yet another source of power and motivation for unionist masculinities. The organization appeared on the surface to incorporate ideals of soldiering, defence, and networking opportunities across unionist society; there were differences when these ideals were put into

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practice. uvf authorities in Co. Down felt only willing men should enrol in the force, but Lord Northland in Dungannon, Co. Tyrone, appeared to have conscripted all male Protestants over fourteen years old into his uvf battalion. Similar views were also taken by E.C. Herdman, the commanding officer of the 1st (North) Tyrone Regiment.69 This move, which ensured that the uvf would not be as selective a body as the Ulster Unionist Council had desired in terms of age or political affiliation, implied that some of unionism’s ideals regarding dutiful imperial manliness and fellowship were less than vital to the men who filled the ranks. The appearance of the uvf as a uniform body devoted to the king and empire may have belied a far more complex reality in terms of individual men’s loyalties. The rise of Ulster unionist militarization at the end of 1913 caused more and more men to become aware of their capacity for violence. Fred Crawford wrote that his “heart rejoiced when an Inner Committee was formed to look into the question of physical force” as an option for ensuring a Unionist victory in the Home Rule debate.70 Similarly, the anonymous author of The Voice of Ulster remarked, “Thank God, we are not yet defenceless and don’t intend to be so.”71 Police reports, though not as jubilant, were equally interested in the developments regarding the use of arms. The ric Commissioner for Belfast wrote that during the course of 1913 “the feeling which is religious as well as political has intensified. The number of drilled members of Unionist Clubs and of the Orange Body has increased. Young active men are encouraged to drill and rifle practice indoors as a rule is carried on in Club Rooms. Many old soldiers are members.”72 The growing militarization of Ulster unionist masculinities did not appear to discriminate on the basis of age. Drilling was an encouraged practice that brought young men into the same sphere as war veterans, blending the forces of military tradition with contemporary defensive action. Even the Lord Mayor of Belfast, R.J. McMordie, had become directly involved in drilling and training the youth of his city, creating the Young Citizens’ Volunteers (ycv) in September 1912 with 1,600 members.73 Although the ycv initially was

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intended to be politically impartial, it soon paraded before Sir Edward Carson and eventually became the 14th Royal Irish Rifles of the 36th (Ulster) Division, creating a direct link between the romance of the Home Rule Crisis and the eventual sacrifice of the trenches. Before the outbreak of the Great War, unionist men, regardless of age, were able to imagine themselves as part of “Carson’s Army.” With such a public militaristic agenda in the province, it became obvious to the authorities that Ulster had started down a path from which there was little chance of turning back. While the Inspector for Co. Fermanagh reported that young businessmen and farmers’ sons were ready to fight, his counterpart in Co. Londonderry noted that there was no doubt that “many of the lower element of the Orange Order who have joined the Unionist Clubs will be prepared to proceed to extremities, and there is the danger that they might coerce their leaders to proceed to greater lengths than these latter may wish. They have been led to believe that open armed resistance is necessary, and may possibly get out of hand.”74 Some police inspectors clearly believed that the “lower element” of the uvf recruits might make the proceedings more violent than first imagined. For many dealing with the Home Rule Crisis, violence and politics were increasingly one and the same. This made the uvf a powerful symbol not only for the strength of Ulster unionist masculinities, but also for their extremism. However, in one of the few direct contemporary analyses of Ulster Protestant manliness provided by the ric, the Inspector for Co. Antrim noted his opinion regarding class unity and the fostering of strong masculine values in the province. In the summer of 1913 he wrote to his superior that he believed that “in some of its aspects, the Home Rule Crisis has had its use in Ulster. For one thing it has brought together, as never before, the whole Protestant population of the province, and has welded the Protestant churches together by a community of interest and feeling which it would have taken at least a generation under other circumstances to bring about.” He then addressed the differences which were inescapable within Edwardian society, stating that “class

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hatred and class jealousy have also been greatly lessened. When landlord and tenant, employer and employed, master and servant stand shoulder to shoulder, drill and march together in the ranks of the same Club, there grows up a feeling of mutual esteem and understanding which is a fine thing for the country.” He also commented on the benefits drilling had brought to the Protestant male population, writing that “morally and physically the movement has done good in Ulster. No one who has kept open eyes can have failed to observe the improvement in bearing and physique of the men who have been drilling. All these things are to the good, and many of them, I believe, will continue their good influence no matter what befalls.”75 Home Rule was undeniably contentious, causing cultural and political conflict. However, according to the Inspector for Co. Antrim, this very animosity created men whose religious, military, and masculine strength were beneficial to Ulster. This analysis separated Protestant masculinities from their religious and political constructs, allowing elements of physical improvement, class unity, and fraternalism to dominate a police report that usually concerned itself with political and social disturbances. The definition of Protestant manly character was a subject on many minds in Ulster from 1912 to 1914, with even those sworn to uphold the law unable to help noticing how the rising tide of militarization affected the construction of unionist masculinities in the north. There is no question that militarization in Ulster was on the rise as 1913 drew to a close. This process mixed political positioning and religious fervour with archetypal images of manliness: the warrior, the defender, the protector of the innocent, and the religious martyr. Ulster Protestant masculinities found new definition and resonance during the years of the Home Rule Crisis in a manner that had not been seen in decades, or longer. Growing agitation about religion’s role in society meant that Protestant militarization found a variety of outlets, first in sectarian attacks, like those at Castledawson and the Belfast shipyards, and then in official organizations, like the uvf, that gave pride, discipline, and ammunition, both figuratively and literally, to unionist men. The propa-

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ganda and paramilitary atmosphere of 1912 and 1913 had started a process of communal schism in Ulster, seeming to clarify the divide between Protestant unionist men and “the other” in Ulster society, be they Irish nationalists or British Liberals. 1914 would be the year that solidified this divide and brought Ulster to the brink of civil war.

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3 Armed to the Teeth: Manliness in 1914

1914 was a year of great transformation in Ulster. Protestant masculinities, previously shaped by a mixture of religion, politics, and militarization, found new meaning in preparing for civil war. The months of intense planning for an intercommunal confrontation continued to demonstrate how similar the unionist Protestant factions could be to their nationalist Catholic rivals. Both communities valued public demonstrations of strength, male solidarity, and commitment to the Home Rule question, although obviously with different desired outcomes. In a way, the majority of Protestant Ulstermen lived vicariously as a collective group through the experiences and emotions of the few during events like the Curragh Incident and the Larne gun-running in the spring of 1914. However, the actions of those men directly involved in various episodes proved vital in informing the popular character of Ulster manliness for years to come. Before the outbreak of war in August 1914, the members of the uvf continued in their attempts to consolidate power in the province, either by gaining legitimacy through various social institutions and political bodies, or by attaining indisputable supremacy through force of arms. Long before the Great War brought the opportunity for heroics on the continent, Ulster Protestant masculinities were involved in the rising tide of domestic militarization that pitted their identity against that of “the other” in society, which was applied both to British Liberals and Irish Catholic-nationalists. Sir Neville Chamberlain, Inspector General of the ric, reported to the Chief Secre-

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tary’s Office in January 1914 that “political unrest throughout the province of Ulster shows no sign of abatement – on the contrary, the situation appears to grow more serious as time advances.”1 Although party leaders like Sir Edward Carson and Andrew Bonar Law were privately keen to avoid violence, their followers were more unruly and their political rhetoric within the public sphere encouraged negative resistance and “violent, muscular obstruction.”2 Within a few months, Chamberlain’s fears had grown considerably. He worried that the “use of arms of a great part of the male population is a new departure which is bound in the not distant future to profoundly alter all the existing conditions of life ... Obedience to the law has never been a prominent characteristic of the people ... If the people become armed and drilled effective police control will vanish. Events are moving. Each county will soon have a trained army far outnumbering the police, and those who control the Volunteers will be in a position to dictate to what extent the law of the land may be carried into effect.”3 Militarization had reached the point where the police wondered when their own power and authority would be overthrown in the province, leading to greater incidents of sectarian violence. Put into the context of the post-war Troubles, this comment becomes much more prophetic. At the time of the Home Rule Crisis, however, it was still a very serious matter, as the adventurous imagery of the uvf drilling in local fields and town squares changed, in the imagination of the British authorities, to that of a belligerent armed force threatening imminent violence. The Inspector for Co. Londonderry noted that the feeling in Derry was “one of general unrest and the people are nightly expecting an outbreak of disturbance.”4 A similar dread was felt in Co. Tyrone, with Inspector W.J. Miller writing that, within his recollection, “the distrust and hatred between Catholic and Protestant was never half so deep”.5 However, not all of the training and drilling was divisive. The increasing militarization of northern Protestant society gave a sense of pride and purpose to the men involved. Inspector General Chamberlain noted in May 1914 that ceremony had become an important part of the training regime for the uvf through uniforms, the presentation of colours, and church parades. All of this indicated to

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him that “the spirit of enthusiasm which pervades the whole Force is carefully nurtured.”6 Lilian Spender confirmed this sense of occasion, feeling that overall mobilization of unionist Ulstermen had created a deep emotional resonance within the various regiments. “No one who wasn’t there,” she wrote, “can realise the feeling it gave one to see those thousands of men, with their heads bared, while the prayers were offered up; to join in ‘O God Our Help In Ages Past’; and to see them marching past, old men and boys, rich men and poor men, side by side, all cheerfully ready to sacrifice themselves for the cause they hold so dear.”7 A month later, she drew attention to the class differences between uvf men, writing that the “West Belfast Regiment is the poorest of all, I mean its men are of a lower class than the others, as they are all in Devlin’s constituency, which is the slummiest in the city. Many of the men looked just the type you see loafing about public houses, and were no better dressed, but they marched every bit as well as the others, and looked just as keen and determined.”8 In this instance, class did not detract from unionist men presenting a determined martial presence in the public sphere. For Lilian Spender, the West Belfast Regiment had risen above its geographic and social limitations to join the others in the performance of marching en masse, carrying with them the implicit notion that unionism was a pan-class movement among men. Whatever a man’s private social background, he was fully capable of proudly participating in the masculine public ceremonial expressions of northern unionism. The romantic image of soldiering rose to new heights in unionist society in March 1914 due to the actions of British officers at the Curragh. In July 1913, the Inspector for Co. Tyrone predicted the Curragh “Mutiny” when he wrote to his superior that “the rank and file entertain one very silly notion, viz: – that British soldiers will refuse to act against them.”9 Less than a year later that very thing happened. Known both as the Curragh “Incident” and the Curragh “Mutiny,” the threatened resignation of the Third Cavalry Brigade officers if they were ordered to fight against the uvf became famous throughout unionist circles as “The Plot That Failed.”10 Loyalists in Ulster believed that in March 1914, a section of the Cabinet, excluding Prime Minister Asquith, planned a large-

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scale military and naval invasion of Ulster to defuse the uvf threat. According to Fred Crawford, the government in Westminster wanted “the soldiers to shoot the Loyalists of Ulster down like rabbits because they would not permit a lot of wooden-headed renegades ... to sell us body and soul to the Pope of Rome.”11 Crawford’s statement underscored the siege mentality among unionists, who believed they could not trust anyone, including the British government, which necessitated their own militia for defence purposes. Crawford continued that those in the British High Command did not “reckon on the stuff the British Army was made of” and soon found themselves utterly humiliated when the officers of the Third Cavalry Brigade threatened to resign if given such an order.12 The 1913 comments from the ric Inspector for Co. Tyrone suddenly seemed eerily prophetic. In terms of its consequences for public representations of Protestant masculinity in Ulster, the Curragh “Incident” was a revelation of the camaraderie that could exist between the uvf and the British military, although at an elite level involving officers rather than enlisted men. The officers who had threatened to resign at the Curragh were not Ulstermen; General Hubert Gough was an Englishman and his officers were predominantly not from the north of Ireland, although they did sympathize with the unionist plight and the movement’s Protestant and Conservative leanings.13 Geographically, the Curragh “Incident” was an example of British manliness performed in an Irish barracks, with the solidarity displayed to fellow Protestants further entrenching the paradigm of imperial loyalty espoused by Unionists like Fred Crawford and Sir Edward Carson. The Protestant unionist community did not quickly forget the Curragh “Incident” and it was commemorated in a Christmas-time poem that was sent to all ranks in the trenches in December 1914. Entitled “Saviours of Ulster (The Immortal One Hundred),” the poem read: “General Paget gave the order; cried Gough ‘Can it be true? / Are we to shoot down loyal men? Why this we cannot do. / We remember, Sir, when England stood in danger grave, / These very men have shed their blood our noble flag to save. / You may order us to Russia, or to the mouth of hell, / But we’ll never go to Ulster and enslave those loyal men. / We’re loyal,

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Sir, to England, until the end of time, / But before we’ll coerce Ulster our commands we will resign.’”14 Both the Curragh officers and unionist men were loyal to the king and the empire, as shown in Major General Fergusson’s report concerning developments at the Curragh. He noted that emphasizing their duty to the king was the “determining factor in inducing many officers to withhold their resignations.”15 The Curragh officers and the men of the uvf also shared a sense of Victorian manliness, as characterized by Tosh, which valued strength, energy, and military prowess alongside the moral qualities of decisiveness, courage, and endurance.16 General Gough protested against Sir Arthur Paget’s orders to implement Home Rule on Ulster, stressing that he was intimately associated with the northeast corner of Ireland as if it was a second home to him.17 A few months later, Lilian Spender played hostess to General Gough and his brother at a weekend party. “It has been fearfully interesting,” she wrote in her diary, “hearing all about the crisis in March, and I am filled with admiration for those two brothers, and for the officers under them. Some of the latter hadn’t one penny besides their pay, and with boys at school they faced utter ruin without the smallest hesitation. General G[ough] told me that when the news first came, not one of them doubted but that they would be court-martialled, and when he packed his things that Friday, and went to the War Office, he thought he had said goodbye to his Army career forever. It does cheer one to feel that, after all, England has plenty of ‘real men’ still left.”18 In Lilian Spender’s eyes, General Gough and his officers understood the ramifications of their actions, but had felt that they could not fight against men whose loyalties to the British Empire were as firm and true as their own. For her, an Englishwoman living in Ulster, this made them sterling examples of British manliness in a time of threatened calamity, which Ulster Protestant men would be wise to emulate. One of the main consequences of the Curragh affair was that it created the impression that the British Army could not be used to enforce Home Rule and that, consequently, armed resistance by the uvf might never be a necessity.19 The uvf reaction to this news was twofold: there was great excitement that Home Rule

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might be averted because of the apparent effect the province’s imperial loyalty had on outside forces, but there was also some dismay that all of their military training and preparation might go to waste.20 Lilian Spender had emphasized in her diary that England had plenty of “real men” still left; Protestant Ulstermen seemingly had been denied a similar chance to prove their own manliness and daring. They could not have known that, before the spring was over, members of the uvf would have their own opportunity for epic heroics. The Larne gun-running of April 1914 was a timely response to the Curragh Incident in March. The legends surrounding the landing of thousands of weapons for uvf soldiers were seen as “romantic and thrilling in their character” and were, according to Lilian Spender, tales worthy of being told by Robert Louis Stevenson.21 A.T.Q. Stewart’s treatment of Larne in The Ulster Crisis (1967) remains the most intricate analysis of the episode’s importance to Unionism as a whole, drawing heavily upon McNeill’s Ulster’s Stand For Union (1922) and Crawford’s Guns for Ulster (1947).22 The focus for this history is on the images Larne instilled in the public imagination of unionist manliness as part of a romantic adventure. One of the individuals most involved in this depiction of Ulstermen as swashbuckling heroes was Fred Crawford. He easily played the part of the daring smuggler, as his taste for the theatrical was quite different from the organized parades and speeches which James Craig and Sir Edward Carson used to create popular momentum for the Unionist cause. Of a mixed Presbyterian and Methodist background, Crawford’s apparent passion for the cause appeared to be both an inspiration to likeminded Protestant Ulstermen and a caution to those who opposed him. In Guns For Ulster, Crawford quoted Lord Rosebery’s comment that men from Ulster were “the toughest, the most dominant, the most irresistible race that exists in the universe at this moment.” Crawford added, “I belong to this race and claim it with pride.”23 Always ready to be a showman, he became known throughout unionist circles as the man who had signed the Ulster Covenant in his own blood.24

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This kind of dramatic flair was just a taste of Crawford’s dedication to defeating Home Rule, but it was a pale shadow compared to the excitement he felt for the martial possibilities the crisis produced. Eager to arm Ulster, he added to the increasing militarization of the north when he refused to buy rifles without bayonets, arguing that if ammunition ran short during an altercation, “the bayonet would settle the battle.”25 Cecil Craig recalled his dedication to secrecy, remembering that Crawford once “turned up to report, completely disguised with a pointed beard, so that even his friends hardly knew him.”26 Although some might see this as Crawford taking his role as a smuggler almost to the point of farce, to unionist supporters he was Ulster’s Scarlet Pimpernel, keeping hope alive that unionists would be able to defend themselves against British or Irish nationalist aggression through his illegal yet seemingly justifiable adventures. Crawford was quite guilty of romanticizing his own experiences, not only because of his personal taste for the dramatic, but also because the Larne gun-running was a great success for unionism and the uvf. This melodramatic rhetoric was particularly noticeable when Crawford discussed his relationship with Sir Edward Carson on the eve of the smuggling operation. For Crawford, it was a moment tinged with devotion and admiration of a biblical nature. He and Carson were alone as he told “The Chief” of his plans. When Crawford had finished, Carson “advanced to where I was sitting. As he came over I thought he looked nearly 7 ft. high instead of 6’2”. When he came in front of me he stared down at me, clenched his big fist (one of the biggest I have ever seen) and shook it in my face, and in a steady determined voice which thrilled through me, and which I shall never forget, said ‘Crawford, I’ll see you through this business even should I have to go Prison for it.’ From that moment my soul was knit to his, even as Jonathan’s was to David’s and I loved him as a leader and a man. I rose from my chair, I held out my hand, and said ‘Sir Edward, that is all I want. I leave tonight. Goodbye,’ and shook hands with him. His last words were ‘God bless you, Crawford, you are the bravest man I ever met.’”27 This relationship, as Crawford remembered it, was characterized by such

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fraternal devotion that the Old Testament story of Jonathan and David was his perfect metaphor. Crawford’s personal account of his allegiance to Carson stands as an example of how male relationships rooted in fraternalism, fidelity, and shared political ideals were a key element in the construction of unionist masculinities, combining the community’s defining themes of religiosity, loyalty, militarization, and self-sacrifice with romantic language and dramatic imagery. Crawford’s adventurous tone continued when his memoirs recounted his role in masterminding the Larne gun-running. He wrote that he had single-handedly gone to Germany, sailed through dangerous waters, nearly been apprehended, and finally brought the guns to Ulster in a vessel renamed Mountjoy II, a reference to the original Mountjoy that had broken the barricading boom during the Siege of Derry in 1690. In reality, the Mountjoy II had a rather unimpeded journey to Ulster, as the Royal Navy had no orders to stop and search the vessel. However, when it looked as though the gun-laden ship might be captured by Danish authorities, Crawford went into his cabin, “threw myself on my knees, and in simple language told God all that it meant to Ulster, and pointed out what the unselfish and Christian aims were that Ulster had, showing Him there was nothing sordid in what we desired ... I pointed out all this to God and I thought of the grand old Psalm, ‘Oh God our help in ages past, our hope for years to come’ etc. I rose from my knees somewhat comforted, and determined to steam out in face of all opposition.”28 This passage, the written testimony of one of Ulster’s most infamous war hawks, demonstrated the lasting marriage between religion and militarization in the construction of unionist masculinities. Crawford believed that God was the ultimate hope for those attempting to arm Ulster Protestants. “Oh, Ulster,” he wrote, “you owe it all to Him, your God in whom you trusted.”29 Militarization, imbued with religious overtones, was a unifying force for northern Protestant masculinities, as it bound the men of the uvf together through shared training, discipline, ideology, and aspirations. Smuggling guns for his fellow unionists was how Crawford attempted to justify his position as a person of authority within unionism, and also how he endeav-

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oured to participate in the fellowship and fraternalism of a mass cultural movement. While Crawford oversaw the unloading of weapons in the dead of night at Larne, Bangor, and Donaghadee, Cecil Craig recalled that her husband, James, lived up to his reputation for calmness. According to her recollections, he “sat placidly at home at Craigavon, smoking his favourite pipe, and playing patience, completely calm, even with so much pending, knowing all his arrangements were perfect. The whole thing was a stupendous success, and went without a hitch anywhere; and next morning Ulster found herself armed to the teeth.”30 Images of unionist masculinity were not based solely on swashbuckling bravado in the spring of 1914. Craig’s recorded level of composure during a time of tremendous stress and agitation was a seeming triumph of his organizational abilities and his confidence in unionism’s ultimate goal of arming Ulster. Militarization in 1914 was not only about bloodthirstiness, but also involved chicanery, secrecy, the careful planning and execution of key strategies, and an unshakable belief that what the uvf and Ulster Unionist Council had planned was justified and would be successful. Confidence could be just as powerful as a loaded gun in creating an impression of strength in the public imagination. Some 20,000 rifles and 2,000,000 rounds of ammunition were brought into Ulster on 24 April 1914. Larne was a media sensation, even though 20,000 rifles could hardly arm a force of over 100,000 men.31 After the venture had proved a success, Crawford recalled that he “cared nothing for consequences now that I had at last accomplished my task. If I were imprisoned I would have taken it as an honour; if I were shot at my post by Police or the Military it would have been a glorious death, same as being killed in action in battle ... I felt Ulster was saved and that was my reward.”32 Crawford understood self-sacrifice as an integral part of the Protestant unionist construction of manliness. For him, imprisonment or death had the same merit as martyrdom on the battlefield, a correlation that demonstrated the value placed on chivalry, sacrifice, and military action as desirable masculine qualities for Protestant unionists. It is intriguing, therefore, that the

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Larne gun-running was an epic moment for unionist men chiefly because it had succeeded without any bloodshed, mishaps, or arrests, although the latter might have been aided by the number of unionist sympathizers in the ric in the spring of 1914. Although blood sacrifice was important to Crawford and would become a key element in the ideology of Protestant unionists during the Great War, to have achieved such a coup without violent altercation seemed a triumph for precise planning and careful coordination. This kind of martial precision enhanced the association between Protestant manliness and militarization, as uvf men had demonstrated their apparent skill with armaments. This development delighted the nationalist republican Patrick Pearse, who wrote that he was “glad that the Orangemen are armed, for it is a goodly thing to see arms in Irish hands ... We must accustom ourselves to the thought of arms, to the sight of arms, to the use of arms. We may make mistakes in the beginning and shoot the wrong people; but bloodshed is a cleansing and a sanctifying thing.”33 The uvf’s accomplishment in April 1914 was justification to both unionist and nationalist men that their preparations for civil war were a source of masculine pride and honour, even though such paramilitary activities seemed to demand a bloody resolution. While Pearse advocated the adoption of arms for all Irishmen, unionist supporters imagined the members of the uvf as men who deserved to wear “the laurels of heroes.”34 Larne was also the catalyst for renewed military organization within the inv. Until the uvf successfully executed their gun-running coup, the inv had received censure from Irish Nationalist leaders, with Joseph Devlin forbidding members of his fraternal society, the Ancient Order of Hibernians, to drill with the inv under pain of expulsion.35 After Larne, however, the inv felt a sense of urgency, as evidenced in the rise of their recruitment numbers, which peaked around 160,000 members across the country. By July 1914, the ric recorded that “persons of superior class” had joined the inv and the police reported a “general eagerness on the part of the members to possess arms.”36 It was at this point that the movement finally received official support from the Irish Parliamentary Party and Devlin’s aoh. Larne was a powerful episode for unionist mas-

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culinities in that it enhanced the popular reputation of uvf men to that of storybook heroes and swashbuckling adventurers; however, the same event also made the inv a legitimate paramilitary authority, not only in Ulster, but throughout all of Ireland. As the spring changed to summer, the mounting threat of civil war in Ulster was met with a concerted effort at appeasement. The one man who was keen to become more involved in a peaceable resolution of the Home Rule Crisis was King George V. It should not be a surprise that the monarchy played an important role in the construction of Ulster unionist masculinities. Kingship mattered in Protestant Ulster. The homosocial bonds of Protestant Ulster’s vision of imperial manliness involved a deep commitment to the notions of fraternalism and paternalism, with George V standing as the father-figure of the British Empire. The most symbolic battle in Irish history, the Battle of the Boyne, had concerned itself with the overthrow of one king in favour of another. The defeat of James II by William III in 1690 was a defining moment for Ireland’s Protestant and Catholic identities and one that was still vitally important to Ulster unionists and Orangemen in 1912. It was natural, then, for unionists to look to George V as their fathermonarch-protector, the anointed Protestant king and emperor, and the central figure of their loyalty. While the Ulster Covenant had threatened rebellion against the British government at Westminster, its declared allegiance to George V was never in question, even if such a declaration was contradictory at best. Beginning with his accession in 1910, the king’s loyal subjects had “learnt to regard King George both as the father of his people and as the reflection and magnification of their own collective virtues.”37 However, the king was also important to Irish Nationalist futures, as his royal assent was required to pass the Home Rule Bill. If he chose to interfere in the political process on behalf of Carson’s unionists, the Nationalists’ hopes would be dashed. Ironically, the king seemed to have been in favour of Home Rule, with some reservations. According to Harold Nicolson, the official biographer for the king’s public life, George V was more than prepared to pass Home Rule legislation and create a parliament in Dublin, as he believed it would make Ireland a loyal dominion of

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the empire.38 What made him hesitate in this action were the thousands of letters he received from Ulster Protestants calling on him to intervene on their behalf, which was exactly what a constitutional monarch was unable to do. Further complicating matters were the public actions of Unionist leaders, such as when Carson made a direct appeal to the king to act as Protestant Ulster’s saviour. “We will prostrate ourselves before the throne,” he announced in packed meeting halls, “and ask the King to save us.”39 This put the king in a very awkward position. As the ultimate authority figure and symbol of paternal virtues and leadership in the empire, he had a duty to protect his subjects as any father would do for his children, but he was also hampered by the boundaries of his constitutional role to advise, warn, cajole, plead, counsel, and suggest, but not to act. “Whatever I do,” he wrote to Asquith, “I shall offend half the population.”40 The possibility of King George being a Home Rule sympathizer was quickly sensed by some Protestants in Ulster. As early as the autumn of 1912, multiple threats were made against him, either in anonymous letters sent to the police or in public addresses, once again demonstrating the illogical position of some Ulster unionists declaring their commitment to the Crown through treasonous statements. This paradox was reflected in the case of Arthur Trew. In his public remarks, Trew argued that if the king signed the Home Rule Bill before Parliament went to the country over the issue, it would be unconstitutional and Ulster Protestants “would be justified in doing what Cromwell did when he rose against King Charles and cut his head off, or what King William did when he drove King James from the throne.”41 Trew was arrested for promoting sedition, but there were more examples of the most loyal of Protestant Ulstermen demonstrating said fidelity by threatening the monarch’s life. A letter received by Augustine Birrell, Chief Secretary for Ireland, from “Billy,” a member of the uvf in Belfast, read, “Down with fenian George the ould mollycoddle, and his papish bitch of a wife – she would be another bloody mary if she got the chance, the shrew. We don’t want them here. As for signing the home rule bill, if he does, God help him, that’s all. Nothing will save him. We will rise. We will not sing God save the king no

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longer. We will fling the Union Jack on the ground and tramp it under foot, so look out.”42 Both the king’s constitutional authority and masculine influence as a father-figure were called into question during the Home Rule Crisis, as extreme members of the unionist movement would not stand for a British monarch who handed them over to Irish nationalists. Some Protestant Ulstermen believed they had an alternative solution to the problem of the Crown and Ulster’s unionist loyalties. Rather than submit to the authority of a monarch who chose to side with Rome, they would find themselves a new king in the form of the German kaiser. Wilhelm II was Protestant, militaristic, and a grandson of Queen Victoria. The idea of a German Ulster went so far that Ulster Unionists made speeches in Parliament where they declared their preference to be ruled by the kaiser rather than John Redmond.43 Such a notion was especially pleasing to Fred Crawford, who had done many transactions with German arms-dealers. Years after the fact, he recalled that he had often been “twitted about a speech I made at Bangor in 1912, in which I said I much preferred being under the Emperor of Germany than an Irish Parliament. I still hold the same opinion. The Emperor William [sic] looked well after his loyal subjects, but if we were under an Irish Parliament in Dublin we would be prey to be devoured.”44 The Home Rule Crisis was so divisive in Ulster than even a cultural institution such as the monarchy was called into question, ironically in the name of supreme loyalty. The king could do nothing to prevent the oncoming storm of militarization and the shadow of civil war from spreading over Ulster except to hope that political stratagems would force cooler heads to prevail. In this spirit, George V called for the key figures of the crisis to meet for what was to be known as the Buckingham Palace Conference in late July 1914. Carson, Craig, and Redmond were all in attendance, along with Prime Minister Asquith and the king, who acted as mediator and host. Keen to make an impression on his guests, the king stressed his position as a conciliator during the conference. The Northern Whig recorded this stance during his opening statement to the gathered assembly of leaders. The king noted the “exceptional circumstances” that had brought them all

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together, and that the “trend has been surely and steadily towards an appeal to force, and today the cry of civil war is on the lips of the most responsible and sober-minded of my peoples. We have in the past endeavoured to act as a civilising example to the world, and to me it is unthinkable, as it must be to you, that we shall be brought to the brink of fratricidal strife upon issues apparently so capable of adjustment as those you are now asked to consider, if handled in a spirit of generous compromise. My apprehension in contemplating such a dire calamity is intensified by my feelings of attachment to Ireland and of sympathy with her people, who have always welcomed me with warm-hearted affection.”45 The king’s remarks highlighted the apparent fraternal nature of the Home Rule Crisis with his reference to “fratricidal strife.” He seemed aware of the success of militaristic propaganda in the north of Ireland and believed that unionists and nationalists were not strangers to one another, but brothers. Through his address, King George was not only trying to achieve peace between the two parties, but also to regain his status as the ultimate male authority figure for all Ulstermen, regardless of political or religious affiliation. His words displayed apparent understanding, sympathy, and even a hint of desperation, as well as the need for compromise and agreement if Ulster was to avoid self-destruction. Sadly, when Redmond and Carson held a private meeting together, it produced no resolution to the crisis. In fact, the conference was a complete failure. The king had attempted to reassert his authority as both a concerned father-figure and an objective and sympathetic mediator, but to little effect. Like unionist Ulstermen, he felt that imperial connections were insurmountable and that his people around the world were “bound to [him] and to one another” with himself standing as “the head of this great and widespread family.”46 Despite this sense of a familial relationship between sovereign and subjects, the king’s efforts at the Buckingham Palace Conference were fruitless. He could not force Carson or Redmond from their entrenched positions. The monarchy as an institution was a powerful symbol, but the monarch as a man was unable to strike a compromise between politi-

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cians in his own home. In Protestant Ulster, Carson and Craig were able to use their personalities and public personae as tools to rally men to them, whereas George V had to face the limitations of his private role as mediator. On his own, he could not force anyone to do anything. Public opinions of the conference were varied. The Belfast News-Letter believed that George V had done well, proposing that “the King has acted a kingly part” and that he had done “a great service to the country.”47 Some nationalists, however, were displeased with his efforts. The Reverend James B. Armour, the noted Presbyterian Home Ruler, remarked that the king had not gained much “by his patting on the back of the Ulster rebels.”48 Surprisingly, Lilian Spender wrote disparagingly of all those who had attended the conference, noting that “this is the one moment of all others when we should not give way.” Moving away from the adulation she had previously recorded about Sir Edward Carson and his magnetic presence, she now lamented, “Oh, for a strong man to rally the forces of Unionism, and to say to the Government, ‘We will support you in every matter but this’ ... But one looks in vain for such a man. Nowadays men seem so terrified of responsibility and ‘consequences.’ However, it is terribly difficult, of course.”49 In wishing for a strong man, Spender emphasized the importance of authoritative leadership qualities in Protestant Ulster’s male politicians and public figures. Despite the fact that the Home Rule Crisis coincided with the era of women’s suffrage campaigns, she did not look to herself or her fellow members of the uwuc as agents of political power, an apparent negation of female agency that promoted the notion of politics as a masculine venture. The men Spender knew, most of whom were of the middle and upper classes and leaders of the Ulster Unionist Council, were apparently “terrified of responsibility,” a damning observation that accentuated the difference between ideals of leadership and masculine power and the reality of putting those romanticized standards into practice. If part of a man’s successful assertion of his masculinity in the public sphere was to make himself mentally and spiritually, if not sexually,

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desirable to women, then the leaders of the Ulster Unionist Party were failing in that task, despite Sir Edward’s personal charisma. The wife of one of Carson’s chief lieutenants was still dreaming of her would-be deliverer during the summer of 1914, regardless of the gun-running heroics that had occurred in the spring or the previous years of successful unionist propaganda. The Buckingham Palace Conference proved to be a frustrating enterprise for those involved and for those awaiting its outcome. But within a matter of days, its relevance disappeared with the outbreak of the Great War. By the end of July 1914, less than a fortnight after the failure of the Buckingham Palace Conference, a change could be felt in Ulster. The ric Inspector for Co. Armagh noted that “European war has driven Home Rule into the background.”50 Meanwhile, his counterpart in Co. Antrim had noticed that “an uneasy restless feeling” had prevailed throughout July until “the international crisis, and the postponement of discussion relieved the strain.”51 In focusing on the continental conflict, Protestant Ulstermen had stumbled upon a temporary respite from the Home Rule question.52 It was a sudden, even jarring, about-face. ric Inspector General Chamberlain firmly believed that war in Europe was the solution to Ulster’s dilemma. For the moment, domestic politics were “overshadowed by the Continental War cloud, and it is believed that the attitude of Unionists and Nationalists, while the danger lasts, will be friendly towards each other and helpful to the Empire.”53 The newspapers concurred, recording that “domestic differences have been buried out of sight, and a united nation stands four-square to its foes.”54 The martial attitudes which had thrown Ulster’s diverse masculinities into conflict were re-channelled into an entirely new scenario abroad, with militaristic language continuing to be at the heart of popular definitions of northern men’s current and future actions. The majority of people in Ulster did not seem unsettled by this sudden change from civil to continental war. The ric Inspector for Co. Antrim wrote that the war had “overshadowed all other interests and for the time being all parties appear to have forgotten their

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differences.”55 The Inspector for Co. Cavan agreed, noting that there was no sympathy whatsoever for the Germans in Ulster.56 Fred Crawford’s one-time speculation that the kaiser would prove a better monarch than George V now had no place in the public imagination. Strong anti-German feelings existed in Co. Donegal and the Inspector for Co. Monaghan stressed that “much of the bitterness existing between Unionists and Nationalists has been obliterated by the outbreak of war and all danger of collision between rival parties has disappeared for the present.”57 It had been feared that civil war was brewing in the spring and summer of 1914; by late August, the Great War had “worked a revolution in the state of party feeling” according to the Inspector for Co. Tyrone, with uvf and inv members turning up together to escort prospective soldiers to recruiting centres.58 Ulstermen lived through the summer of 1914 apart from the rest of Europe. Most of the countries involved in the war looked back on the long, hot, heady days of the summer of 1914 as a last respite before the horror of the trenches changed the course of modern history.59 Ulster’s experience was different. Its summer was tense, gloomy, fretful, and overshadowed by the threat of violence. When Britain declared war on Germany, it was as if the sun had come out at last. Now that the conflict would not be fought in the streets of Belfast and Derry, the Ulster people, particularly unionists, were excited at the prospect of heroics carried out on foreign shores. “The war has evoked the patriotic instincts of the people in a manner that has probably never been known before,” wrote the editors of the Belfast News-Letter, adding that recruitment notices “were read with great eagerness.”60 Similarly, the Northern Whig declared that there had been “a rush of young men” to join either the navy or the army and that “doubtless the next few days will see a large proportion of the manly youth of the North volunteering for service anywhere.”61 Newspapers’ manipulation of the relationship between militarization and manliness was highly significant in the early days of the Great War. Editorialists expected young Protestant Ulstermen to volunteer quickly for military service, stressing in the unionist press the assumed connection between masculinity, loyalty, and the

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Union. In this light, Protestant Ulster echoed the general enthusiasm for war that swept across Europe in August 1914, but few other nations could claim that a global military conflict was the best of all possible outcomes for their national well-being. This is not to suggest, however, that Home Rule disappeared overnight from the political landscape or from communal concerns. The day before war was officially declared, the Co. Armagh branch of the uvf was still preparing for its own conflict, loading ammunition into boxes and tins for easy transportation.62 Nationalists, also, were keen to find a binding resolution to the dilemma created by the Home Rule legislation, but their method was to stall enlistment for the European conflict. Inspector General Chamberlain noted that there was still reason to believe that “if the Home Rule Bill is not put on the Statute Book, recruiting will in future be seriously affected.”63 If nationalists were going to enlist in Kitchener’s Army at any point during the war, their service came at a price. John Redmond promised the support of the inv to the Expeditionary Forces in his famous speech at Woodenbridge, Co. Wicklow. On 20 September 1914, he declared “it would be a disgrace forever to our country and a reproach to her manhood and a denial of the lessons of her history if young Ireland confined their efforts to remaining at home to defend the shores of Ireland from an unlikely invasion, and to shrinking from the duty of proving on the field of battle that gallantry and courage which has distinguished our race all through its history.”64 With this demonstration of solidarity, Westminster was expected to give Irish Nationalists a pledge of equal support and faith, namely, the passage of the Home Rule Bill through Parliament. One might have expected the formal enactment of Home Rule to have been a time of enormous crisis, but with attention diverted toward the war effort, the bill passed in September 1914 with little widespread demonstration. In Derry, some nationalists did celebrate the news by having bonfires and holding street parties, which were ignored by the uvf.65 In Belfast, stronger sentiments prevailed, but feelings of betrayal were shown through contempt rather than force of arms. The ric recorded that the king’s picture was booed at cin-

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emas and music halls and that several congregations walked out of Protestant church services during the National Anthem.66 The people who felt that the king had betrayed them in this instance did not rebel in the streets; rather, the feelings of rejection created a new element in unionist identity centred on the possibilities of blood sacrifice on the battlefield in the upcoming war, a pledge of devotion the king could not ignore. This was how the martial prowess of northern Protestant men, demonstrated in uvf training and at Larne, could safeguard Ulster as a permanent part of the United Kingdom. Unionists came to believe that their loyalty would seal a pact through self-sacrifice, securing the province’s future within the empire through their sons’ deaths. This was the blooddebt many unionists came to see as their ultimate weapon against Irish nationalism in the years after 1914. Meanwhile, the suspension of Home Rule for the length of the European conflict seemed to have been enough to prevent riot and general disorder among unionist populations. After all the bravado, religiosity, and overt militarization, the bill itself was anticlimactic. The Ulster Crisis was about to leave Ulster’s shores, with enlisted men carrying their political loyalties with them into battle. It was there, on the muddy fields of France and Flanders, that Ulster Protestant men again attempted to define their political future and their masculine identities through armed conflict, partially grounded in the militarization they had embraced in the spring and summer of 1914. The First World War became the event that judged whether or not Protestant Ulstermen were worthy of the heroic accolades that had been used to define them to such effect during the Home Rule Crisis. The martial masculinities created and refined in 1912 and 1913 received a final lacquer in the spring and summer of 1914. uvf members won the military support of the Curragh’s Third Cavalry Brigade and succeeded in their endeavours at Larne to great acclaim from their supporters. Little did they know what awaited them at the Somme. Militarization had driven public representations of Protestant manliness throughout 1914, for good or ill, and found popular appeal in the romantic and forceful imagery

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of soldiering and armed defence. Martial prowess continued to be a vital part of unionist Ulstermen’s social construction after the declaration of war. As Protestant unionists enlisted as volunteers and eventually left for the trenches, the enduring image in the public sphere was that a true Ulsterman was an Ulsterman with a gun.

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4 The Glorious First of July: The 36th (Ulster) Division at the Somme

The Great War was the single most important event in the construction of Ulster unionist masculinities in the first half of the twentieth century. The war’s cultural consequences included the deification of the 36th (Ulster) Division and the blood-debt incurred by Protestant Ulstermen which sanctified the union with Great Britain, while its political ramifications included the mobilization of Irish nationalists on the home front and the eventual partition of Ireland. The events in France, Flanders, and the Dardanelles captured the public imagination and affected Ulstermen on both sides of the political divide. As soldiers, men from the north of Ireland faced a variety of images and popular beliefs, often representative of the middle classes, which involved depictions of warrior masculinities. Particular significance was given to images of heroes, gentlemen, brothers-in-arms, and the place of former adversaries on a common battlefield. War has a noted tendency to accentuate the social processes associated with the production and reproduction of imagined communities.1 The war narratives of Protestant unionists in Ulster, especially within newspapers and remarks meant for public consumption, proposed that Protestant Ulstermen’s participation in the Great War was part of a wider historical tradition and that these men in uniform were representative of the province as a whole.2 Above all, the symbolic value of the 36th (Ulster) Division in the public sphere inspired a new mythology of manliness in the north,3 creating a fervent appreciation for and dedication to the image of the Protestant loyalist soldier in Ulster unionist society.

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Wilfrid Spender provided one of the best illustrations of this heroic reputation of Protestant Ulstermen in the 36th (Ulster) Division. In a letter written the day after the 36th Ulsters had gone over the top at the Somme, he proclaimed, “I am not an Ulsterman, but yesterday, on the first of July, as I followed their amazing attack, I felt that I would rather be an Ulsterman than anything else in the world ... Beginning at a slow walk over ‘No Man’s Land’, they then suddenly let loose, as they charged over the two front lines of the enemy’s trenches shouting ‘No surrender, boys’. The enemy’s gunfire raked them from the left, machine-guns in the village enfiladed them on the right, but battalion after battalion came out of the awful wood as steadily as I have seen them at Ballykinlar, at Clandeboye, or at Shane’s Castle.” Spender concluded that the Ulster Division had “lost very heavily, and in doing so sacrificed itself for the Empire. The Ulster Volunteer Force, from which the Division was made, has won a name which equals any in history. Their devotion, which no doubt helped the advance elsewhere, deserves the gratitude of the British Empire.”4 This vision of the Protestant unionist soldier, part of the tradition of the epic “battle piece,”5 had less to do with the realities of modern warfare in the trenches than with Ulster society’s previous espousal of traditional masculine constructs of heroism and gallantry praised at the turn of the century.6 Victorian and Edwardian heroic ideals centred on themes of adventure, bravery, and sacrifice, harkening back to the medieval chivalric code and the image of “the perfect knight.” This ideal warrior was brave, loyal, and merciful, defending faith and the oppressed while honouring his enemies in combat. Failure to keep to these standards of chivalry meant irrevocable dishonour.7 War has often been seen as the ultimate test of manhood, a place of both masculine achievement and suffering.8 Whereas militant masculinities had been mainly portrayed as only a threat during the Home Rule Crisis, the Great War made them a viable reality. In keeping with the innate religiosity of the Crisis, the cult of Muscular Christianity further enhanced the public representation of Ulster’s noble warriors, adding the requisite elements of religious fervour and physical achievement to the dignified morals of the

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fighting gentleman. By the end of the nineteenth century, the religious athletic manliness espoused by the Reverend Charles Kingsley and Thomas Carlyle had combined with the increasing glorification of militaristic masculinity in late Victorian British imperialism.9 Physical prowess and agility have always been prized assets for the warrior mystique, but Muscular Christianity, often instilled among young boys at public school, presented the entire male body as a repository of virility, strength, and courage. As Dawson deftly illustrates in his analysis of Sir Henry Havelock’s career, the union of Britain’s military heritage with the tradition of the Christian soldier created an example of moral manliness “characterized by a potent combination of Anglo-Saxon authority, superiority and martial prowess, with Protestant religious zeal and moral righteousness.”10 The qualities that defined Havelock during the 1857 Indian Rebellion were equally applicable to the men of the 36th Division in 1916 at the Somme. Muscular Christianity merged with the cult of chivalry at the turn of the century to create high expectations for modern military officers.11 Discipline, duty, and willing self-sacrifice on the battlefield were idealized themes that established common ground between officers of the middle and upper classes, so that the chivalric code itself became a site of reconciliation between warrior masculinities of different social strata.12 The integration and unification of men in the uvf had made “Carson’s Army” an apparently pan-class movement; the Great War seemed to promise the same results for the men of the 36th Division. The possible political ramifications of the unionist blood-debt also united popular expectations for what the 36th Division could achieve in the war, beliefs enhanced for some by thoughts of historical determinism. By chance, the opening day of the Battle of the Somme coincided with the original anniversary of the Battle of the Boyne, according to the Julian calendar. By going over the top on the same date as the Boyne, the Ulstermen supposedly fought not only to prove their prowess and position within the empire, but also to defend the cultural legacy of Protestant Ulster. Within a week of the Ulster Division’s foray across No Man’s Land, Major General Sir Oliver Nugent had declared to his wife that the men were

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“inspired” by the “Anniversary of the Battle of the Boyne.”13 According to Nugent and those who shared his opinions, the Ulster Division was to fight and sacrifice itself for the empire, thereby forcing Great Britain to protect the Union in the name of those Ulstermen who had died for its sake.14 Ulsterwomen were not an immediate part of this romantic vision. This was in keeping with George Mosse’s claim that the Great War was a “masculine event,” deepening preconceived notions about masculinity’s role in modern society and enhancing associations between militarization, manliness, and the search for national identity.15 At the onset of the Great War, nothing was more important to Ulster unionists than defining the north’s place within the United Kingdom and keeping Home Rule out of Ireland. Protestant Ulster’s soldiers, trained in an atmosphere that valued chivalry as a centrepiece of idealized manhood, now had their heroic quest. As Protestant Ulstermen joined the ranks, the public image of warrior masculinities seemed to provide a solution to the question of Home Rule. Soldiers from the 36th (Ulster) Division, regarded as unionism’s own outfit, would be able to demonstrate their devotion to the Crown and Protestant ideals while proving their mettle in battle and, in turn, informing popular impressions of imperial heroism and martyrdom. This, then, was the popular archetype for the unionist soldier from the “Imperial Province”16 leading up to the Somme. He was everything in the extreme: loyal, brave, duty-bound, driven, spiritual, adventurous, and more than willing to sacrifice himself for what unionists perceived as Ulster’s greater good. He fought for king and empire, and to defeat Irish nationalism as well as the kaiser.17 This was an image of the gentleman-hero, a creation of the upper and middle classes that supposedly died on the battlefields of France and Flanders.18 This type of soldier was a chivalric utopian ideal that could not withstand the brutality of the trenches or continue to exist in such glorified terms within the reality of so much death. It is notable, then, that although they were sorely tested and faced appalling losses, the communal belief in the gallantry, bravery, and just cause of the men from the 36th Division was not a casualty of the war effort. The idealized standards of warrior masculinities

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among unionist Ulstermen did not lose their traditional elements; rather, they hardened because of the war and became stronger than ever. This embrace of the soldier-hero concept after the war was not unique to Ulster; Jessica Meyer has argued that the archetype was iconic not only because of its ironic qualities for modernists, but also because it was a demonstration of the “heroic purpose” with which British soldiers had gone to war.19 The legacy of the Somme created a new sense of military manhood in Protestant Ulster. It was a mixture of both the old and the new, a blend of traditional beliefs and modern military legends that, when coupled together, imbued the province with a sense of pride and regional consciousness that was felt throughout the rest of the twentieth century. This mythology for the Protestant community, however, was just that: a fallacy. The chivalric code of behaviour lauded amongst unionists on paper and in prose was a practical impossibility; there was a disparity between the reality of combat and idealized representations of soldiering masculinities that individual men neither could attain nor necessarily wished to embrace on a personal level.20 Poetic tributes and laudatory statements, which are the focus for this analysis of Ulster Protestant masculinities at the Somme, should not be accepted at face value or suggest that the men themselves saw their exploits in such a triumphant or significant light. Most of the men in the field cared little about what their actions said regarding the strength of imperial manliness or the dominance of Protestant unionists in Ulster, particularly when they were more consumed with thoughts of the actual battle at hand. This kind of separation between public perception of the Somme and the lived reality of combat was the theme of Malcolm McKee’s anger in a 1966 article in the Belfast Telegraph. McKee, a veteran of the 36th, railed against the stupidity of the Somme and those who over-mythologized the significance of the battle. “How many would have known the Boyne was fought on the first of July?” he asked, continuing, “I don’t know why they plaster such incidents on our battle. Nothing was further from my mind than the Boyne on the Somme.”21 McKee’s position was that of a veteran whose war experiences had made him cynical of public commemorations of the past. Those who did not embrace the cultural significance allocated

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to the war by the unionist community lay “outside the boundaries of domestic existence,” alienated from the very society they had represented on the battlefield.22 On a collective level, however, the Somme – and the Great War as a whole – was a gendered setting that shaped definitions of the heroic, definitions which were strong enough to live in concert with feelings of cynicism and disillusionment and even override them in the cultural construction of masculinities.23 Events like the Somme created cultural touchstones in Ulster. Although McKee might not have liked how the Somme became caught up in unionist imagery, it did become a foundation for modern unionist mythology and, by extension, the community’s standards for manliness. The romantic descriptions of Ulstermen going over the top were a distortion of many men’s actual experiences, but reactions to the symbolism of the 36th Division were very real. There is no single, overarching consensus as to how the Great War was perceived, experienced, or remembered. Paul Fussell argued that the war was the great moment of ironic cleavage with the past, the “hideous embarrassment” that “reversed the Idea of Progress.”24 Of the Somme, specifically, he proposed that the innocent armies engaged there “attained the knowledge of good and evil” on 1 July 1916 and that this single day is perhaps “the most interesting in all the ironic actions of the war.”25 Eric J. Leed’s depiction of the formation of identities beyond the boundaries of normal social experience follows this embrace of the ironic and the modern.26 While these contentions no doubt proved to be true for individual veterans of the 36th Division in the years and decades after the war,27 they were not representative of the overriding response from the unionist public sphere as a whole. Why was this rejection of ironic interpretations of the war so implicit in the popular imagination of Ulster unionist society? There are two responses to this question that I would like to expand on here, one of which corresponds with the paradigm that there can be no single interpretation of an event as significant and complex as the Great War.28 Communities across Europe and the rest of the world were more than able to internalize myriad interpretations of the war in terms of what it meant to individuals, fam-

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ilies, neighbourhoods, communities, and nations. While Fussell’s argument that “modern memory” – the syntax and grammar for conceptualizing violent acts – reconfigured our images of irony on the Western Front, there was also a retention of the romantic and the traditional in how societies mourned their war dead.29 This focus on remembering the “gallantry” of the fallen was certainly part of the public rhetoric in unionist Ulster.30 However, there is another possibility for unionist Ulster’s continued use of heroic warrior masculinities in the face of the rest of Britain’s and western civilization’s embrace of the ironic. Meyer describes the image of heroic protectors and providers as important masculine identities in the pre-war era; they defined the written narratives of British servicemen after the Armistice, in concert with the homosociality of the battlefield.31 These images of providers and protectors were already active realities for the unionist community during the Home Rule Crisis and continued to be relevant after the Easter Rising and the Irish Conscription Crisis brought new tensions to the “Irish question” on the domestic front.32 For unionist Ulster, one war merged with the other; the fighting did not stop. The resumption of pre-war hostilities in Ulster was extremely visible. As Winston Churchill famously intoned, “The whole map of Europe has changed ... but as the deluge subsides and the waters fall short, we see the dreary steeples of Fermanagh and Tyrone emerging once again. The integrity of this quarrel is one of the few institutions that has been unaltered in the cataclysm which has swept the world.”33 Cynicism and disillusionment were evident in unionist society because of the war years, but these sentiments did not affect the cultural construction of masculinities in the same way that they reconfigured social and political views.34 This was visible in the way Sir James Craig linked the exploits of the uvf, the 36th (Ulster) Division, and the Ulster Special Constabulary together in 1922, as if there had been no separation between the three.35 In seeming to break with the rest of the kingdom in terms of how the war was envisaged, Ulster Protestant unionist society became “the other” of Britain. They were staid, lost in the past, and continuing to entrench their stereotype of dour stubbornness, not only through their polit-

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ical intransigence regarding Irish devolution, but also through their focus on antebellum romanticism in the face of the overwhelming horror of the trenches. The sacrifice of the 36th (Ulster) Division was visible in nearly every town of the north and in the rhetoric of remembrance;36 however, this loss reasserted the need, as voiced in the public sphere, for unionist men – and, in turn, their public masculine identities – to continue the fight against Irish nationalism in order to honour the deaths of their fellow Ulstermen on the battlefield. As the News-Letter reminded its readers, “Our feelings are, of course, mingled with sorrow and sadness at the loss of so many men who were to us personal friends and comrades, but we believe that the spirit of the race will at a time of such grief and anxiety sustain those who mourn their loss, and set an example to others to follow in their footsteps.”37 These standards of perceived noble behaviour were expected from young men in Ulster before the war even started, as witnessed in the formation of the ycv in Belfast. Created in September 1912, only days before the signing of the Solemn League and Covenant, the ycv were originally a non-political organization along the lines of the Boys’ Brigade or Baden-Powell’s Boy Scouts. By 1913, however, they had aligned themselves with the Ulster Unionist Council and the uvf.38 While the Boy Scouts and the Boys’ Brigade involved drill and informal military training for young men, the ycv was a more pointed reaction to the 1908 Haldane Reforms of the British Army, which left Ireland out of the Territorial Force; consequently, several prominent Unionists believed that the creation of the ycv would fill this vacuum, followed by its formal adoption by the War Office.39 Led by R.J. McMordie, mp, Lord Mayor of Belfast, the ycv used idealistic philosophies of romantic manliness in the language of their constitution, noting their desire “to cultivate, by means of modified military and police drill, a manly physique, with habits of self control, self respect, and chivalry.”40 Within two years of its founding, the ycv was transformed into the 14th Royal Irish Rifles of the 36th (Ulster) Division, bringing its members’ popular notions of gentlemanly heroism with them into Kitchener’s New Army. Once war was declared on 4 August 1914, Ulster joined in the celebrations occurring across Europe.41 “Everyone in Belfast went

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mad,” remembered David Starrett, batman to Colonel F.P. Crozier, for “we were not like our brothers across in England and Scotland and Wales, caught napping; we were prepared for war. Our only fear was – would England need the Ulster Volunteer Force?”42 Starrett positioned Protestant Ulster as a region ready for war in comparison to the rest of the United Kingdom, underscoring his embellished belief that the Home Rule Crisis had made the north of Ireland distinct from other localities. In the end, nearly 31,000 men from Ulster enrolled in military service, with the majority joining the 36th (Ulster) Division. Bowman reveals that, although public memories suggested there was one hundred percent participation of the uvf in the 36th, universal enlistment was a fantasy.43 Unionist leaders wanted to preserve a domestic force that could withstand any incursions by nationalists while the men were away at war. The dangers of the “Irish question” apparently stopped many men of the uvf from unconditionally signing up to serve in a division of the British Army.44 However, these views were hardly considered popular or proper material for publication in the public sphere. As Bowman puts it, “It would seem unlikely that, in full view of his comrades, a uvf member would want to present his reasoned, if unpatriotic, view that the fate of his farm was more important than the formation of a new British army unit.”45 The tension of defending one’s home versus fighting for the empire was not an easy dilemma to solve. The slow formation of the 36th (Ulster) Division, officially sanctioned in October 1914 but not finalized in terms of numbers until early 1915, also meant that some uvf men and other keen volunteers enlisted with the 10th (Irish) Division in the autumn of 1914 rather than waiting for Ulster to be given its own unit.46 In the end, the reality of uvf participation in the Great War was not as universal as public memories would have it.47 Even Cyril Falls, the official biographer of the 36th Division, had to admit that “[t]he Ulster Division was not created in a day.”48 Enlistment established a new public construction of masculinity in Ulster, as the image of the uvf recruit was replaced with that of the volunteer soldier training at Clandeboye for a global conflict. However, as with the popular impression of uvf enlistment, there were flaws in the depiction of Protestant Ulster’s volunteers as

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seasoned veterans thoroughly confident in their fighting abilities. John Leslie Stewart-Moore, a 1913 graduate of Trinity College, Dublin, and a member of the uvf, enlisted in the 12th Royal Irish Rifles. In a cutting review of his fellow soldiers, he pointed out that the “majority were working class lads who had left school at the age of twelve and had never been away from home before, never slept out of the family bed.”49 The disparity between Victorian and Edwardian ideals of militarized manliness and the reality of the division’s young volunteers was very wide. The training atmosphere for the 36th Division focused on improving the drills already known to uvf members. There was also a strong element of fraternalism and celebration, as propaganda about German atrocities was coupled with songs and music.50 The impressions made here often proved lasting. David Starrett noticed “some well-dressed” boys about the camp and “one of them asked if I was of the Ninth. He was as boyish-looking as myself. By name Sinclair – called Daisy. I was to find him straight-forward and fearless, a good example of the young blood of Ulster.”51 Here, boyishness could be overcome in time through determination and courage, making “Daisy” Sinclair a fitting model for Starrett’s understanding of Ulster manliness. Throughout Starrett’s romanticized memoir, themes like fortitude and bravery were used to differentiate Protestant Ulstermen from other recruits, most likely in a direct attempt to commemorate the actions of the 36th as Ulster’s true military outfit. This tone, proposing Protestant recruits as representatives of the province, also appeared after the opening day at the Somme in the Belfast News-Letter when it praised the “family character” of the Ulster Division. The newspaper held that there was “a oneness of mind and of purpose in the division that is closer and more intimate than can probably exist in any other unit ... It typifies us in all that we cherish and stand for.”52 Warrior masculinities were embraced not only in military circles, but also by unionist society at large, because of their implied familial ties, sense of purpose, and opportunities for male bonding among young boys on the verge of manhood. Of course, finding new companions and friends was not the only link between men in the training camps. Orangeism hit new

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heights of popularity during this period, with lodge meetings placing officers and enlisted men on equal footing and strengthening bonds of loyalty and kinship. Orange lodges in the regiments increased the units’ organization and sense of identity while also maintaining important links with the home front.53 These links with Orangeism later accelerated the Order’s control over commemorations of the Somme and the Protestant war effort.54 The resulting overflow of patriotic and Protestant fervour encouraged an almost carnivalesque atmosphere among the recruits as they trained for combat.55 Stewart-Moore directly experienced this zealous Protestant culture among some of the 36th Division’s recruits during the Twelfth of July celebrations in 1915, when the Protestant Ulstermen were stationed at the English training camp at Seaforth. At dawn that morning he was awoken by “the skirl of bagpipes. Looking out of my window onto the parade ground I saw the whole battalion, less the officers, were parading round and round the parade ground led by a soldier representing King William in khaki of course riding a white horse, the band playing all the time. The day was a holiday devoted to Orange parades and ceremonies. Not being an Orangeman I had no part in these so I caught a train to Portsmouth.”56 Stewart-Moore’s recollection here is interesting on many levels. Not only did it indicate the importance some soldiers placed on Orangeism and maintaining cultural links with Ulster while serving abroad, it also incorporated iconography from the province’s martial heritage into a modern military setting, namely the image of “King Billy” on his white horse from the Boyne parading around Seaforth. This is part of what David Officer described as a “grand process of reacquaintance” with Protestant Ulster’s historical traditions, which stripped away “modern accretions” to reveal the true identity of unionist volunteers as men no different from those who had defended their community in the seventeenth century.57 That said, Stewart-Moore’s declaration that he was not an Orangeman points to the error of assuming uniformity existed within the 36th Division. Although the division is best remembered for its Unionist and Orange leanings, not all men who served in the 36th were party members, Orangemen, or even Protestant. John M. Regan was

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one of a handful of Catholic officers who served in the 36th Division before the high casualty rate caused new recruits from the rest of Britain to dilute the Ulster Protestant character of the division.58 In his memoirs, Regan seemed quite moved by the consideration the Orangemen in the 8th Royal Irish Rifles showed him once he had been accepted as part of the unit. He felt it was “a great tribute to their innate spirit of decency” that they refused to sing the lyrics of Orange songs while he was in attendance at a Twelfth of July concert.59 Stewart-Moore’s decision to go to Portsmouth rather than attend Orange parades in 1915 was not necessarily a damnation of Protestant fraternalism, as he had previously held no qualms about being in the uvf, but it was a solid indication that a myriad of masculinities existed within the 36th Division. Monolithic conformity to the dominant expressions of martial manliness was as much a fallacy as the division’s recruiting record. Contrary to the cultural traditions and fellowship emphasized in the training camps, the trenches provided a brutal awakening for all Irish troops. During a visit to the trenches in February 1916, Fred Crawford remarked on the cold temperatures, freezing water in the dugouts, night-time bombings, and the shooting of Rifleman James Crozier of the 9th Royal Irish Rifles for desertion.60 The commanding officer of the 9th Royal Irish Rifles was Colonel F.P. Crozier (no relation), whose controversial reputation possibly cost him a place as a divisional commander in the war. David Starrett, Crozier’s batman, blamed English fears of the Protestant Irishmen as the reason for this oversight, condemning the “brass-hats” who were more afraid of “Crozier and his Ulsters” than of the Germans.61 Born into an Anglo-Irish family with a tradition of military service, Crozier was a veteran of the South African War who also served with the West African Frontier Force and possibly with a mounted rifle regiment in Saskatchewan before 1913.62 An officer of the uvf, he commanded the 9th Royal Irish Rifles as of 1915 and gained notice after the Armistice for his involvement with the Black and Tans and for his various memoirs, including Ireland for Ever (1932) and the crassly titled The Men I Killed (1937). While Starrett’s rather biased memoirs present Crozier as a hero among men, John Leslie Stewart-Moore had a different opinion of him, pointing to the reck-

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lessness of Crozier’s raiding parties. For Stewart-Moore, such exploits had “no purpose except to show off” and Crozier himself “had the reputation of being a callous and overbearing martinet.”63 Whatever people’s personal opinions of him, Crozier’s writings about the war indicate a strong belief in the necessity of violence as part of soldiering masculinities. In A Brass Hat in No Man’s Land (1930), he wrote that incendiary propaganda in the training camps was vital “to bring out the brute-like bestiality which is so necessary for victory. The process of ‘seeing red’, which has to be carefully cultured if the effect is to be lasting, is elaborately grafted into the make-up of even the meek and mild, through the instrumentality of martial music, drums, Irish pipes, bands and marching songs.” Crozier argued that religion was part of this process, as the “Christian Churches are the finest blood-lust creators which we have and of them we made free use.”64 Public descriptions of aggression could be cast in a positive light, such as Wilfrid Spender’s enthusiastic description of the 36th Division’s achievements where he would “rather be an Ulsterman than anything else in the world,” but they could also be bloody, using violence as a tool to make Ulster’s Protestant soldiers a formidable presence on the battlefield even while the same reputation damned them in private recollections and political circles.65 The Somme perhaps best encapsulated this dichotomy of public representation versus private experience within Ulster Protestant masculinities.66 Beginning some ten weeks after the Easter Rising in Dublin, the Somme held special significance for Ulster Unionists and Protestants.67 The insurrection in Ireland had caused some emotional reactions from the troops, visible in such publications as the Royal Irish Rifles’ trench journal The Incinerator. An editorial in June 1916 stated, “Speaking for ourselves, we’d rather have seen a little less mercy to some of the rebels. If a man out here plays any old tricks he is given short shrift – shot at daybreak. Remember this man may have fought long and sturdily for his Empire – but still he’d be shot. Then what kind of death do those insurgent dogs deserve – those swine who seize upon the fact that the soldiery is away, fighting and dying to save Sinn Féiner worthless skins – to rifle and riot and murder a whole host of innocent people. Ugh!

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Doesn’t it make your blood boil lads?”68 The Rising had altered things for Irish soldiers on the front lines. While there were no recorded acts of indiscipline among Irish regiments as a result of what had happened in Dublin,69 disgust with what had occurred was palpable, especially among regiments from the north. The battlefield was no longer a locale separate from Irish politics. After the spring of 1916, the Western Front became an extension of the Home Rule debate, a place where social change could be felt and quite possibly shaped. Prior to “the big push,” some of the 36th Ulsters were able to find the time before the battle to behave like the schoolboys so many of them recently had been. Bathing in the river Ancre was a popular activity and it was at one of these times, late in June of 1916, that Colonel Crozier watched his soldiers playing in the water. Crozier later added his thoughts to what was to become a standard set-piece of numerous war memoirs: a quasi-erotic scene emphasizing the cruel contrast between beautiful, vulnerable, naked flesh and “the alien metal that waits to violate it.”70 Crozier recorded that as he arrived at the bathing pool they were “all standing stark naked on the improvised spring board, ready to jump in for a race. How wonderful they look, hard, muscular, fit, strong and supple, yet devoid of all coarseness ... I realise I am, thanks to circumstances, in the presence not only of boys versed in war, but men already known to women. I think as I watch them ducking each other in the water, and playing like young seals I have so often seen up North, ‘what a pity they are not married in order that they might plant their seed.’ Mankind has ordained that they shall shortly die. Alas! the weaklings and shirkers escape and breed like rabbits, while the strong suffer and are wiped out.”71 The physical aspect of heroism was extremely important to the concept of warrior manliness. The colonel’s description highlighted the men’s strength and virility, but also emphasized that they were “devoid of all coarseness,” a judgement that inferred purity. For Crozier, his company was strong and yet also innocent and boyish in both their appearance and their desire for sport. His comments were highly homoerotic, stressing the beauty he found in these men’s bodies and his awareness of their active heterosexuality. Crozier had previously concerned him-

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self with the young officers’ involvement with local prostitutes, making sure that all his men received “disinfectants after indulgence” and that the girls were offered the same, free of charge.72 While Fussell’s analysis of Crozier’s ruminations focuses on the popularity of the “Boys Bathing” motif, there were also sectarian slurs in the account, noting, in a way, the continuation of Ireland’s domestic troubles while in foreign battlefields.73 Crozier’s thoughts were blatantly prejudiced against Irish Catholics who supposedly bred “like rabbits” and avoided enlistment while his own soldiers would soon be “wiped out.” This opinion was, of course, erroneous, as Ulster Catholics and nationalists had a very strong record of enlistment despite the “shirker” stereotype and had already seen action at Gallipoli in 1915.74 Still, as the battle in the Somme Valley drew near, the officers of the 36th Division apparently knew that sacrifice would be one of the unit’s key legacies, alongside its unionist affiliations. The fraternal traditions of Protestant Ulster seemed in evidence the morning of 1 July 1916 as the 36th Division went over the top at the Somme, reflecting the province’s “living military tradition.”75 There are reports that some men in the line wore orange lilies in their tunics to commemorate the anniversary of the Boyne, while others wore Orange sashes and held impromptu lodge meetings in the trenches.76 The historic battle-cry of “No Surrender” allegedly led the Ulstermen into the fray,77 with the soldiers of the 36th becoming a modern tribute to the Apprentice Boys from the Siege of Derry in 1690. Lieutenant Colonel Ambrose Ricardo of the 9th Battalion, Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers, watched the waves of men walking forward. He “stood on the parapet between the two centre exits to wish them luck. They got through without delay; no fuss, no shouting, no running, everything solid and thorough – just like the men themselves. Here and there a boy would wave his hand to me as I shouted a good luck to them through my megaphone. And all had a cheery face.”78 At first, the division succeeded in achieving its objectives, capturing five lines of German trenches; however, without support from other areas along the front lines, the men were soon stranded in enemy territory. Once the counterattack began, the division’s success quickly slipped away. By nightfall, some bat-

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talions were still clinging to German lines, but at a heavy price. Near midnight, Stewart-Moore recalled that “an Infantry officer came into our dugout completely exhausted: ‘We have been fighting all day,’ he said, ‘And we have got nowhere.’”79 The letters sent by the 36th Division’s commanding officer, Major General Sir Oliver S.W. Nugent, to his wife in the immediate aftermath of the battle combined the sense of tragedy with a need to aggrandize the men’s achievements through romantic language. He wrote that the day had been “terrible,” but that the division had been “too superb for words” and that “there has been nothing like it since the New Armies came out.”80 The next day he wrote of his fears that the division would not be given credit for “its sacrifice attack” as “nothing finer has been done in the war.”81 After moving behind the lines, Nugent described how difficult it was to form a clear idea of what exactly had happened when the German counteroffensive against the Ulstermen had begun. He described the arrival of four soldiers from the trenches who had spent four days isolated in a German trench without food or water until they had managed to break through the lines back to the British position. Events like this, Nugent wrote, were making both the press correspondents and the “Higher Powers” realize that the 36th Ulsters’ advance “was the finest thing that has been done in the whole Army engaged in the present offensive.”82 As commanding officer of the division, one would expect Nugent to have been proud of his men and to build up their reputation as much as possible in the wake of enormous tragedy; however, the similarity of his words to those of the unionist newspapers demonstrates how pervasive romantic rhetoric was regarding the heroic manliness of the 36th (Ulster) Division. The words themselves were not unique to the Protestant unionist paradigm – similar tropes and accolades were common descriptions of soldiers in the war – but Nugent’s impressions, and those of public commentators, were not overshadowed in the years to come, but formed a cornerstone for the unionist mythology of warrior masculinities that stood in direct opposition to modernists’ rejection of the romantic and the epic in war. British forces at the Somme suffered 60,000 casualties on 1 July 1916, nearly half of the infantry engaged, 21,000 of whom were

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killed.83 They remain the greatest losses in British history for a single day of combat. The Ulster Division experienced the fourth highest number of losses, with 5,100 casualties including 210 officers, and some 2,500 dead.84 In the face of such suffering, however, the diary of the 14th Royal Irish Rifles evoked the theme of epic bravery with the grand recording of the death of 2nd Lieutenant Wedgewood, who “was only a child but had the heart of a lion.”85 Corporal W.S. Nicol wrote to his mother that he was “sure the North of Ireland will be an awful state when the news is all known, but it has to be done.”86 When the news did come, it was shocking, with reports that there had never been “anything finer than the way our successive waves of men marched, singing and cheering, into that bath of lead.”87 As a whole, the Battle of the Somme cost Britain and the empire more than 400,000 casualties, and the territory gained was little more than six miles. In terms of winning the war, the 36th Division’s contribution was negligible. And yet, Protestant Ulstermen claimed this battle as their greatest moment since the Boyne, a time that redefined who and what they were, and that lent new strength to the age-old question of what their position within Ireland and the British Empire would be. Following the slaughter of the Somme, communal belief in heroic martyrdom and the nobility of sacrifice became unionist society’s strongest weapon against despair. As news of the province’s losses became known, the Northern Whig publicly declared, “We were never prouder of our province and our race than we are at this moment, for it means more today than it ever did to be an Ulsterman.”88 An editorial the same day proposed that the Ulster Division was “a unique unit in the British Army. It is composed of Covenanters who had bound themselves together with the object of resisting attacks on their hard-won liberties ... The blood of the slain cries to heaven for vengeance, and we owe it to the dead as well as to the living to prosecute the war with renewed vigour.”89 The Belfast News-Letter concurred, adding that the “heroism and self-sacrifice of the Ulstermen in particular continues to be the theme of mournful praise, and henceforth in Ulster the 1st of July will have a new and more glorious, if more sorrowful meaning, into which no shade of contention can enter.”90 Will-

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ing sacrifice and undying loyalty were two of the revered characteristics from the code of imperial warrior masculinities. After the Somme, the unionist press used its authority within the public sphere to suggest that formerly impractical ideals had been realized on the battlefield by the 36th Ulsters. In the search for meaning after the Somme, those analysing the men of the 36th Division changed the reality of their appalling losses into a modern legend of Ulster Protestant manliness. Tributes came from private individuals and public figures. William John Lynas, a twenty-seven-year-old rifleman in the 107th Infantry Brigade, Royal Irish Rifles, was an Orangeman who had been in the North Belfast unit of the uvf prior to the beginning of the war. Nearly two weeks after the slaughter, he wrote to his wife about “the gallantry of our boys.” Above all, he felt, “they did not disgrace the name of Ulster or their Fore-fathers little [sic] did you think as you sat writing your letter on the first day of July that our boys had mounted the top and made a name for Ulster that will never die in the annals of history. No doubt Belfast to-day and the rest of Ulster is in deep mourning for the dear ones that has given their life so manly ... their [sic] is one great comfort to know that they fell doing their duty for King and Country.”91 Lynas used the language of traditional chivalry in order to impress upon his wife his conviction that the “gallantry” and “duty” displayed by his fellow Protestant Ulstermen had been an act of historic consequence which had honoured their ancestors. He believed that the men dying in “so manly” a fashion for their “King and Country” would be a comfort to those receiving news of the battle at home, an opinion that underscored the links in unionist society between masculinity, soldiering, and familial pride. Lynas’ sentiments about the role of duty in the manly construction of the 36th Division echoed the Belfast News-Letter’s suggestions that the Somme had allowed Ulster to prove “the reality of her Imperialism” and that comfort could be drawn from knowing that “in the winning of the great triumph which will surely come their fathers, sons, and brothers played a heroic part.”92 Another piece in the same edition described how the division served as “a superb example of what discipline, good leading, and magnificent

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spirit can make men capable of performing.”93 The Most Reverend Dr John Baptist Crozier, Archbishop of Armagh and Primate of All Ireland, agreed with this assessment of the division’s character, reportedly saying that he “expected nothing else. They are of the stock from which our heroes come and to whom our Empire owes so much – unconquered and unconquerable. I spent a considerable time with them last January in France and I can testify to their patience and pluck as well as to their chivalry and courtesy.”94 Clearly, chivalric heroism was a central aspect of the public construction of Protestant Ulster’s warrior masculinities after the Somme offensive. Military service and sacrifice stood as powerful symbols of Ulster unionists’ loyalty to the empire. These beliefs, shaped by men in the field and by the consolation offered by the press and public figures, suggested that any unionist man, regardless of rank, was capable of making a difference through commitment to the war effort and demonstrations of epic heroism and courage. That opinion was certainly shored up by the glowing reports from Philip Gibbs, the official British correspondent at the front. Knowing that public support was vitally important after the forces had sustained such heavy casualties, he wrote that the Ulstermen’s attack on 1 July had been one of “the greatest revelations of human courage ever seen in history.” Making use of Protestant Ulster’s known traditions from the seventeenth century, he added that it was the men of the 36th “who shouted, ‘No Surrender!’ as their battle-cry, and these tough, hard, gallant men forced their way forward over ground raked by every kind of shot and shell. The enemy’s trenches could not resist their attack, and they stormed their way through, killing many of the enemy who resisted them. In Thiepval Wood, where the trees were slashed by shrapnel, they collected their strength, formed into line, and stood the shock of several German counter-attacks. Then they charged and flung down the enemy’s ranks, taking more than 200 prisoners.”95 Gibbs publicly encouraged the idea that the warrior manliness instilled in uvf troops prior to the outbreak of war and in the training camps in 1914 and 1915 had been actualized in battle. He wrote that the Ulstermen were “tough” and “hard,” yet also “gallant,” killing the enemy by storming the trenches and charging the line, phrases which lent an air of knightly mystique to their achievements.

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Similarly, at St Anne’s Cathedral in Belfast, Dean C.T.P. Grierson noted that the Protestant community was “proud of the Ulster Volunteers and of their sterling manhood,” a statement which emphasized the link between demonstrations of epic bravery at the Somme and the soldiers’ past membership in the uvf.96 The Reverend Dr Henry Montgomery, the 1912 Moderator of the Church of Ireland, went even further at a recorded evening service at the Albert Hall in Shankill Road on 9 July, declaring to his audience, “One little thought when in September 1912, the gallant youth of Ulster signed their Solemn League and Covenant that so many of them would before four years had passed have sealed it with their blood on the battlefields of France and Flanders.”97 This was the blood-debt realized for those who shared Montgomery’s point of view, the culmination of all the efforts made during the Home Rule Crisis and after which publicly demonstrated the apparent unflinching fidelity and constancy of Ulster unionists in uniform. The blood shed at the Somme now demanded Britain’s allegiance to Ulster in return for the 36th Division’s heavy sacrifice. This belief grew in popularity and prestige. In 1921, the Belfast Telegraph recalled the “bulldog tenacity and courage of our northern race” who had “volunteered and gave of their best on the bloody fields of Flanders and elsewhere.”98 The same year, the Belfast Weekly News noted that although three years had passed since the Armistice, “the heroism and devotion of those who died fighting for the Empire ... are remembered with pride and thanksgiving.”99 Ulster had fought and now England owed her an equal measure of loyalty. In contrast to the high romantic language of the unionist public sphere were more personal narratives from the battlefield. In one of the most revealing episodes from his memoir, John Leslie StewartMoore wrote of his encounter with a deserter from an Ulster regiment in the midst of the cacophony at Thiepval Wood: “As I made my way there along the path through the wood I met a deserter coming in the opposite direction. I reasoned with him and tried to persuade him to return to his duty but he was obdurate, even if I had persuaded him to go back there was no likelihood that he could ever find his unit and rejoin it. I suppose that by the strict letter of Military Law I should have placed him under arrest and brought

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him before a Court Martial. In circumstances that was quite impossible, we were just two men in a wood and he was probably the more powerful of the two so reluctantly I let him go and said nothing – wonder what happened to him.”100 This account of desertion was highly realistic, standing in opposition to the epic heroism encapsulated by so many of the descriptions of the 36th Division. Stewart-Moore’s private episode of desertion and circumvented duty was the exact opposite of Spender’s portrayal of Ulstermen going over the top without fear or regret. Between them, these two reports captured the essential tensions between public and private representations of Ulster Protestant masculinities in the Great War. For unionist propagandists, desertion did not fit within their romantic vision of the war, while soldiers in the midst of real battles lived in a world entirely apart from journalistic interpretation. If a myth is something that is not necessarily factual, but is forever true, then analysing representations of Ulster Protestant and unionist masculinities requires one to debunk falsehoods and romantic language, while simultaneously legitimizing the power these legends had and continue to have on the public imagination. In The Web of Government (1947), R.M. MacIver defined the difference between techniques and myths. “A technique,” he wrote, “is a way of knowing that is primarily a way of control ... a way of manipulating objects, including persons as objects.” Contrary to this, myths denote “the value-impregnated beliefs and notions that men hold, that they live by or live for.”101 One could easily supplant “what men die for” within the Ulster context. Unionist authorities and propagandists used the technique of lionizing the manliness of the 36th Division in order to create a cultural myth that incorporated the political landscape of the Home Rule debate, the social schisms between Protestants and Catholics in the north, and Ulster’s longstanding tradition of military strength. It was a legend that encapsulated the authority of popular communal memories and beliefs, completely overwhelming, in any public forum, any personal experiences in the trenches that might counter its powerful resonance. The language used by newspapers to establish the legend of the 36th (Ulster) Division was corroborated by numerous official commendations the unit received following 1 July. These commentaries

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underscored the characteristics of the masculine warrior most cherished by unionist society. Brigadier General R.G. Shuter of the 109th Infantry Brigade found the advance “so dashing, so resolute and determined that it was entirely irresistible and carried all before it” and that the “grit and stirling qualities of the men” were so apparent that their “dashing determined advance and behaviour will undoubtedly go down in history.”102 Major General Sir Oliver Nugent wrote to the entire division to share his admiration and respect. According to the 14th Royal Irish Rifles’ war diary, Nugent believed that “none but troops of the best quality could have faced the fire which was brought to bear on them, and the losses suffered during the advance ... They did all that men could do, and in common with every Bn. in the Div. showed the most conspicuous courage and devotion ... There is nothing in the operations carried out by the Ulster Division on the 1st July that will not be a source of pride to all Ulstermen.”103 Nugent concluded that the division had emerged from the battle with “unstained honour” and that the “standard of gallantry and devotion attained is one that may be equalled but is never likely to be surpassed ... Ulster has every reason to be proud of the men she has given to the service of the country. Though many of our best men have gone the spirit which animated them remains in the Division and will never die.”104 Nugent’s appraisal of the 36th Division found them to be the bravest and best fighting unit in the war. His sentiments were echoed by Sir Edward Carson, whose message was printed throughout newspapers in the north as the cost of war became impossible to ignore. In an article entitled “The Glory of Ulster,” Carson wrote of his pride and admiration after hearing of “the unparalleled acts of heroism and bravery which were carried out by the Ulster Division in the great offensive movement on the 1st July. From all accounts that we have received, they have made the supreme sacrifice for the Empire of which they were so proud with a courage, coolness, and determination, in the face of the most trying difficulties, which have upheld the greatest traditions of the British Army.”105 Carson’s statement joined with those of clergymen, reporters, and generals who believed that Ulster’s loyalty to Britain and the empire had been proven in blood and, therefore, could not

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be betrayed. For the unionist community in Ulster, this simply corroborated the view that Ulstermen at the Somme had provided the empire with the ultimate measure of devotion. Commendations in the public sphere also created a sense of fraternalism between the ranks. The Northern Whig proposed that the men of the Ulster Division were a “heroic band of brothers whose glorious valour has raised them to an equality with any of the men who stormed the bloodstained heights of Albuera, or dashed themselves against the defences of the Redan, or stood, prepared to die but not to surrender, in the stern British squares on the field of Waterloo.”106 According to this, the division enjoyed a level of fraternity akin to that in Shakespeare’s Henry V, while also standing in the military pantheon alongside those who had fought in the Peninsular War, the Crimea, and with Wellington at Waterloo. In comparing the sacrifice at the Somme to other famous battles in British history, the Northern Whig popularized the belief that Protestant Ulstermen had added a new chapter to the empire’s heroic heritage, and that they were worthy subjects of modern legend. Through newspaper articles, eyewitness accounts, and official commendations, the Battle of the Somme revealed a new mythology of martial masculinity for unionist Ulstermen and Ulsterwomen to believe in, centering on the sacrifice their soldiers had made at Thiepval and the role this blood-debt might play in the eventual resolution of the Home Rule question. This new tradition suggested that, though many men had died, through their efforts Ulster’s future as a distinct unionist society may have been secured. Men who had not joined the colours occupied a fairly silent place in the rhetoric of the unionist public sphere. One of the few times that they were mentioned was in the aftermath of the Somme, when the newspapers concerned themselves with recruiting measures and with shaming young men into filling the ranks left empty by the glorious dead. The News-Letter proposed that it was essential to “maintain the character of the Division, and it is more imperative now than it could possibly be before this battle. The ranks that were thinned on the heights of Beaumont Hamel and Thiepval must be filled up afresh, and they must be refilled by Ulster Loyalists, else we shall not be doing our duty to the memory of our dead.”107 This

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not only claimed the Somme for Ulster loyalists, but also proposed that the blood-sacrifice incurred by the Ulstermen at the front demanded an equal measure of fidelity from those left behind at home. This could be seen as a subtle chastisement of mothers who had not let their young sons enlist and also an attempt to shame those men of fighting age who, for reasons personal or political, had not yet joined the colours. The Northern Whig was even more pointed in promoting gendered expectations among men and women left behind in Ulster. It suggested that “Ulstermen may be destroyed, but they will never yield when they know their cause is just ... If any considerable number of young men still remain in the province who could join but will not surely they can no longer hesitate; we do not envy the man who feels no desire to fill the vacant places.”108 This was one of the few times that a newspaper so blatantly mentioned the men in Ulster who had not volunteered for the war effort; usually, these men were not part of the masculine rhetoric of the unionist public sphere, erased through a lack of acknowledgement. The Northern Whig justified its contempt for “shirkers” through the notion that supporting the troops, either through physical or emotional aid, proved that Ulster communities were worthy of what had been fought for on their behalf at Thiepval. This made warrior manliness not only a philosophy for men in the field, but also an investment for all members of society, popularizing the glorification of the sacrificial loyalist soldier as the ultimate example of Protestant Ulster’s dedication to the empire. The final accolade for the 36th Division during the war came at the time of the Armistice. Sir Edward Carson received a telegram from the king soon after peace had been announced in 1918. “I deeply appreciate the congratulations of my loyal Ulster subjects,” it read, “which you have transmitted to me. In these days of rejoicing I recall the deeds of the 36th Ulster Division, which have more than fulfilled the high opinion formed by me on inspecting the force on the eve of its departure for the front. Throughout the long years of struggle which have now so gloriously ended, the men of Ulster have proved how nobly they fight and die.”109 There could be no higher praise than this for unionist men trained to believe in the

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ideals of imperial warrior masculinities, who had fought for “King and Country” and who had been willing to sacrifice themselves for Ulster’s future as a part of the British Empire. According to this telegram, it appeared that the king had not forgotten their losses, and that he, too, had taken note of the breed of men that had gone forth and died in his name. In terms of setting a standard for public appreciation of the 36th Ulsters, this was the ultimate accolade imaginable. The words of George V, the father figure of the British Empire, sealed an image within unionist society that the men of the 36th Division had been the most loyal soldiers in the Great War. The efforts of Protestant Ulstermen during the Great War, particularly at the Somme, redefined martial manliness for Ulster unionists. Notions of Victorian and Edwardian heroic manliness, which emphasised noble sacrifice, combined with new legends of imperial martyrdom and courage on the battlefield to create a mythology that resounded for unionists throughout the rest of the century. The price of this sacrifice appeared to weigh heavily on the living. In his memoir, David Starrett remembered that hundreds of his companions “had gone west. Bernard, Gaffickin – why name more? Each might have a book to himself. Killed in the glorious sunshine of a July day. Killed to make a world fit for other heroes to live in. And, failing in that, as they failed to retain their own lives.”110 Starrett believed that the sacrifice at the Somme, in the end, had been in vain, though he refrained from directly mentioning the outcome of future political struggles in the north of Ireland. However, there were veterans who felt differently. R.L. Greenway, a signaller with the 36th Division, believed that he would “never forget the good times we had together which, when I sit and think of them, sometimes it makes me believe that it wasn’t such a bad old war after all. It had its good points as well as its bad. It made Man kill Man, but it also taught Man to love Man, to stand by him to the last. It created bonds of fellowship which Peace could not, and never will, create.”111 In this light, Ulster Protestant masculinities were not thrown into crisis because of the Great War; rather, the public image of unionist Ulstermen was at a peak. One could accurately claim that the Great War created a crisis of existence, where men’s sole concern

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was survival rather than creating a specific masculine image of heroism on the battlefield.112 However, the popular depiction of Protestant Ulstermen in khaki uniforms became the cornerstone of the manly mythology surrounding the 36th Division during and after the war. The unionist incarnation of the masculine warrior was a man who was loyal, brave, duty-bound, driven, mentally tough, physically strong, spiritually sound, and more than willing to die in order to have his blood bind Ulster and Britain together. Apart from the final item, this list could have reflected any soldier in the Great War, but the appearance of Protestant Ulstermen as a distinct masculine entity of bravery and imperial loyalty was the focus of the unionist public sphere in Ulster, often omitting any comparisons to other living soldiers. For Ulster unionists, the Somme took on the same legendary quality as the Battle of the Boyne, only this was more tangible, more closely involved with Ulster’s contemporary Protestant identity, and more pertinent to the debate surrounding Ulster’s future, given the suspended nature of Home Rule legislation. A modernist rejection of all tradition, chivalry, and romance had no place here. The cultural legacy of Protestant Ulstermen in the Great War was the emergence of a strong and forceful movement among unionists who believed their status as a distinct society within the wider bounds of Great Britain had been proven irrevocably by the blood shed at the Somme. Unionists now had their new tradition, based on a mixture of masculinities from the past and present, and strongly rooted in their pride and regional consciousness. Whether or not it would survive the partition of Ireland was another matter.

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5 Brothers in Arms?

After the Ulster Division’s legendary tragedy at the Somme in July 1916, the experience which then primarily shaped unionist and Protestant perceptions of the war among the troops was their service on the Western Front alongside the 16th (Irish) Division. This influence existed in terms of the conflict’s physical price, and also of the war’s role as a homosocial space that developed fraternal masculinities for the soldiers, particularly among the officer class. Those conspicuously absent from inclusion in the masculine mythology of the 36th Division were Ulster Catholics. The Protestant unionist vision of an Ulster hero meant that he was just that: Protestant and unionist. The difficulties in combining religion with army politics resulted in the exclusion of a number of Ulster soldiers who could not and would not join the 36th Division because of the unit’s noted sectarian policies.1 William W. Johnson, a Scotsman stationed in Ulster during the war years, attempted to summarize the crux of Catholic and Protestant estrangement, noting how some men were “so anxious to live in independence that they want to break every tie with Britain, while others prefer to remain loyal to the Crown. Some so fascinated with firearms that they would substitute the bullet for the ballot, and gunmen so trigger-happy as to place small value on the living, yet so awed with death that they require all the trappings of burial, mass mourning, reversed arms, and the final crack o’doom. Ever intent on processions and parades, celebrations and ceremonies, banners, berets, and bowler hats, flags and sashes and insignia and sartorial dis-

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plays. Flutes, fifes, pipes, concertinas, accordions and kettle drums. And all over Guinness and the priesthood.”2 This was the standard view of Irish Protestant and Catholic antagonisms throughout the twentieth century. That said, however, Irishmen did fight together during the Great War, most notably when the 36th Ulsters fought alongside the 16th (Irish) Division on the Western Front in 1917. The experiences of nationalists, unionists, Roman Catholics, and Protestants within the 36th (Ulster) Division and the 16th (Irish) Division at the Somme, Messines Ridge, and Passchendaele were all highly significant in capturing a sense of fellowship and fraternalism between rival masculinities. Among other things, this camaraderie briefly appeared to provide a solution to the violence that had threatened the destroy Ulster in the high summer of 1914, if only in the minds of moderate politicians and military propagandists. The stress here is on a masculine paradigm created from the autumn of 1916, when the 16th (Irish) Division moved into position for the final push at the Somme, through the spring and summer of 1917, when the two Irish divisions fought alongside one another at Messines Ridge and at Third Ypres. This time in the trenches together facilitated solidarity, communality, and an awareness of a shared martial manliness. William Johnson’s comments undoubtedly captured a sense of the situation in Ireland between 1914 and 1918, but something different occurred once men of the various Irish divisions moved to different theatres of war. Throughout these various battles and campaigns, feelings of brotherhood and a growing understanding, even tolerance, between nationalists and unionists played a key role in creating an atmosphere where peace between Irishmen was a real, if fleeting, possibility. Fraternalism in this context refers to feelings of unity and fellowship created by means of cooperation and shared experience among men throughout the army corps. Sarah Benton defines brotherhood as a system of organization that stresses unity, selflessness, loyalty, and secrecy to such an extent that it shapes other social relations.3 In my argument, brotherhood includes these factors, but also incorporates the theme of sibling rivalry regarding soldiers from the 16th and 36th Divisions along the Western Front. There, Irish soldiers overcame different political and religious loyalties

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through competition, sport, banter, and, ultimately, fighting alongside rather than against one another. The shift in Ulster’s communal focus from domestic anxieties to foreign battlefields allowed fraternalism and fellowship to grow between men of the 16th and 36th Divisions, creating a less public but equally important legend of masculinities at war. The conflict in Europe also forced these men to confront their own ideas about manliness in a military setting and to contemplate what impact their actions might have on the political and cultural future of Ireland. These nascent illustrations of growing fraternalism had their supporters in the histories of the day. Bryan Cooper, a Unionist mp from South Dublin in the 10th Division who was later criticized for his romantic illusions by historians like Myles Dungan,4 certainly believed that brotherhood had flourished at Gallipoli between Irish Protestant and Catholic troops. Cooper’s history of the 10th Division was published in 1918, perhaps in an attempt to create an image of fellowship in the precarious atmosphere of the Conscription Crisis and post-war Ireland. Accordingly, he wrote that the bonds of “common service and common sacrifice proved so strong and enduring that Catholic and Protestant, Unionist and Nationalist, lived and fought and died side by side like brothers. Little was spoken concerning the points on which we differed, and once we had tacitly agreed to let the past be buried we found thousands of points on which we agreed.”5 Perceptions of fraternalism among Catholic and Protestant troops were highly significant in appearing to solve the differences of the past. While Cooper’s summary may have been somewhat exaggerated, treating individual soldiers as monolithic entities displaying uniform behaviour, the point is that he felt this kind of fellowship was a defining factor for the troops and, possibly, a sign of what could be achieved at home. This made public representations of brotherhood and camaraderie incredibly important for the overall construction of Irish soldiers in war, as their actions on foreign battlefields captured an ideal for the entire country. When war was declared in August 1914, John Redmond, leader of the Irish Parliamentary Party, was very much in favour of Irish participation in the conflict. His speech at Woodenbridge, Co. Wicklow,

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on 20 September 1914 solidified his support for the cause and also evoked a heavy weight of responsibility on Irishmen to answer the call of duty. He stressed that it would be “a disgrace for ever to our country and a reproach to her manhood and a denial of the lessons of her history if young Ireland confined their efforts to remaining at home to defend the shores of Ireland from an unlikely invasion, and to shrinking from the duty of proving on the field of battle that gallantry and courage which has distinguished our race all through its history ... Account yourselves as men, not only for Ireland itself, but wherever the fighting line extends, in defence of right, of freedom, and of religion in this war.”6 This pledge to have Irishmen fighting in the war abroad caused a massive split within the Irish Volunteer movement. The majority who followed Redmond’s lead became officially known as the Irish National Volunteers, while a minority vowed never to put on British uniforms nor to fight in an imperial conflict that had nothing to do with gaining Irish independence. For Redmond, fighting in the Great War was a test of Irishmen’s manliness. Anything less than full commitment to the war effort would be a black mark on the country’s history and masculine heritage. Redmond also saw the war as an opportunity for re-establishing good relations between Irish Catholics and Protestants. The nationalist Irish News reported that the leader of Irish Nationalism wanted the country to “be defended from foreign invasion by her armed sons; and for this purpose the armed Nationalists of the South will be only too glad to join arms with the armed Protestant Ulstermen in the North.” The article included its own appraisal of northern masculinities, adding that the “armed Nationalist Ulstermen in the North, Catholics and Protestants, constitute a force to be just as seriously reckoned by Ireland’s enemies, whoever these may be.”7 Interestingly, this martial attitude was not specifically pointed at Imperial Germany, but at “Ireland’s enemies” in general, an open definition possibly designed to infer that enlisting in the war effort was not at odds with the previous efforts of the inv during the Home Rule Crisis. Furthermore, it illustrated that nationalists were aware their movement included both Catholics and Protestants, an appreciation for religious differences that became increasingly important in the establishment of fraternal relations between the 16th (Irish) and 36th (Ulster) Divisions on the Western Front.

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During his public speeches after he had visited the front lines, Redmond played down the differences between north and south and instead concentrated on the hopes associated with fraternalism. In one part of the trenches he visited he found a battalion of the Ulster Division from Belfast side by side with the Royal Dublin Fusiliers. Writing to secure Irish nationalist support for the war effort, he recorded that “so far from any friction having arisen between them they were like true comrades and brother Irishmen. I pray God that may go on. I pray that whenever a battalion of the Irish Brigade goes into action there may be a battalion of the Ulster Division alongside them. I need not point the moral to you. That is the way to end the unhappiness and the discords and the confusion of Ireland. Let Irishmen come together in the trenches and risk their lives together and spill their blood together and I say there is no power on earth that when they come home can induce them to turn as enemies one upon another.”8 Redmond’s aspirations for fraternalism pointedly ignored any fractiousness within his proposed brotherly relationship between Protestant unionists and their Catholic nationalist counterparts. His speeches and publications seemed to almost demand that there be an unbreakable connection between the disparate groups of Irishmen through sheer force of will. Perhaps it was easier, in the initial years of the conflict, for Redmond to propose such optimistic scenarios before the casualty rates of Irish recruits and political turmoil on the home front overwhelmed any traditional imagery of fellowship in the midst of battle. In terms of recruitment, Ulster was a strong area for enlistment among both Catholics and Protestants, as the number of Redmondites in northern branches of the inv in 1914 outweighed those who refused to fight in a British campaign. Ulster Catholics and nationalists enlisted at a rate that was just as impressive as their fellow Ulstermen in the 36th Division.9 The influence of homosocial fraternities and paramilitary units continued to have a positive influence on recruitment numbers until the aftermath of the Easter Rising invigorated the Conscription Crisis of 1918.10 In the end, forty percent of the 12,500 recruits from the inv were Ulster Catholics, with 3,471 of them joining up between 1915 and 1916.11 However, this did not mean immediate acceptance for Irish troops. The tensions of the Home Rule Crisis affected the original

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reception of Irish recruits within the upper echelons of the British military. Despite the uvf’s gun-running and preparations for civil war up to August 1914, Protestant loyalty to the war effort was accepted by and large, with officers from the uvf appointed to senior positions in the 36th (Ulster) Division. Carson noted that a meeting with Lord Kitchener had been a “wonderful success” and that he was “in great hopes we will get our men in large numbers.”12 While Bowman rightly points out that the overlap between the prewar paramilitary societies and the wartime divisions was hardly absolute,13 there were noted material symbols used for the 36th Division which underscored its Protestant and unionist identity. These politically-infused trappings included the use of the word “Ulster” as the division’s title and the “Dixie” badges, oval discs which displayed the red hand of Ulster.14 Conversely, John Redmond faced great difficulties in obtaining nationalist symbols for the 16th (Irish) Division, including the rejection of the “Irish Brigade” title and of special badges, despite the procurement of the same for the 36th Ulsters.15 Despite this unequal treatment of Irishmen in uniform, the nationalist Irish News continued to accentuate feelings of camaraderie in its publications after the declaration of war on 4 August 1914. Its promotions of fraternal behaviour between unionists and nationalists were propaganda rather than proven reality, but the endorsement of amiable fellowship within the public sphere demonstrated Redmond’s ambitions for northern masculinities and his power to disseminate his aspirations as a popular ideal. For example, a poem, supposedly sent in jointly from a Belfast uvf member and an inv man from Co. Antrim, read: “Bless the good fortune that brings us together, / Rich men and poor men, short men and tall; / Some from the seaside and some from the heather, / Townsmen and countrymen, Irishmen all; / Ulstermen, Munstermen, Connachtmen, Leinstermen, / Faithful to Erin, we answer her call ... / We have our faults, perhaps, slight ones if any, / We have our virtues, great, middling and small; / We have our differences, not very many, / Soon they’ll be fewer – we’re Irishmen all!”16 The use of Erin, the female figure representative of Ireland in popular culture, made the Irish war effort a gendered construction, with the

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symbolic action of men answering Erin’s call informing popular concepts of heroism and protecting the domestic sphere.17 Nationalist men recruited for the war effort against Germany supposedly would defend Erin and, by so doing, unite with unionists through a common nationality and soldierly concerns rather than continuing to be separated by political and religious division. This emphasis on geographic loyalties among Irish soldiers rather than religious and political differences was explored by General Sir Alexander Godley in his memoir, Life of an Irish Soldier (1939), written on the eve of the Second World War. Godley, an Englishman of Irish ancestry, was a veteran of the South African War with the Irish Guards and was the commander of the New Zealand and Australian Division at Gallipoli. Looking back on the Great War as another loomed, he proposed that there was “nothing like soldiering and comradeship-in-arms to bind men together. The disaffected and hot-headed young men of the country would have found a better outlet for their energies than rebellion ... But the English politicians, and I am afraid many English soldiers, were totally unable to understand Irishmen. They would not trust them, and the opportunity to enlist Irishmen in some such way as would appeal to their national sentiment was lost.”18 Almost from the very beginning of the war, politics infiltrated and, according to some, ruined the fortunes of the divisions raised in Ireland. Like Redmond, Godley argued that soldiering created fraternal friendships among men and defused political rebellion, making enlistment in the Great War a possible solution to the paralyzing paramilitary activity that had consumed Irish masculinities earlier in 1914. Unlike Redmond, however, Godley felt that the English would treat the Irish differently due to a lack of trust, something which was not experienced by former uvf men signing up for service with the 36th Ulsters, who were presumed to be “loyal” despite their recent signs of rebellion against the British government. The 16th Division’s standard of battle-readiness impressed General Hubert Gough, the instigator of the Curragh “Incident” in 1914 and a man known for taking a dim view of Irish nationalism. Gough felt surprised, however, at the dedication of nationalist Irishmen in the field. Among the many nationalist mps serving in the

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field, two he knew well were Captain Willie Redmond, the brother of John Redmond, and Captain Stephen Gwynn, a southern Protestant.19 “Brought up,” Gough wrote, “as I had been, in an atmosphere of hostility to home rule and all who supported it, I found in these two – and in many other Irishmen in this division, home rulers though they might have been – a loyalty, a devoted sense of duty, and a gallant spirit, which won my esteem and affection.”20 Such growing understanding of and appreciation for those who had different political and religious loyalties was felt by many enlisted men and officers throughout the 36th Division. It became particularly noticeable in the autumn of 1916 when the 16th advanced at the Somme. Unionist Ulstermen had fought at the Somme only two months before the 16th Division arrived from Loos and Hulloch, where they had been heavily gassed. At Guillemont and Ginchy in September 1916, the 16th lost almost half of its 11,000 men and officers within the first ten days of the two battles. This was certainly comparable to the 36th Division’s casualty rates in July of some 5,100 men listed as missing, wounded, or killed. In another similarity with the Ulster Division, Irish success in the September push had little effect, if any, on the general course of the war.21 The Somme, with its great appetite for destruction, treated all Irishmen equally. Certainly, for some of the men engaged in the fighting the week of 3–9 September 1916, the primary motivation was not repairing age-old communal wounds between religious denominations, but, instead, proving their physical prowess in battle. Despite childhood memories of witnessing Irish Protestants and Catholics co-operating in his village, Lieutenant Colonel Wallace Lyon, a Presbyterian of Ulster Scots heritage in the 47th Brigade, 16th Division, was more concerned with taking on the Germans in hand-to-hand combat than in building relationships with his fellow soldiers.22 When he and his companions went over the trenches toward Guillemont, he remembered that “we all charged across as fast as we could go and as soon as we reached their lines the Bosche just got up and ran. It was one of the most exhilarating moments imaginable – just like pigsticking in Bihai.”23 Lyon clearly enjoyed the violence of warfare; his comments demonstrated how, in some moments, the war

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could seem like just another manly adventure on the imperial frontier.24 Others, however, were concerned with loftier ideas than the joys of bloodshed. Among the dead at the assault on Ginchy was Tom Kettle, the Irish Nationalist politician, poet, and scholar. Kettle has since come to encompass the irony of Irish nationalists in British uniforms, motivated to fight not only because of the militarization sweeping across Ireland in the era of the Great War, but also by his Catholicism and its sacrificial doctrines.25 In an article written for publication only days before his death, Kettle described his hopes for reconciliation between northern Protestants and the rest of Ireland, noting that he had “mixed much with Englishmen and Protestant Ulstermen, and I know that there is no real or abiding reason for the gulfs, saltier than the sea, that now dismember the natural alliance of both of them with us Irish Nationalists. It needs only a Fiat Lux, of a kind very easily compassed, to replace the unnatural by the natural. In the name, and by the seal, of the blood given in the last two years, I ask for Colonial Home Rule for Ireland, a thing essential in itself, and essential as a prologue to the reconstruction of the Empire. Ulster will agree.”26 Kettle set the nationalist blood-debt into words with this passage, expressing the hope that Irish deaths in the Great War would force Britain to grant Home Rule immediately. This was the exact opposite of the blood-debt Ulster unionists felt that they had incurred at Thiepval only two months before. In the long term, unionism’s blood-debt proved to be the stronger of the two, despite Kettle’s pointed desire for an end to sectarian tensions between Irishmen and his eventual adoption as a symbol of nationalist and unionist reconciliation for activists and scholars.27 The death of Irish constitutional nationalism in favour of Irish republicanism by the war’s end ensured that Kettle’s proffered blood-sacrifice was tragically meaningless for decades after his death. As with Kettle, grief over the death at Guillemont of Colonel Jack Lenox-Conyngham, Commanding Officer of the Connaught Rangers and an Ulster Protestant, involved soldiers from either side of the political divide. Lenox-Conyngham came from a northern family traditionally associated with British military service.28

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Stephen Gwynn, the Protestant Nationalist mp, wrote that LenoxConyngham’s skilful leadership had caused him to be “worshipped by a thousand or so Irishmen – Catholics almost to a man.”29 He went further in his admiration in a piece published by The Daily Mail that described the fellowship between the late colonel and his soldiers. Gwynn wrote that Lenox-Conyngham had been “never in doubt as to how they would acquit themselves ... The men – the men – it was always the men with him; it had to be with us also.”30 On a personal note, Gwynn added that he was “never in my life so much in awe of any man; I never valued praise so much from any, and was never so resentful under reproof ... There was another side of him that came out, though sparingly, amid the comradeship of our mess – a rare quality of charm. I found it myself in his occasional talk of men and things – above all of Ireland. I have known no better Irishman than this son of an Ulster house, whose kindred were deep in the Ulster Covenant.”31 Although Gwynn’s praise for the colonel came in the form of a eulogy, the fellowship of sympathy and experience created by a military setting could produce the highest forms of appreciation and camaraderie between men. Militarization did not destroy the brotherhood of all-male associations from civilian life or the links that had been created through the paramilitary organizations of the Ulster Crisis. Rather, the martial environment of the Great War broadened the scope and membership of acceptable male society, to the point where Gwynn felt that the best Irishman he had ever known was, in fact, an Ulsterman. Another figure admired by Ulstermen of all denominations was Father William Doyle, sj, a military chaplain attached to the 49th Brigade of the 16th Division. Father Doyle was a Jesuit priest who won the Military Cross for bravery at the Somme. This accolade won him respect as a fellow combatant among the men and he proved extremely popular with Catholics, nationalists, Protestants, and unionists. A Protestant adjutant with the Dublin Fusiliers once spoke to another priest about Doyle’s charisma, asking, “What is it makes Father Doyle so different from the rest of you priests? You r.c. Padres are streets above our fellows, but Father Doyle is as far above the rest of you as you are above them.”32 Alfred O’Rahilly, a

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friend of Doyle’s, wrote his biography in 1920 in an attempt to place Doyle’s achievements into the tradition of Catholic martyrdom. As such, O’Rahilly’s work occasionally reads as a call for Doyle’s canonization rather than as an objective biography.33 That said, some of the private letters O’Rahilly used as sources were particularly revealing regarding a chaplain’s role in battle. O’Rahilly related that Doyle once “rushed up to a wounded Ulsterman and knelt beside him. ‘Ah, Father,’ said the man, ‘I don’t belong to your Church. ‘No,’ replied Fr. Doyle, ‘but you belong to my God.’ To Fr. Doyle all were brothers to be ministered unto.”34 This romanticized moment of perceived universal fraternalism between Irish soldiers, achieved through a common state of grace, was a consistent theme in Doyle’s recorded war experiences. Given the extremely favourable evaluation of Father Doyle on the battlefield, there is a need to look beyond men’s assumed religious affiliations and ask how important faith actually was to the construction of Ulster Protestant wartime masculinities. When the Armistice came, David Starrett of the 36th Ulsters noted his “thoughts were varied but clearly above all was thanks to God for safety throughout the years. From a child I’d been accustomed to religious people and to belief in the Lord Jesus Christ and His power to save, so I went off by myself for a quiet moment of prayer ... I don’t think I’d ever exercised faith on my own behalf, but I had many times asked God to keep my man from danger. I remember one night, cold and wet, going through bloody slush behind him, and suddenly looked up at a cloud and saw the sign of the Cross quite plainly on it. I thought there was Form on that Cross, and somehow I knew all would be well that night. When I looked again the cloud had gone, but not the impression or the vision or whatever you like to call it.”35 Apart from Starrett’s Constantine-like vision and occasional prayers for F.P. Crozier’s safety, he was not a man who “exercised faith” on his own behalf. Previously, Starrett had recalled his dealings with a Catholic priest, Father O’Floightry, who became one of Starrett’s good friends “although he knew me for a Belfast Protestant.”36 When Starrett later learned in the spring of 1918 that O’Floightry had been killed during a retreat, he testified that although a Catholic

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he was “a man, every inch of him.”37 Starrett’s evaluation of Father O’Floightry’s manliness incorporated the priest’s Catholicism, but not in a manner where religiosity was a deterrent factor in the friendship between them. Starrett, like many of his fellow soldiers, was able to see past the issues of politics and religion when dealing with others as individuals, but when viewing them as a collective group, he displayed shades of the sectarian bigotry which his colonel, F.P. Crozier, had also shown during the war years.38 Using Starrett’s examples, Ulster Protestantism in the trenches was stronger as a cultural and political expression than as a specific religious persuasion. Catholicism in the 16th Division does not seem to have held the same political overtones that Protestantism did in the 36th Division. While John McIlwain of the Connaught Rangers believed that religion was a perfunctory ritual that held little meaning during moments of true crisis,39 John Redmond and Father Doyle argued that the Roman Catholic faith was a large part of the identity of the Irish soldiers.40 By comparison, unionist soldiers like Starrett used faith as a political principle, a tool which created an immediate “us versus them” mentality, rather than as a constant foundation for private belief. In the end, religion, regardless of creed, was a defining characteristic of Irish soldiers in the Great War because of its political and cultural importance in the country and the affiliations it automatically created when the men were abroad. Perceptions of warrior masculinities and their cultural and religious affiliations became highly significant for both the 36th and 16th Divisions once their focus moved from the Somme Valley to the sodden battlefields of Messines Ridge and Third Ypres. R.F.E. Evans, a corporal with the trench wireless section of the Royal Engineers attached to the 36th Division, remembered his time at Messines Ridge in light of the Protestant Ulstermen fighting alongside the Catholics and nationalists of the 16th Division. In his memoir he wrote that on “many occasions the Ulstermen were to fight alongside the Southern Irishmen of the 16th Division and in the firing line either one of them would stand shoulder to shoulder with the other, though out of the line they often fought in the best North versus South tradition. What a set-to with fists and belts

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there would be in some estament behind the lines, where men of the 16th were drinking, should some of the 36th barge in, provocatively shouting ‘To hell with the Pope!’ But in battle this was all forgotten and they were the most loyal comrades in arms.”41 He added in a letter to his mother from the trenches that “the feeling between North and South out here is quite splendid. Each praises the other all the way.”42 Evans’ account underplays any animosity between the two communal groups, but this might have been an exaggeration in order to make things sound cheerier for both his family and readers after the Armistice. By comparison, Denys Reitz of the 7th Royal Irish Rifles noted in his 1933 memoir that there had nearly been violence over the presence of “Boyne Water” which had been served to the Irish Catholic troops. Not understanding the depth of sectarian feeling, Reitz thought that his men had “gone crazy” in their desire for revenge on the Ulster Division. In the end, several hundred men had to be organized to surround the “malcontents” in order to “get back to camp without bloodshed.”43 At the end of 1916, prior to Messines Ridge, Willie Redmond had commented that there was an assumption the two divisions would “fight each other like wild cats if they came into contact.”44 Based on Reitz’s evidence, this seemed to be just as valid an image of Ulster Protestants and Irish Catholics in the trenches as Evans’ visions of noble fellowship forged in war. Somewhere between the two extremes was the reminiscence of A.R. Brennan of the Royal Irish Regiment, 4th Division. In his memoir, Brennan recalled his time at the Somme when his division “arrived at a large village near the Fricourt sector. Here we spent a week or two; going up several nights to the trenches with rations for the Ulster Division. It was rather ironical, in a way, for an old National Volunteer to be thus helping to feed his late enemies of the Ulster Volunteers. Any qualms I might have had on the matter were adequately eased by occasional pilferings of the Ulstermen’s ‘Plum Duff.’”45 Brennan, as a member of the inv, had been prepared to fight against the uvf in a civil war; now, those tensions had been altered. Various levels of animosity and fellowship existed during the war between the two Irish divisions on the Western Front, but Brennan’s account underscores the realities of military

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life and comradeship in an amusing and tangible manner, as opposed to the lofty and almost unattainable romantic heroism most strongly identified with the 36th (Ulster) Division in the popular press. Socializing between the two divisions occurred among both the officer corps and the enlisted men. According to his memoir about life as an Irish soldier in the British military, General Godley had arranged dinners between General Sir Oliver Nugent and Captain Saunderson, both Unionists, and Nationalists Stephen Gwynn and Willie Redmond. He recalled that, during the meal, the “talk and arguments between the two Unionist Orangemen of the black North, and the two Southern Home-Rulers, egged on by Charles Gwynn and myself, would at times become rather heated; but I need hardly say that they always finished by falling on each other’s necks, and were in reality the best of friends.”46 In this context, the banter and fellowship that existed within military friendships were stronger than domestic politics for members of the officer class, at least while they remained in the theatre of war. While the officers discussed politics at formal dinners, the rank and file often used sport as a way to bridge the divide between them. Rowland Feilding noted the attitude of enlisted men during one of the many football matches scheduled between soldiers of the 16th and 36th Divisions.47 Once, he nearly had to stop a game because a German airplane appeared in the sky overhead. However, Feilding felt that to halt a match “in process of being cleanly fought before a sporting audience between the two great opposing factions of Ireland, in a spirit of friendliness which, so far as I am aware, seems unattainable on Ireland’s native soil, was a serious matter; and I decided to let the game go on. During the game a wag on the Ulster side was heard to say: ‘I wonder if we shall get into trouble for fraternizing with the enemy!’”48 A brotherly relationship between Irish troops did not mean a romantic, rosy world of universal peace and fellowship; camaraderie also incorporated banter, rivalry, oneupmanship, and competition, but it was a space in time where common interests and a common enemy temporarily overpowered the sectarian divide in the memories of those who witnessed it. Irishmen apparently needed a degree of separation from political rancour in order to realize that there were many more things that

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united than divided them. This was a common theme in many of the sources from the time, ranging from John Redmond’s and Tom Kettle’s obvious propaganda to officers’ nostalgic memories of wartime fellowship. It is unclear whether observations of fraternalism occurred because different geographic locations had changed the men’s temperament and willingness to tolerate each other, or if it was a more pointed reaction to the fact that, while they were on the Western Front, their homes and communities were not threatened by “the other” from the Home Rule era, the men who now stood beside them in the trenches. From the numerous references in the sources to feelings of fellowship between the Irish troops, it is obvious that fraternalism was significant to the men who experienced it. What is unclear are the precise motivations for these variations on the theme of fraternalism and how much these war-time stories and reflections were a reaction to the sectarian violence that erupted in Northern Ireland in the early 1920s. In terms of national influence, Terence Denman definitively states that these moments of nascent brotherhood carried little weight in determining Ireland’s future, as the friendships formed in the trenches were far less important than what was occurring in Ireland itself during the war years.49 Similarly, David Fitzpatrick emphasizes that, although political and religious distinctions dimmed in the theatre of war, the “comradeship of the trenches proved evanescent.”50 These criticisms are perfectly valid and demonstrate the power of events on the home front like the Easter Rising and the Conscription Crisis to make stories of solidarity between the divisions seem insignificant and dated. However, the development of private and popular fellowship within and between the Irish divisions deserves greater emphasis, particularly in the historiography of Irish and Ulster masculinities. The fraternalism felt between Irish Catholics and Protestants during the Great War might have paled in comparison to the animosity and violence that erupted between them during the Troubles, but it is important to remember that these feelings of camaraderie and understanding did, in fact, exist. The public sphere was always a locale ripe for propaganda, and some of the publications about fraternalism in the trenches made over-reaching statements that exaggerated the realistic feelings of individual soldiers,51 but these same sweeping state-

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ments pointed to the authors’ desire for brotherly camaraderie to be remembered, at the very least. The associations between men of the 16th and 36th Divisions, as described by politicians and officers, presented key moments of tolerance and respect between groups who, only a few years earlier and for many years to come, were fighting each other. While popular attention between 1914 and 1918 focused on the war, indications of a viable brotherhood between Irish soldiers were among the most potent and optimistic public incarnations of Protestant unionist masculinities, though never attaining the mythic status of the warrior hero who had died at the Somme for Ulster. A year after Thiepval, the death of Willie Redmond at Messines in 1917 served as one of the most notable examples of how the 36th Division reacted to the presence of Irish nationalists fighting beside them. Despite being the oldest man in the 16th Division, Redmond was given permission to join in the attack at Messines when massive mines exploded beneath the German lines.52 Redmond was hit in the wrist and the leg soon after going over the top and was carried back behind the lines, still alive, by men from the Ulster Division. He died at the Casualty Clearing station at the Catholic Hospice at Locre later the same day.53 Rowland Feilding, being that rare mixture of a Catholic and a Unionist, felt Redmond’s death most keenly. He wrote home to his wife, Edith, shocked at how “one’s ideas change! And how war makes one loathe the party politics that condone and even approve when his opponents revile such a man as this ... What effect will his death have in Ireland? I wonder. Will he be a saint or a traitor? I hope and pray it may teach all – North as well as South – something of the larger side of their duty to the Empire.”54 Father Edmond Kelly, attached to the 49th Brigade, 16th (Irish) Division, described the behaviour of the men from the 36th Division to Monsignor Ryan, Senior Catholic Chaplain for the armed forces. Kelly wrote that Willie Redmond “received every possible kindness from Ulster soldiers. In fact, an Englishman attached to the Ulster Division expressed some surprise at the extreme care which was taken of the poor Major, though no Irish soldier expected anything else, for after all, the Ulstermen are Irish too.”55 According to reports, Protestant Ulstermen were able to care for

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and respect a Catholic Nationalist without adhering to his politics, mourning his loss as that of a fellow soldier and Irishman. In this case, the foundation of Irish masculinities during the war was soldiering solidarity, not religious or political preferences. The same feelings also occurred at Third Ypres in the late summer and early autumn of 1917. Passchendaele was the battle that virtually destroyed the 16th (Irish) and 36th (Ulster) Divisions; after it ended, the recruits that filled the ranks mainly came from England and Scotland.56 Losses for the 16th Division were very high, with 221 officers and 4,064 enlisted men listed as casualties, and another 2,167 of those occurring within two days in mid-August.57 Among the dead at Passchendaele was Father William Doyle, the popular Catholic chaplain attached to the 49th Brigade, 16th Division. He had been killed instantly by an exploding shell while attending to the wounded. His death, like that of Willie Redmond, appeared to unite the men of both Irish divisions in grief. Percival Phillips, writing for the Daily Express and the Morning Post, recorded that the “Orangemen will not forget a certain Roman Catholic chaplain who lies in a soldier’s grave in that sinister plain beyond Ypres. He went forward and back over the battlefield with bullets whining about him, seeking out the dying and kneeling in the mud beside them to give them Absolution ... His familiar figure was seen and welcomed by hundreds of Irishmen who lay in that bloody place. Each time he came back across the field he was begged to remain in comparative safety. Smilingly he shook his head and went again into the storm.”58 An anonymous Belfast Orangeman provided his own eulogy for Doyle in the Glasgow Weekly News, where he remembered that “Father Doyle was a good deal among us. We couldn’t possibly agree with his religious opinions, but we simply worshipped him for other things. He didn’t know the meaning of fear, and he didn’t know what bigotry was. He was as ready to risk his life to take a drop of water to a wounded Ulsterman as to assist men of his own faith and regiment. If he risked his life looking after Ulster Protestant soldiers once, he did it a hundred times in his last few days. The Ulstermen felt his loss more keenly than anybody, and none were readier to show their marks of respect to the dead hero priest

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than were our Ulster Presbyterians.”59 This public tribute placed Father Doyle within the hierarchy of martial masculinities as a brave and heroic comrade-in-arms who “didn’t know the meaning of fear,” risking his life to bring religious consolation to soldiers and ultimately dying in that pursuit. It also, however, underscored the rivalry between the two divisions as Protestant Ulstermen claimed to feel “his loss more keenly than anybody.” This quasi-ownership of the decorated chaplain demonstrated the importance of battlefield heroism to the men of the 36th (Ulster) Division, to the point where they claimed to value Doyle’s death more than his own brigade or division, despite the religious difference between them. The carnage of Passchendaele also caused soldiers to look for meaning in their immediate surroundings to define their experiences in the trenches. Captain William Montgomery of the 9th Royal Irish Rifles, 36th (Ulster) Division, wrote to his parents in Belfast that the “labour, suffering, strain, casualties are unceasing, but still the spirit of our manhood triumphs. It does surely triumph, my parents, and I believe will finally conquer and vanquish. It must because it has not failed in extremis.”60 With his forceful language, Montgomery remained committed to his conviction that the virtuous, bellicose masculinity of his troops and fellow combatants could and would overcome any obstacle. His confidence was based in part on the principle of morale. On the battlefield, he claimed he had “heard of it. It is taught. Thank God it just is anywhere I have had to do with men up to now ... The more I see of it the more firmly convinced I am that there is a God. One God. One cannot ... look at the bodies of the dead without being sure that this is not the end.”61 Montgomery poured out his feelings to his family after having come through a vicious battle, but despair was not one of his immediate sentiments, at least not on paper. Seeing incomprehensible, horrible things had made him attempt to define what was best about his fellow soldiers, and his answer came in the form of the solidarity created by the troops’ high spirits and seemingly invincible manhood. This, in turn, corroborated his own belief in the divine. Battles such as Passchendaele forced men to ask themselves deep philosophical questions. In Montgomery’s case, the answers came from interpretations of his own masculinity in relation to the roles that courage, morale,

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duty, and religiosity played in a world thoroughly intimate with violence. Ulster Protestant masculinities found definition in the Great War, through both their own community’s commemoration of their achievements and their associations with Irish Catholics and nationalists in the trenches. Foreign battlefields provided less political confusion than domestic ones, at least according to propagandistic publications in contemporary newspapers and nostalgic war histories. Although sibling-esque rivalries and communal stereotypes endured between the divisions, reports of fraternalism, camaraderie, and shared battlefield experiences also existed. However, the public aura of brotherhood among armed men was far more complex when applied to individual soldiers. Shades of gallantry, gentlemanlyheroism, or fraternalism were not always the theme of William Montgomery’s war experiences. Having survived Passchendaele, Montgomery wrote to his parents of his realization that, as an Ulsterman, violent conflict was his natural province. “war,” he wrote, and the profession – the oldest man’s profession of arms is to me the absolute acme of joy and excitement ... It is a sure thing now that real war not peace soldiering is my job ... The statistics are hard against me and my type, but just as soon as it starts bursting near me I go joyous mad and just run amok. I can’t explain it. It has often puzzled me, but there it is and it is worse today after 22 months than it was when I started. Which of my ancestors had it? Some of them must have had it. Pure naked primitive raw red lust to kill with the naked hand, tear his throat out with long fingernails overlaid with the trained knowledge that I can do worse sitting in a dugout quite cool and comfortable and play worse hell smoking a cigar by issuing detailed orders in working to my quite highly efficient and horribly equipped command. Some awful implement of war a well trained efficient Batt. is too.62 Montgomery was fascinated by the martial identity he discovered within himself once he was engaged with battle, and by the pleasure he found in killing.63 This had nothing to do with public representations of unionist masculinities during the war, either as

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romantic heroic ideals or as brothers-in-arms with Irish nationalists in uniform. Montgomery’s focus was not on blood-sacrifice, but on blood-lust and the visceral enjoyment he derived from killing. This focus on the physical and lethal aspects of war was not unique to the 36th Ulsters by any means. Lieutenant A.G. May, a Canadian teenager from Trenton, Ontario, who found himself by means of a military transfer among the Ulstermen of the 49th Brigade at the Somme and Passchendaele, felt that his enlisted men were “all good, sturdy, reliable, hardened soldiers, not windy although possible [sic] the intellectual capacity of some of them was not all that could be desired.” May decided that what was needed for the job was “physical stamina and guts rather than brains.”64 Officers like Lieutenant May, with his preference for brawn over brains, seemed to encapsulate the popular, if prejudiced, belief that Irish pugnacity was far preferable to Irish politics. Rather than focusing on the consequences of noble sacrifice, one could argue that Montgomery’s sense of warrior masculinity was more in line with the essentialist stereotype of the Berserker Celt, lending credence to widespread popular assumptions that violence, ultimately, was an Irishman’s true nature. Michael MacDonough, a journalist for the Freeman’s Journal and The Times, wrote his history of the Somme in 1917. He described this state of violent identification as the realization that “each nationality evolves its own type of soldier, and each type has its distinctly marked attributes” which underscored the “particular sort of martial spirit possessed by their race.”65 In An Intimate History of Killing, Bourke argues that the Irish were widely believed to be “innately combative,” an “instinctive bellicosity” that was used to explain the existence of pre-war paramilitary organizations and violent incidents in the country.66 While this assumption implied expectations for bravery on the battlefield, the same racial stereotype also had negative consequences, such as a belief that the Irish, as a people, were unprepared for self-government.67 MacDonough had, in fact, been writing his histories of Irish participation in the war to advance nationalist political aims. His analysis of Irish combativeness in 1917 interestingly did not distinguish between Ulster Protestants and Irish Catholics, but instead traced the different martial characteristics between the Irish and

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the other nationalities of the United Kingdom. MacDonough proposed that the Irish en masse excelled at “dare-devilry” and a “brilliant and rapid attack,” while their flaw of foolhardiness was, in fact, just another demonstration of their “special kind of courage.”68 Assumptions about Irish bellicosity could be both positive and negative, depending on the author, the intended audience, and the context of the analysis. Captain Montgomery’s revelations about his character caused him to question his ancestry, his power over his subordinates, and his identification as a warrior rather than a soldier. In this, his words were part of a wider world of opinions about Irishmen in battle, but also part of the tightly knit society of Ulster Protestant masculinities in the trenches. Montgomery’s belief in his personal capacity for armed conflict also pointed to the realities of Ulster’s and Ireland’s future at the end of the war. Even by 1917, a noticeable shift in popular opinion regarding the war and Irish nationalism had occurred. The fallout from events like the Easter Rising and the high rate of Irish casualties in the war had altered popular support in some areas. For example, Rowland Feilding recounted to his family in June 1917 that Stephen Gwynn had been attacked by his constituents when home from the front lines. “He was mobbed, in fact,” Feilding wrote, “by the young bloods of the place, who stoned him. One went so far as to throw a rotten egg in his face from a range of a yard. I venture to think that the same lad who did that foul thing would be like a lamb if we had him here – perhaps like a lion. I am quite sure he would not have felt even inclined to do as he did. No body of troops could be more amenable or better mannered and behaved under all conditions, or more faithful and patient than the Irishmen in France. Yet, were they in Ireland, I feel pretty certain that some of them would be liable to emulate the hero of Gwynn’s political meeting.”69 This was the separation between foreign and domestic concerns during the Great War and between the unionist and nationalist communities’ identification with Irish soldiers in British uniforms. Events in Flanders and France held the world entranced, making Irish soldiers the most notable representation of militarized masculinities between 1914 and 1918; however, a change had occurred at home for nationalists, bringing them to reject this par-

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ticipation in the war effort. Feilding felt that, if exposed to the atmosphere of martial manliness in the trenches, the young men of Ireland would not have damned Irish soldiers returning home, a circumstance which did not occur in unionists’ treatment of the returning 36th (Ulster) Division.70 Feilding’s example of growing hostility to Irish soldiers in the south falls under the broader theme of the Irish Conscription Crisis of 1918. Ireland was hardly alone in experiencing this kind of social schism, as notable conflicts about conscription also occurred in Australia and Canada in the latter half of the war.71 However, in the Irish context, this was an event that achieved far more immediate consequences than the Easter Rising, both in terms of political mobilization and gender construction. The Conscription Crisis famously united Sinn Féin, nationalists, organized labour, and the Catholic Church against British attempts to force the enlistment of Irishmen through the Military Service Bill.72 By the spring of 1918, the Irish News, which had once praised the nationalist volunteers who marched off to join the army, proposed that the war was “madness” and that “no one who retains his sanity can doubt that ... [conscription] would be the most costly folly yet indulged in.”73 As one might expect, Ulster unionists did not share this antimilitarist stance. In fact, it was a turning point in unionism’s relationship with nationalist Ireland, visible in both unionist newspapers and the rhetoric of Unionist politicians.74 Although not going nearly so far in its endorsement for war as Captain Montgomery had done in his private letters, the Belfast Evening Telegraph did argue that conscription was a “blessed word to all true Allied patriots and loyalists.” It was absolute in its condemnation of those lobbying against forced enlistment, suggesting that Irish nationalists had been “petted and pampered for years, as if they were in fact, as well as in poetry, the first flower of the earth and the first gem of the sea. They ... are acting like spoiled children, crying that they do not get the moon when they ask for it ... The truth is that they do not know what they want ... They may have sentiment and poetry on their side, but sentiment and poetry will neither butter parsnips nor provide armies or navies or implements of labour or protection.”75 The Telegraph argued that unionist men who supported con-

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scription were the true symbol of martial manliness in Ireland, providing the force behind the north’s economic strength and war-time employment, while also serving as the active defenders of Irish society, in contrast to nationalists’ feminine attributes of poetry, pampering, and indecision. Unionist politicians and military figures also had opinions about the conscription issue. In an undelivered speech, LieutenantColonel Ambrose Ricardo of the 36th Division argued that it was “fair for all to share the sacrifices that are being made. I know that much labour is required on the land in Ireland, which is as important as holding the trenches (but is warmer and safer), and I am not going to argue in favour of voluntary recruiting – we are far past that stage.”76 Sir Edward Carson, who resigned from the Imperial War Cabinet in January 1918 over the possibility that home rule would be enacted to make conscription acceptable, wrote that he was “ashamed” of Ireland’s anti-conscription stance.77 In her discussion of American masculinity since Vietnam, Linda E. Boose proposes that war protestors and participants share in a “bad son/good son binary” that ultimately involves “failing the father.”78 Within the context of Ulster masculinities at the end of the Great War, the unionist press and Unionist politicians proposed that the “good son” dutifully embraced martial masculinity and conscription, whereas the “bad son” was sentimental, effete, and ultimately failed to serve the king, the father-figure of British imperialism. In terms of a sibling relationship, unionist opinion in the public sphere had firmly decided that only one of the Irish brothers involved in the war effort had done his duty and loyally served the greater imperial “family.” This type of attitude, fostered by the rancour of the Irish Conscription Crisis, facilitated the post-war commemoration of the 36th (Ulster) Division as the personification of the Protestant unionist community, at the expense of Irish veterans who had served in other divisions during the war. The men who fought in the 10th (Irish), 16th (Irish), and 36th (Ulster) Divisions were part of the largest military mobilization in Irish history. While living as soldiers, their masculine identities were shaped by religiosity, violence, and a proposed sense of brotherhood between Catholic and Protestant troops, most famously enshrined

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in the ties of fellowship created between the 16th (Irish) and 36th (Ulster) Divisions on the Western Front. This brotherhood existed best in the memoirs of officers who looked back on the war as a lost era in the years after Irish partition; second-class treatment of the nationalist brigades by the unionist press regarding their questionable loyalty to the British Army, the material trappings of the 36th Division, and the political identities of individual soldiers were often overlooked by the propagandists who preferred to paint a rosier picture of fraternal fellowship at the front.79 Fraternalism in this context was not confined to harmonious relationships. In order to attain a level of society among men that overlooked personal differences, posturing, mischief, and competition were necessary rites of initiation into a wider community of homosocial comradeship. This made episodes of brotherhood among soldiers a significant element in the historiography of masculinities in the north of Ireland, if only because of their inability to last outside of the trenches. The act of war made some men brothers; however, the consequences of war also drove them apart. Developments on the home front, ranging from the Conscription Crisis to processes of commemoration after the Armistice, separated Irish veterans into distinct groups. Previous hatreds that had festered during the war years erupted into the Anglo-Irish War and the Troubles, with many exsoldiers becoming increasingly embroiled in sectarian activities.80 The Great War had created popular definitions of heroism, martyrdom, and brotherhood among Ulster’s Protestant soldiers that remained in place for decades to come. That said, it also created an awareness of the capacity for violence within individuals and collective communities that immediately fed into the chaos of the Troubles.

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6 Closing Ranks

When the guns fell silent on the Western Front on 11 November 1918, it was assumed, falsely, that peace had arrived. Like revolutionary Russia and the German Weimar Republic, Ireland entered a period of great instability, violence, and confusion in the post-war years that informed public ideals of manliness.1 Religious and political intolerance among Irishmen returned to the forefront of domestic concerns with the onset of the Anglo-Irish War in January 1919. As the region which had been the most associated with threats of violence in the period before August 1914, Ulster was not immune to the renewal of hostilities – which, in truth, had never gone away. Men who had been too young to join up during the war years, or who had felt no inclination to participate in an imperial conflict, had been active on the domestic front between 1914 and 1918, most noticeably during the Easter Rising in 1916 and the Irish Conscription Crisis.2 These men were now faced with veterans returning from the front lines and the veneration the northern unionist community accorded to its heroes in the 36th (Ulster) Division. The manly archetypes of the gentleman-hero and brothers-inarms which had characterized popular, middle-class notions of warrior masculinities in the trenches seemed less applicable in post-war Ireland as issues of partition, paranoia, and guerrilla warfare took hold. New images of manliness were needed to contextualize the political and social upheaval in the country as unionists, nationalists, and republicans attempted, in varying degrees, to fill the power

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vacuum left by increasing violence and volatility. More often than not, Protestant Ulstermen closed ranks against the universality of wartime experiences and, instead, turned to their own communities and traditions for ways to shape their political and social aspirations for the future. Within their interpretations of an imagined Ireland and Ulster, numerous images of manliness and masculinities were created and found expression within the public sphere. As masculinities define themselves through practices that exclude and intimidate “the other,” Protestant unionist Ulstermen often used presumed stereotypes and forms of bigotry to construct post-war identities of their own community and of Irish nationalists.3 Attempts to exercise social, political, and cultural power within the region also created opportunities for dominance. The post-war years were a time that redefined how unionist men from the north portrayed themselves as staunch defenders of noble masculine traditions in opposition to Irish republican nationalism both within Ulster and in the rest of Ireland. Roper and Tosh have described “manful assertions” as being “the traditional stuff of history,” reliant upon verbal command, political influence, and physical violence. Social and cultural crises of masculinity are often contradictions between experience and expectation, with manliness “bound up with negotiations about power.”4 This was certainly the pattern in Ulster, and later in Northern Ireland. The violence and social upheaval caused by the Anglo-Irish War and the Troubles crystallized public imagery of masculinities in Protestant unionist communities based upon both the supposed triumph of the war years and, in equal measure, their insecurities about Ulster’s political, religious, and social future. Added to this popular rhetoric was an intimacy with violence among veterans of the Great War, which only escalated the tendency for persecution and retaliation once events took on a physical character.5 Power among northern Protestant masculinities in the post-war years did not simply stem from legislative control, although that was a key component in the rise of Protestant-Unionist Ulster. Power also emerged from sectarian dogmatism, as well as the authority inherent in paramilitary outfits, all-male societies, and gendered forms of punishment. In the chaos of the Troubles of the

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1920s, unionist men felt the need to shape Ulster’s future through demonstrations of political, social, cultural, and physical control. In the years immediately following the Great War, unionist Ulstermen closed ranks and ushered in a new era of paramilitary activity and power struggles, all of which culminated in the birth of something few of them wanted: Northern Ireland. In the immediate aftermath of the Armistice, Ulster’s ex-servicemen became the central focus of various war commemorations. In the public imagination, most Ulstermen had done their duty and served in the armed forces during the war. The newspapers that had encouraged recruiting measures, particularly after the Somme, often were silent about those who had not followed the colours. This attitude was part of a larger industry of remembrance which included a range of public memorials and occasions, many of which retained their romantic and traditional qualities.6 It was through these various stratagems that Ulster Unionist politicians and propagandists used the power inherent within images of the 36th (Ulster) Division to control the legacy of the province’s ex-servicemen. As Bourke proposes, the collective does not have an actual memory, only empty sites upon which individuals write shared narratives, infused with power relations.7 Those who had fought with the 36th became martyrs to the Protestant-Unionist cause and part of the province’s modern mythology of manliness, whereas veterans from the 10th (Irish) and 16th (Irish) Divisions were pointedly overlooked and their contributions to Ulster’s military prestige ignored. Objecting to this growing trend, an editorial in the Irish Independent in August 1919 stressed that it had no desire to denigrate the achievements of the 36th Division. “All Irishmen,” it proposed, were “justly proud” of the 36th Division and “Nationalist soldiers would resent any attempt to cast a slur on their Ulster comrades in the Great War. What we do object to is the deliberate attempt to represent the Ulster Division and the Ulster Unionists as the only Irishmen who responded to the call to the colours and took part in the world’s Armageddon ... It is unfair to the thousands of Ulster and Belfast Nationalists who voluntarily enlisted and joined other Irish regiments. It also ignored the many thousands of Irishmen who served in English, Scottish, and overseas regiments. If the Ulster Division has its heroes, who

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can deny to the 16th the honour of Major Redmond, mp, and Capt. Thomas Kettle? The sacrifices of these men ... should not be forgotten, although they were ignored at Belfast on Saturday. The Ulster Division, petted and pampered by the Government, has no more glorious record than belongs to the neglected 16th Division.”8 Here, the Irish Independent objected to the general tone of war commemorations in the north. Not surprisingly, Catholic and nationalist ex-servicemen boycotted the Peace Day celebrations in 1919, feeling the date had been changed from July to August for political reasons which cheapened their wartime service.9 At a meeting of the Derry Branch of the Irish Nationalist Veterans’ Association, a resolution was passed protesting against the Peace Celebrations in Belfast, on the grounds that they were being exploited in the Ulster Division’s interests, and calling on all nationalist ex-soldiers to refrain from any participation in them.10 This was refuted by the unionist Comrades of the Great War in Londonderry in a resolution of their own the same week.11 However, it soon became politically dangerous for nationalist exservicemen to press their claims for a share in Ulster’s war remembrance, as their participation in the Great War increasingly was seen as a badge of dishonour among Irish republicans, and was punished as such.12 Their loss was the Orangemen’s gain. The Order’s incorporation of and influence over memories of the Somme encouraged notions that all Ulstermen had fought solely for British imperialism and the Protestant cause.13 The thoughts that there had been other motives at work in the trenches, such as the effort to secure Home Rule, or that some Ulstermen had not served at all, were taboo subjects for newspapers with marked Unionist sympathies, like the Belfast News-Letter and the Northern Whig. Instead, these newspapers focused on the public speeches of Unionist leaders which underscored the importance of the new mythology of Protestant martial manliness in contrast to Irish republicanism. Sir Edward Carson announced to crowds celebrating the Twelfth of July in 1919 that “Ulstermen, in the words of the King, know how to fight and how to die. Ulstermen never, under the help of God, will be conquered by a foreign or by a domestic foe.”14 These words linked the north’s place within contemporary Irish politics to the wartime sacrifice of thousands of Protestant

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Ulstermen. Speaking at a luncheon the following month after the Peace Day parade, the Lord Mayor of Belfast, J.C. White, emphasized how the war had affected popular notions of Ulster Protestant masculinity. “The frightful waste of youthful vigour,” he said, “in its first flush and pride, will not be fully realized till years have passed. How many silent, patient mourners today stood watching the procession, thinking of one who was once their joy and hope! But against that incalculable loss must be set the display of a heroic self-sacrifice and romantic gallantry such as old war could never show on the same scale.”15 The Lord Mayor made use of the traditional image of manly heroism associated with the Great War, stressing the juxtaposition of death with “romantic gallantry” and the nobility of self-sacrifice. In the hands of Ulster Unionist politicians, the Great War was not meaningless, but a successful demonstration of the province’s military prestige, of its commitment to the British Empire, and of Protestant men’s heroism. Within Ulster’s borders, the 36th Division remained a name to conjure with. Conversely, the Irish Independent proposed that, for some nationalist veterans, these celebrations showed a “deliberate design to glorify the 36th Ulster Division at the expense of the other Irish divisions and regiments… for a political purpose” even to the point where “the men composing the Ulster Division may not be conscious of the fact that they are being used.”16 Protestant-Unionist Ulster claimed the legacies of the Great War and the depictions of traditional heroism and martyrdom as its own. In 1920, parades were held to remember the Somme on the fourth anniversary of 1 July 1916. With roughly 10,000 people in attendance, survivors from the battle passed by in procession, where “their fine martial appearance was the subject of much favourable comment.”17 Later that same day, the Reverend J. Redmond, chaplain to the 36th Division, proclaimed that the “noblest and best” of the north “lay sleeping there in the fields of Thiepval.”18 By making specific reference to Thiepval, as opposed to other sites at the Somme including Ginchy and Guillemont, Reverend Redmond had excluded any memory of the 16th (Irish) Division from that occasion of public remembrance. Equally objectionable to Ulster nationalists was the incorporation of the Great War into the iconography of Orange parades in 1920.19 In commemorating the Somme, rather than Messines Ridge

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or Passchendaele where Irish troops had fought together as a united force, the Orange Order changed how the Great War was remembered in Ulster.20 The imagery and iconography used in Ulster’s official war commemorations throughout the post-war years incorporated an exclusive Protestant identity to the detriment of Catholic and nationalist veterans from the north. This exclusionary revisionism removed the reality of Protestants and Catholics fighting alongside one another in favour of an ascendant unionist mythology of warrior masculinity that constructed and confirmed Protestant dominance in the north. Only after “victory” over the ira and militant republicans had been achieved in 1923 did unionist newspapers mention that other Irish divisions had fought “with equal bravery” in different theatres of the war.21 The commemoration of the 36th Division was a cultural phenomenon that Unionist politicians and supporters used in the post-war years to redefine both themselves and their aspirations for the north of Ireland. Many of these hopes for the future involved party politics, bringing Unionist illustrations of proper manliness into the public forum. Post-war Unionism was a similar creature to what it had been in the days of the Ulster Crisis, particularly through its propaganda campaigns visible in newspaper articles, editorials, and public speeches. According to Connell, one of the key defining factors for masculinities within a given society is the importance attached to difference within the community. Diversity is not just a matter of separation and distance between men, but also exists within a given setting.22 This was highly applicable to unionist Ulstermen in the post-war era. Despite the monolithic stereotypes attached to Ulster politics, unionism continued to be a complex and often contradictory set of values and beliefs, producing a range of masculine loyalties and hatreds.23 Meanwhile, the Easter Rising, the Irish Conscription Crisis, and the Anglo-Irish War all ensured that Home Rule would not be enough of a concession for nationalists, particularly those who now considered themselves to be Irish republicans. An independent Irish state was no longer an imagined threat, but a growing reality. In response, unionists defined themselves in negation of Irish nationalism, which was viewed as never having been “more truculent and offensive.”24 This was the internalization of not “what we are,” but “what we are not.”

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Public representations and incarnations of manliness had to reflect this defensive stance. Sir Edward Carson’s words at the Twelfth of July celebration in 1919 reflected a popular need for defiance when he addressed Westminster’s handling of the Irish question. “I will keep my Covenant to the day of my death,” he declared, adding, “I know every Ulsterman will do the same ... We threw our lot in with the rest of the Empire for the war, and we buried our private and local concerns; but I warn them that the day that they proceed to raise the old controversies we will raise the old opposition.”25 This pronouncement showed that very little had changed for unionist audiences since the Home Rule Crisis, despite the reality of the situation.26 The Covenant, with its promise of defiant loyalty, remained an integral fixture of cultural hegemony in the lives of the men and women who had signed it, or so Carson and his followers believed.27 Ultimately, the resurrection of political questions caused the resumption of Ulster’s domestic militarization and the resurgence of its accompanying imagery of men as defenders, champions, and soldiers of “Carson’s Army.” Accordingly, religious hostilities quickly escalated in the public sphere after 1918. Sectarianism was nothing new in Ulster. Communities in the north of Ireland were already familiar with the practices of eviction, expulsion, and exclusion.28 The power struggles of the post-war era allowed Protestants and Catholics to slip back into stereotypical assumptions about “the other” in their midst.29 Visions of “the other” are fundamental to public definitions of gender, as they provide a contrast to depictions of the chosen group.30 Roper and Tosh contend that public incarnations of masculinities involve combining men’s social authority with a range of cultural representations that are further complicated by the fact that society is the product of both lived experience and fantasy.31 Sectarianism in post-war Ulster was another instance of blending masculine social power with cultural tradition. Fantastic fears of “the other” coloured communal perceptions as men sought to proclaim themselves as the dominant power in the province by stamping out the threat posed by their own insecurities.32 Male Protestant-Unionists thrived on the dangers presented by republican nationalism and the spectre of a Catholic parliament in Dublin. Carson announced to crowds that “the real battlefield of Ireland in relation to a Republic

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must be Ulster.”33 Likewise, in 1922, Sir James Craig declared that “attempts have been made to overthrow us. They were made first of all by unfair fighting, by foul assassination, by burnings, by trying to shake our nerves, and to terrorise us into saying ‘We have had enough and we must give in.’ They have attempted all that and have failed, and they will always fail.”34 These perceived threats of incursion and invasion also affected female unionists; however, male unionists in positions of authority attempted to resolve these social anxieties through the institutionalization of discriminatory policies and the eradication of fear through paramilitary action, expulsion, and intimidation, practices which predominantly involved men as the only participants and perpetrators, at least according to public perception. The north of Ireland became a world where fantasy and lived experience existed together on a daily basis, informing how Protestant and unionist men presented themselves to society and how they were depicted in the public consciousness. This made post-war Ulster a place rampant with illustrations of paranoia, retaliation, and terror. This kind of tension came to light in different ways. Statistics of political organizations from 1920 revealed that many Ulstermen were committed to their various sectarian associations, continuing the strong tradition of fraternal societies in the north, although ric bias in favour of Unionist politics may have coloured some of their reports.35 In July 1920 the United Irish League in Co. Down had 4,339 members, Sinn Féin had 1,474 members, the National Volunteers had 5,606 participants, and the Ancient Order of Hibernians had 2,901 adherents. On the unionist side, the revived Ulster Volunteer Force had 6,818 members, and the Orange Order, running 251 lodges in Co. Down, had a total membership of 10,046 men. The figures for the same period in Co. Londonderry and the city of Belfast were also high, demonstrating the large percentage of urban male participation in sectarian societies.36 As far as the police were concerned, the cities were the primary areas for disruption and conflict between rival groups of men. Sectarianism, oddly enough, was a solidifying force in Ulster. Each community held suspicions about the motives and actions of the other which reinforced their own group’s dynamics, turning paranoia into violent action.

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Sectarian hostilities broke out in earnest in the summer of 1920. In June, the Inspector for Co. Londonderry reported to ric officials that the “worst rioting in the history of Derry has taken place during the latter half of the month.”37 In The Deadly Ethnic Riot, Donald L. Horowitz defines rioting as the symptom of a divided society, where sudden, intense, and not necessarily unplanned attacks take place, with victims chosen mainly because of their group membership. Riots are passionate, but patterned, and therefore cannot be categorized as random phenomena.38 The Derry Riots of June 1920 occurred because of the antagonism felt between unionist and nationalist gangs in the city during the Orange marching season, a time of traditional tension and violence leading up to the Twelfth of July celebrations. Horowitz separates “the riot” from “the feud” in his analysis, describing riots as a form of unrestrained violence, whereas feuds entail repetitive acts of revenge, often followed by proportional responses.39 In this light, the Derry Riots were the catalyst for the subsequent feud between Protestant and Catholic forces within Ulster between 1920 and 1922. The violence in Derry was largely unplanned, according to police reports, but future attacks, such as the Belfast shipyard expulsions the following month and the Swanzy Riots in September 1920, had more clearly defined antecedents in communal propaganda, economic insecurity, and vigilante justice for perceived wrongs against the Protestant community.40 Connell suggests that society’s categorization of masculinities is itself a source for violence, as “force is used in defining and maintaining hierarchy.”41 Furthermore, violence and riot thrive on collective action rather than individual pathology, so that bodily experience becomes part of the physical expression of masculinity in answer to a given challenge.42 It should not be surprising, therefore, that the riots and expulsions of the summer of 1920 occurred within notably masculine arenas, namely marching parades and the Belfast shipyards. Popular expectations for unionist masculinities demanded action, either to stand as avengers doling out justice for slights against the community as a whole, or to defend unionist families from the perceived aggression of a traditional enemy. The Derry Riots were a sign that intercommunal tensions were no longer containable, particularly as the Anglo-Irish War raged on

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in the south of Ireland. The riots in June 1920 were a visible demonstration of the breakdown of relations between Catholics and Protestants in a way that had been threatened during the Home Rule Crisis, but had not been put into practice. Anti-Catholic riots were not so much indicative of masculinities in crisis as they were of masculinities in conflict. If riotous mobs existed, then armed force – legitimate or otherwise – was needed to keep order. On 12 July 1920, Sir Edward Carson gave an address that promoted militarization and paranoia, even as it attempted to assert the solidarity and agency of unionists. In particular, this speech has since been highlighted as an inspiration for the notorious shipyard expulsions in Belfast one week later. Sir Edward cautioned his listeners against trusting Sinn Féin, as the true aim of republican propaganda was to “bring about disunity amongst our own people, and in the end, before we know where we are, we may find ourselves in the same bondage and slavery as is the rest of Ireland in the South and West. Beware these insidious methods. Our duty is an absolutely clear one ... we in Ulster will tolerate no Sinn Féin, no Sinn Féin organisation, no Sinn Féin methods.”43 To fight republicanism, Carson promised to revive the uvf. Addressing Lloyd George’s government, he vowed, “we will re-organise, as we feel bound to do in our own defence, throughout the province the Ulster Volunteers who sent you such splendid help to maintain our Empire during the war. But one thing we will not submit to is that we should be left helpless and hopeless in the face of our enemies, and we tell you that, come what will, in the last resort, we will rely upon ourselves, and, under God, we will defend ourselves.”44 This was an absolute condemnation of the British government, Sinn Féin, and, by association, Ulster Catholics, given to an enthusiastic crowd on the most important day of the Orange calendar. Carson stopped just short of advocating violence, but the meaning implicit in his words was one of non-tolerance for the perceived enemies of the Orange-Unionist cause. This was a direct appeal for unionists to protect their community, a request for Protestant men to stand together against a common enemy and simultaneously to guard their families, their livelihoods, and their futures against an “insidious” threat. The shipyard workers of Queen’s Island, Belfast, saw this as a clarion call for Protestant justice, and within a fortnight had acted accordingly.

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On 21 July 1920, all Protestant and unionist workers were called to a meeting during the dinner hour outside the gates of Workman & Clark’s in the shipyards. Particular attention during the meeting was cast on the Catholics from the south and west who had replaced Protestant workers during the war years.45 The thought that these Catholics were hindering the employment of loyalist ex-servicemen was anathema to the assembled Protestant workers. This was a lethal mixture of war remembrance, loyalism, and intolerance at work within the parameters of the economic and political interests of the shipyards. It was also an ironic cocktail, as only one year earlier, the 1919 general strike in Belfast had seemed to create a new class consciousness that overrode traditional sectarian difficulties.46 As loyalty to Protestantism as both a religious and cultural institution had long been a part of the masculine code for Protestant-Unionists, they felt honour-bound to fight for the rights of their unemployed co-religionists. The ric Inspector General later reported that “a regular hunt for Roman Catholic workers in the shipyards took place, a number were severely beaten and some thrown in the water and compelled to swim for their lives.”47 Individual workers were also chased down and had their clothes torn open to see if they were wearing rosaries or any other Catholic insignia.48 In the end, approximately 7,500 Catholics and labour activists lost their jobs, including 1,800 women and numerous “rotten Prods” who had defended their Catholic colleagues. Ironically, some of these “rotten Prods” were, in fact, veterans of the Great War, the very men the mob had supposedly been trying to avenge.49 Rioting followed, with the police called in first and then the military in an attempt to stop the violence. The disturbances lasted for a further three days in various areas throughout the city, and Roman Catholics were denied work in the Belfast shipyards for nearly two years.50 Two days after the expulsion occurred, the Irish News plaintively asked, “Has enough been done in the way of bloodshed to satiate for a time the Moloch of Bigotry and Hatred whose infernal appetite was deliberately reawakened ... The measure of success that has attended their enterprise cannot yet be fairly reckoned; but blood in streams, sorrow, bereavement and bitterness, destruction of life and property, the turning of populous areas into infernos of strife and slaughter, and

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the ruin of families and the engendering of evil passions – these results of the meeting should please those who planned it.”51 The expulsions and ensuing rioting not only brought sectarian violence to the forefront of Ulster society, but also demonstrated that the issue was not a problem of high politics. The working classes’ inherent understandings of manliness sometimes mirrored the images of other classes, but with some differences in their chosen emblematic activities;52 these workers were now heavily involved in the civil disturbances and in identifying themselves with popular public representations of unionist masculinities, mainly through violence and communal division.53 This was a bitter paradox considering the class unity that had been apparently achieved through the 1919 strike.54 The Troubles now spanned economic, cultural, and political spectrums, with physical violence standing as the most visible form of masculine power. Holding different political and ideological loyalties from the majority of men in society brought not only expulsion from employment, but also the promise of physical harm. An anonymous English ex-soldier and shipyard worker took specific issue with this premise. After fighting in the Great War, he began to work in the Belfast shipyards, only to become a victim of the expulsions. “If this is the thanks you get for serving your King and country,” he wrote to the nationalist Irish News, “no wonder people uphold Sinn Féin ideals.”55 The shipyard expulsions had divided men in Belfast along economic, religious, and communal lines, with even an Englishman unable to hold onto his job in favour of unemployed Protestant Ulstermen. Three years later, in 1923, James Logan, a pro-unionist author, described what he saw as the character of the Ulster Protestant shipyard workers. He praised their “strong character and grit” and asserted that the “Northern Iron has entered their spirit. They are excellent men to have as friends, but the very opposite as enemies; in other words, they are good lovers and strong haters, and when they choose a hero, as they did Sir Edward Carson some years ago, they stop short of nothing in support of him.”56 This linked the actions of the shipyard men to Carson’s public rhetoric. Logan went further in his appreciation of the Protestant workers, asserting that the “‘Island Men’ are rough and ready, staunch and determined, loyal and enthusiastic, hard-working and industrious. Woe to him

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who gives them offence, political or otherwise, but happy he who wins their esteem!”57 In expelling their coworkers, the Protestants of the shipyards used their bodies as violent tools to punish those they deemed to be inferior, namely Roman Catholics and nationalists. Their evaluation was based in part upon participation in the Great War, though it would not be inappropriate to assume that membership in the 36th (Ulster) Division was the only kind of war record that mattered to them. However, this cultural distinction was further deepened by economic and social reasoning, with employment and a man’s ability to provide for his family hanging in the balance.58 A man who lost his job, by force or otherwise, also lost his self-respect, as the loss of the money he brought into the domestic sphere affected his family’s status and brought them closer to poverty in a country where the memories of starvation and the workhouses of the nineteenth century were still raw. The Protestant public sphere promoted the notion that real Ulstermen were employed men.59 One of the key ways for Protestant unionists to ensure their dominance in this area was to make employment a sectarian issue, lending credence to the stereotype that Catholics were lazy, idle, and unemployed, whereas good Protestant men had jobs, reflecting Ulster’s comparative prosperity to the rest of Ireland during the Famine.60 Pride, therefore, as an individual worker and as part of a collective group, was also at stake in the act of expulsion. In the shipyards of Queen’s Island, there was both a physical and an emotional penalty to be paid for being deemed insufficiently loyal. Many men publicly approved of the expulsions. John Holness, a riveter and representative of the Executive Committee of the Ulster Unionist Labour Association (uula), commended the men for having been “loyal to their King and country. They belonged to an Imperial Province and their liberties had been secured for them by their forefathers who fought under William III ... All along the line [Roman Catholics] need not blame the Protestants for anything they had suffered, they might blame their own priestcraft.”61 Clearly, for some Unionists, the expulsions from the Belfast shipyards were part of an historic anti-Catholic tradition dating back to the Boyne and, therefore, worthy of Protestant Ulster’s approval.

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William Barclay, also a member of the uula and chairman of the Vigilance Committee, an organization set up to impose loyalist labour policies and refute nationalist accounts of the expulsions, tied his endorsement of the workers’ actions to more recent history. After deploring the rioting and looting in the days following the initial expulsions, he announced to the crowds at a Harland and Wolff meeting that unionist and Protestant employees would “not work with disloyal workers” until such a time that the “troops and Sinn Féiners cease the foul murder campaign which has destroyed the fair name and fame of our beloved country.”62 He also urged any future employment contracts be given first to loyal Protestant unionist ex-servicemen.63 This demand for terms, based in part upon specific service during the Great War, was an example of the kind of popular authority that the shipyard workers enjoyed after the expulsions.64 They resolved that they had the power to decide who was worthy of employment and who was not, with loyalty to the Crown and the British connection serving as the determining factors. This was a public demonstration of the men’s ideological, physical, and economic strength, as their violent actions had realigned one of the most important of Belfast’s industries and greatly affected which men were able to provide basic food and shelter for their families. Ultimately, the shipyard expulsions were an example of masculinity as performance, with Protestant men motivated to violence and physical demonstrations of “loyalty” in establishing economic and social power over their perceived rivals. Through their actions, the Protestant-Unionist shipyard workers associated themselves with the militant masculine archetypes of the defender and the protector, images that had existed since the earliest days of the Home Rule Crisis.65 1920, however, was not 1912. The expulsion in July 1920 was different from that which had occurred after the Castledawson incident, in that the imagery of the defender and protector had nothing to do with retaliation for an attack on children, and everything to do with unionists securing their own economic interests and avenging themselves on those they felt had not shared their values of King, Country, God, and Ulster before, during, or after the Great War.66 Their activities against their Catholic cowork-

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ers began a series of incidents that combined politics, economics, and public gender performance for years to come. The ric Inspector General T.J. Smith was prophetic when he wrote, “I fear it will be a considerable time before matters become normal here.”67 One of the most obvious economic consequences of the shipyard expulsions was the Belfast Boycott. By August 1920, Sinn Féin had mobilized nationalists against wholesalers, retailers, and even purchasers of goods from Belfast. This move made the Troubles an economic war as well as a cultural-political conflict and involved thousands more in the power struggle for Ulster’s future. An attack on the north’s economic strength was an attack on men’s livelihoods and a threat to the domestic sphere as well as to the economic one, as unionist men affected by the boycott, much like the Catholics and nationalists thrown out of work in the expulsions, were no longer able to provide for their families.68 Working-class men find poverty to be a “scarring experience” as they belong to a social group where income depends upon good relations with employers.69 This fear of poverty made the Belfast Boycott a substantial motivation for revenge between the divided communities. Certainly, it encouraged Protestant businessmen to work together to protect their common economic and social interests. The Ulster Trades Defence Association published pamphlets appealing to Protestant Unionists for assistance in breaking Sinn Féin’s economic stranglehold: “men of ulster! You have never failed to do your duty in the past. You can be trusted now to help break down the boycott of belfast by buying only belfast or ulster goods. By Ulster Labour and with Ulster Capital are produced as good food, drink and clothing as can be obtained anywhere. Spend your money on Ulster goods and help provide work for our unemployed.”70 The design and language used in these pamphlets was very similar to recruitment posters from the Great War. It appealed directly to masculine honour, associating the economic war against Sinn Féin with the one recently fought in the trenches. Once again, the legacy of Protestant-Unionist men’s participation in the Great War was manipulated in the public sphere to give value to the struggle against Sinn Féin and perceived nationalist aggression. Similar appeals were also made to the “Housewives of Belfast,”

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asking, “Have you ever thought that you have it in your power to break down this infamous Boycott of Belfast and at the same time to provide work for our unemployed?”71 The boycott became a gendered event for both men and women through the use of specific language in pamphlets and flyers that targeted male honour and female agency. Appeals for assistance proposed that the only way to defeat the boycott was through collective effort. For others, however, the best means to fight the boycott was to create similar economic hardships for Ulster Catholics. The Protestant Merchants of Castlederg published a flyer in which they decided to “dismiss all Catholic Employees, except where they cannot be substituted by Protestant Labour” and that they would have “as little intercourse with Catholic Merchants in and around Castlederg as is practicable.”72 In this action, the merchants maintained that they were acting “purely in self-defence” and in the belief that their cause would have widespread support from Protestant businessmen and local farmers.73 Economic struggles were now inextricably linked with religious intolerance. The claim of self-defence in this and other declarations supposedly cast Protestant agency as a retaliatory measure against previous Catholic aggression. However, these righteous assertions tapped into a theme prevalent in both unionist and nationalist circles in that no action by either side ever claimed to be aggressive or deliberate, but was always couched in the language of defence, protection, and justice.74 With the boycott giving credibility to Ulster’s traditional siege mentality, the relationship of Protestant-Unionist men to “the other” in northern society allowed gendered language to frame political and economic situations. This powerful imagery of men defending their communities also reinvigorated the philosophy behind numerous paramilitary organizations. When the opportunity presented itself in the riots and expulsions of the summer of 1920, vigilante justice became the first line of defence for some Protestants. In Co. Armagh, the ric reported that “feeling was running high and Unionists are beginning to organize for their own protection against Sinn Féin activities.”75 Again, these arrangements were presented as paternalistic defensive measures meant for the population’s protection against nationalist insurrec-

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tionists and a government in London that could not be trusted. One of the first paramilitary efforts within the Protestant community was the resurrection of the uvf under the direction of Wilfrid Spender.76 It was certainly a daunting task. While general popular support seemed to be behind the move, the military elite in the province were doubtful of its effectiveness and Spender, too, showed private misgivings about the role paramilitary power had in Belfast. Writing to Major General Sir E.G.T. Bainbridge, Spender admitted his own opinion that “arming small bodies of civilians in the manner suggested will only lead to more trouble and excitement, more nerves and consequently more attacks on the part of the Catholic population.”77 Spender, a confirmed and committed Unionist if there ever was one, realized that the uvf was a controversial body in Ulster and that its presence as a paramilitary force would encourage a vicious cycle of retaliation. Less than a fortnight later, Spender wrote to Sir James Craig indicating that the policy of reforming the uvf was not proceeding quickly and that “some of the Orange Lodges have decided to raise a Special Force of their own, they say that the uvf is too slow. Amongst the less steady element there is a distinct tendency towards Socialism and to certain desperate measures ... The steady men are chafing badly ... They will I think keep in hand so long as the rebels keep quiet, but if there is another outburst of provocation these steady men will be our greatest danger. It will then be impossible to check them and they will take action of which I have details, which, to my mind, will be utterly deplorable in its results.”78 In Spender’s eyes, no man was safe from the intoxicating effects of violence, especially if directly provoked by Catholic-nationalist forces. Paramilitary action was one of the most significant forces in Ulster’s post-war society, as it gave men access to political, cultural, and physical power over their rivals when it was unleashed. Consequently, this made it one of the key features in the public and private construction of Ulster Protestant masculinities in the early 1920s. Unionist officials believed that men once deemed sober and level-headed could and most likely would lose themselves in the cycle of retaliatory violence once it began in earnest, as shown by Spender’s letter to Craig. The middle-class image of the gentleman-

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hero fighting for God and Ulster might have been created during the Home Rule Crisis and reached its apogee at the Somme, but it died in the aftermath of the Armistice. Heroes still existed for each community, but violence assumed a different quality in post-war Ulster, with savagery and hostility becoming anticipated and, for some, highly acceptable parts of a Protestant Ulsterman’s character. The cause remained the same, to fight against Irish nationalism or to encourage it, but the means of achieving success – and, within those means, the public sphere’s accepted standards of manliness – had changed. Part of this change was a radicalization of the siege mentality, a central part of Ulster Protestant identity since the seventeenth century. This inherent defensive spirit was a state of mind that was “among the master strokes of post-1918 state construction in Europe.”79 The post-war siege mentality was expressed as both a collective and an individual reaction to external and internal political and military pressures that suggested Ulster was alone in its struggles, surrounded by enemies and forced to rely on self-defence in order to ensure its survival. Although this attitude was most often associated with Ulster Protestants, it was equally applicable to Ulster Catholics who felt isolated within a northern province of Orange Unionists, particularly as 1920 drew to a close with the promise of the new state of “Northern Ireland.”80 The rhetoric of cultural solidarity attached to the siege mentality was often open to attack from both external observers and internal participants. After the Twelfth of July celebrations in 1922, for instance, the Irish News wrote that, if a person with no background in Irish politics listened to Sir James Craig’s speeches, “one would think that the ‘loyalist’ population of the Six Counties had been for all this time a gallant little band of Christians huddled in the corner of an arena filled with man-eating lions.”81 The notion of living under the constant threat of attack, invasion, and violence became the cornerstone for a unionist cultural structure based upon paranoia and the maintenance of BritishOrange traditions. Unlike republican nationalism, which imagined Ireland entirely liberated from British rule, Protestant-Unionist nationalism, such as it was, remained ultimately devoted to the ideals of imperialism.82 It was this philosophy more than any other

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that seemed to shape public representations of unionist masculinities in the press as Ulster was transformed into Northern Ireland. When discussing the role imperialism has historically played in masculine construction, Connell argues that the imperial social order created hierarchies of masculinities alongside its hierarchies of communities and races. The colonizers then distinguished “more manly” from “less manly” examples among their subjects.83 In transposing this concept to post-war Ulster, the Protestant-Unionist siege mentality declared that those men who accepted the British Empire as an integral part of Ulster’s identity, either by fighting in the 36th (Ulster) Division or by taking public action (political or otherwise) to maintain the British connection, qualified as “more manly.”84 Conversely, the “less manly” were those deemed disloyal, republican, or nationalist in their outlook, earning the chastisement and neglect of the ascendant masculine group in society.85 The insular nature of the sectarian divide allowed Protestant-Unionist men to create an enclave where they were the dominant political and social group and where their vision of imperial loyalty informed social values and codes of honour within the wider unionist community. One example of the authority exerted by the unionist siege mentality and its connection to British imperialism occurred in late October 1920 at the Queen’s Island shipyards, the very place that had set off the previous summer’s antagonisms and intercommunal violence. On 21 October, Councillors David Thompson and John F. Gordon unfurled an enormous Union flag in the midst of a meeting at the shipyards. During the proceedings, Gordon announced to the assembled crowds of dockworkers that he “considered it a great privilege to be allowed to associate himself with the great democracy of the shipyards in their efforts to stimulate the idea of loyalty to King and Crown ... They would see to it that the Union Jack would be an indication that men need not fear to live in Ulster, and that they were going to make their province a place fit for men to live in.”86 This address played upon the notion popularized by Lloyd George that, in the years after the Armistice, the United Kingdom would be a “land fit for heroes”;87 the difference was that Gordon believed Ulster would succeed in establishing the kind of society appropriate for real men and veterans that Westminster had

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failed to create. This was the incorporation of a domestic element into Protestant unionist masculinities in the north of Ireland, as the process of transforming the province into a home fit for unionist men became a key social concern. Gordon’s speech contained direct approval of the shipyard expulsions the previous July, as he felt it was an honour to associate himself with the “great democracy” of the shipyards. In specifically making the shipyards a haven for Protestant-Unionist masculinities and ideology, the dockworkers apparently had created a miniature utopia, a microcosm of what some Unionists in the public sphere hoped to fashion for all of Ulster through the new Belfast Parliament. As 1920 drew to a close, the siege mentality and its inherent concerns for the position and preservation of unionist masculinities facilitated the rise of a new Protestant ascendancy, based upon the exercise of power within all of Ulster’s significant spheres, underlining the political, cultural, social, economic, and physical dominance of Protestant-Unionist men in positions of authority. Some of the most obvious institutions and characteristics that garnered the support of the general unionist community were the monarchy, the Protestant faith, patriotism, imperialism, a strong work ethic, the legacy of the Great War, law and order, and the preservation of traditional middle-class values. These ideals won support from unionist men and women alike. In order to ensure the movement’s success, Sir James Craig appealed directly to women’s groups such as the uwuc, alongside the uula, the Orange Order, and the Business Men’s Association, aiming to include women within the propaganda movement through “a personal deputation from Ulster to the Chairman and Office-bearers of every Unionist Association.”88 Unionist women were not seen as a threat to Protestant-Unionist masculinities. Rather, their perceived influence over the domestic sphere and among newly-enfranchised female voters gave these women a significant role in maintaining Unionism’s appeal to both sexes. Accordingly, they were incorporated into Unionist rhetoric by government officials as important contributors, although the amount of attention they garnered in the public sphere was still slim. Equally valuable to the Protestant-Unionist campaign were various authors and propagandists, including Lord Ernest Hamilton,

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James Logan, and Cyril Falls, the military historian and veteran of the 36th Ulsters who wrote the official history of the division in 1921 in order to emphasise the blood-debt the empire owed to Protestant Ulstermen.89 These men wrote as Unionist advocates and responded to the political and social crisis of partition by legitimizing the authority of Protestant-Unionist culture through their work. What social pundits and historians proposed and asserted in their writings was not merely an exercise in travelogues or educational manuals, but something that held the capacity to redefine public opinion about the Unionist-Nationalist divide and the sort of men who belonged to Ulster. James Logan’s Ulster in the X-Rays (1923) was the work that dealt most specifically with the public representations of ProtestantUnionist masculinities in the post-war years. Logan proposed, “Belfast is self-made and so is the average Belfast man, but, of course, self-made people have their faults as well as their virtues. A successful man who is self-made is likely to have too much confidence in himself and more than the average of self-assurance. These are excellent qualities when held in moderation, but when they overstep the limit they become aggressive and pugnacious ... There is a tendency in Belfast to place the financially successful man on a pedestal, and contrariwise, to depreciate the idealist and the intellectual.”90 The chief difference between Belfast and the more rural areas of the province, according to Logan, involved a man’s association with the business world, a world with which the new Prime Minister of Northern Ireland, Sir James Craig, was very familiar.91 Logan further claimed that a Belfast man “may not have kissed the Blarney Stone and may have little charm of utterance of musical speech, but sets high store on duty, personal honour and in keeping his house in order ... he is for the most part reserved and a man of action rather than of speech ... He is frequently misunderstood, and beneath the brusqueness and apparent austerity there often beats a heart of gold.”92 This use of the phrase “keeping his house in order” is of particular interest. It can refer not only to the ultimate rule of paternalism within the domestic sphere, but also to the “house” as a metaphor for Ulster society. In this light, a “house in order” involved unionist men working together to keep law and order within the state through the quashing of rebellion and dissenting attitudes, and

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also through maintaining a status quo that best suited ProtestantUnionist men in positions of public authority. In his final evaluation of Belfast men, Logan presented the following conclusion: “In summing up the Belfast man and awarding him a percentage of marks for various characteristics I shall say in all fairness: determination 98, business capacity 94, courage 91, trustworthiness 90, self-esteem 84, mental vigour 78, hospitality 70, general culture 65, artistic tastes 58, social graces 54. Having said this, I deliver judgement in a trial of the Belfast man on a frequent charge brought against him of narrowness and bigotry: verdict for the defendant.”93 Interestingly, Logan placed manners and taste at the bottom of his survey, indicating perhaps that the new code for Ulster Protestant masculinities was not based on polite society, something given weight by the previous summer of violence. Grit, economic sense, loyalty, trust, and some intellectual capacity were the most important elements in his analysis, characteristics created and informed by Protestant Ulstermen’s daily surroundings of industrial labour, capitalism, fraternal societies, religious institutions, and the sectarian divide. These divisions between Catholics and Protestants in the north became even more pronounced after partition became a reality. The Government of Ireland Act, which received royal assent on 23 December 1920 and came into effect 3 May 1921, gave Belfast its own domestic parliament. Home Rule had come to Ulster, in the form of the new state of Northern Ireland. Partition was an unwanted solution, and both Protestant-Unionists and Catholicnationalists used the situation to reorganize their respective identities and allegiances.94 Sinn Féin and the ira were potent forces within the six counties, a fact that did little to cure unionist paranoia. In a 1921 letter to Max Aitken, Lord Beaverbrook, Sir James Craig wrote that he felt “hampered at every turn, more especially by well-meaning amateurs suggesting that a settlement can only be arrived at by each side giving way. It is clear ... that if this process of giving way is carried an inch further we will find ourselves swallowed up in a Dublin Parliament before we know where we are.”95 If anything, the Government of Ireland Act increased unionist unease, leading to political polarization. In order for the new state

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of Northern Ireland to run efficiently, Catholics needed to recognize the authority of Unionist men in positions of social and political power. This proved to be a major stumbling block. Catholic estrangement from the very idea of Northern Ireland hinged upon the fact that Ulster Protestants had suddenly changed from being a religious minority to a majority in their own state. Believing this new entity to be a sham, the ira launched a campaign against the northern government and its supporters;96 by the spring and summer of 1921, both communities were caught in a cycle of paramilitary violence. The “Newtownards Road Gunmen” publicly threatened Catholic families with printed notices saying “dead men tell no tales. If you are not cleared out by the end of the week, you will be shot.” Other pamphlets, printed by the Vigilance Committee of the Belfast shipyards, read, “In case of any tragedy you will only have yourself to blame. Every Sinn Féiner and Fenian must go ... We must make room for our own friends, and we are going to do it.”97 This kind of intimidation only worsened as the months progressed to the point where Catholics realized that their rejection of Northern Ireland was one of their only weapons against it. The power of this ideology of refusal was very strong, directly attacking the public authority of Protestant-Unionists in positions of power. Roper and Tosh promote the view that masculinities see the social and psychic spheres as being “closely woven: how men like to be has obvious implications for the ways in which they act in everyday life.”98 This attitude of denial had a great effect on Roman Catholic identities in Northern Ireland. They did not want the new state to exist, therefore, in their communities, it did not. Instead of looking to Unionist politicians such as Carson or Craig to resolve sectarian difficulties, many in the nationalist community turned instead to Michael Collins for help.99 Throughout the early 1920s, the dominant attitude of the Catholic-nationalist community was one of non-recognition and non-cooperation. Likewise, anti-partition views were seen as threats to the viability of the new state.100 This schism increased the likelihood of physical hostilities, as each community felt bound to protect a fantastic vision of its actual reality.

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There is no doubt that barbarity did exist, in both communities. The intimidation of Catholics became a way for some Protestant men to demonstrate their notion of manliness in front of their peers and to display their supposed loyalty to the Crown and the ideals of Orange-imperialism. Wilfrid Spender had the sober task of alerting Lionel Curtis in the Colonial Office that Roman Catholic ex-servicemen, suffering from shellshock at Craigavon Hospital, had been the targets of threats and intimidation.101 “I regret to say,” Spender wrote, “that I am afraid there has been intimidation of Roman Catholic Ex-Service Men in this Hospital, both by anonymous correspondence, and in at least one case, by personal threats addressed to Patients. The Hospital Authorities have done everything in their power to safeguard their Roman Catholic Patients, and probably the threats are not really of a very serious character – from a purely physical point of view – but when conveyed to ExService Men suffering from Shell Shock, they are of a most cowardly character and unfortunately produce great effect on the individual ... I also hear that at least one threat has recently been given to Protestant Ex-Service Men at this Institution, but this is no doubt merely a reprisal.”102 The intimidation of shell-shocked veterans was a direct attack on the warrior masculinity that had defined Protestant soldiers during the time of the Great War, although Protestant Ulstermen were “exonerated” from ethnic slurs that Irishmen’s supposed effeminacy made them more prone to war neuroses.103 During the war years, manhood had been characterized through displays of heroism, honour, fraternalism, and the homosociality of the battlefield.104 In Northern Ireland, however, masculinities depended upon displays of communal strength and solidarity, which somehow removed the memory of shared experience between Protestants and Catholics in the trenches, and instead legitimized the intimidation of mentally ill soldiers in the minds of the perpetrators. This development at Craigavon Hospital demonstrated the diminishing effect war-time service had in unionist evaluations of Ulster Catholic men, an ironic twist given Unionism’s veneration for the Great War and the honour the Protestant community supposedly accorded to ex-servicemen. In post-war Ulster, memories of war quickly became “weapons in a war over mem-

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ory.”105 The shell-shocked Catholic veterans in Craigavon Hospital had fought in the wrong divisions and belonged to the wrong religion and therefore had little value to the dominant ProtestantUnionist ideology of manliness. In his correspondence with Curtis, Spender seemed disgusted by these threats against veterans, but was not surprised by their existence. He ended his letter with the declaration that “the whole situation over here is rapidly developing into one of outrage and reprisal ... and the general belief is that it will give way to violence, and violence only.”106 Of course, not all men committed atrocities during the Troubles, but with Ulster becoming a place of increasing extremes, the middle ground was often, if not always, overlooked. The siege mentality espoused by both communities during the explosive years of 1920 to 1922 heightened unionist paranoia. Even the speeches of Unionist leaders were not immune to fear-mongering and the use of provocative language. During the Twelfth of July celebrations in 1920, in the same speech that had incensed the shipyard workers to violence, Sir Edward Carson told his audience of Orangemen that Irish republicans’ one ambition was “to penetrate into Ulster. We know well that the one ambition they have is, that as they have taken possession of certain parts of Ireland, so they may in the immediate future take possession of the greatest part of Ulster.”107 Carson’s vocabulary was militaristic on the surface, but also sexually suggestive with references to penetration and possession. This gendered reading of the text evokes the image of Ulster as a body needing to be protected from Irish republican advances, which had succeeded in “conquering” the rest of Ireland. Unionist and Orange men were depicted in the traditional masculine role as protectors, defending Ulster from an unwanted invasion, and thereby lending an air of official Unionist sanction for the paramilitary and moblike responses to political threats that grew in the region. Contrary to this variation on traditional defender archetypes, Roman Catholics tried to resolve their increasing malaise either through support for the ira or in a conscious denial of Northern Ireland’s existence after December 1920. To them, Ulster was indivisible from Ireland, a view that would have repercussions throughout the rest of the twentieth century. Protestant-Unionists, however,

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chose a different tack in resolving their identity issues. Having closed ranks ideologically against Catholic-nationalists, they now began to separate themselves from the new minority through more official and lasting methods. The predominantly masculine world of Ulster’s political and social institutions became virtually off-limits to Catholics, as Protestants exerted their influence over the government, the police force, the justice system, and the civil service.108 If Ulster Catholics denied the existence of Northern Ireland, then Ulster Protestants would deny them its benefits and its protection. A shift in public representations of masculinities occurred in the immediate years after the Armistice. While violence had, ironically, not been stressed as a defining quality of Protestant Ulstermen while they served in the trenches, once the soldiers returned home, aggression and vengeance became popular associations for men on either side of the political divide. Incendiary language and imagery in the public sphere, like the Orange Order’s annexation of memories of the Great War or Sir Edward Carson’s speeches on the Twelfth of July, provoked fiery action, resulting in riots, expulsions, and economic boycotts which not only hurt men physically, but also injured them financially and attacked their sense of honour. With the reality of Northern Ireland looming by the end of 1920, the power inherent within Protestant, Orange, and Unionist visions of the future became the dominant factor shaping unionist masculinities and the very definition of who was, and who was not, a man of Ulster.

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7 Institutionalized Dominance, 1921–1923

The creation of Northern Ireland in 1921 allowed Protestant Ulstermen in positions of authority to establish a network of official government institutions and policies that inherently advanced the supremacy of Protestant-Unionist manliness in the six counties. This paradigm favoured male members of the Orange Order, the Unionist Party, and the Protestant faith. The period from 1921 to 1923 saw the execution of this agenda. Interpretations of manly ideals did not override political and social concerns during Northern Ireland’s first years of existence; rather, notions of masculine authority and idealized representations of Protestant and unionist men were results of political action and noticeable parts of the larger complexities of the public sphere. While the era of the Troubles has produced numerous impressive historical accounts, these analyses have not provided a gendered interpretation of key events, policies, and institutions or of the conflicts that existed between competing masculinities.1 These years highlighted the power of dominant Protestant homosocial networks over those in the nationalist community that, through a lack of engagement and official influence, were largely powerless. Institutions like the Unionist Party, the Royal Ulster Constabulary (ruc), the Ministry of Home Affairs, and the Orange Order encouraged sectarian interpretations of fraternalism and fellowship among unionists, while continuing to emphasize forms of militarization that had shaped popular ideals of Protestant manliness since 1912. Protestant-Unionist men were the chief creators and beneficiaries of

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Northern Ireland’s institutional policies, and it was their sense of manly authority, control, and tradition that characterized the political and martial identities of the new state in its infancy. Although female unionists were not dissatisfied with the new political landscape, its policies and practices strongly favoured men and reaffirmed the masculine imagery that had long been a part of unionism and the Ulster Unionist Party. Together, these organizations and ideologies institutionalized the dominance of Protestant-Unionist Ulstermen over their Catholic and nationalist rivals, with lasting results. One of the first alterations to the public representation of northern unionist masculinities under the new government was a change in leadership. The era of Sir Edward Carson officially ended with the creation of Northern Ireland. Sir James Craig’s accession to the leadership of the Unionist Party gave public political authority to a man who was seen, rather unashamedly, as an antagonistic, belligerent, ultra-loyalist, stubborn, pro-Orange, Presbyterian Ulsterman. Craig did not supplant Carson; rather, he was the chosen successor and became the dominant masculine political icon for unionists in the inter-war period. Carson remained a potent symbol for unionists until his death in 1935, given his position during the Home Rule Crisis and the Great War; but Craig was the man who supposedly delivered security for Unionist-Protestants in the form of Northern Ireland, a move that countered one of Carson’s key beliefs: that Ireland should not at any point be a divided country.2 As mentioned previously, the key difference between the two leaders was that Carson was always a southern unionist at heart, whereas Craig was an Ulsterman by birth who put the north’s interests above those of a unified Ireland. In a 1921 letter to Lord Beaverbrook, Craig clearly stated, “I have no desire to lead the people of the South.”3 When Ulster became increasing insular after the Great War, focusing on the problems within its own borders rather than broader pan-Irish issues, Craig displayed the leadership of a native son, which Carson, always a Dubliner, could not provide. It was Craig, the man who had been too much of a Protestant Ulsterman during the Home Rule Crisis to assume public leadership of the unionist cause for the entire country, who was in control as of 1921,

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offering his fellow Unionist Ulstermen a vast arena in which to exercise their growing supremacy in the public sphere. Before this political dominance occurred, however, Craig’s image as the new Unionist leader and centre of Protestant loyalties within Ulster had to be created and confirmed in the public imagination. In both appearance and manner, he appeared to be the embodiment of the ordinary Protestant Ulsterman, characterized as a “big, bluff, cheery individual.”4 Within the closed ranks of post-war Ulster society, a man who appeared to be the epitome of “normality” was the one who held the greatest amount of power. Sir James Craig became the normative standard for Ulster Protestant masculinities, personifying the most appealing characteristics other men wished to emulate and support in a leader. He was a public standard for masculinity because he appeared to capture what Unionist men ought to be.5 The Belfast Telegraph, picking up on this popularity, emphasized Craig’s position within unionist lore, making him desirable both as a political figure and as a leader within homosocial circles. An article in January 1921 characterized him as a longserving Member of Parliament who had been “the right-hand man of Sir Edward Carson during the Home Rule crisis” and who later had thrown himself “whole-heartedly into the cause of the Empire, and his influence and example played an important part in the raising of the splendid Ulster Division.” The newspaper also highlighted Craig’s sporting life and country interests, citing that the future prime minister was a “keen yachtsman” and “an Associate of the Institute of Naval Architects, member of the Yacht Racing Association, Royal Ulster, and other local yacht clubs. He is well known for his support of the Royal Ulster Agricultural Association, of which he is a life member. He is a Presbyterian Orangeman and a member of the Apprentice Boys of Derry.”6 This treatment of Craig’s character and favourite pastimes illustrated his connections with the legacies of the Ulster Covenant and of the 36th (Ulster) Division, and also his role in unionist fraternal societies as an Orangeman and a member of the Apprentice Boys. His yachtsmanship and agricultural interests allied him with both the elite and the common man, superficially bridging the class divide. The article claimed Craig as a true Protestant Ulsterman, creating a rather rosy image of

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him as a thoroughly likeable figure able to defend unionist interests against Irish nationalists and Westminster politicians. In this, the Telegraph used the same type of myth-making lore that Craig had employed to great effect in masterminding the career of “King Carson.”7 In naming the new leader as a “man of the people,” Craig’s propaganda machine reinforced the insular nature of Ulster unionism in the post-war years, since only a man whose background, interests, and passions were similar to those of ordinary unionist Ulstermen could then lead them to dominance in their own province. Unionism under Craig’s leadership was an Ulster-specific enterprise, drawing on the legacies of the Carson years and supposedly making the north-east corner of Ireland a haven for those who believed in the sanctity of the Protestant-Unionist vision of the empire.8 The number of fan letters Craig received in 1921 after accepting the leadership of the Unionist Party confirmed the success of this endeavour. Miss Edith Gamble of Belfast wrote to Craig in March 1921 requesting a photograph, assuring him that she “would prize it very highly” and that she had “always been a keen supporter of Sir Edward Carson.”9 Interestingly, Miss Gamble added information about her family’s ties to unionism in her letter, including her father’s membership on the Ulster Unionist Council and her four brothers’ close connections with unionism, with two of them holding key business positions in Belfast.10 At no point did Gamble mention her own possible membership in a female unionist organization. Instead, she placed all emphasis on her male connections, as if having male relatives associated with the Unionist Party was the ultimate sign of loyalty to the cause. The letter also pointed to the transmission of popular affection and esteem from Carson to Craig, with a photograph of the new leader standing as something that would be cherished within a Unionist household. Ironically, Miss Gamble had to wait for her photograph, as Craig replied, “it so happens that at the moment I have quite run out of copies.”11 Craig received similar requests for his photograph at home and from abroad, indicating his popularity as Ulster’s leader in countries with unionist sympathies. Mrs M. Kier, the assistant Grand

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Vice-President of the Sons & Daughters of Ireland Protestant Association of Toronto, wrote to Craig congratulating “Ulster and you, Sir, on their splendid choice of a Leader” and requesting an autographed photo which she would “prize and hand down to my family.”12 Mrs Kier’s approval of Craig’s leadership was shared by Charles Elcoate of Stockton-on-Tees, who wished to have an autographed photo in exchange for a poem he had written celebrating Craig’s new position as prime minister: “Grand Ulster leader, of whom we are proud; / With many splendid qualities endowed: / Skilful Organiser; when in the right, / Thou furthers a just cause with thy whole might.”13 The publicity campaign that changed James Craig from Carson’s lieutenant into the valued leader of postwar unionism was a success. The propaganda machine consistently portrayed Craig as a defender of Protestant and Orange interests. This was summarized definitively by Craig himself when he declared to the Stormont Parliament in 1934 that he was always “an Orangeman first and a politician and Member of this Parliament afterwards.”14 Craig’s public image of Ulster manliness was divisive. He united unionists of different classes and opinions behind him, but the knowledge that the first Prime Minister of Northern Ireland was a fervent Orangeman alienated the Catholic minority.15 Craig was the ultimate Ulsterman, so long as one shared his imperialistic, Orange, and Protestant point of view. Under the leadership of Sir James Craig, the Belfast Parliament became a masculine enterprise. Although women were eligible to run in the 1921 election, the uwuc did not actively promote female candidates, citing that “the time was not ripe for this.” At their meeting on 25 January 1921, the uwuc also noted that women might not have enough public experience in governance and that “except in the case of outstanding qualifications, men candidates were preferable.”16 This policy ensured the dominance of Unionist men in the Belfast Parliament, rather than Unionists of both sexes. Only three women sat in Parliament from 1921 to 1940, all as representatives of the Unionist Party and the uwuc. Dame Dehra Chichester, later Parker, was the mp for Londonderry from 1921 to 1929 and South Londonderry from 1933 to 1960, while Julia McMordie represented South Belfast from 1921 to 1925 and Margaret Waring

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sat for Iveagh, Co. Down, from 1929 to 1933. By comparison, thirtysix women were elected to the Westminster Parliament between the years 1919 and 1940, beginning with Lady Astor. Constance, Countess Markievicz was elected as an mp for Sinn Féin from 1918 to 1922, but never took her seat in London. Of the Unionist Ulsterwomen in the Belfast Parliament, Dehra Chichester was the one who most often promoted the masculine agenda of the political sphere in her addresses. In December 1921, she announced to the House that the male members of the Belfast Parliament were “plain, straightforward men” who had become “pioneers, and if they will allow me to say so, they have become sculptors, and from the pure, white block of marble with their chisels they are creating a figure, the figure of a new State, a figure which will embody all our ideals of the past, and which will represent all that we look forward to in the future, a figure of the new and greater Ulster. To these pioneers, these Statebuilders, these men, we should give our confidence, our help and our gratitude.”17 Dehra Chichester drew attention to male Unionist politicians as the chief architects of Northern Ireland’s future, arguing that they were more than the stoic men that James Logan would later characterize in his Ulster in the X-Rays (1923). Chichester saw her male colleagues as artists creating an image of the state that would encompass both Ulster’s previous ideals and Northern Ireland’s future prestige, without making any reference to herself or any other woman involved in the political process. It was the men, she argued, who deserved the confidence, help, and gratitude of northern society. Rather than presenting a vision of the Belfast Parliament as a space for gendered politics, Chichester contributed to the manly ethos that inhabited the political arena. A similar emphasis was apparent in her later speeches regarding the Civil Authorities (Special Powers) Act and the establishment of the ruc. In March 1922, she roundly supported the severe measures of the Special Powers Act (spa). “I speak as one of the representatives of my sex,” she declared, “representing thousands of women in the Six Counties, and I feel I can say that they have been shocked within the last few days by the terrible outrages, bloodshed, and violence. We feel that the strongest measures are absolutely needed now, and

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that in the present state of the country it is only the very strongest measures which can strike the necessary fear into the hearts of the criminals.”18 Rather than promoting the virtues of kindness and mercy that were traditionally associated with femininity, Chichester wanted to subdue violent insurgency during the Troubles through discipline and the government’s capacity to invoke fear. This promoted a masculine political agenda in favour of authoritarianism, policing, and legislated violence, such as the spa’s allowance for the flogging of prisoners guilty of explosive offences.19 Chichester also displayed an awareness of the unionist images of warrior masculinity associated with the Great War in her discussion of the Troubles. When debating male eligibility for the ruc in 1923, she proposed that worthy men were being excluded from the force because of physical shortcomings rather than dedication to the state. Pointing her address at Richard Dawson Bates, the Minister of Home Affairs, she asserted that men rejected for the ruc had been “good enough for the Special Constabulary when every man was needed. They came forward when danger threatened. They took their lives in their hands so as to protect us and in order that we might lie safely in our beds ... I have heard of hard cases in this connection. Men were turned down simply because they were a fraction under the necessary height, and yet those men not only served in the Special Constabulary but also in the war, and have gallant records ... It is not always the largest frames that contain the most gallant spirits. It is not always the case because a man’s chest measurement is narrower than another man’s that he has a narrower or smaller sense of the duty he owes to his country and to the force to which he belongs. I would remind him also that Nelson was not a big man nor a strong man.”20 With this, Chichester aligned herself with the manly virtues of heroism, duty, loyalty to the crown, defence, and service to the empire which had characterised unionist masculinities since the turn of the century. Women, in this speech, were passive figures in their homes needing to be defended and protected by men.21 Chichester’s esteem for dutiful patriotism over physical prowess even went to the point of citing Admiral Nelson as an ideal of heroic manliness for Sir Dawson Bates’ Ministry of Home Affairs to emulate. However, Chichester was aware that

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her role as a female parliamentarian might affect how her views on Ulster Protestant and unionist masculinities were interpreted. At the end of the same address she added, “If I have spoken on a subject which does not really belong to those which I have a particular right to speak on, I hope, at any rate, the Minister will consider the question I have put to him.”22 In couching her words as the opinions of an interested outsider, Chichester acknowledged that manliness was, ultimately, the territory of men. As a woman who valued loyalty, heroism, and duty, she would warn, cajole, and advise her male colleagues, but she herself did not feel it was her place to speak categorically for Protestant Ulstermen or to shape the ruc, which became an emblematic institution of unionist masculine authority in the north. Even when constructed by women, the manliness of Northern Ireland politics was an inescapable force within the province. This dominance of politicized Unionist masculinities was a key feature of Craig’s government. The northern regime quickly protected itself from perceived threats, both within and without the six counties. The siege mentality, the ideology of communal defensiveness in Ulster Protestant society, became part of the government’s operating philosophy and dictated how Unionist men organized themselves against possible attacks to their supremacy and security. In a letter to Sinn Féin leader Eamon De Valera in August 1921, Craig outlined his government’s non-negotiable position regarding Northern Ireland’s future as a state separate from the rest of Ireland. “We reluctantly accepted the Government of Ireland Act,” he wrote, “in the interest of peace and as a final settlement ... We have made our sacrifice. We have nothing left to give away.”23 These words emphasized Craig’s belief that Northern Ireland was a province under attack, both in the “sacrifice” Ulster Protestant soldiers had made in the Great War and through the Protestant-Unionist community’s acceptance of the unwanted apparatus of Home Rule. Unionism remained a one-note political ideology, in that it still defined itself solely through its position of maintaining the Union. Having technically secured that aim through the ratification of the Government of Ireland Act, the Unionist Party was left without a new direction. In trying to compensate for this lack of a

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rounded political platform, the Belfast Parliament drew in part on what was familiar, namely traditional Protestant fraternal societies, which were full of potent martial masculine imagery and ideals, in order to create a sense of authority that pervaded Northern Ireland. One of the most powerful of these fraternal organizations was the Orange Order. The Orange Order provided Unionist authorities with a readymade organization of men who supported the government’s aims in creating a society where Protestant manliness held sway over all other homosocial groups in Northern Ireland. James Logan reminded his readers that “[a]ll Ulstermen are not Orangemen,” but even if they were “there would be nothing to be ashamed of in this, for so far as I know, the moral principles of Orangeism are based on Scripture and are void of offence to any man. Moreover, these men are loyal citizens, law-abiding and worthy of respect.”24 Logan’s propaganda in favour of the Protestant-Unionist position in Northern Ireland made Orangemen seem like the most upstanding of the north’s citizens. However, Logan’s opinion was just one voice; more were needed in order to defeat nationalist stereotypes of Orangemen and the new Unionist government. Early in 1922, Sir James Craig received a letter from his brother, Charles, which underlined the party’s need to use Orange resources in order to counteract Sinn Féin propaganda about boundary disputes. Charles Craig believed there was “a strong feeling that we ought to do more in the Propaganda line, and it was suggested to me yesterday that our Orange Body should be set the task of rousing the Orangemen.”25 This depiction of Orangemen suggested that they were a group of men who could be both politically savvy and publicly aggressive once awoken to a cause. Charles Craig emphasized that this plan was sound, inexpensive, and centred upon the creation of a committee of “level-headed Orangemen” who would distribute pro-government pamphlets at lodge meetings.26 The notion of politicizing the Orangemen because of their vast resources underlined how important male unionist networks of power were to the consolidation of Protestant authority in the state. The Order’s standing as a highly influential fraternity in Northern Ireland meant that it could be relied upon to act as a political tool

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in promoting the Protestant-Unionist agenda. Sir James Craig illustrated this with his Twelfth of July speech in 1922 at Ballylesson. He reminded the crowds that the Loyal Orange Institution was “as firm as ever.” The Northern Whig, reporting the event, agreed with the prime minister’s words, adding that “the people of the Six Counties are firm in their allegiance to certain ideals and institutions which they have always cherished. Neither force nor the threat of force would shake in the least degree the Orangeman’s devotion to the religion which satisfies the needs of his spiritual nature, or his fidelity to the Crown and the Constitution.”27 “Orangemen are not out for ‘ascendancy’ as their libellers assert,” Craig pronounced, but they were “resolute in maintaining the sound democratic doctrine that the majority shall rule, in Ulster as in all other parts of the British Empire.” Moving from this portrayal of British imperial citizenship, Craig then reminded his audience of the Orange Order’s links to the recent events which had shaped Ulster Protestant militarization. “From the ranks of the Loyal Orange Institution,” he said, “came the old Ulster Volunteer Force ... Those men and women formed a force which saved Ulster in 1914. From the ranks of the Loyal Orange Institution came the grand 36th (Ulster) Division. There was no finer division in the Great War. It was also from the ranks of the Loyal Orange Institution that our splendid Specials have come to protect our borderland.”28 Craig concluded by reminding the Orange crowds that “our cause is the cause of all Loyalists in the dominions and in all parts of the world ... Our opponents have failed in every way to shake the backbone of the Loyalists of Ulster by their burnings and murders and their terribly upsetting campaign in all parts of the province ... Any campaign or any cause that is being built up by foul assassination, murder, and burnings can never come to a triumphant issue.”29 Craig’s invocation of the violence of the Troubles demonstrated that the prevailing imagery of Orangeism and its enemies within the public sphere involved masculine rather than feminine imagery. Women were not part of the easily identifiable symbols of the Order, such as when Orangemen had gathered beneath the grand dome of Belfast City Hall to sign the Covenant in 1912, or when they paraded every July with their bowler hats, sashes, and banners

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commemorating the Boyne and the Somme.30 Orangewomen still supported their beliefs after the creation of Northern Ireland, but there was almost always a stress on the masculinity inherent within the fabric of the Orange Order, such as with Charles Craig’s notion of rousing male lodge members as a political asset or with Sir James’ noting of the quality of the Orangemen who had fought in the 36th Ulsters. The Northern Ireland government and the Orangemen within it were an extension of the tradition of Protestant fraternal societies, with male associations and martial alliances characterizing the modern mythology of the province and its hierarchy of power relations. Newspapers, parliamentary speeches, government documents, and public addresses all emphasized the manly nature of Orangeism in northern society, in part because of the need for armed action against those who fought to reverse partition. Women were politically active, but the masculine militarization of these communal organizations was more public at this time and, therefore, unionist sources tended to highlight the historical legacy of Protestant men in the north, and the important role masculine agency had to play in safeguarding the province. This stress on the relationship between Orange fraternalism and government power in the public sphere reinforced both groups through mutual protection and assistance. The Orange Order did not have unlimited influence over government policy, but there was a strong bond between the two entities as many members of the Unionist Party, including Prime Minister Craig, were Orangemen. In March 1922, at the height of intercommunal violence between northern Catholics and Protestants, Craig announced that the Belfast Parliament was made up of “all Protestants, nearly all Orangemen ... I am an Orangeman myself. I am more proud of being an Orangeman than anything else.”31 Countering this were the opinions of Orangeism found in the Irish News, which declared, “We have the greatest admiration for the Orange Institution – as a machine. Nowhere else in the world is there to be found a community drilled into such unquestioning obedience to their ‘masters’ ... Adults who are not Orangemen are suspect ... What a wonderful instrument for the purposes of politicians!”32 Clearly, attitudes toward the Orange Order and its political involvement

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varied from romantic sentimentalism to outright cynicism. The Order’s influence as an organized and exclusive brotherhood within the Belfast Parliament angered nationalists, even as it reflected similar systems of masculine association used to strengthen the Protestant-Unionist position throughout the province. But, with sectarian feeling increasing in the new state, some of these organizations fell under the category of Protestant all-male societies bent on the extermination of northern Catholics. One of the most infamous of these groups in Belfast was the Ulster Protestant Association (upa), a fraternal secret society of around 150 men established in 1920 that took the punishment of its enemies and its own members to an extreme. According to District Inspector R.R. Spears, branches of the upa existed in Ormeau, Shankill Road, York Street, and Ballymacarrett and were responsible for numerous murders, shootings, and bombings.33 Led by Robert Simpson, Robert Craig, and Thomas Pentland, the upa maintained a strict level of discipline among its own members through the practice of flogging. Colleagues who had earned the displeasure of the Association’s leadership were brought in for trial. After being convicted by fellow members they were stretched naked across a flogging horse, their arms and legs bound to the floor with thongs, and were then flogged.34 The upa also required an oath of allegiance “which was practically a vow to murder” and collected funds from the local community through coercion.35 All of these tactics involved the intimidation of men by other men in order to secure discipline. Protestant men belonging to the upa appeared just as willing to punish their peers as they were to murder Belfast Catholics. Violence among upa members produced a combination of terror and strength, with the will of the majority physically imprinted upon the weak, the inconstant, and the rebellious. During the upa’s floggings, the male body became a cultural construction, with the lash acting as the physical tool that set the boundaries of acceptable behaviour within the group’s exclusively male setting. According to Judith Butler, gender achieves its greatest effect through “the stylization of the body,” where physical gestures, movements, and patterns “constitute the illusion of an abiding gendered self.”36 In this

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light, the flogging of upa members was the infliction of a traditional military punishment that created illusions of obedience and defined the parameters of individual submission and the group’s collective will to dominate. It also affirmed an apparent understanding of dominant masculinities among the act’s participants through stylized performance and the obvious physicality of the punishment. This was the castigation of men by other men that encapsulated the homosocial world of some vigilante and paramilitary societies in 1920s Belfast. Ironically, this approach was repeated by the Northern Ireland government with their institution of flogging for explosive offences under the Special Powers Act of 1922, making corporal punishment a feature used by both state authorities and terrorists to define the terms of acceptable behaviour and proper allegiance among men in the north of Ireland. Of course, the upa was not the only Protestant organization in Ulster during The Troubles. Fred Crawford, the hero of the Larne gun-running, formed his “Tigers,” a vigilante oath-bound society which was offered to the government as an intelligence-gathering and investigative unit against Irish republicanism.37 Frustrated with perceived delays regarding the creation of an undercover loyalist espionage force, Crawford established his own Ulster Protestant secret brotherhood in May of 1921, using a format similar to Orange and Masonic meetings. Tiger initiates vowed that the sole object of joining the Tiger brotherhood was to “uphold the Protestant Religion, to retain an open Bible, and to establish full freedom religiously and politically for all, and to destroy and wipe out from Ulster by every means in my power, the foul Sinn Féin conspiracy of murder, assassination, and outrage, which at present is so rampant throughout all the rest of Ireland. Should I wilfully break or violate this Oath, either whilst a member of the Brotherhood, or at any time after I may have resigned, or be removed from same, or the Brotherhood has ceased to exist, I shall be guilty of perjury of the vilest and grossest kind, and shall thereby bring upon myself the penalty of being shot through my treacherous and unworthy heart by any member of the Brotherhood, or punished in such other way the Brethren may think fit.”38 This oath emphasized the destruction of Sinn Féin and, consequently, Catholic political power

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in Northern Ireland, while also highlighting brotherhood, honour, and punishment, key themes for unionist masculinities in the 1920s. The form of the meetings for the “Tigers” also pointed to their Orange heritage, with an emphasis on ritual, prayer, and the belief that its adherents were part of Ulster’s Chosen People.39 Honour and tradition were highly valued in Crawford’s “Tigers,” as were the rituals incorporated into secret male fraternities. The existence of secret societies within Northern Ireland during the Troubles demonstrated how closed and insular the Protestant-Unionist community had become, as the power struggle for dominance between rival masculinities became something enacted behind guarded doors and upheld through secret oaths and adherence to a defensive code of brotherhood. Crawford also noted in his diary for 1921 that the Ex-Servicemen’s Association had started to “enrol men as a defence force and now call themselves the Ulster Imperial Guard.”40 This body, formed in the summer of 1921 in Belfast’s shipyards, had as many as 14,000 members. It was an association for Protestant working-class men with extreme political opinions who wanted to act as Northern Ireland’s army. In November 1921, the Northern Whig reported that “[w]hen thoroughly equipped and organized the forces will be offered to the Premier of Northern Ireland to safeguard the interests of his Parliament, to protect the Northern boundaries or to be used for such purposes as the Northern Cabinet may think necessary. The Guards are properly disciplined, a very large percentage of the members being ex-service men who before the war belonged to the Ulster Volunteer Force.”41 Once again, the qualifications for a true “defender” of the Protestant north depended upon service in both the uvf and the Great War. Unionist propagandist James Logan characterized these men for their “strong character and grit” and said they were “rough and ready” for whatever came to pass.42 Although these qualities had inspired Logan’s vision of robust northern Protestant masculinities, the Unionist government felt uneasy about any future dependence upon working-class men they suspected might have Socialist or even Bolshevik leanings, despite their claimed interest in defending the empire.43 It was easier for them to turn to more familiar organizations like the Freemasons or

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the Orange Order, of which many Belfast parliamentarians were members, rather than to put their sole trust into the hands of the working classes.44 Despite this reticence, class was not often the cause of major divisions within Northern Ireland Unionism. Protestant-Unionist authorities preferred to promote an integrated vision of the north as a widespread “normative” masculine society rather than to focus on class differences and antagonisms. Class was an inescapable part of British society, including Northern Ireland; however, the superficial appearance of Protestant male solidarity, promoted in the public sphere through political speeches and newspaper editorials, gave the appearance that all unionist men were part of the hegemonic system that supported Protestant-Unionist dominance, whatever the realities of unease between the classes. Mosse describes this desire for normative culture as a major drive in historical agency, since the quest for normality motivates individuals and determines their vision of society and their place within it.45 For the dominant unionist masculinities of Northern Ireland in the early 1920s, the normative male was a Protestant, a member of the Unionist Party, possibly an Orangeman, a brother in various fraternal organizations, an imperialist, a monarchist, a hard worker, and a reactionary against forces which threatened his place and position in society, ranging from Irish republicanism, with its strong socialist associations, to Soviet Bolshevism.46 This “normalcy” was not a natural occurrence among men, but a system of concepts learned and reinforced through social institutions and political legislation that emphasised a Protestant-Unionist masculine construction of society. The need to solidify this supposed supremacy over political and social rivals meant that Unionists relied not only upon Orangemen and other fraternal organizations in the region, but also upon the legal and social machinery at their disposal for the creation of institutions that fortified their dominion. Perhaps the most controversial organization instituted by the Unionist government was the Ulster Special Constabulary (usc). This auxiliary police force predated the Government of Ireland Act by several months, having been formed at the end of the violent summer of 1920. The catalyst for the creation of the usc was the

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Swanzy Riots in late August, which demonstrated the lack of police power in Ulster.47 As a result, the Special Constabulary was established as a means of reinforcing law and order in the counties, while also drawing on images of martial masculinity that had been a continuous part of unionist culture since 1912. The usc was composed of roughly 32,000 men split into three separate classes of service. The “A” Specials were the full-time constabulary, working in conjunction with the ric, while the “B” and “C” Specials were part-time constables or reservists.48 For unionists, the usc formed part of an increasing defence force needed to help quell the republican threat. The certificate of employment for the “B” Specials pointed to feelings of patriotic duty, specifying that a volunteer “has served his country in the ‘B’ Special Constabulary ... God Save the King.”49 The Specials were an answer to the realistic fears that many unionists had about insurgency and invasion, drawing on the military traditions established by the uvf when unionist Ulstermen had formed militias to show their strength and resistance to an unwanted political future. A 1922 recommendation made to the Northern Ireland Cabinet regarding the preservation of law and order in the north characterized the demeanour behind the official mandate for the usc. Major-General Arthur Solly-Flood paraphrased Machiavelli’s The Prince, noting in his recommendations that “[i]n order to ensure peace he made him ready for war.”50 This kind of bellicose defensive attitude advocated preserving the peace through a demonstration of armed force. The quote, coming from a military advisor to the Unionist government, also showed how men, inside and outside of the Cabinet, looked on a martial environment as the choice method for resolving communal unrest. Unionist supporters used traditional masculine characteristics of physical prowess and a heroic legacy to define the usc. R.D. Megaw, a member of the Belfast Parliament, announced to a meeting of North Antrim unionists that “we have got an admirable police force” that showed “wonderful qualities of grit and intelligence.”51 Meanwhile, Sir James Craig argued simply that “a finer body of men never lived. The Specials are going to save Ulster.”52 Contrary to such enthusiastic responses from the unionist community, a significant proportion of the nationalist community in

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Northern Ireland viewed the Specials as an armed group of men motivated by bigotry and the desire to repress the Catholic-nationalist minority. This view was expounded upon by Frank Crommie, a member of Sinn Féin and of the bipartisan committee formed to look into the possibility of employing Catholics in the usc in the spring of 1922. Speaking in front of the likes of Divisional Commander Colonel Wickham, Major-General Solly-Flood, and Father Laverty, a peace activist, Crommie held forth that, in view of the violence existing in Northern Ireland society, “I would say that the setting up of the Special Constabulary was the greatest curse that Belfast ever suffered from.”53 The usc was a government-sponsored body of men meant to protect and defend the interests of Unionist Ulster. As such, the authorities had legislated the image of the Protestant male “protector” into the fabric of the new state. The “B” Specials were charged with “occasional duty ... in an area convenient to the member’s home.”54 As time progressed, they gained infamy among nationalists as Protestant murder-gangs, even as they were lauded as valiant heroes by the unionist community.55 Many men in the Protestant community, who agreed with the more angelic presentation of the usc, immediately felt a sense of ownership regarding the Constabulary’s rank and file. Unionist leaders received numerous letters from Ulstermen offering their services as part of the force. In a letter to Sir Edward Carson in December 1920, B.D. Parkinson-Cumine, a winner of the Military Cross during the Great War, wrote in the hope of receiving a paid position with the usc. He appealed to Carson that he did not expect any reward for his past services to the empire but that he wanted the chance to “prove myself, now and in future, a useful and self supporting member of the community.” Surely, he argued, a paid post could be found for “an Ulster Ex-Officer, so classified, whose military work has received special commendation from eminent officers; for whose character many ... can vouch; against whom nothing derogatory has been alleged in civil or military life, and who through no fault of his, but solely because of his belief in, and sacrifice for, Ulster and the British Empire, is now without means of support, and who is ready and able to work for his living.”56 Parkinson-Cumine embodied many of the qualities

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the authorities hoped would define the Special Constabulary through his war record, his loyalty to Ulster and the empire, his religious beliefs, and his position as an unemployed ex-serviceman. On paper, he seemed to be the ideal for normative Ulster Protestant masculinities. After receiving his letter, Sir Edward Carson recommended Parkinson-Cumine for the position of a platoon commander in the usc.57 The only factor missing from Parkinson-Cumine’s curriculum vitae was membership in the Orange Order, an element that Fred Crawford felt was vital for the future of the usc. In a letter to Colonel Robert Wallace, Grand Master of the Belfast Orange Lodge, Crawford expounded on his belief that “the more Orangemen we have in that force, the better it will be for Protestant interests & the success of the Orange body itself. This seems perfectly patent. We must remember the old adage ‘He who is not with me is against me.’ Orangemen must come out now or be very sorry later.”58 This association between the “B” Specials and the Orange Order was no mere coincidence. In post-war Ulster, the “B” Specials became part of the same loyalist tradition that revered Orangemen and members of the uvf as paragons of manliness protecting Protestant homes and imperial citizenship. The elevation of the “B” Specials into the pantheon of unionist masculine mythology meant that men serving in that force, and in the usc in general, were regarded as embodying specific characteristics vital to the heroic-defender construct of Protestant Northern Ireland. These men were supposedly selfless, patriotic, duty-bound, and practiced agents of law and order, upholding the government’s mandate to protect its citizens against external and internal threats. In effect, they were the latest Protestant masculine organization in the north positioning itself against “the other” – Irish Catholics and nationalists – in order to define the north as a Protestant state for unionists and their supporters in the rest of the empire. The reality of living in a state under siege affected the Specials’ treatment of the Catholic minority. The “B” Specials personified the two-faced nature of sectarian violence. While in the minds of many unionists they were the necessary defenders of Protestant society, to Ulster Catholics and nationalists they were murderous thugs sup-

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ported by a negligent Orange government. One of the most vocal critics of the usc was Joseph MacRory, Bishop of Down and Connor, who drew particular attention to the persecution of northern Catholics. In a 1921 sermon, he reflected upon the “protracted victimisation of thousands of working men” and that the “great nonCatholic community of Belfast ... has been content to look on silently at this continued injustice ... They tell us that they have no quarrel except with a handful of gunmen, but they know in their hearts, and the world knows too, that their quarrel is with the whole nation’s spirit of liberty, which they are doing their best or their worst to stifle and kill.”59 The Catholic-nationalist community did not take kindly to an increased paramilitary presence in their daily lives. To them, the actions and philosophy of the usc involved aggressive masculine characteristics of belligerence, hostility, and the misuse of martial authority. In the case of William Elliott from Clough, Co. Antrim, a “mentally weak” young Catholic man who was shot in the head after running away from a school at night, even the Minister of Home Affairs noted that it was “a sad case. I think the B men might have made an effort to look through the window before they demanded admittance or fired any shots.”60 Here, the usc was a prime example of how the power some men had over others was both reckless and menacing. Frank Crommie, in his committee meeting regarding the possibility of Catholics serving alongside Protestants in the usc, bluntly outlined the obstacles Catholics faced when confronted by the police. “It is very hard,” he said, “to know when a man is coming to murder you, and when he is coming to arrest you. That is the difficulty.”61 This inability to differentiate between a murderer and a policeman underlined the poor reputation Specials had among Catholics, but also demonstrated the extent of police dominance in Northern Ireland, through either the ric until 1920, the ruc after 1921, or the Special Constabulary well into the 1960s. If law enforcement officers, assumed to be biased in favour of Protestant-Unionist ideology, intimidated and persecuted the Catholic minority but were rarely held accountable for those actions, it was a sign that, as an institution, the paramilitary police force was a virtually indomitable network. Men who joined the ranks of the usc were amongst the

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most powerful representations of Protestant manliness in the six counties because of their status as armed civilians, their association with Unionism, their role as perceived protectors in Protestant neighbourhoods, and, likewise, their reputation among the Catholic population as the embodiment of “legalized but lawless barbarity.”62 The persecution of nationalist minorities by the usc primarily involved allegations made against the “B” Specials for various atrocities, murders, and intimidation tactics, all of which demonstrated their aggressive masculinity and domination over the less powerful. Even Winston Churchill regretted the general atmosphere of hostility in the north, writing to Michael Collins that the “state of affairs in Belfast is lamentable. There is an underworld there with deadly feuds of its own.”63 In 1922 and 1923 the “B” Specials were at the centre of a number of complaints and official inquests handled by the Ministry of Home Affairs.64 The belief that the Specials were reckless and unruly because of their presumed martial authority was certainly felt by John G. Clarke from Aghalee, who complained in July 1923 that the “B” patrol near his home was “in a drunk condition and shouting and singing ... the members of the “B” Force here seem to have got out of control as they are doing as they please.”65 A subsequent investigation of these claims revealed that a rifle had been fired during Twelfth of July celebrations near Clarke’s home and disciplinary action was taken. However, a note from the Ministry of Home Affairs attached to the file indicated that Clarke was a correspondent for the Irish News and although he was “a Unionist, is very much opposed to the ‘B’ Force and ruc, owing to having been prosecuted for having no light on his bicycle. He has also fallen out with the Orangemen in the district. His effigy was burned at Aghalee on Empire Day by the Unionists there.”66 Clarke’s complaint was all but dismissed because his version of unionism was not in accordance with that espoused by the dominant Protestant-Unionist societies in the north. He was not in favour of either the “B” Specials or the ruc, two of the policing fraternities that provided a foundation for the rise of Protestant-Unionist men in Northern Ireland society, and his local Orange lodge had turned against him. As such, his grievance was acknowledged by the

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authorities, but was not seen as a pressing matter. This case highlighted the difficulty faced by moderates in Northern Ireland in the early 1920s. The social reality was that every man either had to be on the side of the Protestant hegemonic masculine order or face persecution from the networks of men whose beliefs were becoming the mandated status quo. The presence of the “B” Specials as the institutionalized paramilitary force of the Unionist authorities in Northern Ireland left the Catholic-nationalist community in an ever-increasing position of frustration, detachment, and justifiable paranoia. Catholic estrangement from the Northern Ireland government continued to be a quasi-official policy in the nationalist community as Protestant-Unionist men attempted to assert their dominance in the political arena and, by extension, the public sphere. Men like Bishop MacRory viewed dealings with Craig’s government as nothing short of collaboration with the enemy and sent delegations to meet with Unionist officials rather than conversing with them in person.67 One of the lasting features of this detachment was the belief that the government was, in essence, an Orange institution, a conviction that was no doubt aided by the factual knowledge that no Catholic or Nationalist politician took his or her seat in the Belfast Parliament until 1925. The Irish Catholic newspaper published stories about supposed pogroms led against the minority by violent Orangemen. In an article in September 1922, it reported on a series of shootings, arguing that the circumstances surrounding alleged crimes committed by the usc proved that “the shootings were deliberately and most cunningly planned.” The paper continued that they had it on “the best authority” that violent outbreaks were a “prelude to still another pogrom on the extensive scale of some of those which have been carried out during the past couple of years. It is now the duty of Sir James Craig’s Government to use the ample resources at its disposal to bring the criminals to justice, and also to take effective precautions to safeguard the lives of the Catholic citizens. If it fails in the discharge of this elementary duty, which every Government owes to its subjects, the world which is looking on will be able to draw its own conclusions. So far not a single Orange gunman has been brought to justice although hun-

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dreds of Catholics have been done to death. This is a strange fact of which no satisfactory explanation has up to the present been vouchsafed!”68 The government’s response to The Irish Catholic’s allegations of its collusion in Protestant violence against the Catholicnationalist minority was to order the destruction of all copies of the newspaper seized in Northern Ireland.69 It is intriguing that, in its records of casualties during the Troubles, the Northern Ireland government predominantly provided tallies using religion as an identifier rather than gender. In a letter to Churchill, Sir James Craig listed the total deaths from 1 July 1920 to 8 March 1922 as 123 Catholics and 112 Protestants. “It will thus be seen,” he wrote, “that there is little difference in the number of casualties inflicted on the r.c. and Protestant population, and any difference is more than accounted for by the fact that the Troops and Constabulary Forces had in the main more troubles with the r.c. population of the City.”70 The Ministry of Home Affairs used similar statistical data, listing deaths from March to May 1922 according to religious denomination and status as either a civilian or member of the ruc/Specials.71 A different style was used by Catholic newspapers. In September 1922, The Irish Catholic described the “cruel and barbarous murder of three Catholics – two men and a poor woman” in Belfast alongside a bombing that was “of a very dastardly character.” These incidents, the paper argued, showed “the renewal of barbaric crime” and a “hideous lust for slaughter” on the part of the Protestant gunmen.72 The Irish Catholic used the gendered imagery of a helpless woman and repeated references to the gunmen’s savagery in order to characterize Catholic victimization at the hands of presumed Orange criminals. Similarly, Erskine Childers, the Irish politician and author, used gendered descriptions to depict what he termed as “Orange Imperialism” in an article for Poblacht na hÉireann. He believed that the violence against Catholics in Belfast “has continued at regular intervals and is now chronic. Fiends worse than Auxiliaries have appeared in the sectarian Special police – worse because they are driven by bigotry as well as savagery. The pogrom spares neither age nor sex. Children are bombed and shot and women, old and young,

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are murdered in their homes or in the streets equally with men ... By eviction, expulsion, or murder the Catholic population of Belfast, never more than a quarter of the whole, has diminished ... In all this the Northern Government directs and controls on the spot.” Childers defined “Orange Imperialism” as “predatory militarism tipped with the deadly venom of sectarian bigotry, as though the principle of Might is Right were not deadly enough in itself.”73 In Childers’ article, women were constructed passively as nothing more than the victims of Orange mobs and “B” Special gunmen. Much of the public discourse of the Troubles limited the possibility of female involvement in the ira or complicity in its actions. Rather, women were victims of Orange brutality that only treated them “equally with men” through murder and death. This was a reflection of the masculine ideology prevalent in public sources describing the violence of Northern Ireland in the early 1920s.74 Women were active participants in the struggle between the usc and the ira, as advocates of both unionism and nationalism, but descriptions in newspapers and published journals excluded this agency. Instead, the notion was instilled in the public sphere that violence was a masculine venture, with women only capable of serving as the unfortunate victims in a conflict between men. With violence increasing throughout 1921 and 1922, Sir James Craig and his government decided that an effective way to tackle the hostilities was through the legal system. This would, consequently, secure Protestant-Unionist masculinity as the dominant form of manliness in the north through its intrinsic association with government authority. Sectarian security policies were extremely evident in the Ministry of Home Affairs. A double standard existed where Protestant-Unionists were not punished as severely or as often as Catholic-nationalist offenders.75 This meant that the Ministry of Home Affairs embraced a policy of discrimination that empowered one set of men and their beliefs at the expense of another. Charles Townshend aptly summarized this state of affairs as a time when most Unionists “were prepared to act as if the Northern Ireland Cabinet was a grand Orange Lodge.”76 Sir Richard Dawson Bates, Minister of Home Affairs from 1920 to 1943, certainly espoused Orange principles and made them part

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of his department’s mandate throughout his tenure in office. It was Dawson Bates, perhaps more than any other Cabinet official, who pushed for Protestant-Unionist dominance within both the Belfast Parliament and the province as a whole. More of a Unionist bogeyman for Catholic-nationalists than Sir James Craig could ever be, Bates rivalled some of the most extreme Orangemen in terms of his espousal of discriminatory practices and his belief that all Catholics were enemies of the state.77 His absolute faith in the righteousness of Ulster imperialism guided many of his decisions, and it was in this spirit that he personally oversaw the enactment of the Civil Authorities (Special Powers) Act in 1922, which institutionalized the lasting dominance of Protestant-Unionist manliness in the public sphere. The Civil Authorities (Special Powers) Act was enacted on 22 May 1922. It was meant to last for only one year, but remained on the statute books for a further half-century, allowing Dawson Bates to extend the influence of the Protestant-Unionist paradigm throughout the legal and justice systems of Northern Ireland. A report by the National Council for Civil Liberties in 1936 examined the parameters of the 1922 Act and found that the “right to stop, to interrogate, to arrest without warrant on the barest suspicion of the vaguest offence, to enter upon and to seize private property conferred upon any policeman, coupled with the absence of effective machinery for the protection of private rights or for the redress against arbitrary action by the executive and administrative authorities, cannot but tend to cultivate an attitude of aggressiveness which easily degenerates into abuse and intimidation, or in extreme cases into police terrorism.”78 In the opinion of the National Council for Civil Liberties, the spa cultivated attitudes of aggression and facilitated abuse, intimidation, and terrorism. All of these characteristics corresponded with the worst interpretations of the government’s police forces in the north. By expanding police and judicial powers, the spa operated as a draconian system meant to suppress dissent.79 Immediately following its ratification, the Irish News proposed it was “doubtful if any Government – in the Russia of the Tsars or Napoleonic France or Rome of the Caesars, or Egypt of the Pharoahs – ever made more elaborate arrangements for the

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establishment of a system of rule by armed force than those outlined by Sir James Craig yesterday.”80 In placing Craig in a list of historical tyrants, the Irish News underlined his dictatorial role and his assumed cruelty, but also the power a lone man could wield in a state that blatantly favoured one group of men over all others. While “loyalist” terrorists, such as the Ulster Protestant Association, were disbanded through the spa’s authority, the principle target for this repression was the ira, with the result that Catholic men were often the victims of the legislation’s more brutal measures. Flogging, in particular, was a significant part of the spa that was used to deter, humiliate, and literally scar men imprisoned for arms and explosive offences. Although flogging had been an optional extra penalty under the 1916 Larceny Act, the new legislation used it as a punishment predominantly ordered for male Catholic offenders. Flogging sentences often appeared to be vindictive rather than carrying any practical value as a deterrent. Carolyn Strange has defined corporal punishment as painful but non-lethal violence that was meant to hurt young men who were considered insensible to anything but pain. Using the body in this way as a site for punishment was not morally sound, but it did have the desired dramatic effect.81 By its very definition, corporal punishment administered in the penal system was meant to be public, humiliating, and sensational. These themes were apparent in the letters exchanged between Lionel Curtis and and Geoffrey Whiskard of the Irish Office about the punishment. Curtis believed that flogging sentences had a dramatic effect on the population. He wrote that he could not “conceive how the infliction of these floggings at the present moment could be justified to Parliament, especially if they are followed by a revival of the pogroms in the slums of Belfast.”82 Whiskard replied that flogging had “practically no deterrent effect upon the prisoner himself” and that any mental consequences from the sentence would be short-lived, apart from “perhaps a thirst for revenge against those responsible for it.”83 In this light, floggings were discriminatory acts drawing upon a traditional military punishment, which penalized Catholics for being a threat to the state and underlined Protestant-Unionist power through physical pain.

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Not surprisingly, Michael Collins wrote of his disgust with the situation to his frequent correspondent, Winston Churchill. After decrying the extension of state power in the spa, Collins then added, “Furthermore, the brutal practice of flogging is to be legalised; and I am informed that this degrading work is to be done by ‘Specials’ who will be paid at the rate of 2/6 per flogging. The police who are to carry out these plans are all ‘Specials’ who are, as you know, all violent Orangemen and responsible individually for many crimes.”84 Collins clearly felt that the introduction of flogging as a state punishment was part of the northern government’s association with the Orange Order and yet another example of Protestant authorities attempting to exert their power over Catholic-nationalist men, this time through legalized physical injury. The image of Orangemen paid by the state to beat Catholic prisoners was beyond the pale for Collins and for those who shared his views. However, not everyone was against the idea of flogging. The need to legislate some form of physical punishment for explosive offences was apparent in the debates the Belfast Parliament conducted over the introduction of the spa. Some opinions were pointedly aggressive. R.D. Megaw supported flogging sentences because he felt that the “use of bombs and explosives is one of the most nefarious means that one can think of in the commission of crimes. Under no circumstances that you can think of could a civilian have a bomb for the purpose of defence. It is always intended to do injury to life or property, in the most cowardly, sneakish fashion, and the person who is so degraded as to use a bomb certainly merits no leniency at the hands of justice.”85 In response to Megaw’s support for the bill, Robert Lynn went even further, advocating that “any person found with a bomb should render himself liable to capital punishment.”86 The attitudes of Megaw, Lynn, Collins, Curtis, and Whiskard all saw men’s bodies as areas for public knowledge and instruction. Flogging was a punishment for a sexed body, as it was a sentence reserved for male prisoners only.87 It was a gendered act performed by men against other men, with an understanding that its end result would be didactic in nature for both men and women, either as a sign of the government’s commitment to law and order, or as an

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assertion of subjugation and powerlessness. The repetition of judicial sentences and their accompanying physical punishments created an illusion of obedience to and acceptance of the newly created state and the prevailing Protestant-Unionist order. Flogging was both a literal and metaphoric inscription on the body, which was scarred in order to display the ultimate authority of the Unionist government. The practice of flogging was instituted as a warning against disloyalty, with the displeasure of Protestant-Unionist officials physically imprinted upon the bodies of male Catholic offenders. As such, the sentence worked as both a punishment for the individual and a caveat for the collective community. In his correspondence with Whiskard, Lionel Curtis maintained that such beatings were “only effective as a deterrent if the culprit is released immediately after and his friends have an opportunity of realising what the punishment means.”88 Whenever a flogged man’s back was displayed or pointedly covered up, his trauma was not only a sign of his crime, but a symbol for the dominance of a Protestant-Unionist system of government that did not tolerate violent dissent. Whiskard then effectively summarized the controversies of the debate in his final letter to Curtis, stating that, ultimately, the only use of corporal punishment was “to deter by terror, and that it is chiefly directed not to the criminal himself but to others who might be inclined to commit a similar crime. The important consideration is not whether the individual concerned is such a beast as to deserve to have his back cut in strips, but whether the fact that he has had a flogging, and that a flogging means getting your back cut in strips, will become notorious among persons likely to commit similar crimes.” Whiskard was most concerned that all of the prisoners concerned in the flogging cases were Roman Catholics. “No doubt,” he wrote, “there is much in what Londonderry says, namely that the majority of the disturbers of the peace in Ulster are likely to profess that faith; but no one could suggest that there are not many Protestants who deserve a flogging at least as much as any of these men, and I am sure that not even the Pope himself could ever induce people in the South to believe that the execution of these sentences was not due to religious and political bias.”89

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In the years 1922 to 1923, six men were sentenced to flogging for the possession of firearms, thirteen for possessing explosive substances, and twenty-three for armed robbery, robbery with violence, or “robbery in the company of another.” In total, forty-two men had been sentenced to floggings under the spa by the end of 1923.90 Among this number, several prisoners attempted to appeal their sentences to Sir Richard Dawson Bates and the Ministry of Home Affairs. John Moore, convicted under the Explosive Substances Act, tried to secure a more lenient sentence because of his war record. Service in the Great War might have demonstrated a previous affiliation with British interests; however, in the Ministry’s “Observations” attached to his file, it was noted that his “previous convictions relate to both pre-war and post-war periods” and, consequently, his sentence could not be adjusted.91 Moore’s history of actions against the government in the pre-1914 era meant that any service in the Great War was not equal to the image of sacrificial heroism provided by the 36th (Ulster) Division, and, consequently, he did not deserve leniency. Likewise, the war record of prisoner Patrick Bell, convicted for breaching both the Explosive Substances Act and the Firearms Act, was dismissed as a just reason for the remission of his sentence. Although Bell saw service in Gallipoli and France for nearly four years, the evidence showed that he had “attempted to shoot and murder those who had been his former comrades in arms.”92 Bell’s war record was negated by his attempt after the Armistice to shoot fellow veterans, now serving in the police force. The legacy of the Great War had little if any merit in determining prisoners’ sentences, particularly if it seemed as though the prisoners had contravened the glorious legacy of Ulster’s Protestant warrior masculinities through insincerity or violence against ex-servicemen. On a different note, the flogging of Peter Cosgrove by a “birch” instead of the “cat” in the summer of 1922 was controversial because of Cosgrove’s stated position about the very existence of Northern Ireland. Cosgrove had been found with a revolver and a handkerchief carrying thirty-three rounds of ammunition. “As a soldier of the ira under orders from Headquarters, I don’t recognise this Court,” he was reported to have said during his trial. Cosgrove fur-

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ther pointed out in his petition of appeal that the entire legal process was “most insulting and reprehensible in character as it directly suggests that the Prisoner and others were found guilty by the Jury and sentenced because of their religious persuasion.”93 Both Lord Justice Andrews, the presiding judge in the case, and Dawson Bates believed that Cosgrove was not “a proper object of mercy” and that it would be “most damaging to public confidence in the judiciary if the sentence were remitted.”94 Popular unionist opinion, and the images of manly justice it imagined as part of Northern Ireland justice, apparently demanded Cosgrove’s punishment. Flogging, essentially, was a government-mandated contextualization of violence, with corporal punishment standing as the sentence for arms and explosive offences and, implicit within such convictions, perceived disloyalty to the very idea of Northern Ireland and the men who defended it. With Craig’s government in a heated battle of words with Michael Collins and fighting a guerrilla war against northern divisions of the ira, the introduction of legislation like the spa further complicated notions by which men in society were assigned the roles of victims and villains. In the early years of Northern Ireland’s existence, both Protestant and Catholic communities depicted themselves as the victims of communal aggression. Between 24 March 1922 and 20 May 1922, Catholic civilians and ruc officers accounted for 64 of the declared 105 deaths in Belfast and Derry.95 Estimates of total fatalities in Belfast during the Troubles range from 416 to 498.96 An anonymous letter published in “The Public Forum” of the Irish News stated plainly that Catholic-nationalists needed to take action to safeguard their interests. “As we are,” it said, “we are helpless.”97 During the committee meeting examining Catholic participation in the usc, Frank Crommie summarized the position for northern Catholic men during the Troubles, declaring, “We are Belfast men. We have been brought up in Belfast, we wish to live in Belfast, and we hope to live in Belfast. What business would it be of ours to go to the Country and ask men to come in and join the Police Force to protect the people of Belfast? A Derry businessman would hardly come to Belfast at the present time for fear he would be shot before he would get out of the City.”98 This statement demon-

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strated not only the loyalty Catholic men in Belfast felt toward their city, but also the nature of perceived victimization among Catholic men at this time: namely, that they were the targets of sectarian assault and bias. Only a decade before, northern Catholicnationalists had found pride and communal definition in the fraternalism of Joseph Devlin’s aoh and the Irish National Volunteers. 1922, by comparison, found them expelled from various employments, denied the practice of equal treatment under the law, and permanently suspicious of the Unionist government’s true motivations. If any collective group could claim to suffer from a crisis of masculine identity during the 1920–22 Troubles in Northern Ireland, it was northern Catholic-nationalist men. Conversely, the Ministry of Home Affairs held the ira, and, by extension, northern nationalists, to be an illegal organization and stated that “the man boldly signs his rank in that association.”99 The participation of some men in the ira had damned the entire Catholic community in the eyes of the government.100 The ruc was more concise in their analysis, noting that “the rcs have no one to blame but Sinn Féiners for not receiving adequate police protection.”101 Violence against Belfast Catholics during this period has often been characterized as a “pogrom,” a term obviously alluding to communal attacks on Russian Jews at the beginning of the twentieth century. Hart has pointed out that the Catholic population of 96,000 formed less than one-quarter of the total population of the city of Belfast, but that they absorbed two-thirds of the casualties during the Troubles, enduring eighty percent of the property damage, 8,000 residential evictions, and 6,000 workplace evictions.102 These statistics overwhelmingly point to widespread Catholic victimization, a term that itself carries implications of weakness and even effeminacy given the public sphere’s passive construction of women in a conflict between rival masculinities. However, Hart suggests that victimization is a subjective term. If the deciding factor is “agency” rather than “victimization,” then the Catholic minority of twenty-three percent inflicted forty-four percent of the casualties and a further twenty percent of the residential evictions.103 In this light, one could characterize Catholic men as able protectors and even avengers of their own homes and neigh-

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bourhoods. Such statistics also enabled unionist depictions of Catholic aggression and violence, like that known to Geoffrey Whiskard when he suggested to Lionel Curtis that the majority of criminals in Northern Ireland appeared to be Catholic men.104 Hart’s suggested use of agency as a scale for communal solidarity and action rather than victimization showed that the Catholics of Belfast were more than just prey for Protestant-Unionist machinations. They were a strong section of the overall population in Northern Ireland who fought against perceived oppression and defended their homes and families; however, their political and religious elites, who could possibly have given them a more solid footing in public, did not get involved, for instance, by standing as the Official Opposition in the Belfast Parliament. Without this public authority, Catholics in Northern Ireland were not only victimized by Protestant vigilantes, but also by the detachment from the political process of their own communal leaders and key masculine authority figures.105 The Irish News went so far as to announce that “our people have bitter cause to regret the apathy which has prevailed during the past twelve months – when they could have organized themselves into an irresistible phalanx and averted the thousands of calamities that have befallen” the northern nationalist community.106 In focusing much of their efforts on reunification with the south through the apparatus of the ira, and in purposefully denying the very existence of the northern state, Catholics and nationalists allowed Protestant-Unionist men to consolidate power at their expense. This created a separation of the political and social spheres, with Protestant-Unionists retaining complete control of the government, while the streets and neighbourhoods found themselves on the front lines in violent conflict fought between rival male paramilitaries. This struggle for social control in Belfast literally became a battle fought street by street. Cupar Street was depicted in police reports as “a border line between Protestant and Roman Catholic communities who are of a rough quarrelsome disposition. It would require a constant guard to keep them apart.”107 The debate surrounding presumed victimization highlighted the importance of territory, solidarity, and agency in the construction of male identi-

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ties for both Northern Ireland Protestants and Catholics, who pushed themselves to violent extremes in the name of self-protection. According to an Irish News editorial, the “campaign of extermination against Nationalists is pursued relentlessly – and the Belfast Government are doing nothing to stay it. Self-defence is a God-given right.”108 However much northern Catholics attempted to defend their communities, Protestant-Unionist domination was inescapable, if only because Unionists completely controlled the political process and, by extension, the machinery of the state. The new Royal Ulster Constabulary, replacing the Royal Irish in 1922, was a police unit that often worked in conjunction with the controversial usc and became another government institution imbued with the imagery and ideologies of Protestant-Unionist masculinities. The force began with 1,100 recruits from the old ric, some 400 of whom were Catholic. However, the reputation attached to government bodies by 1922 meant that the number of Catholic recruits soon dwindled. The Ministry of Home Affairs appeared befuddled by this development, noting there was “no reason why Catholic applicants should not be accepted, provided they are found otherwise suitable.”109 One of these “suitable” qualifications was that the men of the police force should demonstrate loyalty to the institutions of the Northern Ireland government and the British Crown, two cornerstones of Unionist ideology. In theory, one-third of the ruc’s ranks were supposed to be Catholic, in proportion with the population, but that requirement was never fulfilled. To join the ruc was to offer loyalty to the Unionist power construct of imperial martial masculinities, an action that was looked upon with great disdain by nationalists. The ira took particular offence at the suggestion that any Catholic would join the ruc, as indicated in a police report in September 1922. A notice was posted to the railings of St Patrick’s Roman Catholic Church just as the congregation was departing after Mass, announcing that “anyone having intercourse with the enemy ‘including the ruc’ would be dealt with by the ira.”110 The hostility some nationalists felt towards Northern Ireland had apparently found a new outlet in intimidating members

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of their own community, a development not unlike the upa’s tactic of extorting money from Protestant families and businesses.111 John M. Regan, the highest ranking Catholic in the ruc and one of the few Catholics to have served in the 36th (Ulster) Division at the Somme, was frustrated by these antagonisms between groups who had much in common, even in their methods of intimidation. “When I think of how the Ulster Division and the 16th Southern Irish Division got on in France,” he recalled, “it seems such a pity that the same spirit could not prevail at home. In the ruc Catholics and Protestants can live in perfect harmony so it does not appear to be an impossibility for people of different persuasion in Northern Ireland to do so. What is more, the question of a man’s religion had no bearing whatever on his prospect of promotion in the Force, Protestant and Catholic meeting there on equal terms.”112 Regan believed that, for those Catholics who joined the ruc, there was a chance for equality with their Protestant colleagues that could then provide an example for the region as a whole. However, the popular representation of the ruc was as yet another institution dominated by Protestant-Unionist ideology and practices, all of which underlined the authority exercised by men belonging to the majority political and religious faction over minority masculinities in Northern Ireland. With the spa still in effect and the “B” Specials remaining a fixture of Protestant culture until the 1960s, the ruc was yet another example of the strength of public incarnations of Protestant-Unionist manliness as it assumed the most powerful positions within the state. Despite Regan’s beliefs in the non-sectarian possibilities of the ruc, his example as a Catholic who ascended through the force’s upper echelons was notable because it was an exceptional achievement, rather than the standard rule. By 1923, the dominance of Protestant-Unionist men over their Catholic-nationalist rivals had been more or less secured.113 The iconographic and linguistic powers of post-war Protestant martial manhood were inescapable throughout northern society.114 Popular representations of northern Protestant masculinities were constructed in an environment of social violence, cultural tension, and conflicting political ideologies. This made interpretations of Protes-

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tant and unionist manliness in Northern Ireland a series of reactive rather than proactive processes that responded to and constructed events after the fact through newspapers, public speeches, and institutional reports, allowing the dominant masculine ideology – that of Protestant-Unionists in positions of public authority – to exist within and operate through the official apparatus of the state. Official and unofficial organizations, ranging from the “B” Specials to the Ulster Protestant Association and the Orange Order, became known to their rivals and enemies as associations of men that often used violence and intimidation to enforce the supremacy of the Protestant majority, even as their proponents lauded them as the true defenders of Northern Ireland and the living embodiment of northern unionist manliness. As of 1922, the Civil Authorities (Special Powers) Act used techniques such as flogging to punish nationalist men for their crimes against the state, while also inscribing the will of the dominant masculine group upon the bodies of insurgents and dissatisfied citizens. Catholic-nationalists grew increasingly estranged from the workings of the government. Their fantastic denial of Northern Ireland’s existence formed the basis for collaborations with Michael Collins and the ira, but also stymied any possibility of creating rival images of northern nationalist manliness outside of their own communities within the wider public sphere, where Protestants and Unionist men dominated the social and political landscape. During this period, both Protestant-Unionists and Catholic-nationalists suffered from an intense siege mentality, each group feeling abandoned, threatened, and forced to use extreme measures in order to ensure their own survival. Afterwards, an entirely new identity crisis began for Catholic-nationalists as the fear of a dreaded Orangeinfluenced government took shape and became a reality for the next half-century.

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Conclusion

The summer of 1935 saw the worst sectarian rioting in Belfast in over a decade. The tension of unemployment during the Great Depression combined with the anger of Orangemen over government attempts to block their annual marching season parades created a volatile scenario. The Grand Master of the Orange Order publicly announced that “no government would prevent Orangemen from marching.”1 When Sir Richard Dawson Bates reversed the parade ban, the Irish News simply said that the “supremacy of the Orange Order is clearly established.”2 On 12 July 1935, some 40,000 Orangemen converged on the city, where a lone gunshot fired at the procession erupted into a series of riots that lasted nearly a week. At midnight on 13 July, the army was called out to aid civil powers for the first time since 1922.3 Evictions, burnings, and street fights continued for the better part of a week, with Catholics barred from resuming work at the shipyards by mobs at the gate. Twelve people were killed and somewhere between 2,000 and 2,500 people were evicted from their homes during the rioting, roughly fifteen percent of whom were Protestant.4 According to A.C. Hepburn, the participants came from a cross-section of Belfast society, including middle-aged persons, parents, and ex-servicemen from the Great War rioting alongside teenagers and young men.5 When the Stormont Parliament resumed in the autumn, Sir James Craig, now Lord Craigavon, was asked by the Nationalist leader T.J. Campbell if an official inquiry into the disturbances would take place with assistance from Great Britain. Craigavon’s

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reply was clear and concise. “The answer is in the negative,” he replied, adding that there was no need “for any special court of inquiry, as the origin and all the circumstances surrounding the recent unfortunate disturbances in the city of Belfast are fully known and cannot be disputed.”6 Lord Craigavon blamed the riots on the “deep-rooted” feelings of nationalism among a “certain section” of the northern population who were “disloyal to the Throne and Constitution of these realms. My colleagues and I are fully satisfied with the tact, forbearance and efficiency of our police force, including the ‘B’ Special Constabulary ... We know that an attack was made on a peaceful procession. We know that a man was captured by one of our very gallant Royal Ulster Constabulary. We know that the miscreant is now undergoing, I think, five years in jail, and what further facts could an inquiry bring out other than those which I have just mentioned?”7 For Craigavon, that was the end of the matter. The Catholic sniper who had fired the first shot was in jail, and blame for the disturbance, Craigavon felt, lay at the feet of “disloyal” Catholics and nationalists. The “B” Specials and the “gallant” ruc remained paragons of resourcefulness and strength in the prime minister’s mind. No mention was made at Stormont of any Protestants involved in the riots as perpetrators, let alone the fact that ex-servicemen had been party to the eviction of women and the burning of their homes.8 The Northern Whig and Belfast Post concurred, proposing that if the troubles continued, “the authorities may have to take even sterner measures to stamp out this pestilent evil, and public opinion will support them.”9 The image of Protestant Ulstermen remained sacrosanct in the public sphere of Northern Ireland, controlled and supported by men of the Unionist Party in positions of supreme power and authority. In his final message to Ulster Unionists before his death later that same year, Lord Carson instructed his followers to “trust your Government and close up your ranks, and then Ulster will be as unconquerable as ever.”10 In the fifteen years since the Government of Ireland Act, not much had changed, nor would it for the next three decades. The relevance of masculine imagery from the era of the Home Rule Crisis, the Great War, and the partition of Ireland did not end

Conclusion

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in 1923 with the apparent demise of the ira in Northern Ireland. The influence of iconic Protestant leaders from the supposed “golden age” of Ulster unionism cast long shadows. In June 1938, for instance, The Ulster Protestant, the newspaper for the Ulster Protestant League, prayed, “O Lord, send us a Carson for we are leaderless.”11 Meanwhile, fraternal networks of power – most notably the Orange Order, whose members were distributed throughout the Northern Ireland government and its ministries – remained in positions of authority and kept a strict Protestant-Unionist agenda in place during the Second World War and after.12 This meant that in the unionist popular imagination, men from Northern Ireland were Protestant in faith, Unionist in politics, anti-Catholic by social custom, and ready to fight any opponent in order to retain their British citizenship.13 It is clear that episodes from 1912 to 1923 shaped what form representations of Protestant unionist Ulstermen took in the public sphere. The Home Rule Crisis blended themes of adventure and defence with bigotry and sectarian rivalries that empowered images of Protestant unionist men for the majority of the northern population who wished to maintain the British connection. The threat of warfare was an extremely significant factor between 1912 and 1914. Unionists began to assert their physical and political dominance at the expense of the Catholic and nationalist position in Ulster, either through gun-running, workplace expulsions, or mass public demonstrations of solidarity, such as the signing of the Solemn League and Covenant. The north of Ireland increasingly appeared to be the Protestant north, omitting the existence of a vocal minority who favoured the nationalist cause. This became a recurrent theme in the conflict between representation and reality regarding Ulster masculinities. By 1914, the Home Rule Crisis disappeared in the shadow of the Great War, but the tensions it had created did not vanish;14 instead they were held in suspension during the war years, much like Home Rule itself. The Great War was arguably the single most important event to shape Ulster Protestant masculinities in the twentieth century, due in no small part to the warrior mythology it created for the unionist community.15 The legacy of the 36th (Ulster) Division at the Battle of the Somme created a new unionist-centric model of martial

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manliness and blood sacrifice that espoused traditional middleclass constructs based on the “gentleman-hero” of the Victorian era, contrary to the rejection of the romantic experienced by much of the rest of British society.16 Ulster Protestant concepts of honour and chivalry drew directly upon medieval antecedents, with the ideas re-organized to suit middle-class morality so that the male body became a template for virility, patriotism, and exploits of bravery.17 The creation of this unionist warrior masculine mythology had serious implications for post-war society and for how Northern Ireland treated its ex-servicemen. This point shows in stark detail the value placed on Protestant unionist images of manliness, as Ulster Catholics and nationalists who fought with the 10th (Irish) or 16th (Irish) Divisions were not afforded the same rewards for their wartime service in terms of public commemoration and iconography. The majority of unionist society apparently underwent a type of selective amnesia when it came to remembering the experiences and sacrifices of those not in the 36th Ulsters. Any nascent examples of fellowship and fraternalism that had existed in the trenches between Protestants and Catholics were forgotten after the Armistice, as domestic hostilities quickly reasserted themselves in power struggles and sectarian division. After the war, unionist imagery from the period of 1919 to 1923 was defined through the prism of political dominance, ideological fortitude, and physical force. Threats of violence and belligerence, like the kind used in the Home Rule Crisis by both Unionist leaders and extreme members of the community, were no longer deemed sufficient demonstrations of Protestant masculine authority in the north of Ireland; tensions speedily escalated into aggressive action.18 The traditional forms of militarization found in the trenches made way for a return of paramilitary action and mob violence, with fighting occurring on an unprecedented scale.19 Masculine archetypal images such as the defender, the veteran, the avenger, and the terrorist became associated with Protestant companies of men such the upa, the “B” Specials, and the unionist workmen at the Belfast shipyards. Violence became endemic in society. In a 1920 report to General H.S. Jewdwine, the Divisional Commander at the Curragh, William Coates, the Lord Mayor of Belfast, wrote that the “loyalist rank and

Conclusion

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file have determined to take action believing that their safety depends on themselves. The loyalist leaders, who have been anxious to act in harmony with the Government, find that their less restrained followers will not listen to them ... It may be advisable for them to see what steps can be taken towards a system of organised reprisals against the rebels, mainly in order to defeat them, but partly to restrain their own followers from acts which are regrettable.”20 This suggestion of organized reprisals was one of a number of ways in which unionist men in positions of social and political authority attempted to impose their vision of Northern Ireland upon the population. The supremacy of dominant unionist masculinities was shaped by civil and social institutions, incorporating political figures, the justice system, fraternal societies, and police units. Not all groups or individuals were violent or promoted violence as a means to an end, but the influence of moderates over popular representations of Protestant manliness was negligible. Instead, the appearance of northern Protestant unionists as men who were armed against any external or internal threat remained the most potent depiction of the Orange North throughout the era of the Stormont government. In the Northern Ireland of the “B” Specials, the Orange Order, and the Unionist Party, it was clear that some men mattered more than others. This did not mean, however, that Protestant-Unionist men were confident in their monopoly of power. Hegemonic masculinities are often prey to rebellions by those kept in subordinate positions of power, requiring the dominant masculinities to embrace policies of authority and force.21 Alvin Jackson argues that the leaders of Northern Ireland saw conspiracy in every shadow and were, in effect, the victims of both republican advances and their own success.22 On 12 July 1922, Sir James Craig announced to Orange crowds, “You men of the city have confidence in yourselves, confidence in your leaders, and, above all, confidence in God, and no combination can ever disturb you from the constitution under which you live or from under that flag that is flying over our heads today.”23 This was the very appearance of self-assurance that, in its way, underscored the fragility of unionist masculinities, particularly once they had secured a tangible victory over the ira and those who wanted to dismantle the Northern Ireland state in the 1920s. The

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Special Powers Act, which had been created as a temporary measure, was quickly deemed indispensable for maintaining peace and, similarly, Unionist power. From the 1920s to the mid-1950s, there was an increase in regulations prohibiting nationalist meetings, assemblies, processions, iconography, flags, newspapers, monuments, and even the singing of republican songs.24 In prohibiting republican culture, the Special Powers Act had also banned representations of nationalist and republican manliness inherent within important symbols, such as the Easter lily commemorating the martyrs of the Easter Rising. This meant there was a lack of northern Catholic masculinities visible in the immediate imagery of the unionist public sphere in Northern Ireland, even after nationalists had taken their seats at Stormont. In terms of popular discourse and public representation after 1923, Ulster’s man was a Unionist man. Throughout the period of 1912 to 1923, Ulster Protestant unionist masculinities were defined by their relationships to militarization, ideological difference, religious rancour, and sectarian violence. The popular images of the time disempowered men who did not fit the normative standard, namely the Protestant and unionist codes of manliness. This construction of masculinities in the public sphere was often a reactive process, with the formation of individual and communal identities dependent upon external events and popular discourse. Insecurities throughout these years about the cultural identity and political future of the north of Ireland created an atmosphere of physical danger and an inescapable siege mentality for those living there. Protestant men attempting to gain dominance through force of arms and the power Unionist politicians held over other men were the most defining characteristics of the period. However, the fundamental inability for any single interpretation of masculinity to secure permanent influence in cultural circles and political dogma helped to ensure that there could be no real peace. The masculine identities which had been created and shaped by the tumultuous events of the Home Rule Crisis, the Great War, and the Troubles strongly influenced public incarnations of Protestant unionist men throughout the long decades of the Stormont era. Lord Craigavon’s cry may have been “Advance Ulster!”25 but to find meaning, Protestant unionist masculinities were always borne back into the past.

Notes

introduction 1 2 3 4 5 6

7

8 9

Lord Ernest Hamilton in Logan, Ulster in the X-Rays, 13–14. Jackson, “Unionist Myths,” 165. Northern Whig, 13 July 1922. Irish News, 22 May 1922. Tosh, Manliness and Masculinities; Ashplant, Fractured Loyalties; Dawson, Soldier Heroes. Previous studies have included references to brotherhood and the importance of fraternalism in this period, such as Fitzpatrick’s “The Logic of Collective Sacrifice: Ireland and the British Army 1914–1918,” The Historical Journal, 38, 4 (1995): 1017–30, or Bowman’s discussion of uvf recruitment in Carson’s Army. Ulster’s Men notes these developments and pursues them further, examining not only why these feelings of brotherhood, based on locality and common social clubs, did or did not exist, but also how the public sphere, including northern newspapers and Unionist political rhetoric, identified these soldiers with a specific sense of patriotic imperial manliness that supported the British connection in Ulster and promoted them as part of the historical legacy of Ulster Protestants. See, for example, Urquhart and Luddy, The Minutes of the Ulster Women’s Unionist Council; Urquhart, The Ladies of Londonderry and Women in Ulster Politics; Ward, Women, Unionism and Loyalism. Connell, Masculinities and The Men and The Boys; Segal, Slow Motion. Tosh, Manliness and Masculinities, 3.

200 10 11 12 13 14

15 16 17

18

19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29

30 31

Notes to pages 6–11

Parkinson, Belfast’s Unholy War, 11. Tosh, A Man’s Place, 2. Mosse, The Image of Man, 76. Connell, The Men and The Boys, 29. proni, d.3835/e/2/10/2, Nugent papers, letter from Sir Oliver Nugent to Lady Nugent, 3 July 1916; iwm, ds/misc/18, War Diary, 14th Royal Irish Rifles (ycv), 1915–1918, 1 July 1916; na, co904/93, Inspector General’s Monthly Confidential Report for May 1914, 235. Moore and Sanders, “Formations of Culture,” 11. Miller, Queen’s Rebels, 119. The lyrics for the republican song “Henry Joy,” memorializing the United Irishman Henry Joy McCracken, begin “An Ulster man I’m proud to be / From Antrim’s glens I come.” See The Davitts, “Henry Joy.” In his 1995 presidential address to Sinn Féin Ard Fheis, Gerry Adams made an appeal to unionists declaring “I too am an Ulsterman.” See Adams, “Presidential Address to Sinn Féin Ard Fheis 1995.” The Times, 30 June 1916, 4 August 1916, 1 March 1965. For more on the legacy of Casement within Irish nationalism, including in-depth analyses of the legitimacy of the “Black Diaries,” see McCormack, Roger Casement in Death. McNeill, “Irish Peace Talk – A Reply,” 179. proni, d.1792/a/3/5/34, The Reverend J.B. Armour papers, letter from Armour to W.S. Armour, 3 December 1914. proni, d.627/438, Montgomery papers, letter from Montgomery to Bishop John E. Gunn, Natchez Mississippi, 1919. For a full biography of Wilson, see Jeffery, Field Marshal Sir Henry Wilson. Belfast News-Letter, 23 June 1922. Ibid. Connell, Masculinities, 77. Brady, Masculinity and Male Homosexuality in Britain, 34. Tosh, Manliness and Masculinities, 44. Ibid., 68. proni, d877/28, Ulster Solemn League and Covenant (unsigned copy), 28 September 1912; na, co904/27/2, Ulster Volunteer Force Pledge, “For the Preservation of the Peace.” Miller, Queen’s Rebels, 118. Bowman, Carson’s Army, 63–4.

Notes to pages 11–17

201

32 Miller, Queen’s Rebels, 118–19; Bowman, Carson’s Army, 67; Hennessey, Dividing Ireland, 5–12. 33 The Times, 30 June 1916. 34 Belfast Evening Telegraph, 24 September 1912. 35 Belfast News-Letter, 19 September 1912. 36 Moore and Sanders, “Formations of Culture,” 9. 37 Miller, Queen’s Rebels, 130; Bowman, Carson’s Army, 62–9. 38 Moore and Sanders, “Formations of Culture,” 10–11. 39 Belfast Evening Telegraph, 24 September 1912; Belfast News-Letter, 10 January 1922. 40 Whitehead and Barrett, “The Sociology of Masculinity,” 15. 41 Connell, Masculinities, 77–9; Bates, “Gramsci and the Theory of Hegemony,” 351–2. 42 “The other” was most often cast as a foil for a particular group or community’s vision of “true masculinity.” See Mosse, The Image of Man, 55. 43 Shaw, Post-Military Society, 11–13. 44 Hart, “Paramilitary Politics and the Irish Revolution,” 23–4; Bowman, Carson’s Army, 3–4. 45 Miller, Queen’s Rebels, 4. 46 Smith, National Identity, 9–14. 47 Anderson, Imagined Communities, 15–16. 48 Johnson, “Sculpting Heroic Histories,” 83. 49 Mosse, The Image of Man, 107–9. 50 Meyer, Men of War, 6. 51 Irish News, 28 August 1915; Belfast News-Letter, 6 July 1916. 52 Meyer, “Ulster’s Red Hand,” 123. 53 Bartlett and Jeffery, “An Irish Military Tradition?” 2. 54 Bourke, An Intimate History of Killing, 117. 55 Bourke, “Effeminacy, Ethnicity and the End of Trauma,” 61. 56 Bourke, An Intimate History of Killing, 125. 57 Roper, “Between Manliness and Masculinity,” 345. 58 Ibid. 59 Reddy, “Against Constructionism,” 330. 60 Alexander, Becoming A Woman, 226–9. 61 MacPherson, “Women, Home and Irish Identity,” 271–304. 62 Laprade, “The Present Status of the Home Rule Question,” 528–30. 63 Foster, Modern Ireland, 3–5, 59–78; Stewart, The Ulster Crisis, 19.

202

Notes to pages 17–25

64 Smith, “Ever Reliable Friends,” 77; Stewart, The Ulster Crisis, 39. 65 proni, d.877/28, Ulster Solemn League and Covenant (unsigned copy), 28 September 1912. 66 Jeffery writes of Ulster unionists’ position on the eve of the First World War as being “hoisted with their own patriotic petard.” See Jeffery, Ireland and the Great War, 15. 67 proni, cab6/110, letter from E. Gilfillan of the ruc to Captain Poynting, Ministry of Home Affairs, 30 October 1923. 68 Bowman, Carson’s Army, 4. 69 Northern Whig, 13 July 1922; Belfast Telegraph, 7 February 1921; Belfast News-Letter, 25 March 1922; Irish News, 25 March 1922. 70 Lord Craigavon, 21 November 1934, HC Debs. NI, vol. 17, col. 73.

chapter one 1 Jackson, “Unionist Myths,” 164–5; The Protestant Telegraph, 30 September 1967, 26 September 1970, 30 January 1971; Trimble, The Foundation of Northern Ireland, 19, 31. 2 Dawson, Making Peace with the Past, 8. 3 Walker, Dancing to History’s Tune, 59. 4 Tosh, Manliness and Masculinities, 71. 5 Shearman, Northern Ireland, 11. 6 na, co904/28/1, “1886–1913 Arms Importation & Distribution,” memorandum, 20 February 1911. 7 Parkinson, Belfast’s Unholy War, 16. 8 Crawford, Guns For Ulster, 10–11. 9 Bowman, Carson’s Army, 18. 10 Johnson, “Sculpting Heroic Histories,” 80–1. 11 Summers, “Militarism in Britain before the Great War,” 108. 12 Tosh, Manliness and Masculinities, 193. 13 Coates, “French Canadians’ Ambivalence to the British Empire,” 194–5. 14 Fitzpatrick, “Militarism in Ireland,” 380; see also Lowry, “‘The Boers were the beginning of the end,’” 203–46. 15 Jackson, “Unionist Myths,” 181–2. 16 na, co904/94, Inspector General’s Monthly Confidential Report for July 1914, 3. 17 Bowman, Carson’s Army, 4.

Notes to pages 26–33 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40

41 42 43 44 45 46

203

Miller, Queen’s Rebels, 109. Balfour, Nationality & Home Rule, 14. Ervine, Craigavon. Ervine, Irishmen of Today, 17. Ignatieff, Blood and Belonging, 165. Ervine, Craigavon, preface. Hamilton, The Soul of Ulster, 109. Ibid., 138. Smith, “Bluff, Bluster and Brinkmanship,” 165. Northern Whig, 27 September 1912. Stewart, The Ulster Crisis, 19. Laprade, “The Present Status of the Home Rule Question,” 544. Stewart, The Ulster Crisis, 39. Belfast Evening Telegraph, 28 September 1912. Belfast News-Letter, 19 September 1912. Smith, The Tories and Ireland, 37. Trimble, The Foundation of Northern Ireland, 1–2, 31; The Protestant Telegraph, 30 September 1967; The Guardian, 1 November 2008. Jackson, “Unionist Myths,” 165, 168. Northern Whig, 28 September 1912. na, wo141/26, “Miscellaneous Papers Regarding ‘Drilling’ by Civilians in Ulster,” circular letter from W.C. Trimble, 3 September 1912. proni, d.1507/a/4/25, Carson papers, letter from Colonel Robert H. Wallace to Sir Edward Carson, 24 December 1913. Belfast News-Letter, 19 September 1912. Ervine, Irishmen of Today, 49. Ervine’s opinion towards Carson had softened by the time he wrote Craigavon in 1949, but only just. He still referred to Carson as a mercurial, emotional man whose success in Ulster was due to Craig’s direct assistance and vision. See Ervine, Craigavon, 183, 191. proni, d.1507/a/4/24, Carson papers, anonymous letter to Sir Edward Carson, 22 December 1913. Stewart, The Ulster Crisis, 81–2. proni, d.1633/2/19, Lilian Spender diary, 10 June 1914. Jackson, “Unionist Myths,” 170. Northern Whig, 3 October 1912. Ervine, Craigavon, 183.

204

Notes to pages 33–9

47 Ibid., 70. 48 proni, d.1415/b/34, Craigavon papers, Crawford, “The Arming of Ulster: Fred Crawford’s Account,” 45. 49 proni, d.1415/b/38/1–162, Craigavon papers, Lady Craigavon diary, 21 March 1912. 50 Belfast Evening Telegraph, 19 September 1912. 51 Northern Whig, 3 October 1912. 52 Poblacht na hEireann, 29 June 1922. 53 Akenson, God’s Peoples, 118. 54 Prenter, “The Religious Difficulty Under Home Rule,” 214. 55 The Times, 7 June 1916. 56 Stewart, The Ulster Crisis, 50. 57 Prenter, “The Religious Difficulty Under Home Rule,” 214. 58 1911 Census Figures for Ireland: Roman Catholic – 3,238,656; Church of Ireland – 575,489; Presbyterian – 439,876; Methodist – 61,806; other Christian Denominations – 57,718; Jewish – 5,101; information refused – 3,305, quoted in Census of Ireland, 1911. 59 Jackson, “Unionist Politics and Protestant Society,” 858. This view of Protestants as Presbyterians underrepresented the Church of Ireland in areas like Monaghan. See county information in Census of Ireland, 1911. 60 Belfast Evening Telegraph, 26 September 1912. 61 Whitla, The Methodists of Ireland & Home Rule, 4. 62 Ibid., 10. 63 Belfast Evening Telegraph, 26 September 1912. 64 Fitzpatrick, “The Geography of Irish Nationalism,” 114. 65 Phoenix, Northern Nationalism, 5. 66 Northern Whig, 27 September 1912. 67 Belfast Evening Telegraph, 19 September 1912. 68 See, for example, Wilson, The Orange Order in Canada. 69 Fitzpatrick, The Two Irelands, 10. 70 proni, d.1477/1, “Dolly’s Brae: Loyal Orange Songs & Recitations.” 71 Akenson, God’s Peoples, 6. 72 Bowman, Carson’s Army, 18–19. 73 na, wo141/26, “Miscellaneous Papers Regarding ‘Drilling’ by Civilians in Ulster,” circular letter from Peter McClosky, 9 April 1912. 74 The Irish Unionist Pocket Book, 64. 75 Belfast Evening Telegraph, 24 September 1912.

Notes to pages 39–47

205

76 Michael Cardinal Logue quoted in Rafferty, Catholicism in Ulster, 190. 77 proni, d.1415/b/34, Craigavon papers, Crawford, “The Arming of Ulster: Fred Crawford’s Account,” 3, 31.

chapter two 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11

12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25

Smith, The Tories and Ireland, 173. Northern Whig, 30 September 1912. Akenson, God’s Peoples, 3–4. Foster, Modern Ireland, 78. proni, d.1415/b/38/1–162, Craigavon papers, Lady Craigavon diary, entry for 28 September 1912. Northern Whig, 28 September 1912. Ibid., 30 September 1912. Belfast News-Letter, 30 September 1912. Capitalization as in original. Akenson, God’s Peoples, 186. proni, d.877/28, Ulster Solemn League and Covenant (unsigned copy), 28 September 1912. proni, d.1415/b/34, Craigavon papers, Crawford, “The Arming of Ulster: Fred Crawford’s Account,” 68–9; Crawford, Guns For Ulster, 60–1; Johnston, Civil War in Ulster, 30; Laprade, “The Present Status of the Home Rule Question,” 542. Akenson, God’s Peoples, 118. Ibid. Belfast Evening Telegraph, 24 September 1912. Northern Whig, 17 September 1912. Wicks, The Truth about Home Rule, 88–9. Jackson, “Unionist Myths,” 171. Irish News, 27 September 1912. na, co904/27/2, Ulster Volunteer Force Pledge, “For the Preservation of the Peace.” Belfast News-Letter, 30 September 1912. Northern Whig, 30 September 1912. Belfast News-Letter, 30 September 1912. Northern Whig, 3 October 1912. Belfast News-Letter, 30 September 1912. Northern Whig, 30 September 1912.

206 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59

Notes to pages 47–56

Ibid. Belfast News-Letter, 30 September 1912. Wicks, The Truth About Home Rule, 92. Jackson, “Unionist Politics and Protestant Society,” 852. Belfast News-Letter, 17 September 1912. Ibid., 30 September 1912. Belfast Evening Telegraph, 28 September 1912. Northern Whig, 30 September 1912. na, co904/27/3, Monthly Confidential Reports for July 1913. Akenson, God’s Peoples, 189. Northern Whig, 28 September 1912. Smith, The Tories and Ireland, 69. Ibid., 172–3. Ibid., 174–5. Grayson, Belfast Boys, 3. Finnan, John Redmond and Irish Unity, 45. Irish News, 27 September 1912. Ibid. Ervine, Irishmen of Today, 77, 59. Northern Whig, 30 September 1912. Ibid. Sir Edward Carson quoted in Wicks, The Truth About Home Rule, ix. na, co904/28/2, anonymous letter to Augustine Birrell, 18 July 1913. na, co903/17, Chief Secretary’s Office, Judicial Division, Intelligence Notes 1912, 9. Laprade, “The Present State of the Home Rule Question,” 541. proni, d.1792/a3/3/21, Armour papers, letter from Armour to W.S. Armour, 3 July 1912. Bowman, Carson’s Army, 18. na, wo141/26, letter to Colonel Seely from George Knight, 12 April 1912. na, co903/17, Chief Secretary’s Office, Judicial Division, Intelligence Notes 1913, 91, 125. How Ulster Helped the Empire, 1. na, co904/27/2, “uvf – For the Preservation of the Peace.” Belfast Evening Telegraph, 4 November 1913. Bowman, Carson’s Army, 135–57; Phoenix, Northern Nationalism, 11. na, co904/93, Co. Donegal Report for May 1914, 224.

Notes to pages 56–65 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75

207

na, wo35/209, “Action to be Taken in Emergencies.” iwm, 79/35/1, David Starrett, “Batman,” 1. na, co904/27/3, Monthly Confidential Reports for July 1913. Bowman, Carson’s Army, 4. Augustine Birrell to Asquith quoted in ibid., 34. na, co904/27/2, “uvf – For the Preservation of the Peace.” na, co903/17, Chief Secretary’s Office, Judicial Division, Intelligence Notes 1912, 92. proni, d.1415/b/34, Craigavon papers, Crawford, “The Arming of Ulster: Fred Crawford’s Account,” 22. na, co904/27/3, Monthly Confidential Reports for July 1913. Bowman, Carson’s Army, 47. proni, d.1415/b/34, Craigavon papers, Crawford, “The Arming of Ulster: Fred Crawford’s Account,” 3. The Voice of Ulster, 8. na, co904/27/3, Monthly Confidential Reports for July 1913. na, co903/17, Chief Secretary’s Office, Judicial Division, Intelligence Notes 1913, 90. na, co904/27/3, Monthly Confidential Reports for July 1913. Ibid.

chapter three 1 na, co904/92, Inspector General’s Monthly Confidential Report for January 1914, 8. 2 Smith, “Bluff, Bluster and Brinkmanship,” 165. 3 na, co904/93, Inspector General’s Monthly Confidential Report for May 1914, 235. 4 na, co904/93, Inspector General’s Monthly Confidential Report for June 1914, 490. 5 Ibid., 492. 6 na, co904/93, Inspector General’s Monthly Confidential Report for May 1914, 232. 7 proni, d.1633/2/19, Lilian Spender diary, 16 April 1914. 8 Ibid., 6 May 1914. 9 na, co904/27/3, Monthly Confidential Reports for July 1913. 10 How Ulster Helped The Empire, 9.

208

Notes to pages 66–72

11 proni, d.1415/b/34, Craigavon papers, Crawford, “The Arming of Ulster: Fred Crawford’s Account,” 68. 12 Ibid. 13 Beckett, The Army and the Curragh Incident 1914, 3–6. 14 Ibid., 385–6. 15 na, wo35/209, Reports of Maj. Gen. Sir Charles Fergusson Commanding 5th Division, “Curragh Incident,” 21 March 1914; Beckett, The Army and the Curragh Incident 1914, 15. 16 Tosh, Manliness and Masculinities, 87. 17 na, wo35/209, Reports of Maj. Gen. Sir Charles Fergusson Commanding 5th Division, “Curragh Account,” 20 March 1914. 18 proni, d.1633/2/19, Lilian Spender diary, 23 July 1914. 19 na, co904/92, Inspector General’s Monthly Confidential Report for March 1914, 415. 20 proni, d.1415/b/34, Craigavon papers, Crawford, “The Arming of Ulster: Fred Crawford’s Account,” 68–9. 21 How Ulster Helped The Empire, 15; proni, d.1633/2/19, Lilian Spender diary, 28 April 1914. 22 See Stewart, The Ulster Crisis, 184–212; McNeill, Ulster’s Stand For Union; Crawford, Guns For Ulster. 23 Crawford, Guns For Ulster, 8. 24 Daily Sketch, 30 September 1912; proni, d.1700/5/17/1/31, Crawford papers, letter from Michael J.F. McCarthy to Crawford, 13 July 1914. 25 proni, d.1415/b/34, Craigavon papers, Crawford, “The Arming of Ulster: Fred Crawford’s Account,” 31. 26 proni, d.1415/b/38/1, Craigavon papers, Lady Craigavon diary, March 1914. 27 proni, d.1415/b/34, Craigavon papers, Crawford, “The Arming of Ulster: Fred Crawford’s Account,” 35. 28 Ibid., 55. 29 Ibid., 121. 30 proni, d.1415/b/38/1–162, Craigavon papers, Lady Craigavon diary, 24 April 1914. 31 Jackson, “Unionist Myths,” 183. 32 proni, d.1415/b/34, Craigavon papers, Crawford, “The Arming of Ulster: Fred Crawford’s Account,” 90. 33 Pearse, Collected Works, 98–9.

Notes to pages 72–9

209

34 Larne Times & Weekly Telegraph, 2 May 1914. 35 na, co904/92, Inspector General’s Monthly Confidential Report for March 1914, 416. 36 na, co904/94, Inspector General’s Monthly Confidential Report for July 1914, 11. 37 Nicolson, King George the Fifth, 121. 38 Ibid., 209. 39 Belfast News-Letter, 19 January 1914. 40 George V to Asquith, 11 August 1913, quoted in Nicolson, King George the Fifth, 223. 41 na, co903/17, Intelligence Notes 1912, 18. 42 na, co904/28/2, letter to Augustine Birrell, 18 July 1913. Punctuation, capitalization, and spelling as in original. 43 Ervine, Irishmen of Today, 62. 44 proni, d.1415/b/34, Craigavon papers, Crawford, “The Arming of Ulster: Fred Crawford’s Account,” 127. 45 Northern Whig, 22 July 1914. 46 George V, Christmas Message 1934 quoted in The King To His People, 297– 8. 47 Belfast News-Letter, 22 July 1914. 48 proni, d.1792/a3/5/20, Armour papers, letter from Armour to W.S. Armour, 30 July 1914. 49 proni, d.1633/2/19, Lilian Spender diary, 30 July 1914. 50 na, co904/94, Inspector General’s Monthly Confidential Report for July 1914, 3. 51 Ibid. 52 Grayson, Belfast Boys, 1–7. 53 na, co904/94, Inspector General’s Monthly Confidential Report for July 1914, 14. 54 Northern Whig, 5 August 1914. 55 na, co904/94, Inspector General’s Monthly Confidential Report for August 1914, 203. 56 Ibid., 204. 57 Ibid., 205–9. 58 Ibid., 211. 59 Leed, No Man’s Land, 39. 60 Belfast News-Letter, 6 August 1914.

210

Notes to pages 79–86

61 Northern Whig, 7 August 1914. 62 proni, d.1966/1, Battalion Orders by Col. W.C. Fitzgerald, 3 August 1914. 63 na, co904/94, Inspector General’s Monthly Confidential Report for August 1914, 221. 64 Irish Independent, 21 September 1914. 65 na, co903/18, Inspector General’s Monthly Confidential Report for September 1914, 2. 66 Ibid., 8.

chapter four 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

Anderson, Imagined Communities, 15–16. Officer, “For God and for Ulster,” 170. Fussell, The Great War and Modern Memory, preface. proni, d.1507/a/18/2, Carson papers, Captain Wilfrid B. Spender, “The Attack of the Ulstermen by a Staff Officer,” 2 July 1916. Keegan, The Face of Battle, 39–40. Ashplant, Fractured Loyalties, 92–3. Girouard, The Return to Camelot, 16. Meyer, Men of War, 1. Segal, Slow Motion, 106. Dawson, Soldier Heroes, 83. Summers, “Militarism in Britain before the Great War,” 117. Dawson, Soldier Heroes, 108–9. proni, d.3835/e/2/10/4, Nugent papers, letter from Sir Oliver Nugent to Lady Nugent, 5 July 1916. Officer, “For God and for Ulster,” 182. Mosse, The Image of Man, 107–9. proni, t.2346/1, Sir Edward Carson addressing the Ulster Division, 1919. Jackson, “Unionist Politics and Protestant Society,” 865. The public sphere, created through newspaper commentaries, political rhetoric, and public dispatches during the war years, predominantly focused on the “gentleman-hero.” This image, characterized through romantic language and a focus on the officer class, left little room for a separate working-class representation of Ulster Protestant masculinities to exist beyond the standard British “Tommy.” The popular notion that the 36th Division was the living emblem of Protestant unionist Ulster on

Notes to pages 87–91

19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46

211

the battlefield, working to secure links to the empire, was portrayed as a hegemonic concept which united different social classes rather than dividing them. See Officer, “For God and for Ulster,” 162; Tosh, Manliness and Masculinities, 94. For a different view of the trenches based on class differentiation, see Ashplant, Fractured Loyalties, 79, 92–3. Meyer, Men of War, 6. Belfast Telegraph, 30 June 1966. Ibid. Leed, No Man’s Land, 195. Meyer, Men of War, 165. Fussell, The Great War and Modern Memory, 8. Ibid., 29. Leed, No Man’s Land, 4. iwm, 79/35/1, David Starrett, “Batman,” 67. Smith, “Paul Fussell’s The Great War and Modern Memory: Twenty-Five Years Later,” 260. Winter and Prost, The Great War in History, 182–3; see also Winter, Sites of Memory, Sites of Mourning. iwm, ds/misc/18, War Diary, 14th Royal Irish Rifles (ycv), 1915–1918, 3 July 1916; Belfast News-Letter, 7 July 1916. Meyer, Men of War, 2. proni, d.627/438, Montgomery papers, letter from Hugh de F. Montgomery to Bishop John E. Gunn, Natchez, Mississippi, 1919. W.S. Churchill, HC Debs., vol. 150, col. 1270, 16 February 1922. Meyer, Men of War, 165. Northern Whig, 13 July 1922. Switzer, Unionists and Great War Commemoration, 153. Belfast News-Letter, 7 July 1916. Fitzpatrick, “Militarism in Ireland,” 383. Bowman, Carson’s Army, 5. Ibid., 26. Leed, No Man’s Land, 39–42. iwm, 79/35/1, David Starrett, “Batman,” 1. Bowman, Carson’s Army, 163. Crozier, A Brass Hat in No Man’s Land, 36. Bowman, Carson’s Army, 166. Ibid., 173.

212

Notes to pages 91–7

47 For a detailed account of the formation of the 36th (Ulster) Division and the actual participation of the uvf within it, see Bowman, Carson’s Army, especially 164–8 and 171–6. 48 Falls, The History of the 36th (Ulster) Division, 1. 49 iwm, 77/39/1, J.L. Stewart-Moore, “Random Recollections,” 1. 50 Ibid., 2–3. 51 iwm, 79/35/1, David Starrett, “Batman,” 5. 52 Belfast News-Letter, 8 July 1916. 53 Bowman, Irish Regiments in the Great War, 29. 54 Officer, “For God and for Ulster,” 181–2. 55 iwm, 77/39/1, J.L. Stewart-Moore, “Random Recollections,” 2–3. 56 Ibid., 11–12. 57 Officer, “For God and for Ulster,” 170. 58 Falls, The History of the 36th (Ulster) Division, 185. 59 Regan, The Memoirs of John M. Regan, 99. 60 proni, d.1700/5/17/1/127, Notes from Diary kept by Major Crawford, 23– 25 February 1916. For analyses of James Crozier’s court martial and execution, see Bowman, Irish Regiments in the Great War, 116–17 and Grayson, Belfast Boys, 68–9. 61 iwm, 79/35/1, David Starrett, “Batman,” preface. 62 Bowman, Carson’s Army, 59. Details regarding Crozier’s time in Canada are difficult to find, although the date of his dismissal from the 2nd Manchester Regiment in 1908 could fit with his possible involvement in raising the 22nd Mounted Rifles the same year. The Rifles were amalgamated in 1936 with the 16th Canadian Light Horse to form the 16th/22nd Saskatchewan Horse. 63 iwm, 77/39/1, J.L. Stewart-Moore, “Random Recollections,” 26. 64 Crozier, A Brass Hat in No Man’s Land, 42–3. 65 Bourke, An Intimate History of Killing, 118–25. 66 Officer, “For God and for Ulster,” 170. 67 Orr, The Road to the Somme, 161. 68 The Incinerator, June 1916, 19. 69 Bowman, Irish Regiments in the Great War, 131. 70 Fussell, The Great War and Modern Memory, 299. 71 Crozier, A Brass Hat in No Man’s Land, 92–3. 72 Ibid., 50. 73 Fussell, The Great War and Modern Memory, 303. 74 Fitzpatrick, “The Logic of Collective Sacrifice,” 1025.

Notes to pages 97–104

213

75 Keegan, The Face of Battle, 223. 76 Orr, The Road to the Somme, 164–5. 77 proni, d.1507/a/18/2, Carson papers, Captain Wilfrid B. Spender, “The Attack of the Ulstermen by a Staff Officer,” 2 July 1916. 78 Lt Col A. Ricardo quoted in Falls, The History of the 36th (Ulster) Division, 52. 79 iwm, 77/39/1, J.L. Stewart-Moore, “Random Recollections,” 36. 80 proni, d.3835/e/2/10/1, Nugent papers, letter from Sir Oliver Nugent to Lady Nugent, 2 July 1916. 81 proni, d.3835/e/2/10/2, Nugent papers, letter from Sir Oliver Nugent to Lady Nugent, 3 July 1916. 82 proni, d.3835/e/2/10/4, Nugent papers, letter from Sir Oliver Nugent to Lady Nugent, 5 July 1916. 83 Keegan, The Face of Battle, 255. 84 Officer, “For God and for Ulster,” 160; proni, d.3835/e/2/10/2, Nugent papers, letter from Sir Oliver Nugent to Lady Nugent, 3 July 1916. 85 iwm, ds/misc/18, War Diary, 14th Royal Irish Rifles (ycv), 1915–18, 1 July 1916. 86 iwm, 85/4/1, W.S. Nicol, letter to his mother, 5 July 1916. 87 Belfast News-Letter, 6 July 1916. 88 Northern Whig, 7 July 1916. 89 Ibid. 90 Belfast News-Letter, 5 July 1916. 91 iwm, 89/7/1, W.J. Lynas, letter to his wife, 15 July 1916. 92 Belfast News-Letter, 8 July 1916. 93 Ibid. 94 Ibid. 95 Gibbs, The Battles of the Somme, 63. 96 Northern Whig, 10 July 1916. 97 Ibid. 98 Belfast Telegraph, 14 June 1921. 99 Belfast Weekly News, 17 November 1921. 100 iwm, 77/39/1, J.L. Stewart-Moore, “Random Recollections,” 35. 101 MacIver, The Web of Government, 4. 102 iwm, ds/misc/18, War Diary, 14th Royal Irish Rifles (ycv), 1915–18, 3 July 1916. 103 Ibid. 104 Ibid.

214

Notes to pages 104–16

105 106 107 108 109

Belfast News-Letter, 7 July 1916. Northern Whig, 8 July 1916. Belfast News-Letter, 8 July 1916. Northern Whig, 8 July 1916. iwm, 97/16/1, W.J. Grant papers, newspaper article, “King and the Ulsters – His Majesty’s Reply to Irish Congratulations.” 110 iwm, 79/35/1, David Starrett, “Batman,” 67. 111 iwm, pp/mcr/24, R.L. Greenway, memoirs. Capitalization as in original. 112 Bet-El, “Men and Soldiers,” 89.

chapter five 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19

20

Keegan, The Face of Battle, 223. iwm, pp/mcr/47, First World War Memoirs of William W. Johnson. Benton, “Women Disarmed,” 162. Dungan, Irish Voices from the Great War, 83. Cooper, The Tenth (Irish) Division, 138. Irish Independent, 21 September 1914. Irish News, 5 August 1914. Redmond, Mr Redmond’s Visit to the Front, 37. Fitzpatrick, “The Logic of Collective Sacrifice,” 1030. Ibid. Denman, Ireland’s Unknown Soldiers, 36. proni, d.1507/a/8/4, Carson papers, letter from Carson to Miss Ruby Frewen, 3 September 1914. Bowman, Irish Regiments in the Great War, 79. Crozier, A Brass Hat in No Man’s Land, 45. Bowman, Irish Regiments in the Great War, 78. Irish News, 6 August 1914. Johnson, “Sculpting Heroic Histories,” 83. Godley, Life of an Irish Soldier, 215. Willie Redmond gained his Majority on 15 July 1916, although he insisted on returning to the front lines with “A” Company, 6th Battalion, Royal Irish Regiment at Messines and obtained special permission to do so. For more on the life and wartime experiences of Redmond, see Denman, A Lonely Grave. Gough, The Fifth Army, 130.

Notes to pages 116–22 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33

34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47

215

Denman, Ireland’s Unknown Soldiers, 101. iwm, 80/25/1, Lieutenant Colonel W.A. Lyon, memoir, 11, 14. Ibid., 63–4. Tosh, Manliness and Masculinities, 200. Pašeta, “Thomas Kettle: ‘An Irish soldier in the army of Europe’?” 16. Thomas Kettle quoted in Feilding, War Letters to a Wife, 81. Kettle, The Open Secret of Ireland, xiii. Bartlett and Jeffery, “An Irish military tradition?” 7. Stephen Gwynn quoted in Lenox-Conyngham, An Old Ulster House, preface. Ibid, 224. Ibid., 224–5. Father Francis Browne quoted in Moynihan, God On Our Side, 174. O’Rahilly, Father William Doyle. The table of contents in O’Rahilly’s biography is particularly telling of the author’s religious bias and agenda, with such chapter headings as “Inner Life” and “Mortification and Suffering.” Ibid., 307. iwm, 79/35/1, David Starrett, “Batman,” 133. Ibid., 98. Ibid., 113. Crozier, A Brass Hat in No Man’s Land, 92–3. iwm, 96/29/1, J. McIlwain diary, 33. John Redmond quoted in MacDonough, The Irish at the Front, 11; O’Rahilly, Father William Doyle, 307. iwm, pp/mcr/75, R.F.E. Evans, memoir. iwm, pp/mcr/75, letter from R.F.E. Evans to his mother, 12 July 1917. Reitz, Trekking On, 182. Bowman, Irish Regiments in the Great War, 154. iwm, P262, A.R. Brennan diary, 7–8. Godley, Life of an Irish Soldier, 215. The men were playing soccer as opposed to Gaelic football. The political ramifications of the Irish Republican Brotherhood’s control over the Gaelic Athletic Association since 1887 meant that, from the moment they enlisted, Irishmen in British uniforms would have cut themselves off from an important cultural institution for both the Gaelic Renaissance and nationalist masculinities. See Cormier and Couton, “Civil Society,

216

48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66

67 68 69 70 71 72

73

Notes to pages 122–30

Mobilization and Communal Violence,” 499; Hart, “The Social Structure of the Irish Republican Army,” 229. Feilding, Letters to a Wife, 106–7. Denman, Ireland’s Unknown Soldiers, 150. Fitzpatrick, The Two Irelands, 54. Cooper, The Tenth (Irish) Division, 138; Redmond, Mr Redmond’s Visit to the Front, 37. Falls, The History of the 36th (Ulster) Division, 101. Denman, A Lonely Grave, 119. Feilding, Letters to a Wife, 116. Father Edmund Kelly quoted in Johnstone, Orange, Green and Khaki, 278. Falls, The History of the 36th (Ulster) Division, 185; Bowman, Irish Regiments in the Great War, 140–1. Denman, Ireland’s Unknown Soldiers, 123. The Daily Mail, 22 August 1917. Glasgow Weekly News, 1 September 1917. proni, d2794/1/1/30, Captain William Montgomery, letter to his parents, August 1917. Emphasis as in original. Ibid. Emphasis as in original. Ibid. Emphasis and capitalization as in original. Bourke, An Intimate History of Killing, 13. iwm, 88/46/1, Lieutenant A.G. May, “Personal Experiences of the War Years, 1915–1917,” 24. MacDonough, The Irish on the Somme, 57. Bourke, An Intimate History of Killing, 118–19. Bourke also describes how this was not a turn-of-the-century attitude, but one which continued to exist throughout the twentieth century. Ibid., 125. MacDonough, The Irish on the Somme, 57–61. Feilding, Letters to a Wife, 118. Belfast Evening Telegraph, 9 April 1918. Vance, Death So Noble, 259–60; Levi, “The Institution of Conscription,” 147–54. Despite nationalist unity against conscription on the home front, Sinn Féin appeared to have little influence among Irish soldiers serving in the field. See Bowman, Irish Regiments in the Great War, 160, 170. Irish News, 7 April 1918.

Notes to pages 130–8

217

74 Hennessey, Dividing Ireland, 226–8. 75 Belfast Evening Telegraph, 9 April 1918. 76 proni, d.1507/a/26/2, Carson papers, typescript of Ricardo’s undelivered speech, 9 January 1918. 77 proni, d.1507/a/26/8, Carson papers, letter from Carson to T.E. Hickman, 19 January 1918. 78 Boose, “Techno-Muscularity,” 89–90. 79 Bowman, Irish Regiments in the Great War, 78–9. 80 Grayson, Belfast Boys, 148.

chapter six 1 For a comparison of post-war violence in Ulster and Upper Silesia, see Wilson, Frontiers of Violence. 2 Hennessey, Dividing Ireland, 125–58. 3 Connell, Masculinities, 37. 4 Roper and Tosh, Manful Assertions, 1, 18. 5 Fitzpatrick, “Militarism in Ireland,” 397. 6 Johnson, Ireland, the Great War and the Geography of Remembrance, 60. 7 Bourke, “Introduction: ‘Remembering’ War,” 474. 8 Irish Independent, 11 August 1919. 9 Irish News, 9 August 1919. 10 Ibid. 11 Ibid. 12 Bourke, “Effeminacy, Ethnicity and the End of Trauma,” 69; Denman, Ireland’s Unknown Soldiers, 174. 13 Officer, “For God and for Ulster,” 171. 14 Belfast News-Letter, 14 July 1919. 15 Irish News, 11 August 1919. 16 Irish Independent, 11 August 1919. 17 Belfast News-Letter, 5 July 1920. 18 Ibid. 19 Irish News, 13 July 1920. 20 Officer, “For God and for Ulster,” 181–2; Grayson, Belfast Boys, 174–7. 21 Belfast Telegraph, 29 June 1923. 22 Connell, The Men and The Boys, 10. 23 Logan, Ulster in the X-Rays, 45.

218 24 25 26 27

28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36

37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52

Notes to pages 138–44

Belfast News-Letter, 12 July 1919. Ibid., 14 July 1919. Bowman, Carson’s Army, 190. Akenson, God’s Peoples, 186; proni, d.624/435/14a, “Why I Voted for the Six Counties. What was my Object in Signing the Covenant?” F.H. Crawford, April 1920. Hart, The IRA at War, 241. Fitzpatrick, The Two Irelands, 239. Connell, Masculinities, 37. Roper and Tosh, Manful Assertions, 14. Bowman, Irish Regiments in the Great War, 65. Belfast News-Letter, 13 July 1920. Northern Whig, 13 July 1922. Bowman, Carson’s Army, 34. na, co904/112, Inspector General’s Monthly report for July 1920. Co. Londonderry Figures re: Membership in Political Organizations for July 1920: uil – 1,715; aoh – 2,860; National Volunteers – 4,056; Sinn Féin – 1,634; uvf – 5,329; Orange Order – 7,163. Belfast Figures re: Membership in Political Organizations for July 1920: uil – 6,053; aoh – 8,000; National Volunteers – 1,300; Sinn Féin – 980; uvf – 10,000; Orange Order – 15,000. na, co904/112, Inspector Gregory’s Report for June 1920. Horowitz, The Deadly Ethnic Riot, 1. Ibid., 1–2, 21. Irish Times, 23 August 1920. Connell, The Men and The Boys, 217. Ibid., 217–18. Belfast News-Letter, 13 July 1920. Ibid. Fitzpatrick, The Two Irelands, 97. Munck, “Class and Religion in Belfast,” 246–7. na, co904/112, Inspector General’s Monthly Report for July 1920, Belfast. Parkinson, Belfast’s Unholy War, 33. Morgan, Labour and Partition, 265. Ibid. Irish News, 23 July 1920. Connell, Masculinities, 36; Tosh also argues how manliness had the ability

Notes to pages 144–9

53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77

219

in some scenarios to appear to transcend social divisions, as it provided a language for damning or praising one’s peers across class boundaries. See Tosh, Manliness and Masculinities, 94–7. Fitzpatrick, The Two Irelands, 96. Munck, “Class and Religion in Belfast,” 248. Irish News, 26 July 1920. Logan, Ulster in the X-Rays, 45. Ibid. Connell, The Men and The Boys, 107. proni, cab6/23, Loyalist Flyer against the Boycott from the Merchants of Castlederg. Miller, Attitudes to Work in Northern Ireland, 15–16. Irish News, 31 July 1920. Ibid, 29 July 1920. Ibid. proni, d.640/11/2, F.H. Crawford papers, Diary about riots and disturbances in Belfast, 21 July 1920. MacVeagh, Home Rule: Rome Rule, 8; Wicks, The Truth About Home Rule, 88–9; The Voice of Ulster, 3. Belfast News-Letter, 14 July 1919; Irish Independent, 11 August 1919; Northern Whig, 13 July 1922. na, co904/112, Inspector General’s Monthly Report for July 1920. proni, cab6/23, Note on the Boycott of Trade in Northern Ireland by the Ministry of Commerce, 4 October 1921. Connell, The Men and The Boys, 104–5. proni, cab6/23, Pamphlet Against the Boycott by the Ulster Trades Defence Association. Emphasis in original. proni, cab6/23, Housewives of Belfast Pamphlet. Emphasis in original. proni, cab6/23, Loyalist Flyer against the Boycott from the Merchants of Castlederg. Ibid. Hart, The IRA at War, 80; McDermott, Northern Divisions, 36. na, co904/112, Inspector General’s Monthly Report for July 1920, Armagh. For a full analysis of the uvf’s revival in 1920, see Bowman, Carson’s Army, 190–204. proni, cab5/1, letter from Wilfrid Spender to Major General Sir E.G.T. Bainbridge, 30 August 1920.

220

Notes to pages 149–55

78 proni, cab5/1, letter from Wilfrid Spender to Sir James Craig, 9 September 1920. 79 O’Day, “The Ulster Crisis: A Conundrum,” 1. 80 Rafferty, Catholicism in Ulster, 190. 81 Irish News, 13 July 1922. 82 Belfast News-Letter, 10 January 1922 ; Miller, Queen’s Rebels, 118. 83 Connell, The Men and The Boys, 48. 84 For example, Sir James Craig, while unfurling a Union flag at the Belfast shipyards months after the expulsions, remarked, “Do I approve of the action you boys have taken in the past? I say yes.” See Rafferty, Catholicism in Ulster, 211. 85 Belfast Evening Telegraph, 9 April 1918. 86 Northern Whig, 22 October 1920. 87 The Times, 25 November 1918. 88 proni, pm15/5, letter from Sir James Craig to the Duchess of Abercorn, 27 March 1922. Emphasis in original. 89 Bowman, Irish Regiments in the Great War, 64–5. 90 Logan, Ulster in the X-Rays, 39–40. 91 Belfast Telegraph, 21 January 1921. 92 Logan, Ulster in the X-Rays, 41. 93 Ibid., 55. Emphasis in original. 94 Partition provoked numerous reactions outside Ireland. One of the most interesting was a letter from Field Marshal Jan Smuts, Prime Minister of South Africa, to Eamon De Valera. Smuts urged De Valera to “leave Ulster alone” for the present and to accept partition as a temporary measure until the success of the Free State compelled Ulster to reunify the country. See proni, d.1916/8, letter from General J.C. Smuts to Mr E. De Valera, 4 August 1921. 95 proni, cab5/4, letter from Sir James Craig to Max Aitken, Lord Beaverbrook, 23 May 1921. 96 McDermott, Northern Divisions, 24. 97 proni, ha5/1006, The Freeman’s Journal, 8 July 1922. Emphasis in original. 98 Roper and Tosh, Manful Assertions, 14. 99 na, co 739/14, Irish Free State Original Correspondence, letter from Michael Collins to Winston Churchill re: Belfast Atrocities, 11 March 1922; proni, ha/5/1411, Case of James McGinty, letter from Bishop

Notes to pages 155–62

100 101

102 103 104 105 106 107 108

221

MacRory to Michael Collins, 1 February 1922; proni, ha/32/1/28, Allegations by Michael Collins of pogrom against Roman Catholics in Belfast, telegram from Collins to Churchill, 6 March 1922; proni, cab6/47, Alleged attack by Crown Forces on the Mater Hospital, telegram from Michael Collins to Winston Churchill, 6 June 1922. Donohue, “Regulating Northern Ireland,” 1098. Craigavon had been donated by James Craig as a neurasthenic hospital in 1917 under the auspices of the Ulster Volunteer Force Hospital Board of Management. See Bourke, “Effeminacy, Ethnicity and the End of Trauma,” 66. proni, cab6/9, letter from Wilfrid Spender to Lionel Curtis, 24 March 1922. Bourke, “Effeminacy, Ethnicity and the End of Trauma,” 61. Meyer, Men of War, 2. Dawson, Making Peace with the Past, 15. proni, cab6/9, letter from Wilfrid Spender to Lionel Curtis, 24 March 1922. Belfast News-Letter, 13 July 1920. Donohue, “Regulating Northern Ireland,” 1090.

chapter seven 1 Buckland, The Factory of Grievances; Follis, A State Under Siege; Hart, The IRA at War; Parkinson, Belfast’s Unholy War; Ryder, The Fateful Split; Wilson, Frontiers of Violence. 2 Smith, The Tories and Ireland, 37. 3 proni, cab/5/4, letter to Max Aitken, Lord Beaverbrook from Sir James Craig, 19 May 1921. 4 Belfast Telegraph, 27 January 1921. 5 Connell, Masculinities, 70. 6 Belfast Telegraph, 27 January 1921. 7 Jackson, “Unionist Myths,” 171. 8 proni, d.1415/b/34, Craigavon papers, Crawford, “The Arming of Ulster: Fred Crawford’s Account,” 2. 9 proni, cab/5/4, letter from Miss Edith F. Gamble to Sir James Craig, 15 March 1921. 10 Ibid.

222

Notes to pages 162–71

11 proni, cab/5/4, letter from Sir James Craig to Miss Edith F. Gamble, 18 March 1921. 12 proni, cab/5/4, letter from Mrs M. Kier to Sir James Craig, 21 February 1921. Emphasis in original. 13 proni, cab/5/4, letter from Mr Charles Elcoate to Sir James Craig, 26 March 1921. 14 Lord Craigavon, HC Debs. NI, vol. 16, col. 1091, 24 April 1934. 15 The Irish Catholic, 23 September 1922. 16 Urquhart and Luddy, The Minutes of the Ulster Women’s Unionist Council, 123. 17 Dehra Chichester, HC Debs. NI, vol. 1, col. 356, 1 December 1921. 18 Dehra Chichester, HC Debs. NI, vol. 2, col. 270, 28 March 1922. 19 Civil Authorities (Special Powers) Act (Northern Ireland), 1922, 12 & 13 Geo. V, s. 5. 20 Dehra Chichester, HC Debs. NI, vol. 3, col. 2061, 15 November 1923. 21 Ryan, “Drunken Tans,” 75. 22 Dehra Chichester, HC Debs. NI, vol. 3, col. 2061, 15 November 1921. 23 proni, cab/4/12/1, letter from Sir James Craig to Eamon De Valera, 4 August 1921. 24 Logan, Ulster in the X-Rays, 45. 25 proni, pm/15/5, letter from Charles Craig to Sir James Craig, 17 February 1922. 26 Ibid. 27 Northern Whig, 13 July 1922. 28 Ibid. 29 Ibid. 30 Irish News, 13 July 1920. 31 Sir James Craig, HC Debs. NI, vol. 2, col. 228, 28 March 1922. 32 Irish News, 13 July 1922. 33 proni, t2258/1, report on the Ulster Protestant Association by R.R. Spears, 7 February 1923. 34 Ibid. 35 Ibid. 36 Butler, Gender Trouble, 140. 37 proni, d.640/3/3, Crawford papers, letter from Crawford to Lt.-Col. Wickham, 21 January 1922. 38 proni, d.640/15/2, Crawford papers, Crawford’s “Tigers,” Oath of Allegiance.

Notes to pages 172–8

223

39 proni, d.640/15/1, Crawford papers, Crawford’s “Tigers,” Form of Meetings. 40 proni, d.640/11/2, Crawford papers, F.H. Crawford, “Riots and Disturbances in Belfast,” 15 November 1921. 41 Northern Whig, 14 November 1921. 42 Logan, Ulster in the X-Rays, 45. 43 Kennedy, The Widening Gulf, 32. 44 proni, pm15/5, letter from C.H. Blackmore to Mr John H. Cowles, Grand Commander of the Supreme Council of Ancient and Accepted Scottish Rite of Freemasonry, Washington dc, 29 March 1922. 45 Mosse, The Image of Man, 12. 46 Farrell, Arming the Protestants, 12. 47 d.640/11/2, Crawford papers, F.H. Crawford, “Riots and Disturbances in Belfast,” 26 August 1920. 48 proni, cab/4/40, Cabinet Meeting 19 April 1922, “Preliminary Report on the Steps Necessary for the Preservation of Law and Order Within the Six Counties and the City of Belfast.” 49 proni, cab/9/g/48/1, Organization of the “B” Special Constabulary 1923– 55, Certificate of Employment. 50 Ibid. 51 Northern Whig, 3 July 1922. 52 Ibid., 13 July 1922. 53 proni, ha/5/948, transcript, Meeting of the Committee re: Catholics and the Special Constabulary, 31 May 1922. 54 Northern Whig, 23 October 1920. 55 Follis, A State Under Siege, 111. 56 proni, cab/5/2, letter from B.D. Parkinson-Cumine to Sir Edward Carson, 20 December 1920. 57 Ibid. 58 Fred Crawford quoted in Ryder, The Fateful Split, 16. 59 Belfast Telegraph, 7 February 1921. 60 proni, ha/5/204, Inquest into the death of William Elliott, 24 April 1922. 61 proni, ha/5/948, transcript, Meeting of the Committee re: Catholics and the Special Constabulary, 31 May 1922. 62 Belfast Telegraph, 7 February 1921. 63 na, co739/14, Government of Northern Ireland, Vol. 14, letter from Winston Churchill to Michael Collins, 14 March 1922.

224

Notes to pages 178–83

64 Several files from this period were listed as missing at proni at the time of publication. They included allegations of unauthorized raids by the “B” Specials in Co. Tyrone (ha/5/280), the persecution of Roman Catholics in the Castlederg area, Co. Tyrone (ha/5/306), sacrilege committed in Derrygonnel Roman Catholic church, Co. Fermanagh (ha/5/404), disciplinary action brought against the Specials in Co. Down (Ha/5/449), and pogrom accusations from Mr T.G. Bailie, Belfast (ha/32/1/291). 65 proni, ha/5/398, “B” Specials complaint, 16 July 1923. 66 Ibid., 27 July 1923. 67 Harris, The Catholic Church, 257–9. 68 The Irish Catholic, 23 September 1922. 69 proni, ha/5/260, letter from A.P. Magill, Assistant Secretary of Home Affairs, to E. Phillipps Esq., Belfast Gazette Office, 21 September 1922. 70 na, co739/14, Government of Ireland, Vol. 14, letter from Sir James Craig to Winston Churchill, 11 March 1922. 71 proni, ha/5/170, Returns in Belfast and Six Counties from 24 March 1922 to 20 May 1922. 72 The Irish Catholic, 23 September 1922. 73 Poblacht na hEireann, 29 June 1922. 74 Ryan, “Drunken Tans,” 74. 75 Parkinson, Belfast’s Unholy War, 280. 76 Townshend, Political Violence in Ireland, 384. 77 Ryder, The Fateful Split, 33–4. 78 The National Council for Civil Liberties, Report of a Commission of Inquiry, 28. 79 The fear of being arrested under the sweeping powers of the spa caused many men to leave the six counties. Some later attempted to return, providing they agreed to be bound over in case of future infractions. See proni ha5/1347, Application of Walter McGaughey, Lifford, Co. Donegal to return to Northern Ireland, Crime Special Report from the ruc to the Ministry of Home Affairs, 9 April 1924. 80 Irish News, 24 May 1922. 81 Strange, “The ‘Shock’ of Torture,” 145–7. 82 na, co739/1, letter from Lionel Curtis to Geoffrey Whiskard, 9 September 1922. 83 na, co739/1, letter from Geoffrey Whiskard to Lionel Curtis, 15 September 1922.

Notes to pages 184–90

225

84 na, co739/14, letter from Michael Collins to Winston Churchill, 21 March 1922. 85 R.D. Megaw, HC Debs. NI, vol. 2, col. 90, 21 March 1922. 86 Robert Lynn, HC Debs. NI, vol. 2, col. 92, 21 March 1922. 87 Civil Authorities (Special Powers) Act (Northern Ireland), 1922, 12 & 13 Geo. V, c. 5. 88 na, co739/1, letter from Lionel Curtis to Geoffrey Whiskard, 14 September 1922. 89 na, co739/1, letter from Geoffrey Whiskard to Lionel Curtis, 15 September 1922. 90 Edwards, “Corporal Punishment in Northern Ireland,” 818. 91 na, co739/1, Case of John Moore. 92 na, co739/1, Case of Patrick Bell. 93 na, co739/1, Case of Peter Cosgrove. 94 Ibid. 95 proni, ha/5/170, Returns in Belfast and Six Counties from 24 March 1922 to 20 May 1922. 96 Parkinson, Belfast’s Unholy War, 12. 97 Irish News, 19 May 1922. 98 proni, ha/5/948, transcript, Meeting of the Committee re: Catholics and the Special Constabulary, 31 May 1922. 99 proni, ha/5/304, Ministry of Home Affairs Minute Sheet, 1 February 1923. 100 Evans, “The Personality of Ulster,” 13. 101 proni, ha/5/242, ruc Detective Department, 14 June 1922. 102 Hart, The IRA at War, 243. 103 Ibid., 250. 104 na, co739/1, letter from Geoffrey Whiskard to Lionel Curtis, 15 September 1922. 105 Harris, The Catholic Church, 256–7. 106 Irish News, 24 May 1922. 107 proni, ha/5/242, ruc Detective Department, 14 June 1922. 108 Irish News, 22 May 1922. 109 proni, ha/5/948, Ministry of Home Affairs Minute Sheet, h1290, 13 February 1923. 110 proni, ha/5/1032, report to District Inspector, ruc, Belfast “E” District, 24 September 1922.

226

Notes to pages 191–8

111 proni, t2258/1, report on the Ulster Protestant Association by R.R. Spears, 7 February 1923. 112 Regan, The Memoirs of John M. Regan, 191. 113 proni, cab6/110, letter from E. Gilfillan of the ruc to Captain Poynting, Ministry of Home Affairs, 30 October 1923. 114 Benton, “Women Disarmed,” 153.

conclusion 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25

Belfast Telegraph, 24 June 1935. Irish News, 27 June 1935. Hepburn, “The Belfast Riots of 1935,” 80. Munck, “Class and Religion in Belfast,” 252; Hepburn, “The Belfast Riots of 1935,” 84. Hepburn, “The Belfast Riots of 1935,” 89. Lord Craigavon, HC Debs. NI, vol. 17, cols. 2460–1, 8 October 1935. Ibid. Belfast Telegraph, 14 September 1935. Northern Whig and Belfast Post, 15 July 1935. Ibid., 13 July 1935. Walker, “‘Protestantism before Party!’” 965. Donohue, “Regulating Northern Ireland,” 1108. Northern Whig and Belfast Post, 13 July 1935. proni, d.1966/1, Battalion Orders by Col. W.C. Fitzgerald, 3 August 1914. Jeffery, Ireland and the Great War, 2. Fussell, The Great War and Modern Memory, 8; Meyer, Men of War, 165. Mosse, The Image of Man, 22–3. Wilson, Frontiers of Violence, 87–8. Parkinson, Belfast’s Unholy War, 313. proni, cab5/1, memorandum from William Coates, Lord Mayor of Belfast, to General H.S. Jewdwine, 22 July 1920. Tosh, Manliness and Masculinities, 44. Jackson, Home Rule, 266. Irish News, 13 July 1922. Donohue, “Regulating Northern Ireland,” 1093. Northern Whig and Belfast Post, 13 July 1935.

Recto Running Head

227

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Recto Running Head

241

Index

7th Royal Irish Rifles, the, 121

210n18; commemoration of, 83–7,

8th Royal Irish Rifles, the, 94

92, 108, 131, 135–8; and construction

9th Battalion, Royal Inniskilling

of masculinities, 86–7, 91, 94, 100–3;

Fusiliers, the, 97

and fraternalism, 110–12, 191, 196;

9th Royal Irish Rifles, the, 92, 94

heroic reputation of, 84–5, 95, 98–

10th (Irish) Division, the, 91, 111, 131,

107, 168–9; in comparison to other

135, 196

units, 105, 107, 114, 122, 130; legacy

12th Royal Irish Rifles, the, 92

of, 97–9, 107–8, 135, 151, 195–6;

14th Royal Irish Rifles, the, ix, 60, 90, 99;

material culture of, 114, 132; at

see also Young Citizens’ Volunteers 16th (Irish) Division, the, 131–2; casual-

Messines Ridge, 110, 120–1, 124–5; at Passchendaele, 110, 120, 125; post-

ties of, 116, 125; discrimination

war veneration of, 133–5, 145, 156,

against, 113–14, 120–3, 131–6, 196;

161, 186; Protestant character of, 86,

and loyalty, 116, 132; at Messines

94, 101, 120, 126; recruitment of, 90–

Ridge, 110, 120–1, 124–5; motiva-

3; at the Somme, 18, 87–8, 97, 109,

tions of, 116; at Passchendaele, 110,

116; symbolism of, 83–6, 88, 90,

120, 125; recruiting of, 111–14; and

210n18; training of, 92–4

religion, 112, 115, 120; at the Somme, 107th Infantry Brigade, Royal Irish 109–10; 116–17; and 36th (Ulster) Division, 109–10, 113, 116, 120–6,

Rifles, the, 100 1911 Census, 35

135–6, 191 36th (Ulster) Division, the, 6–10, 13, 19, 60, 90–4; animosity toward 16th

Act of Union (1800), the, 22, 25, 28, 166 aggression, 49, 54, 56, 95; post-war era,

(Irish) Division, 120–3, 132; casual-

141, 148, 158, 177, 196; and spa, 182;

ties of, 98–100, 116; and class unity,

and victimization, 187–90

242

Index

Aghalee, 178

Ballynahinch, Battle of, 22

Aitken, Max, Lord Beaverbrook, 154,

Bangor, 71, 75

160 allegiance, 11, 26, 46, 73; Britain’s to Ulster, 102; and upa, 170–1 ammunition, 58, 61, 69, 71, 80 Ancient Order of Hibernians (aoh),

Barclay, William, 146 Bates, Sir Richard Dawson, 165, 177, 181–2, 186–7; in 1935, 193; as an Orangeman, 182 bathing, 96–7

the, 7, 34, 36–8, 53–4, 72; post-war

bayonets, 69

participation, 140, 188

Belfast, 4, 18–19, 23–4, 34–6, 59; and the

Andrews, Justice James, 187

‘Belfast man,’ 153–4; and Home Rule

Anglo-Irish War, the, 132–4, 138, 141

Bill, 80–1; and Home Rule Crisis vio-

Antrim (Co.), xvi, 60, 78, 174, 177

lence, 53, 57, 59, 61, 79; and Orange

Apprentice Boys of Derry, the, 9, 97, 161

lodges, 24, 30, 140; and post-war vio-

archetypes, 20–1, 28; militant, 146, 157,

lence, 141–9, 155, 177–81, 183, 187–

196; wartime, 86–7, 133

90; and the Somme, 100, 102; and

Ark of the Covenant, the, 34, 37

the 36th (Ulster) Division, 113–14,

Armagh (Co.), xvi, 78, 80, 148

126; and Ulster Day, 43, 47, 50; and

Armistice, the, 89, 94, 102, 106, 119;

Unionists in Northern Ireland, 162;

aftermath of, 135, 150–2, 186; com-

and war commemorations, 135–7;

memorations of, 132; and renewed

and ycv, 90

violence, 121, 196 Armour, the Reverend J.B., 8, 27, 35, 54, 77

Belfast Boycott, the, 147–8, 158; as gendered event, 148 Belfast City Hall, xv, 43, 46–7, 168

Ashplant, T.G., 4

Belfast Evening Telegraph, 28, 33, 130–1

Asquith, H.H., 55–6, 65, 74–5

Belfast News-Letter, 9, 19, 136; and Buck-

Astor, Nancy, Viscountess, 164

ingham Palace Conference, 77; and

Aughrim, 37–8

Carson, 28–32; and the Great War, 14, 79, 90; and the Somme, 92, 99,

B Specials, the, 9, 17, 19; allegations against, 178–9, 224n64; and Orange

105; and Ulster Day, 44, 46–8 Belfast Parliament, the, xv–xvi, 17, 152,

Order, 176; as part of usc, 174; repu-

167, 174, 197; debates over flogging,

tation of, 175, 191; and unionist

184–5; lack of Catholic participation,

mythology, 175–6, 192, 194, 196; vio-

179, 189; as masculine enterprise,

lence of, 175, 177, 181

163–6; and Orange element, 169–70,

Bainbridge, Sir E.G.T., 149

173, 177–81, 192, 195

Balfour, Arthur, 26

Belfast Riots of 1935, the, 193–4

Ballymacarrett, 170

Belfast Telegraph, 19, 87–8, 102, 161–2

Index Belfast Weekly News, 102

243

British Empire, the, 9, 11, 24, 26, 32, 40;

Bell, Patrick, 186

and escapism, 24; and the Great War,

Benton, Sarah, 110

78, 81, 86, 102, 137; and Home Rule

bellicosity, 15, 27–8, 31, 51, 153; and

Crisis, 52, 55, 73–4; loyalty in North-

Great War, 95, 102, 126–33; and usc,

ern Ireland, 165, 176; and Protestant

174

siege mentality, 151, 176–7; and the

bigotry, 37–8, 120, 195; during the Troubles, 134, 143, 175, 180–1; refutation of, 154

Somme, 84, 95–6, 99–101, 106–7; and Ulster Covenant, 44–5; and unionist post-war propaganda, 153

Birrell, Augustine, 57, 74

British government see Westminster

Black and Tans, the, 94

British Solemn League and Covenant,

Blake, John, 24 blood-debt, 83, 85, 99, 102, 104–5; nationalist version of, 117; in official military histories, 153

the, 50 Brookeborough, Lord, 18 brotherhood, 14, 29–30, 36, 76, 199n6; definition of, 110–11; and

blood lust, 95, 127–8, 180

Orangeism, 170; secret, 171–2; and

blood sacrifice, 15, 27–8, 72, 81, 98–105,

Ulster Covenant, 47, 50; and war,

196

109–11, 123–4, 127, 131–2

Bonar Law, Andrew, 64

brothers-in-arms, 58, 83, 128, 133

Bolshevism, 172–3

Buckingham Palace Conference, the,

Boose, Linda E., 131

75–7

Bourke, Joanna, x, 15, 128, 135, 216n66 Bowman, Timothy, 13, 56, 114 Boy Scouts, the, 90 Boyne, Battle of the, 22, 73; and Home

camaraderie, 110–11, 118, 123–4; characteristics of, 122; in the press, 114– 15

Rule, 37–8, 42; invoked during the

Campbell, T.J., 193

Troubles, 145, 169; and the Great

Canada, 24, 37, 39, 130, 212n62

War, 85–7, 93, 108

capital punishment, 184

Boys’ Brigade, the, 90

Carson, Sir Edward, later Lord Carson

Brennan, A.R., ix, 121–2

of Duncairn, 11, 17, 26, 45, 52; and

British Army, the, 5, 7, 38, 66–7, 193;

the Somme, 104, 106; and Crawford,

and Haldane Reforms, 90; and the

66, 69–70; and Craig, 29, 33–4, 33n40,

Great War, 104, 132

160–3; as “King Carson,” 29–33, 162;

British connection, 23, 28, 32, 195, 199n6; post-war, 146, 151 British Constitution, the, 11, 45, 168, 194, 197

as masculine ideal, 28–33, 43, 77, 160; and militarization, 30, 56, 60, 64, 131; and paranoia, 142, 157–8; after partition, 155, 160, 175–6; and post-war

244

Index

militancy, 139, 142, 194; and propa-

class, upper, 77, 86

ganda, 28–9, 31, 74; and Sinn Fein,

class, working, 36, 54, 92, 144, 172–3,

142; and 36th (Ulster) Division

210–11n18; and poverty, 147

recruitment, 114; and Twelfth of July,

Coates, William, 196–7

136, 142; and Ulster Day, 43, 49, 51–3;

Collins, Michael, 155, 178, 184, 187, 192

and Unionist leadership, 17, 28–32,

Comrades of the Great War, the, 136

75–8, 144, 160–2, 195

Connaught Rangers, the, 117, 120

Carson’s Army, 57, 60, 85, 139

Connell, R.W., 5, 7, 138, 141, 151

Casement, Sir Roger, 8, 11

conscription, 59, 130; and construction

Castledawson Incident, the, 53–5, 61, 146 Castlederg, 148

of masculinities, 113, 131, 133 Conscription Crisis of 1918, the, 89, 111, 123, 130–2, 138

Catholicism see Roman Catholicism

Conservative Party, the, 66

Cavan (Co.), xvi, 79

constitutional nationalism, 23

Chamberlain, Neville, ric Chief

Cooper, Bryan, 111

Inspector, 57, 63–4, 78, 80 Chichester (later Parker), Dame Dehra, 163–6

corporal punishment see flogging Cosgrove, Peter, 186–7 courage, 92, 101, 104, 126

Childers, Erskine, 34, 180–1

Covenant Day see Ulster Day

chivalry, 5, 29, 31–2, 71, 90; versus real-

Craig, Cecil, later Lady Craigavon, 33,

ity, 87–8, 108; in wartime, 84–5, 101, 196 Churchill, Winston, 89, 178, 180, 184

43, 69, 71 Craig, Charles, 167, 169 Craig, Sir James, later Lord Craigavon,

Church of Ireland, the, 25

19, 24, 26, 33–4, 75; and Belfast Riots

citizenship, 15, 36, 40–2, 45, 195

of 1935, 193–4; and Carson, 29–30,

Civil Authorities (Special Powers) Act

33, 68, 160–3, 203n40; and Collins,

(spa), the, 17, 164–5, 171, 191–2,

155; and De Valera, 166; and fan let-

224n79; and flogging sentences, 165,

ters, 162–3; and leadership, 152, 154,

183–7, 192; implementation of, 182–

160–3, 197–8; as normative mascu-

3, 198; support for, 164

line standard, 34, 155, 160–3; and the

Clandeboye, 84, 91

Orange Order, 161, 163, 167–9; as

Clarke, John G., 178–9

Prime Minister of Northern Ireland,

class, 10, 29, 50, 60–1, 161; and class

153, 163, 168, 179; and unionist mas-

consciousness, 143, 173; and officers, 85, 109, 192, 210–11n18

culinities, 30, 71, 77, 89, 150, 160–2, 197–8

class, middle, 77, 83, 86, 152; and con-

Craig, Robert, 170

struction of masculinities, 133, 149,

Craig, William, 53

172, 196, 210–11n18

Craigavon Hospital, 156–7, 221n101

Index Crawford, Frederick, ix, 18, 23, 39, 59; and Carson, 69–70; and construction

245 Ulster Covenant, 50–1; and militarization, 72, 188

of masculinities, 68–70; and Curragh

Dillon, John, 24

Incident, 66; and the Great War, 94;

dishonour, 84, 112, 136

and gun-running, 33, 58, 68–72; post-

Dissenters, the, 25

war period, 171–2; and religion, 70;

domestic sphere, 18

and Wilhelm II, 75, 79

dominant masculinities see hegemonic

Crawford’s Tigers, 171–2

masculinities

Crommie, Frank, 175

Donaghadee, 71

Cromwell, Oliver, 22, 74

Donegal (Co.), xvi, 56, 79, 224n79

Crozier, F.P., 8, 91, 94--7, 119--20

Down (Co.), xvi, 58, 140, 164, 224n64

Crozier, James, 94, 212n60

Doyle, Father William, sj, 118–20, 125–6

Crozier, the Most Reverend John Bap-

drilling, 23, 38, 46–7; and the Great War,

tist, Archbishop of Armagh, Primate

90, 92; and the uvf, 55, 59, 61, 64–5

of All Ireland, 101

Dublin, 25, 28, 31–2, 36, 73–5; and the

cultural belonging, 26

Easter Rising, 96; fears of a Home

Curragh Incident, the, 63, 65–8, 115; commemoration of, 66–7 Curtis, Lionel, 156–7, 183–5, 189 cynicism, 87–9, 170

Rule parliament, 139, 154 Dungan, Myles, 111 duty, 80, 85, 100, 105, 127; to the British Empire, 124; and Irish enlistment, 112; in Northern Ireland, 165, 176

D’Arcy, the Right Reverend Charles Frederick, Bishop of Down, Connor, and Dromore, later Archbishop of Armagh, 36, 49, 52 Daily Mail, The, 118 Dardanelles, the, 83

Easter Rising, the, 113, 123, 130; and post-war hostilities, 133, 138, 198; and the Somme, 89, 95–6 Edwardian Era (1901-10), the, 6, 15, 24, 60; and the Great War, 84, 92, 107

Dawson, Graham, 4, 85

effeminacy, 15, 130–1, 156, 188

degeneracy, 24

Elcoate, Charles, 163

Denman, Terence, 123

Elliott, William, 177

desertion, 94, 102–3

Enniskillen, 28, 30

De Valera, Eamon, 166, 220n94

Erin, female symbol of Ireland, 114–15

devolution, 6, 16

Ervine, St. John, 26–7, 31, 33, 51, 203n40

Derry, xvi, 37–8, 64, 79–80; post-war,

estrangement: and the siege mentality,

136, 187 Derry Riots of 1920, the, 141–2

43; from the state, 155–8, 163, 179, 189–92

Derry, Siege of, 42, 70, 97

Evans, R.F.E., 120–1

Devlin, Joseph, 23, 31, 36–7, 65; and the

ex-servicemen, 55, 196; commemora-

246

Index

tions of, 135–8; employment of, 143,

fraternal societies, 4, 9–10, 21, 37; and

146, 175–6, 186; loyalist affiliations

enlistment, 113–14; in post-war soci-

of, 143, 145–6, 186; physical prowess

ety, 154, 161, 167–79, 197; statistics of,

of, 137; and post-war violence, 133–4,

140, 218n36

143–7, 172, 193–4; victimization of,

Freemasonry, 171–2, 223n44

136, 143, 156–7

Fussell, Paul, 88–9, 97

Ex-Servicemen’s Association, the, 172; see also Ulster Imperial Guard

gallantry, 80, 84, 86, 89, 127; as romantic device, 137, 165, 194; and the

Falls, Cyril, 91, 153

Somme, 100–1

fantasy, 16–17, 30; see also masculinities

Gallipoli, 14, 97, 111, 115, 186

Feilding, Rowland, 122, 124, 129–30

Gamble, Edith, 162

fellowship, 4, 7, 38, 59, 71; and the Trou-

gender, 7, 10, 47–8, 88, 139; as perform-

bles, 159; and war, 94, 110–14, 118,

ance, 146–7, 184; in the political

122–4, 132

sphere, 163–6; and stylization of

Fenians, the, 5, 155 Fergusson, Sir Charles, 67 Fermanagh (Co.), xvi, 20, 30, 60, 89, 224n64 Fitzpatrick, David, 123, 199n6 Flanders, 20, 81, 83, 86, 102, 129 flogging, 165, 170–1, 183–7; as a dis-

the body, 170, 184–5; and violence, 180 General Strike of 1919, the, 143–4 gentleman-hero, the, 29, 83, 85–6, 90, 127, 210–11n18; post-war role, 133, 149–50, 196 George V, King of Great Britain, 51, 67,

criminatory practice, 183, 185, 192; as

73–7, 79; and Buckingham Palace

a gendered act, 170–1

Conference, 75–7; as father-figure, 73,

football (British), 122, 215n47

75, 107, 131; Home Rule sympathies

football (Gaelic), 215n47

of, 73–5, 80–1; and masculine author-

France, 81–3, 86, 102, 129, 186, 191

ity, 73–4, 76; and 36th (Ulster) Divi-

fraternalism, 4, 6, 22, 199n6; and con-

sion, 106–7, 136

struction of masculinities, 109–10,

Germany, 58, 70, 75, 79, 112, 115

127, 132, 156; definition of, 110–11;

Gladstone, W.E., 16, 23, 34, 37

and reconciliation, 117, 119, 122–4; as

Glasgow Weekly News, 125–6

solution to Home Rule Crisis, 110–13, Glorious Revolution of 1688, the, 23 115; and Third Home Rule Crisis, 36–

Gibbs, Philip, 101

9, 61, 69–73, 188; and 36th (Ulster)

Ginchy, 116–17, 137

Division, 92, 94, 97, 105; and the Trou-

Godley, Sir Alexander, 115, 122

bles, 159, 169; and violence, 52, 54; as

Gordon, John F., 151

wartime illusion, 111, 113, 132

Gough, Hubert, 8, 67, 115–16

Index Government of Ireland Act (1920), the, 154, 166, 173, 194

247 159–61, 163, 170–3, 179; exclusion of Catholics from, 158, 189; post-war

Gramsci, Antonio, 10

dominance of, 134, 139, 151–2, 157,

Great War, the, (1914–18), ix, xv, 5, 13–

197–8; and ruc, 191; and success in

15, 18, 20–2, 29, 39; commemoration of, 127, 135–9, 151–2, 196; and con-

Northern Ireland, 191–2; unionist characteristics for, 152, 198

struction of masculinities, 83, 86,

hegemony, 12, 139

107–8, 126, 132, 198; and disillusion-

Henry II, 21

ment, 88–9, 130, 135–6, 144, 175; as

Hepburn, A.C., 193

gendered event, 86, 88, 109, 114–15,

heroes: and imagery of, 28, 72–3, 89,

131; interpretations of, 88–9; and

122; and Irish nationalism in the

irony, 87–8; legacy of, 83, 88, 123–4,

Great War, 115, 121–2; post-war

131–2, 147–52, 195–6; and opportu-

incarnations of, 137, 165; and the

nities for fellowship, 112, 115; out-

Troubles, 156, 165–6; and uvf, 68,

break of, 25, 31, 60, 78–82, 111–12;

72–3, 81; and wartime construction

post-war manipulation of, 144, 147–

of masculinities, 84, 86, 88, 98, 100–1,

8, 156–7, 168; and Protestant Union-

107, 126

ist identity, 63, 72, 81, 107–8, 130–1,

heterosexuality, 96–7

145; reconciliation through, 120–4,

Hobson, Bulmer, 27

129–30; and religion, 120; and spa,

Holness, John, 145

186

Home Rule, 11, 16–17, 23, 25, 30, 35–7,

Greenway, R.L., 107

56; and the Curragh Incident, 67;

Grierson, the Very Reverend C.T.P.,

diminished by the Great War, 78–82,

Dean of St Anne’s Cathedral, 102

108, 116, 138; and northern commu-

guerrilla warfare, 24, 133, 187

nities, 63, 73, 80–1, 136; and parti-

Guillemont, 116–17, 137

tion, 154, 166; resolution in the Great

gun-running, 57–8, 78, 114, 195

War, 96, 102, 105, 112, 117; and the

Gwynn, Stephen, 116, 118, 122, 129

Ulster Covenant, 41–2, 46, 49–50; and unionist defiance, 41, 48, 55, 59,

Hamilton, Lord Ernest W., 3–4, 27, 152 Harland and Wolff, 146 Hart, Peter, 13, 188–9

61, 86, 103; see also Rome Rule, Third Home Rule Crisis Home Rule Bill, 17, 27, 38–9, 48, 69, 74;

Havelock, Sir Henry, 85

and First Home Rule Bill, 23, 34–5,

hegemonic masculinities, 10, 19, 22, 25,

51; and Second Home Rule Bill,

197; Catholic recognition of, 155, 185; and class collusion, 173; and dominance in Northern Ireland,

23–5 Home Rule Crisis see Third Home Rule Crisis

248

Index

homoeroticism, 96–7

Ireland, Republic of, 6, 17, 27

homosociality, 2–3, 9, 36, 46, 54; in

Irish Catholic, The, 19, 179–80

Northern Ireland, 161, 171; and war,

Irish Famine, the, 145

89, 109, 132, 156

Irish Free State, the, 17, 138, 220n94

honour, 29, 31–2, 36, 72; and paramilitaries, 172; and post-war society, 147–

Irish Independent, 19, 135–6 Irish National Volunteers (inv), the, xv,

8, 153, 156, 158, 196; and the war

56, 72–3, 140, 188; in the Great War,

dead, 90

112–14, 121

Horowitz, Donald L., 141 Hulloch, 116

Irish Nationalist Veterans’ Association, the, 136 Irish News, 14, 19; and Catholic apathy,

iconography, 43, 93, 137–8, 191, 196

187, 189; and the Great War, 111–12,

identity: British, 17, 26; feminine, 180;

130; and Orangeism, 169, 193; and

Irish, 15, 26, 31, 80, 114–15; mascu-

the spa, 182–3; and the Troubles,

line, 7, 19, 50, 81, 89–90, 144, 198;

143–4, 150, 178, 190; and the Ulster

martial, 93, 124–5, 127, 131–2, 160,

Covenant, 51

198; national, 14, 86, 115; and Northern Ireland, 160, 198; regional, 14, 87, 108; religious, 119–20, 180, 190–1;

Irish Parliamentary Party, the, 23–4, 37, 72 Irish Republican Army (ira), the, 9, 14,

post-partition, 154–5, 192; post-war,

17, 138, 154; and northern campaign,

133–4, 155; and violence, 127–32,

155, 188, 190–1, 195, 197; support for,

144, 180, 198

157, 181, 189, 192; target of the spa,

identity, Protestant Ulster: and the

183, 186–7

Home Rule Crisis, 8–9, 26, 34, 39;

Irish Transvaal Brigades, the, 24

and the Great War, 89–90, 93, 108;

Irish Volunteers, the, xv, 112

and post-war period, 138, 150, 156–7,

Israel (ancient), 34, 37, 46

172, 182, 198 imperialism, 8, 27, 39, 100, 150–2; and

Jackson, Alvin, 197

construction of masculinities, 73, 85,

James II, 73–4

131, 151; and imperial citizenship, 9,

Jewdwine, H.S., 196

36, 46, 52; and loyalty, 66–9, 131, 156

Johnson, William W., 109–10

Incinerator, The, 95–6 intimidation, 53–5, 140, 155; and eco-

Kelly, Father Edmund, 124–5

nomics, 148; of ex-servicemen, 156–7;

Kettle, Thomas, 117, 123, 136

by ira, 190–1; and spa, 182; by upa,

Kier, Mrs M., 162–3

170, 192; by usc, 177, 192

Kitchener, Herbert Horatio, Lord, 114

intolerance, 133, 143

Kitchener’s New Army, 6, 80, 90

Index Knight, George, 55

249 and unionist community during Home Rule Crisis, 10–12, 22, 33, 43–

language: of defence, 142, 148, 150;

5, 55, 70, 79; and unionist commu-

gendered, 47–9, 106, 130–1, 148, 157;

nity in Northern Ireland, 162, 165–6;

militaristic, 78, 103–4, 126–7, 130,

and unionist community during the

191; provocative, 157–8; romanti-

Troubles, 138, 143, 145–6, 150–1; and

cized, 70, 88–90, 92, 102, 122, 210–

usc, 175–6

11n18; and the Somme, 98–108; and

Lynas, William John, 100

Unionist post-war propaganda, 152,

Lynch, Arthur, 24

157, 191

Lynn, Robert, 184

Larne, 71, 81

Lyon, W.A., 116–17

Larne gun-running, 58, 63, 68–73, 171 Laurier, Sir Wilfrid, 24

MacDonough, Michael, 128–9

leadership, 4, 28–32, 39; 162–3

MacRory, the Most Reverend Joseph,

Leed, Eric J., 88

Bishop of Connor and Down, later

Lenox-Conyngham, Jack, 117–18

Joseph Cardinal MacRory, Arch-

Liberal Party, the, 34, 42, 51, 56; as “the

bishop of Armagh and Primate of All

other,” 62–3 Lloyd-George, David, 142, 151 Logan, James, 3, 144–5, 153–4, 164, 172; and Orange Order, 167 Logue, Michael Cardinal, Archbishop of Armagh and Primate of All Ireland, 39 Londonderry (Co.), xvi, 60, 64, 136,

Ireland, 177, 179 manliness see masculinities, masculinity theory Markievicz, Countess Constance, 164 martyrdom, 9, 71, 99, 198; and unionist wartime imagery, 86, 132, 137 Mary, Queen, 74 masculinities: and adventure, 116–17,

140–1; and Dehra Chichester Parker,

195; and agency, 4, 6, 48, 142, 148,

163

169; and agency post-war, 188–90;

Long, Walter, 28

British, 66–8; changing standards of,

Longford (Co.), 9

150, 152, 156–8; and Curragh Inci-

Loos, 116

dent, 66; and defenderism, 46, 58,

loyalty, 13–14, 21, 25, 46; to Belfast, 187–

131, 134, 141–2, 146; fragility of, 197–

8; and conscription, 130–1; defini-

8; and the Great War, 103, 107–8, 111,

tion of, 10, 26; differences in war,

119–24, 129–32; hierarchies of, 151,

110–11, 114–15, 132; and the Great

169; ideals of, 3, 6, 12, 15, 56, 71–2;

War, 81, 86, 93, 100–2, 105, 108; and

and imagery in Home Rule Crisis, 3–

individuality, 59, 154; and ruc, 190–

4, 36, 48, 77–8; and imagery in the

1; and treason, 45, 73–5, 95–6, 139;

Great War, 121; and imagery postwar,

250

Index

133–4, 137–8, 146–7, 153–5, 160, 198;

McKee, Malcolm, 87–8

importance of difference, 138; in cri-

McMordie, Julia, 163

sis, 142, 188, 198; and lived experi-

McMordie, R.J., 59, 90

ence, 4, 15, 87–8, 102–3, 139–40; and

McNeill, Ronald, 8, 68

monarchy, 73; and normativity, 19,

Megaw, R.D., 174, 184

32, 160–2, 173, 176, 198; as perform-

Messines Ridge, 110, 120–1, 124–5, 137

ance, 53–4, 64–9, 146–7; and physical

Methodists, the, 34–5

prowess, 46, 55, 61, 81, 84–5, 90; and

Meyer, Jessica, 87, 89

physical prowess post-war, 141–8,

militarism, 13, 181

165, 174; and political sphere in

militarization, 17, 20–4; after 1918, 139,

Northern Ireland, 164–6, 180–2; and

142; and 1914, 63–82; consistency of,

polite society, 154; power of, 43, 58,

159; and construction of masculini-

77, 134, 157–8; post-war creation of,

ties, 149–50, 156–7, 167–9, 177, 190–

134, 139–40, 149, 152, 198; post-war

1; definition of, 13–15, 71; and the

power of, 134, 146–7, 167–79, 196–8;

Great War, 79, 84, 91–107, 196; and

and pride, 145, 147; reactive con-

flogging, 183; and Ireland’s future,

struction of, 191–2, 198; and shame,

111, 115, 123, 129; and masculine

36, 47, 105–6, 112, 183–5; and the

pride, 64–5, 72, 87, 104; and mascu-

spa, 181–7; and supremacy of Protes-

line society, 118, 168–9, 195–6, 198;

tant-Unionism, 159–63, 173, 189–92,

misuse of, 177; in Northern Ireland,

194–5; and Third Home Rule Crisis,

172, 190–1; and religion, 70, 95, 117;

26, 39, 41, 63, 70; and Ulsterwomen,

romanticized, 65, 68, 81, 103; and

47–8, 152, 160, 162–9, 180–1; and

Third Home Rule Crisis, 25, 39, 47–8,

unemployment, 147–8, 175–6; Victo-

52; and usc, 173–9; and uvf, 56–8,

rian, 67, 107; and violence, 141, 143–

61, 81

7, 158, 192, 198; war as test of, 112,

Miller, W.J., 64

126–30; and wartime fellowship,

Ministry of Home Affairs, the, 18, 159,

110–11, 122–4; and wartime religion, 119–20, 125–6, 131; see also hege-

165, 188, 190; complaints to, 178; and spa, 182–7, 224n79

monic masculinities, “the other,” war-

Monaghan (Co.), xvi, 79

rior masculinities

Montgomery, the Reverend Dr Henry,

masculinity theory: definition of, 7–8,

102

12, 25, 61, 134; and English bias, 5–6;

Montgomery, Sir Hugh de Fellenberg, 8

and fantasy, 16, 91, 139–40, 155, 192;

Montgomery, William, 126–30

and manliness, 5

Moore, John, 186

McClosky, Peter, 38

Morning Post, The, 43–4, 125

McIlwain, John, ix, 120

Mosse, George, 86, 173

Index Muscular Christianity, 84–5

251

Nugent, Sir Oliver, 85–6, 98, 104, 122

mythology, 3, 13, 20–2; and Northern Ireland leadership, 162, 169; and the

O’Connell, Daniel, 5

Somme, 87–8, 100–3, 105, 107–8; and

O’Floightry, Father, 119–20

Ulster Catholics, 109; and unionist

O’Rahilly, Alfred, 118–19, 215n33

community, 25, 83, 105, 135–8, 196

Officer, David, 93 Orangeism, 37–8, 92–3, 167–8; and

nation, 14, 23, 26; and masculinities, 14, 26 National Covenants of 1638 and 1643, the, 46 National Council for Civil Liberties, the, 182 nationalism, xv, 14, 24, 36, 52; and 1935

“Orange Imperialism,” 180–1 Orangemen, 35, 38–9, 54–5, 72–3; mobilization of, 167–70 Orangewomen, 38 Orange Order, the, 7, 9–10, 12, 37–8, 140; in 1935, 193; and construction of masculinities in Northern Ireland,

riots, 193–4; and the Great War, 86,

166–70, 178–9, 192, 197; and the

90, 112, 117, 129–30; and martial atti-

Great War, 94, 122, 125, 168; and mil-

tude, 112, 115, 190–1; and republi-

itarization, 38–9, 59–60, 149; and

canism, 134, 139, 150, 198; and role

post-war commemorations, 136–8,

for women, 180–1; unionist negation

158, 168–9; in post-war society, 152,

of, 138, 150, 198

159, 167–70; as power base in North-

Nelson, Admiral Horatio, Lord, 165

ern Ireland, 167–70, 172, 176, 195;

Nicol, W.S., 99

and Twelfth of July, 157, 168; and

Northern Ireland, xv, 4–6, 17–18, 23;

usc, 168, 184; and uvf, 168; and vio-

and Carson, 160, 195; Catholic denial

lence, 60, 179–80

of, 155, 157–8, 186–7, 189–92; and

Ormeau, 170

censorship, 180, 198; continued exis-

“other,” the, 11–12, 23, 89, 201n42; and

tence of, 166, 197; and creation of, 43,

construction of masculinities, 134,

135, 150, 154, 158–9, 169; and mascu-

139, 148, 176; and Home Rule Crisis,

line power, 134, 153–4, 159–60, 164;

38–40, 42, 62–3

and moderates, 179, 197; and violence, 123, 156, 188–90 Northern Whig, 19, 27–8, 33, 36, 136; and the Great War, 79, 99, 106; and Home

Paget, Sir Arthur, 66 parades, 137, 141, 168–9, 193 paramilitaries, 7, 17, 25, 30, 40; accept-

Rule Crisis, 52, 75; and loyalty, 45;

ance of, 157; definition of, 13; and

and Northern Ireland unionism, 168,

Home Rule, 41, 55, 62, 72–3, 114; and

172; and Ulster Day, 42–3, 47

post-war organizations, 134, 148–50,

Northern Whig and Belfast Post, 194

155, 167–8; power of in Northern

252

Index

Ireland, 177–8, 189–90, 196–7; rituals

and the Great War, 92, 114, 132; in

of, 171–2; see also inv, upa, usc, uvf

Northern Ireland, 162, 167; post-war

paranoia, 42, 133, 140, 142; and siege mentality, 150, 157, 179, 197; towards

ira, 154 Parkinson, Alan, 6

campaigns, 138, 141–2, 152–4 Protestant Ascendancy, the, 34–5; in Northern Ireland, 152, 168 Protestantism, 8, 32, 52, 120; dominance

Parkinson-Cumine, B.D., 175–6

in Northern Ireland, 159; and post-

Parnell, Charles Stewart, 5, 23–4

war period, 143, 152; and “Rotten

partition, 23, 26, 83, 108, 132–3; occur-

Prods,” 143; and Ulster Day, 48–50

rence of, 154; post-1921, 194–5,

Punch, 28

220n94; and unionist propaganda,

punishment, 6, 134, 145, 170–1; and

153, 169; see also Government of Ire-

spa, 183–7

land Act Passchendaele, 110, 120, 125–8, 138

Quebec, 24

paternalism, 73, 148, 153

Queen’s Island, Belfast, 142, 151

patriarchy, 7, 10, 15 patriotism, 29, 79, 93, 152; in Northern Ireland, 165, 196 peace, 29, 39, 107; between Irishmen

Rebellion of 1798, the, 5, 22 Redmond, the Reverend J., 137 Redmond, John, xv, 30, 33, 51, 74–6; and

after 1916, 110

the Great War, 80, 111–14, 120; and

Peace Day, 135–7

wartime fraternalism, 112–13, 115,

Peacocke, the Most Reverend John Ferguson, Archbishop of Dublin and Primate of Ireland, 49

123 Redmond, William, 116, 121–2, 136, 214n19; death of, 124–6

Pearse, Patrick, 72

Regan, John M., 93–4, 191

Pentland, Thomas, 170

regionalism, 15, 39

Poblacht na hÉireann, 180–1

Reitz, Denys, 121

pogrom, 179–81, 183, 224n64; and com-

republicanism, 9, 117, 136, 142, 198; tar-

munal comparison, 188–9 popular discourse, 6, 20, 181, 198 popular imagination, 4, 24, 71, 79; and

get for Protestant paramilitaries, 171–3 rhetoric see language

the Great War, 83, 88; in Northern

Ricardo, Ambrose, 97, 131

Ireland, 161

riots, 23, 55, 81, 95; in 1935, 193–4; and

Portsmouth, 93–4 Prenter, the Reverend Samuel, 34–5

Belfast shipyards, 141–4, 146, 158; see also Derry Riots of 1920

Presbyterianism, 25, 34–5, 38

Rising of 1641, the, 23

propaganda, 17, 25, 40–1, 61–2, 76, 78;

Roman Catholicism, 12, 35–6, 52, 117–

Index

253

20; and post-war discrimination,

Northern Ireland, 170, 176–7, 198;

141–8, 170–9, 181–5; as “the other,”

and post-war power, 134, 139–44,

12, 16, 54, 134–5, 139–48; victimiza-

151, 188, 196; and Protestant-Unionist

tion of, 177, 180, 187–90; see also

characteristics, 154, 176–7

nationalism Rome Rule, 35, 39, 51; see also Home Rule, Third Home Rule Crisis Roper, Michael, 15, 134, 139, 155

Shankill Road, 102, 170 shellshock, 156–7 shipyards, 19, 53–4, 61, 193, 196 shipyard expulsions, 19, 21, 53–4, 141,

Royal Dublin Fusiliers, the, 113, 118

143–8; approval for, 145–6, 151–2,

Royal Engineers, the, 120

220n84; and construction of mas-

Royal Irish Constabulary (ric), the, 6,

culinities, 144–5, 195; economic con-

18, 23, 49, 57; and county inspectors, 25, 56, 58, 60, 64–6; and the Great

sequences of, 147–8; see also Castledawson Incident

War, 78–9; and post-war period, 148,

shirkers, 96–7, 105–6

190; reports on militarization, 64,

Shuter, R.G., 104

141, 143; and support for Unionism,

siege mentality, 21, 42–3, 52; after parti-

57, 72, 140, 177 Royal Ulster Constabulary (ruc), the, 5, 14, 178; casualties of, 187; Catholic

tion, 166, 192, 198; in post-war period, 148, 150–2, 157; and Ulster Catholics, 43, 150, 176–7; see also paranoia

enlistment in, 190–1; creation of, 164, Simpson, Robert, 170 190; eligibility for, 165–6; and loyalty,

Sinn Féin, 9, 23, 95; and conscription,

190–1, 194; and Protestant-Unionist

130, 216n72; and paramilitaries, 171,

dominance, 159, 165, 177, 188, 191;

175, 188; and parliament, 164; in

and the usc, 190

post-war period, 140, 144, 146–9, 154–5, 166; and propaganda in

sacrifice, 47, 52, 55–6, 70–1; and con-

Northern Ireland, 167

struction of masculinities, 71, 85, 98,

Smith, T.J., 147

137; and gender, 86; and partition,

Smuts, Jan, 220n94

166; and religion, 117; and the

socialism, 149, 172

Somme, 84, 86, 97–108; wartime, 60,

Solemn League and Covenant of 1643,

86, 90, 128, 136 Saskatchewan, 94, 212n62

the, 38, 44, 46 Solemn League and Covenant of 1912,

Seaforth, 93

the, 10, 17, 19, 29, 35, 48, 118; and

sectarianism, 19, 39, 56, 64; and employ-

36th (Ulster) Division, 99, 102; and

ment, 145; and ex-soldiers, 132; and

gender, 45–6; legacy of, 161, 195;

the Great War, 97, 109–10, 117, 121–

nationalist reaction to, 46, 50–1;

2; and Home Rule Crisis, 195; and

parameters of, 41–6, 139; signing of,

254

Index

41–50, 68, 90, 168; and Ulster Day, 33;

Third Home Rule Crisis, the (1912–14),

wording of, 44, 49, 51, 73; and uvf,

x, 5, 10, 13, 16–18, 23, 75; as benefi-

55, 57–8

cial to Ulstermen, 60–1; and con-

Solly-Flood, Arthur, 174

struction of masculinities, 21, 32, 39,

Somme, Battle of the, ix–x, 18, 81, 84–5,

41, 77–8, 89, 198; legacy for construc-

97–109, 135; and 16th (Irish) Divi-

tion of masculinities, 195–6; and mil-

sion, 116–18, 121; and the Boyne, 85–

itarization, 38, 57–8, 60, 64, 76, 90,

6, 108; commemorations of, 93, 128,

118; in post-war period, 138, 146,

136–7, 169; and construction of mas-

150; and religion, 51–2, 60; and

culinities, 88, 95, 124, 128, 150; legacy

Ulster Day, 44; and wartime tensions,

of, 87–8, 195–6; unionist imagery of, 88, 92, 97–8, 105 South African War, the (1899–1902), 17,

80–1, 113–14 Third Ypres see Passchendaele Thompson, David, 151

24, 92; and unionist masculine iden-

Toronto, 163

tities, 24, 28, 33

Tosh, John, 4, 10, 218–9n52; and Roper,

Spears, R.R., 170 Special Powers Act see Civil Authorities (Special Powers) Act Spender, Lilian, ix, 18, 32; and construction of masculinities, 65, 67–8, 77–8 Spender, Wilfrid, 84, 95, 156–7; and uvf reorganization, 149–50 Starrett, David, 57, 90–2, 107; and F.P. Crozier, 94, 119; and religion, 119–20

134, 139, 155 Townshend, Charles, 181 treason, 8, 10–11, 44–5, 51, 95–6 Trew, Arthur, 74 Troubles, the (1920–22), 5–6, 14, 18, 21, 43, 64; and atrocities, 157, 168; casualties of, 188–90; and gendered history, 159; legacy for construction of masculinities, 196–8; spheres of

Stewart, A.T.Q., 35, 68

influence, 144, 147, 152, 191–2;

Stewart-Moore, John Leslie, 92–5, 98,

unionist reaction to, 24, 147, 181–2;

102–3 Stormont (1921-72), xv, 5, 163, 193–4, 198; and martial imagery, 197 Strange, Carolyn, 183 Swanzy Riots, the, 141, 174

violence of, 123, 132, 134, 141–8, 170–81 Twelfth of July, the, 19, 54, 93–4; in post-war period, 136, 150, 168, 193; and violent imagery, 141, 157, 178 Tyrone (Co.), xvi, 3, 59, 64–6, 79, 89,

terrorism, 170–1, 182

224n64

Times, The, 35, 128 Thermopylae, 56 Thiepval, 101, 105–6, 117, 124, 137 Third Cavalry Brigade, the, 65–6, 81

Ulster Covenant see Solemn League and Covenant of 1912 Ulster Crisis see Third Home Rule Crisis

Index Ulster Day, 27–8, 31, 43–51; consequences of, 50–1; as gendered event, 47–9 Ulster Hall, 29, 43 Ulster Imperial Guard, the, 172 Ulster Protestant Association (upa), the, 170–1, 183, 191–2, 196

255 lence, 56–7, 60, 74–5, 121; and West Belfast Regiment, 65

Ulster Women’s Unionist Council (uwuc), the, 48, 77, 152, 163 “Ulsterman,” the, 3, 17, 25, 44, 49, 200n17; and postwar construction of masculinities, 153–4, 161, 163, 198;

Ulster Protestant League, the, 195

presumed characteristics of, 9–10, 26,

Ulster Special Constabulary (usc), the,

32, 82, 118; and the Somme, 84, 95,

6, 10, 14, 17, 19, 165; creation of, 173– 4; ideal characteristics of, 176; instru-

99; violent nature of, 127–31, 150 unionism, xv, 48, 52, 59, 70–1; and

ment for Protestant-Unionist mascu-

blood-debt, 117; and class, 65, 178;

line dominance, 173–9, 184; and

and conscription, 130–1; insular out-

Orange Order, 176; reputation of,

look of, 133–4, 157–8, 160; lack of

174–8, 180–2, 187

policies, 166–7; and minority views,

Ulster Trades Defence Association, the, 147–8 Ulster Unionist Council, the, 45, 59, 71, 77, 90 Ulster Unionist Labour Association (uula), the, 145–6, 152 Ulster Unionist Party, the, 9–10, 12, 17;

157–8, 178–9; and rejection of wartime irony, 88; and post-war society, 138, 150–1, 160–3; and strength of masculinities, 77, 162, 181, 195; and usc, 178–9 United Irishmen, the, 22, 37 United Irish League, the, 140

and Carson, 28–9, 32; and Craig, 160–2; dominance in Northern Ire-

veterans see ex-servicemen

land, 159–60, 163, 197; and

victimization, 54, 187–90

Orangeism, 169; and Ulster Day, 41

Victoria, Queen, 74

Ulster Volunteer Force (uvf), the, 8, 10, 12, 19, 33, 38; and 36th (Ulster) Division, 91–2, 94, 100, 102; and class

Victorian Era (1837–1901), the, 6, 15, 24, 32, 66; and the Great War, 84–5, 92, 107

unity, 60–1, 65, 85; and Curragh Inci-

Vigilance Committee, the, 146, 155

dent, 66–8; and desirable characteris-

violence, 17, 23, 26, 37, 53–4, 59; in

tics, 55; and gun-running, 58, 70–1,

1920, 141–7, 150, 154, 173–4; in 1935,

80, 114; and masculine reputation,

193–4; avoidance of, 64; and con-

60–1, 114; post-war revival of, 142,

struction of masculinities, 158, 181,

149–50; and power, 63, 90, 174; and

189–90, 192; definition after 1918,

recruitment, 46, 55, 59, 140; and the

150; and gender, 180–1, 185; and

Ulster Covenant, 11, 46; and vio-

George V, 74–5; and the Great War,

256

Index

95, 116–17, 126–31; intercommunal

Wedgwood, the Reverend George R., 35

incidents of, 156–7, 175, 179–81,

West African Frontier Force, the, 94

188–90; and judicial sentencing, 186;

Western Front, the, 89, 96, 112, 121, 132;

post-war threat of, 133–4, 149, 157, 168, 196; and the public sphere, 41,

and the Armistice, 133 Westminster Parliament, the, 10, 30, 42,

49, 60, 64, 132; as threat during

45, 56; and 1914, 66, 80; and the

Home Rule Crisis, 24, 30–1, 41, 46,

Ulster Covenant, 50, 73; and female

52–3, 79; and uvf, 57–8, 110

members of, 164; in post-war era,

virility, 96, 196 volunteers, 82, 91–3

142, 149, 151–2, 162 Whiskard, Geoffrey, 183–5, 189 Whitla, Sir William, 35–6

Walker, Brian, 22

White, J.C., 137

Wallace, Robert H., 24, 30, 176

Wicklow (Co.), 80, 111

Waring, Margaret, 163–4

Wilde, Oscar, 28

warrior masculinities, 4, 15, 56, 83–6; as

Wilhelm II, Kaiser of Germany, 75, 86

answer to Home Rule Crisis, 86; as

William III, 73–4, 93, 145

archetype, 14, 84, 86, 133, 186; and

Wilson, Sir Henry, 9

class, 85; and construction of mas-

Witherow, the Reverend W., 55–6

culinities, 84–7, 92, 101, 104, 124,

Women’s Declaration of 1912, the, 45,

195; definitions of, 86, 100, 108; ide-

47–8

alization of, 87, 89, 92, 101, 106–7;

Workman and Clark’s, 143

necessary violence of, 95, 127–30,

World War I see Great War

132; and physicality, 96–7; and popu-

World War II, 195

lar imagination, 106, 120, 133, 165, 195; post-war betrayal of, 156–7; and

York Street, 170

religion, 120; and revisionist mythol-

Young Citizens’ Volunteers (ycv), the,

ogy, 138; Ulster’s distinction from

59–60, 90

others, 98–101, 108; and the Ulster

Young Ireland, 5

Covenant, 41

Young Ulster, 23