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in which he had a fine executive office on the first floor. At that time my father and mother were living at the Royal Hibernian Hotel in Dawson Street, and it was there that I joined them for my Easter holidays.
    There had been a tenseness in the city for some days, with much movement of the green-uniformed volunteers in the streets, armed and marching in military formations, occasionally dispersed by the police. On account of the disturbed conditions my father went down to his office on Easter Monday morning, and at about eleven o’clock he was summoned to Dublin Castle, the headquarters of British administration, for a conference.
    At noon the thing started, and an armed detachment of the Sinn Fein volunteers entered the Post Office, turned out the staff, and proceeded to barricade the windows to turn the stone building into a fort. At the same time they occupied most of the other strategic buildings in the city, especially those at street corners and those commanding the length of a street. The British forces in Ireland at that time were small and soldiers in uniform were shot at whenever they showed themselves; for two days or so the rebels had things all their own way. My father was fortunate that he was not in the Post Office when it was occupied or he would certainly have been held as a hostage, and he might well have been killed in the sad atrocities and reprisals that ended the rebellion at the end of the week.
    I was in Sackville Street ten minutes after the Post Office was taken, for I had walked down with my mother to bring my father home for lunch. The street was crowded with people, there was a cordon of volunteers around the Post Office, and trigger-happy young men in green uniforms in great excitement were firing off their revolvers from time to time at nothing in particular. I sent my mother home to the hotel and stayed with the crowd myself to try and get along the street to my father’s club to see if he was there.
    A troop of Lancers on horseback escorting four or five horse-drawn military wagons came into Sackville Street from the north end and came down towards the Post Office on the far side of the road. They seemed to be unaware of what was going on, but they halted before coming opposite the Post Office, perhaps while the officer in charge assessed the situation. Then, in tense silence, they came on down the far side of the wide street. The rebels in the Post Office held their fire till the soldiers were opposite them, and then opened up with a ragged volley. Four of the Lancers fell from their saddles, killed instantly, I think, and one or two horses went down. The crowd scattered in alarm, myself with them, but within two or three minutes we were back again. These were the first men that I had seen killed.
    We got a telephone call that night from the Castle to say that my father was safe, and all next day the battle grew. The British forces in Ireland converged upon the city and occupied such strategic buildings as the rebels had left empty, and bursts of rifle and Lewis gun fire down the streets became general, scattering the crowds of interested onlookers from time to time, including me. In this sad but interesting fighting I was far more comfortable and at home than my parents. This was my cup of tea. I was mentally conditioned for war; it was what I had been bredand trained for for two years. I felt that I knew what to do about this.
    Next day an ambulance service was organised by the Royal Irish Automobile Club and I joined it as a stretcher bearer. I had a bowing acquaintance with elementary First Aid since I held a junior St. John certificate, and for the rest of the rebellion I cruised around the streets in a motor ambulance picking up casualties and taking them to hospital. I don’t think we were ever in any great danger though once or twice we turned a corner with our load of wounded and found ourselves in front of a street barricade and in the middle of a battle, and had to get out of