Did you know that the first flag officer and founder of the United States Navy was an Irishman?  His name was John Barry and Dr. Benjamin Rush, a signer of the Declaration of Independence, said in his eulogy at Barry’s graveside, “He was born in Ireland, but America was the object of his devotion and the theater of his usefulness.”  Barry was born in Co. Wexford, Ireland in 1745 and grew up with a great love for the sea.  As a young man, he emigrated to the Crown colonies in America and by 1760, he was employed in a shipbuilding firm in Philadelphia.  In 1766, at the age of 21, he went to sea as Captain of the ship, Barbados.  The young Irishman seemed destined for a prosperous career in the colonies, but his integrity and sense of justice led him to risk all in a dangerous venture.

In 1775, years of smoldering unrest erupted in open rebellion as the American colonies declared their independence from the Crown.  As England prepared to regain control, the colonies formed the Second Continental Congress to establish a military force and defend their recently declared independence, but experienced men were hard to find.  Captain John Barry, an early champion of the patriot cause, promptly volunteered his service.  With nine years experience as a seagoing Captain and five successful commands to his credit, the young Irishman was warmly welcomed, and given command of a ship under the authority of the Continental Congress.  On Dec. 7, 1775, Captain John Barry took the helm of a new 14-gun vessel aptly named, Lexington.  He quickly trained a crew and began the task of supplying and supporting Washington’s ground forces.

 On April 7, 1776, he captured the British ship, Edward, and her cargo – the first American war prize.  On June 6, he was given command of the new cruiser, Effingham and captured two more British ships.  Despite Barry’s successes, the war was not going well for the Americans: Philadelphia was in the hands of the British, the British Navy had bottled up the Delaware River, General Benedict Arnold had betrayed West Point, and Washington’s troops were in dire need.  A victory was essential to boost sagging morale.  Barry captured an armed British vessel when ammunition was scarce and a supply ship when food was at a premium.  When Washington planned to cross the Delaware, Barry organized seamen and joined the land forces which crossed at one of the ferries owned by his Irish friend, Patrick Colvin of Co Cavan.  After the Delaware crossing and the subsequent victories at Trenton and Princeton, in which he served as an aide to Washington, Lord Howe made a flattering offer to Barry to desert the patriot cause. “Not the value or command of the whole British fleet” Barry replied, “can lure me from the cause of my country which is liberty and freedom.”  In addition to commanding naval operations for the Continental Congress, Barry supervised the building of their ships.

During a confrontation at sea on May 28, 1781, Barry was wounded and taken below.  His First Officer informed him that the battle was going against them and

Barry ordered to be carried back on deck.  When the British demanded his surrender, Barry defiantly refused and sparked his crew to victory.  The wounded Captain returned with yet another prize.  The last sea battle of the American Revolution took place in March 1783, as Barry was returning with gold from Havana and was set upon by three British ships.  The resourceful Captain engaged and destroyed one and outdistanced the other two, returning with the precious cargo which was used to establish a National Bank for the new nation.

Far from the war at sea, Barry also assisted at the Pennsylvania Convention held in 1787 to adopt the new constitution. During the Convention, a small group, opposed to the adoption of the new constitution, absented themselves, preventing a quorum from being formed.  Barry organized a group called The Compellers’ and physically forced enough of the seceding members back to form a quorum.  The vote was taken, and the constitution was finally approved.  People cheered and church bells rang as Barry scored yet another victory for his adopted nation.  In recognition of his vast experience and dedication, Washington demonstrated Barry’s immense value to the new nation when, on June 14, 1794, he sent for the popular naval hero and charged him with forming and training a class of midshipmen who would then be commissioned as Ensigns and form the nucleus of the new United States Navy.  Barry himself was named the ranking officer and granted Commission number one.

The mists of time have clouded the memory of this great Irish American and the tales of his heroic exploits were forgotten by the general public while the memory of Barry’s good friend and comrade, John Paul Jones, remained prominent.  However, members of the Ancient Order of Hibernians (AOH) and the Irish Brigade Association began to lobby for proper recognition for America’s early naval hero.  With support from the Naval Reserve Association, the Sons of the Revolution, the Naval Militia Association and Commodore Barry clubs, elected representatives were lobbied and in July 2000, Senator Daniel P Moynihan introduced a Senate resolution to recognize Commodore Barry as the First Flag Officer of the U.S. Navy.  Several years of lobbying and letter writing led to Peter King introducing a House resolution on March 17, 2005, which became law officially recognizing Commodore John Barry as the First Flag Officer of the U.S. Navy.  The AOH then organized the erection of Barry Gate and Barry Plaza at the U.S. Naval Academy at Annapolis. 

Commodore Barry had many firsts to his credit from being the first to fly the new American flag in battle to escorting America’s ally, General Lafayette, back to France, but the first that he should always be remembered for his position as First Flag Officer and organizer of United States Navy and one of the Irish who helped to shape America.

Mike McCormack, National Historian

THIS IRISH AMERICAN HERITAGE MONTH PROFILE IS PRESENTED BY THE ANCIENT ORDER OF HIBERNIANS (AOH.COM)

#IrishAmericanHeritageMonth

Baseball is a sport built for superlatives and appellations; with every passing season, another member of the sport seems to be bestowed the title of “the Greatest” or a nickname.  Yet, there is only one “Grand Old Man of Baseball,” and there will never be another like Irish American Connie Mack nor anyone as deserving of the title.

Connie Mack was born Cornelius McGillicuddy in Brookfield, Massachusetts, on December 22, 1862.  His parents were both Irish immigrants, Michael McGillicuddy from Killarney, while Mary  (nee McKillop) McGillicuddy was from the Catholic section of Belfast.  Connie would never legally change his name of McGillicuddy and used it on all formal documents but would use ‘Mack’ as his last name in all other situations. 

Mack’s father was a Civil War Veteran whose health had been destroyed by his service.  The family eked out a survival based on a meager disability pension supplemented when the father could work and could find it.  Mack left school at age 14 to help support his family.  It was remembered that he would always give his mother whatever he earned.  Later in life, Mack would always be self-conscious about his lack of formal education.

One advantage of working in the local factories and mills was a lunch hour where Mack would play baseball, which he would follow up with additional playing in the evening when work and chores were done.  Standing 6′ 2″, Connie Mack was already the tallest boy in town and quickly earned the name of “Slats” for his height and slim build.  In 1879 he was playing for Brookfield’s town team.  Only 17, Mack was much younger than his teammates but was the team’s catcher and de facto captain.

In 1886, Mack began a major league career (though the term’ major leagues’ was not coined yet) as a catcher.  Sports writer Bill James described Mack’s playing career as “a light-hitting catcher with a reputation as a smart player but didn’t do anything particularly well.” That is both uncharitable and inaccurate.  Mack was an expert at “the dark arts” of being a catcher.  Instead of positioning himself in front of the backstop like other catchers, Mack was among the pioneers who positioned himself directly behind the home plate.  According to a contemporary opponent Wilbert Robinson, “Mack never was mean … [but] if you had any soft spot, Connie would find it.  He could do and say things that got more under your skin than the cuss words used by other catchers.” In addition to distracting hitters, Mack also honed skills such as blocking the plate and simulating the sound of a foul tip when the then rules stated that any pitch tipped and caught by the catcher was an out.   Mack was also an expert at “tipping bats” (catcher’s interference) to throw off a hitter’s swing.

Mack’s final three seasons were with the Pittsburgh Pirates from 1894 to 1896, where he served as a player/manager and compiled a 149–134 (.527) record.  In 1896, he retired as a full-time player to begin the career he became famous for as a manager.  After a four-year stint as a manager for the then minor league Milwaukee Brewers, Mack became manager, treasurer, and part-owner of the new American League’s Philadelphia Athletics.  Mack guided the A’s to triumph, leading them to capture nine pennants and reach eight World Series, ultimately securing five victories..

Mack revolutionized the position of baseball manager.  He was praised for his intelligent and innovative management, which earned him the nickname “the Tall Tactician.”  He was among the first managers to strategically reposition his fielders during the game, frequently guiding  outfielders by waving his rolled-up scorecard from the dugout..  He valued intelligence and “baseball smarts,” trading away Shoeless Joe Jackson despite his proven worth as a hitter because of his poor attitude and unintelligent play.  Mack’s strength was finding the best players, teaching them well, and letting them play.  In an age when baseball was known for its flamboyant rowdy individuals, Mack developed the need for what we would now call ‘team culture.’  The Times wrote of Mack, “He was a new type of manager,” The Times observed. “The old-time leaders ruled by force, often thrashing players who disobeyed orders on the field or broke club rules off the field. One of the kindest and most soft-spoken of men, he always insisted that he could get better results by kindness. He never humiliated a player by public criticism. No one ever heard him scold a man in the most trying times of his many pennant fights.”

However, what set Connie Mack apart was that he was known as a consummate gentleman, a trait he attributed to his Irish mother.  Going against the baseball manager stereotype, he rarely drank and didn’t smoke or curse.  Time magazine once said, “Mr. Mack, as his players called him, remained a gentleman.  Rumor had it that the harshest expletive was a mild ‘goodness gracious.‘” Ironically, Connie Mack did have a temper, which is why he adopted the practice of wearing his signature business suits rather than the team uniform, as was the habit of other managers.   This meant that he did not need to go to the locker room with his players after a game to change, and by the time the team cooled emerged, he would have cooled down.

Mack also had a wry sense of humor.  When fellow manager John McGraw described the A’s as a “white elephant that would never make money,” Mack had a picture of an elephant added to the uniform, turning the insult into a badge of pride. The use of the white elephant logo is still used by today’s Oakland A’s continues. 

However, when McGraw was proved at least partially correct, the team struggled financially, resulting in Mack having to sell off players to keep the team viable, earning him an unjust reputation as ‘miserly.’  On the contrary,  Mack supported a large extended family and demonstrated kindness to players who were down on their luck, including paying for one former player’s funeral.  More than once, a fellow Irish American would claim to be a relative; Mack knew they weren’t while at the same time leaving some free tickets for them at the box office.     

Connie Mack  would manage the Athletics for fifty years, compiling a record of 3,582–3,814 (.484) when he retired at 87.When Mack retired as a manager at 87, old age and the changing nature of the game had caught up with him, and it can be argued that he diluted his Baseball accomplishments by hanging on too long.  Still, nothing can diminish his influence on the game of baseball or the qualities as a gentleman instilled in him growing up in an Irish American household.

“Humanity is the keystone that holds nations and men together,” Mack once said. “When that collapses, the whole structure crumbles. This is as true of baseball teams as any other pursuit in life.“

Connie Mack

At the 11^th hour of the 11^th day of the 11^th month of 1918, for the first time in over four years, the guns fell silent across the trenches that scarred the face of Europe during the First World War. America had been latecomers to the conflict but at a tremendous cost had tipped the scales in what had been a murderous stalemate. No division had sacrificed more than the 42nd Division, nicknamed the “Rainbow Division,” as it had been formed from National Guard Units whose origins stretched across the country. No unit in the Rainbow Division fought on more fronts, nor suffered more casualties, than the regiment that represented the green in that rainbow: the 165^th, the federal number assigned to the 69^th New York. It was the same New York 69^th that fifty years earlier, as a unit of the Irish Brigade, had been given the nickname of “the fighting 69th” as a tribute of respect by an enemy commander, Robert E. Lee. While the regimental number had changed, the unit and the New York Irish would once again prove worthy of that title, and no one was more responsible for the regiments unequaled record in WW I than Col. William “Wild Bill” Donovan.

Even before the war, William Joseph Donovan was a hero of Horatio Alger proportions. The grandson of immigrants from Skibbereen, Co Cork, he had literally been born on the wrong side of the tracks in Buffalo, New York. Yet, as typical of Irish immigrants, each generation was climbing the American dream’s long ladder. While Donovan’s grandfather had worked shoveling grain in the holds of ships, his father had risen to the influential position of yardmaster for the local railroad. Young William Donovan continued the trend, attending Columbia University, where he would earn a law degree. Donovan was a star quarterback of the Columbia football team in an age where amateur athletes were treated like today’s professional superstars.  It was here he earned the nickname “Wild Bill Donovan.” He returned to Buffalo, started a law practice, and married the daughter of the wealthiest man in Buffalo.

Yet, Donovan was not a man to rest on his success; his strong sense of duty and patriotism called him to seek an opportunity to serve his country. With several friends, Donovan formed a National Guard company of cavalry that served when the Army was mobilized to hunt for Pancho Villa. When the United States entered World War I, Donovan was called back to service and assigned as a Major to the 165^th regiment, the number given to the rechristened N.Y. 69^th which had won glory in the American Civil War as part of the “Irish Brigade”. He was a popular choice with the mostly Irish American regiment, particularly their Chaplin, Fr. Francis Duffy , who himself would win fame and honor with the regiment. Donovan applied the same tough discipline to his men’s training as he had experienced himself as an athlete on the playing field of Columbia, training his men would come to appreciate on the battlefields of France.

In France, at the river Ourcq, nicknamed by the Irish of the 165^th “the O’Rourke,” the 42^nd Division was ordered to cross the river and secure a ridge and farm on the other side. The position was believed to be “lightly held” when in fact they were being faced by three German Divisions, including one of elite Prussian Guards. Only Donovan’s 165^th managed to reach its objective, the units on the left and right having been pushed back. The result was the 165^th was cut off and subjected to machine gun and artillery fire on three sides. It was estimated that the Germans had one machine gun for four of Donovan’s men. Donovan and his men held their position for three days until the rest of the Division could reinforce the 165th but at a terrible cost: of the 3,000 men who entered the battle, 1,750 men and 66 officers were lost. Donovan himself was exposed to poison gas and wounded, yet still continued to lead his men. In one case, Donovan, without regard to danger, crossed open ground under heavy enemy fire to communicate coordinates for support artillery. For this action, Donovan was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross and promoted Lt. Colonel.

Tragically, these circumstances repeated themselves only a few months later when the 165^th was again asked to breach a line of German fortifications. Again, the 165th was going up against some of Germany’s best troops, not with the battle-hardened men they had lost at the Ourcq, but young and inexperienced replacements. Describing it as “foolish but necessary” to his wife in a letter written before the battle, Donovan put on his full regulation uniform and insignia. He knew that he would be a target for German snipers by so obviously identifying himself as a senior officer, but he also knew that his raw men needed to see him out in front. During the German attack, Donovan was severely wounded but continued to encourage his men and refused all attempts to evacuate him till the battle was over. For his actions, Donovan was awarded the Medal of Honor and became the most decorated soldier of WW I.

“They’re not going to see your faces, but they will never forget what you looked like.”

William Donovan

On arriving back in New York, Donovan and his men were honored with a parade down 5^th Avenue and, appropriate for the men of the 69^th/165^th, past St. Patrick’s Cathedral.  Donovan ordered his men to march wearing their steel helmets, ammunition boots with their weapons, rather than dress uniforms, saying, “They’re not going to see your faces, but they will never forget what you looked like.”  Donovan himself elected to march with his men rather than ride the traditional horse.  The regiment marched to the strains of the regimental march “Garryowen” to City Hall, where they were presented with “the freedom of the City.” Later that night in camp, Donovan heard some of his men singing “The Good Old Summer Time,” a tune which many of his men now buried in France, sang as they went up to the line for their first battle.  Donovan wept.

Despite having already accomplished enough to fill multiple lifetimes, history was still not done with “Wild Bill” Donovan. He would become a successful lawyer, federal prosecutor, and a confidant to Presidents for his clear and pragmatic thinking.  In the inter-war years, Donovan was often used as a presidential agent, especially when it came to foreign intelligence matters. In World War II, Donovan created the Office of Strategic Services, the O.S.S., the precursor to today’s C.I.A., and attained the rank of  Major General. After the war, he would assist in prosecuting Nazi war criminals at Nuremberg.

Little wonder that when informed that William Donovan had died peacefully after a life of honor and service to his country, then-President Eisenhower remarked, “What a man! We have lost the last hero.”

Neil F. Cosgrove  ©

Philip Fitzpatrick was born in Aughavas, Co. Leitrim in 1892.  Like so many of his generation, he emigrated to the United States and settled in New York City. He joined the NYPD in 1926 and was assigned to Mounted Squad 1 in Manhattan.  He would serve with distinction for over 21 years as one of ‘New York’s Finest’ and would prove more than worthy of the title.

However, in addition to protecting the streets of New York, Patrolman Fitzpatrick had another talent that few realized until many years after his death; he was a talented poet.  Fitzpatrick came from a family having a long musical tradition going back through the generations.  His best-known poem was a tribute to the County of his birth, “Lovely Leitrim,”; the story of an immigrant dreaming of returning to his homeland and seeing once again the sights he once knew and now cherishes in his heart.   In another moving poem he wrote about his experience as a father saying goodbye to his son Charles as he leaves to join the Marines in WW II.

Fitzpatrick also wrote a poem to honor his fellow police officers, whom he described as “Soldiers of Peace.”  In the poem, he describes the fear well known to all police families that when he “kisses his wife and children goodbye, there’s a chance he will see them no more.”   Sadly, for Officer Phillip Fitzpatrick, the line was prophetic.

On Tuesday, May 20, 1947, Patrolman Fitzpatrick was off duty and having lunch with his friend Patrolman George H. Dammeyer at a tavern located at 1703 Third Avenue and East 96th Street on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. While they were dining, two career criminals armed with pistols entered the tavern after having just robbed another location nearby, where they pistol-whipped their victims. The criminals proceeded to demand money and valuables from everyone in the tavern, pointing their pistols at both the customers and staff.

Despite the great risk to their own safety, Patrolman Fitzpatrick and Patrolman Dammeyer bravely attempted to apprehend the criminals. During the altercation, Fitzpatrick was shot twice in the stomach and suffered grievous wounds while struggling with one of the perpetrators. However, Patrolman Dammeyer managed to shoot and kill both of the criminals.

Phillip Fitzpatrick succumbed to his wounds and passed away on May 26, 1947, leaving behind his wife Mary and five sons. In recognition of his bravery and sacrifice, Patrolman Fitzpatrick was given an Inspector’s funeral and was posthumously awarded the NYPD Medal of Honor.  His son Charles, whose leaving for the Marines he had memorialized, was now himself a police officer and was given his father’s Shield, No. 15348.  Phillip Fitzpatrick had never made it back to his home County of Leitrim except in his dreams and poetry.  He was remembered as a proud Irishman and a devout Catholic who was a member of the Holy Name Society and a committed member of the Ancient Order of Hibernians.

It would not be until twenty years after his death that Phillip Fitzpatrick’s poem “Lovely Leitrim” gained notoriety by singer Larry Cunningham.  Despite admiring the song, Cunningham released it as a ‘B-Side’ because he knew that RTÉ (Ireland’s dominant radio station) would never play it.  While Cunningham was correct, the hand of radio producers was forced when the song was frequently requested.  “Lovely Leitrim” would go on to be a number-one record, displacing the Beatles’ “Day Tripper,” selling over a million copies.  The song has become an unofficial anthem for County Leitrim.

Sadly, many do not know that behind the ballad “Lovely Leitrim” stands a heroic son of Leitrim who is memorialized on the walls of NYPD headquarters at One Police Plaza. 

To his County and the People of New York, he was ‘faithful unto death”, the motto of the NYPD.

After graduation, he served the diocese of Philadelphia as a seminarian until 5 October 1826 when he was ordained a priest by Bishop Henry Conwell. During his early years as a priest, Hughes founded St. John’s Orphan Asylum in 1829 and in 1832 was responsible for building the new church of St. John the Evangelist – one of the most impressive churches in the country at that time. His initiative was recognized and on 7 August 1837, Pope Gregory XVI made 40-year old Hughes coadjutor Bishop for the Diocese of New York, which then included all of New York State and northern New Jersey. He was consecrated in old St. Patrick’s Cathedral on 7 January 1838. Between 1820 and 1830, immigration had swelled the U.S. Catholic population to 600,000 with no end in sight. The new immigrants were mostly Irish: impoverished, uneducated and unskilled, with little to prepare them for New York’s urban environs. Hughes believed that the barrage of Nativist anti-Catholic prejudice at the time was demoralizing the already disadvantaged immigrants and holding back their progress.

Recalling his own difficulties with a lack of education, he believed that the future of the Irish in America depended on secular education. At the time, the city’s schools were run by the Public School Society which received state funding. However, that society was a private Protestant group that taught that ‘emigration from Ireland of annually increasing numbers, extremely needy, and in many cases drunken and depraved, has become a subject for all our grave and fearful reflection.’  To get his flock educated, Hughes wanted an end to biased sectarian education. He contacted representative of New York’s Jewish community and allied with them to end all religious teaching in schools and through their efforts, the Maclay Bill of 1842 was enacted to bar all religious instruction from schools receiving state funds. On the night the bill was passed, a nativist mob attacked Hughes’s residence and members of the AOH were called to protect the city’s Catholic churches as they had done in 1841 and would do again in 1844.

Having reformed the public schools to help those non-protestant children who attended them, Hughes threw his energies into building a Catholic school system. ‘We have to build the schools first and the church after’ he said. In 1838 he felt that 100 acres bordering the Bronx River was the perfect spot for a new seminary and college and three years later, St. John’s College, the first Catholic institution of higher learning in the northeast, was established. On 10 April 1846, the State of New York granted the College a university charter and in 1907, after adding a law school and medical school, the name was changed to Fordham University.

In 1844, James Harper, was elected Mayor of New York supported by the anti-immigrant American Republican Party consisting mainly of Nativists. A highly organized group of anti-Catholic Protestant fundamentalists, they saw the Catholic Church as incompatible with democracy and believed the United States should be a land for Anglo-Saxon Protestants only. At the time,  nativist riots in Philadelphia claimed the lives of 30 Irishmen and burned Catholic churches and convents. Bishop Hughes defending the rights of Irish Catholics against such bigotry and bloodshed, sent a letter to Mayor Harper warning that if any harm came to a single Catholic church, he would turn New York into another Moscow, referring to the burning of Moscow during Napoleon’s invasion in 1812. He then called on the AOH to defend the Cathedral. As a massive Nativist torchlight parade gathered in City Hall Park, ready to march up the Bowery to the Cathedral, he stationed the Hibernians on the protective walls around the Cathedral. The Nativists backed down and Hughes’ powerful message and forceful actions are credited with averting the same anti-Catholic violence  in New York that had plagued Philadelphia. Hughes won the nickname of “Dagger John,” not only for the cross he penned beside his signature but also for being a man not to be trifled with!

In 1850, New York was elevated to the status of an Archdiocese by Pope Pius IX, so, too, was Hughes’ own status elevated to that of Archbishop. He continued a vigorous mission of building churches, schools, and hospitals. Future American President James Buchanan called him, ‘one of the ablest and most accomplished and energetic men I had ever known.  In a far-seeing move that many ridiculed at the time as Hughes’ Folly, the Archbishop proposed the construction of a new Cathedral in an undeveloped area far uptown on Fifth Avenue between 50th and 51st streets. The property was purchased in 1810 for the sum of $11,000. Archbishop Hughes laid the cornerstone for the new Saint Patrick’s Cathedral on 15 August 1858.

During the Civil War, Archbishop Hughes served as an envoy for President Lincoln on a successful overseas mission to dissuade European countries from supporting the Confederacy and in securing several officers of former Papal Army for the Union Army. In gratitude, Lincoln petitioned Pope Pius IX to name Archbishop Hughes as America’s first Cardinal. But the death took this indomitable leader in January 1864 before that honor could come to pass. His memory was honored by tributes from President Lincoln and other statesmen and his body viewed by over 200,000 people who solemnly came to worship in the old Cathedral where he was entombed in the crypts below. His body remained there until the new Cathedral was completed uptown and his remains were then removed to a crypt there in 1883. The new Cathedral holds the remains of all of the archbishops and cardinals that have served the Archdiocese since the death of Archbishop Hughes.

A statue of Archbishop Hughes stands on Fordham campus and a bust on a pedestal was erected by AOH Div 9 NY and the Friendly Sons of St Patrick at the old Cathedral with 3 bronze plaques on the fence.

Mike McCormack, National Historian 

THIS IRISH AMERICAN HERITAGE MONTH PROFILE IS PRESENTED BY THE ANCIENT ORDER OF HIBERNIANS (AOH.COM)

#IrishAmericanHeritageMonth #EmbraceYourIrishHeritageAOH

It is an iconic image of WW II, a photo taken on June 6, 1944 showing American soldiers exiting a landing craft coming ashore at Omaha beach. A few months later on October 20th, another photo captured the moment General Douglas MacArthur “returned” to the Philippines, wading ashore from a landing craft. Neither of these historic moments would have been possible without one man, as overlooked but essential as the landing craft in these images that bore his name, Andrew Higgins.

Though in later life Higgins would be inseparably identified with New Orleans, he was born in Columbus, Nebraska in 1886. Losing his father when he was but seven years old, Higgins would claim he received his determination and strong will from his mother whose ancestors had come from Ireland after the failed rebellion of 1848. Higgins demonstrated the industry and innovation that were to be his hallmarks at an early age. At the age of nine and with only a sickle he began a grass cutting business. He soon purchased a lawn mower, eventually expanding until he had seventeen mowers and was hiring older boys to do the work while he managed the business. An incurable builder, the young Higgins constructed an iceboat in the basement of his home for use on the nearby lakes. When finished, he realized it was too big to be taken out of the basement doors. With characteristic determination, he borrowed jacks from a nearby construction site and with friends removed a section of the basement’s wall, got the boat out and restored the wall, all while his mother was out shopping. Perhaps not unexpectedly, such creativity, determination and strong will often brought young Higgins into conflict with school authorities resulting in him being expelled before graduating.

Higgins moved to the south where he began working in the lumber industry. His interest in boats was again rekindled when he was confronted with the problem of how to access timber from shallow, obstacle choked bayous. Higgins took a correspondence course in naval architecture and soon designed the first of the flat-bottomed shallow draft boats which would make him famous. The key feature was that the propeller was incorporated in a recessed tunnel that protected the propeller from grounding and fouling.

In the late 1930’s Higgins owned a small shipyard in New Orleans servicing the need of loggers and oil drillers in the Mississippi Delta. The

growing threat of war soon drew the interest of the Marines in Higgins’ boats as the Navy Bureau of Ships had consistently failed to produce craft that could effectively deliver Marines, their tanks and artillery on a beach. Marine General Holland “Howlin’ Mad” Smith on seeing trials of Higgins shallow draft “Eureka” boat thought it could be “an answer to the Marine prayer”. The one concern was that as configured the Marines would need to disembark the boat going over the side, slowing their exit when they were most vulnerable. At his own expense, Higgin’s modified the boats by cutting off the bow and replacing it with a ramp. Higgins received a call from the Navy that they and the Marines would be coming to New Orleans to test the ramped boats and Higgins should also prepare to discuss a design for a craft capable of landing tanks. Higgins informed the Navy that instead of a plan he would have a workable craft. “It can’t be done,” the Navy told him; “The Hell it can’t,” replied Higgins, “you just be here in three days”. Higgins had the boat built in 61 hours.  Both would be taken into service, and while the ramped “Eureka” would have the official designation of LCVP (Landing Craft, Vehicle, Personnel) it would be known universally as the Higgins Boat.

Higgins’ answer to the “Marine prayer” came just in time, as the United States would soon enter WW II. With his tireless energy, often working 16 hour days, Higgins seemingly overnight turned his small 50 man New Orleans boat building business into one of the largest boat builders in the world, building not only several models of landing craft but other boats as well. By September 1943, 12,964 of the American Navy’s 14,072 vessels had been designed by Higgins Industries.  Hitler bitterly called Higgins “The new Noah”.

A fact that should not be overlooked is that to achieve this prodigious output Higgins employed anyone capable of performing the job, irrespective of gender or race, and everyone who performed the same job was given the same pay. Higgins was one of our nation’s first equal opportunity employers. Realizing the impact a worker lost due to sickness could have on productivity, Higgins established a company clinic where works could access health care free of charge.

Unfortunately, wartime gratitude is a fleeting thing. When the war ended, the drive and determination which had enabled Higgins to deliver what his country needed came back to haunt him as the toes he stepped on to get the job done now took their revenge. Maverick innovators like Higgins were out of place in the conformist world of post-war corporate America. Despite an indisputable record of being an advocate for his workers, his firms were crippled by post-war strikes. Higgins died in New Orleans on 1 August 1952.

Andrew Jackson Higgins was like the boat that bore his name: straightforward, tough and reliable. Neither was sophisticated, they just got the job done. He deserves to be remembered much more than he is. As General Eisenhower noted, “Andrew Higgins … is the man who won the war for us. … If Higgins had not designed and built those LCVPs, we never could have landed over an open beach. The whole strategy of the war would have been different.”

Neil F. Cosgrove  ©

In his obituary, the New York Times describes Martin Sheridan as “one of the greatest athletes the United States has ever known.”  While his name may not be as readily recognized today, that assessment still holds true.  Sheridan was born in Bohola, County Mayo, Ireland in 1881, and would later emigrate to the United States.    A giant for his time standing at 6′ 3″, he was a member of a group known as the “Irish Whales,” a group of Irish American Athletes who were also members of the New York City Police Department who dominated the track and field competitions of the early twentieth century. 

He won his first gold medal at the St. Louis Olympics in 1904 in the discus, an event he was to dominate during his career. In the 1906 Olympics he would again easily win the discuss gold, but also a gold medal in shot putt, and silver in the standing long jump, the standing high jump and stone-throwing. He was the odds on favorite to win the pentathlon before having to withdraw due to a leg injury.

Sheridan is perhaps best remembered for an incident in the 1908 London Games.  The games were mired in controversy from the start. It was the first games to have an “Opening Ceremony” and the now traditional parade of nations marching into the stadiums. Before the opening ceremony, it was noticed by the American team that while the stadium was surrounded with the flags of various nations (including the flags of China and Japan who were not competing), the British hosts had omitted the flag of the United States, claiming “they couldn’t find one.”   Some Irish Athletes had already withdrawn when told they would be required to march behind the British flag. 

The British organizers had issued a “protocol document” that instructed each team to dip their Country’s flag in homage as they passed  King Edward VII in the royal box.  When the U.S. contingent marched past, Color Bearer Ralph Rose refused to dip the American flag (allegedly after another Irish American competitor and NYPD officer Mathew McGrath had told Rose along the parade route “Dip that flag and you will be in a hospital tonight”.) .  When questioned by British organizers, Martin Sheridan, the team captain, reportedly responded, pointing to the American Flag, “That flag dips before no earthly king.” While revisionists have questioned if Sheridan uttered those exact words, it is recorded that British officials did confront Rose, and the team, lead by Sheridan, quickly made clear that they supported his actions.

While retiring from Olympic competition, Martin Sheridan would continue a distinguished career to with the NYPD until his death one day before his 37^th Birthday in 1918; Sheridan was one of the first victims of the infamous 1918 Flu epidemic.

The Unjust Downgrading of Sheridan’s 1906 Medals

Unfortunately. Martin Sheridan and other competitors of the 1906 Olympics, including Ireland’s Gold Medalist Peter O’Connor, have been cheated of their due recognition by the International Olympic Committee (IOC) when they decided to retroactively downgrade the 1906 Olympics and not recognize the medals awarded at that competition.   In the infancy of the Olympic movement, the process of holding an Olympics was still evolving.   After the 1900 and 1904 games had not successfully built upon the success of the initial 1896 Olympics in Athens; it was proposed to hold the Olympic games every two years, alternating between Athens, as the birthplace of the Olympics, and an international site.  The 1906 Games were promoted as an Olympics by the IOC, had better participation than the two previous Olympics, and gave rise to many of the Olympic Traditions that are still practiced today (formal opening and closing ceremonies, the idea of athletes being members of a national team, an Olympic village where the athletes from around the world stay and socialize, the raising of the flags during medal presentations). 

There may have initially been some cold, if unjust, logic in demoting the 1906 Olympic games and its medals given at the time its one-off nature, but since then the Olympics has engaged in many similar “one-offs”; most notably the current 2021 games, which are now five years from the last Olympics and only three years from the next.  There is simply no reason, other than arbitrary obstinacy, for the IOC not to recognize Martin Sheridan and the other competitors of the 1906 Olympic Games medals as Olympic medals.

Please consider signing the petition below to the U.S. Olympic Committee and the International Olympic Committee calling for the medals of the 1906 Olympics to be recognized as Olympic medals.

Patrick Henry O’Rorke was born in County Cavan, Ireland on March 25, 1837. His family emigrated from Ireland when Patrick was but a year old, eventually settling in the “Little Dublin” neighborhood of Rochester, N.Y.  An excellent student, he earned one of two scholarships to the newly formed University of Rochester.  However, his father’s sudden death required young Patrick to take a job as a marble cutter to support his family.

Patrick’s talents were too considerable to go unrecognized for long.  He came to the attention of Congressman John Williams, who recommended him for the U.S. Military Academy at West Point.  He was appointed to the Academy on January 20, 1857 and became the first Irish Immigrant to be enrolled in the Corps of Cadets.    Despite the humbleness of his origins, foreign birth, Catholic religion and being a bit older than his fellow cadets, O’Rorke was well liked and respected by his classmates who knew him as “Paddy.”  An upperclassman later recalled O’Rorke as “popular with all . . . I was impressed by his manly bearing – his kindness and unassuming manner.”

While O’Rorke was a member of the class of 1862, the outbreak of the war in 1861 and the shortage of trained officers resulted in his class’ studies being accelerated

so that they would graduate with the class of 1861.  Despite having to cram the final years’ worth of studies into six weeks, O’Rorke, the first Irish immigrant to graduate West Point, finished first in his class.  As an aside, his better-known classmate George Armstrong Custer finished last.  O’Rorke was appointed to the prestigious Corps of Engineers.

O’Rorke was at the First Battle of Bull Run where the new lieutenant had his horse shot out from under him.  He then was assigned as an engineer to help prepare the defenses of Washington D.C. from what was feared would be an imminent Confederate assault.  Later, he served with such conspicuous distinction during the siege of Fort Pulaski on Cockspur Island near Savannah, Georgia that O’Rorke was given the high honor of being one of the officers to receive the Confederate surrender of the fort.

O’Rorke returned to Rochester to be married to Clara Bishop and appointed Colonel of the newly formed 140^th NY Regiment.  The 140^th New York was composed primarily of German and Irish recruits, half of the regiment’s soldiers were born in another country.  Despite being only 25 and commanding a regiment of hardscrabble Erie Canal boatman and farmers, O’Rorke soon had them molded into an efficient military unit.  O’Rorke’s adjutant Ira Clark wrote that “every man knew that in his Colonel, so long as he did his duty, he had a kind friend.”

O’Rorke and the 140^th NY saw action at the Battle of Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville.  On July 2^nd, 1863 the 140^th arrived by forced march at Gettysburg on the battle’s second day.  As part of the 3rd Brigade, the 140^th was immediately ordered to an area known as “the Wheatfield” to avert a potential disaster caused by a blunder made by Union General Dan Sickles.  As the 3^rd Brigade moved off with the 140 the last regiment in line, General Gouverneur K. Warren rode up to O’Rorke.  Warren had discovered that a steep hill called “Little Roundtop” which dominated the Union position had been left undefended. Warren knew O’Rorke from West Point, he had been his Mathematics instructor.  He ordered O’Rorke to reinforce Little Round Top; “Never mind (your Brigade Orders), Paddy. Bring them up on the double-quick and don’t stop for aligning. I’ll take the responsibility.”

This put O’Rorke in a dilemma.  O’Rorke had no obligation to follow Warren’s orders countermanding his Brigade Commander.  If things went badly in the Wheatfield, O’Rorke could be held responsible and face Court Martial and ruin.  Warren’s well-meaning assurance to “take the responsibility” would matter little if Warren should be killed in a battle that had already claimed so many lives.

O’Rorke did not hesitate.  Warren’s aide and fellow New Yorker George Washington Roebling, who would later build the Brooklyn Bridge, guided O’Rorke and his men as they scrambled up the steep hill; already exhausted from the forced march and oppressive July heat.  Reaching the top, O’Rorke saw the line of 16th Michigan beginning to crumble.

Without pause, O’Rorke drew his sword from his scabbard, and yelled: “down this way, boys!” The lead elements of the 140^th plunged over the side and “went in with a cheer,” following their Colonel to be met with a devastating volley from the advancing Confederates.  O’Rorke grabbed the regimental flag and turned to urge his men forward when a bullet ripped through his neck. Patrick O’Rorke was dead before he hit the ground.  He was 26 years old.

Harry Pfantz, the Chief Historian of the National Park Service, wrote that “O’Rorke’s five hundred men tipped the scales heavily in the defenders’ favor.” The Union would hold Little Round Top and defeat the Confederates. In his history of the American Civil War, the Comte de Paris would describe O’Rorke’s actions as one of the most striking and dramatic episodes of the battle.  Col. Joshua Chamberlain and the 20^th Maine would earn just immortality for their actions on Little Round Top later in the day.  However, the actions of Chamberlain and the 20^th Maine would not have been possible without O’Rorke, and the 140^th NY; their deeds should be equally remembered and honored.   

Postscript:  O’Rorke’s young widow Clara Bishop would take her vows as a nun of the Society of the Sacred Heart and have a distinguished career as an educator and foundress of several schools.

Neil Cosgrove, Irish American Heritage Month Chair

#IrishAmericanHeritageMonth #EmbraceYourIrishHeritageAOH

Imagine the loneliness and isolation of a person who is both deaf and blind. Even worse, imagine that isolation beginning when you were only 19 months old when the disease took these vital senses away before you comprehended the concept of what the word was, leaving you with limited means to convey your thought and feelings. This is the description of the challenge that newly graduated teacher Anne Sullivan was taking on when she was hired to be the governess and teacher to seven-year-old Hellen Keller. Anne was only twenty years old and was herself seriously visually impaired.

Sullivan was born on 14 April 1866 in Feeding Hills, Agawam, Massachusetts; the oldest child of Thomas and Alice Sullivan, who emigrated to the United States from Ireland during the Great Hunger. The family lived in extreme poverty. When she was five years old, Sullivan contracted the bacterial eye disease trachoma, a painful infection that left her nearly blind. When she was eight, her mother died from tuberculosis, and two years later, her father gave up his children as he could not raise them on his own. 

 Anne and her brother, Jimmie, were sent to the almshouse in Tewksbury, Massachusetts. Underfunded and overcrowded, the Tewksbury Almshouse housed an average of 940 men, women, and children during the years that Sullivan was there.   Among its residents were those suffering severe mental illness. With primitive medical care, the mortality rate was very high; within three months of their arrival, Jimmie died, leaving Anne alone in what could only be described as an earthly hell.

Eventually, word of the horrific conditions at Tewksbury became public knowledge, prompting the state board of charities to investigate. The now teenaged Anne had heard that there were schools that specialized in educating the visually impaired. When a group of inspectors came to the almshouse in 1880, Anne followed them around until finally flinging herself on one of the officials, Frank B. Sanborn, pleading, “Mr. Sanborn, Mr. Sanborn, I want to go to school!”

Anne was transferred to the Perkins School for the Blind on 7 October 1880. Anne was woefully behind in her education, and the rough manners required to survive in the almshouse made it difficult for her to fit in amongst a student body that was mainly composed of children of the affluent. Yet, she soon closed the gap with her classmates with iron-willed determination. Sullivan underwent a series of eye operations that significantly improved her vision. In June 1886, she graduated as the valedictorian of her class. In her valedictorian address, she stated:

“Duty bids us go forth into active life. Let us go cheerfully, hopefully, and earnestly, and set ourselves to find our especial [sic] part. When we have found it, willingly and faithfully perform it; for every obstacle we overcome, every success we achieve tends to bring man closer to God and make life more as He would have it.”

Sullivan arrived at Helen Keller’s house on March 5, 1887. Sullivan immediately began to teach Helen to communicate by spelling words into her hand, starting with “d-o-l-l” for the doll that she had brought Keller as a present. At first, the work was slow and frustrating; Keller had no understanding of connecting objects and words.

However, after a month of Sullivan’s constant and patient efforts, there was a breakthrough. As Sullivan spelled the word water in one hand while running cool water over the other, Helen Keller made the connection that the gestures symbolized “water.”   

Sullivan’s breakthrough in communicating with Keller came the next month when Helen realized that the motions her teacher was making on the palm of her hand while running cool water over her other hand symbolized the idea of “water.”  Keller later recalled, “I stood still, my whole attention fixed upon the motions of her fingers. Suddenly I felt a misty consciousness as of something forgotten — a thrill of returning thought; and somehow the mystery of language was revealed to me. I knew then that w-a-t-e-r meant the wonderful cool something that was flowing over my hand. The living word awakened my soul, gave it light, hope, set it free!.”  Having released the genie of language out of the bottle, Keller nearly exhausted Sullivan with her zeal to learn the names of the other objects in her world. Within six months under Anne Sullivan’s guidance, Keller learned 575 words and the “multiplication tables as high as five and the Braille system.”

Anne Sullivan would be Helen Keller’s companion for the rest of Anne’s life. She would travel with Hellen to study at the Perkins School for the Blind and later the Horace Mann School for the Deaf.   She accompanied Helen to Radcliff, where Keller graduated as a member of Phi Beta Kappa, becoming the first deaf-blind person to earn a Bachelor of Arts degree. 

Anne Sullivan would remain a constant companion to Helen Keller until her death on October 20, 1936, with Helen holding her hand.   Sullivan was interred at the National Cathedral in Washington, D.C, the first woman to be recognized for her achievements in this way. When Keller died in 1968, she was cremated, and her ashes were interred alongside those of Sullivan.

It was no less a person than  Mark Twain who described Anne Sullivan as ‘a Miracle Worker.’  Sullivan not only conquered the darkness of her own early life but opened the world to a young girl cut off and alone. Anne Sullivan’s resolute spirit should inspire all of us.

Neil F. Cosgrove  ©

Let’s take them one at a time.  Some claim St. Patrick to be Italian because he was born in Roman occupied territory, and his name was Patricius.  Sadly, the mists of time have clouded the exact location of his birth, but what is concluded from available evidence is that he was born somewhere in Wales around 386 AD.  Patrick himself wrote that the scene of his youth was Banavem Tiburniae (possibly the town of Tiburnia near Holyhead in western Wales), where his father was a member of the governing body.  Other Welsh sources suggest southern Wales near the Bristol Channel at the mouth of the Severn River.  Although Wales was part of the Roman Empire at that time, it was a Celtic country and its people were one race with the people of Ireland, Scotland, Brittany, Cornwall, and the Isle of Man.  As for his Italian sounding name, it was given to him when he was consecrated Bishop and assigned to the mission in Ireland.  Before that time, our patron Saint’s name was Succat, a Celtic name meaning victorious.  There is, therefore, more evidence to suggest that Patrick was Celtic than any other nationality.  He even identified himself as such in his letter to the British prince, Corocticus.

As for the snakes, although a popular legend, it is scientifically known that there never were any in Ireland, to begin with.  His connection with that legend stems from the Viking misinterpretation of his name.  Paud in the old Norse language meant a toad, and when the Vikings heard of a Saint called Paud-rig, who had lived in Ireland before their coming, they concluded it meant toad-expeller.  That was only the beginning, because the legend was reinforced by the Church’s representation of the Devil in the form of a serpent, and statues of Patrick driving the Devil out of Ireland in that form.  The fact that there were no snakes led to the question, “what happened to them,” and the answer was easily found in St Patrick’s traditional statue.  However, Patrick is more revered for what he brought to Ireland than what he drove away.  Yet he was not the first to bring Christianity . . . he was, however, the most effective.

The story began when Patrick was about 16 years old, and Ireland’s High King, Niall of the Nine Hostages, sent warriors to raid the coast of Wales for slaves.  Among the hostages taken was the youth, Succat.  According to tradition, he was taken to Mt. Slemish, Co. Antrim, where he tended the flocks of either a Druid or a Chieftain, according to Ludwig Beiler’s The Life and Legend of St. Patrick.  After six years, Succat escaped following a voice that he heard in his dreams.  He fled to Wexford, found passage, and eventually returned to his family.  There he received his vocation for missionary work in Ireland in three separate dreams – the most notable was one in which the voice of the Irish called to him, “Holy youth, come again and walk among us.”

Succat received religious training at monastic settlements in Gaul, Italy, and the islands of the Tyrrhene Sea.  He was ordained a Deacon by Amator, Bishop of Auxerre about 418 AD, and was consecrated Bishop – receiving the name Patricius – in 432 AD.  At the time, there were a few Christians already in Ireland, but without a central authority and in such isolated areas as an island in Wexford harbor where St. Ibar had established his church and school.

In any case, it is certain that Patrick was in Auxerre in 431, when St. Germanus selected Palladius, a contemporary of Patrick’s, as the first Bishop of Ireland, but that mission was short-lived.  According to the memoirs of Tirechan, a cleric in Meath about 690 AD, Palladius died or left within a year.  Patrick was assigned to replace him in 432.  Working to his advantage was the fact that Patrick knew Irish customs and language from his years in captivity and the fact that he was a Celt.  Patrick never condemned the Irish as idolatrous pagans but appealed to their pride.  He explained their traditions in terms of Christianity and was eventually accepted as one of their own.  He converted key people among the nobility and recruited a native clergy.

He began his missionary work in Ulster, built his first Church at Saul, two miles from Downpatrick, and from there journeyed across the land.  Patrick’s own writings and the writings of his contemporaries show him to have been a missionary of extraordinary zeal, energy, and courage, careless of his own safety in his fervor to `spread the nets for God’.  In his own writings, he mentions this `divine impatience’ as well as describing himself as one of the Irish.  For 29 years, Patrick labored among his beloved Irish, converting and baptizing them by the thousands until his death on March 17, 461 AD.  Tradition establishes that he was buried at Downpatrick where he shares the same grave with Saints Bridget and Columcille who were later interred with him to protect their remains from Viking raiders.  He was recognized as a saint in the 17th century by the extension of his feast day to the universal Church calendar.

However, by all accounts, the most momentous part of his legacy is the form of Christianity he left in Ireland for it inspired a life of sacrifice for the sins of man.  That sacrifice, which became known as ‘white martyrdom’ included prayerful solitude, fasting, tedious transcription of sacred documents, abstinence from worldly pleasures which to some meant dressing in coarse garments and sleeping on hard beds with stone pillows, and most importantly, missionary activity.  It was this devotion which led to Ireland becoming the Isle of Saints and Scholars, the University of Europe and the Lamp of the West; and it was his fervor to spread the nets for God that led future generations of Irish monks to travel the continent as missionaries, bringing the light of learning back into the abyss after the Dark Ages and saving civilization.

This then is the man – the Saint – that we honor in March, and it our duty to see that nothing but praise and reverence are attached to his name.  We may celebrate his memory with joy, but remember his love for the Irish, the tremendous gift of faith that he bestowed upon us and the inspiration he provided which benefitted civilization, and celebrate with reverent joy.  We can begin by replacing all references to Paddy’s Day with the proper name of Saint Patrick’s Day for the difference between Paddy’s Day and St. Patrick’s Day is the same as the difference between the office Christmas Party and Midnight Mass.

During its period of operation from 1892 till 1954, over 12 million immigrants entered through the immigration station at Ellis Island, a name that was to become synonymous with the “Golden Door” and the “American Dream”. It is estimated that today over forty percent of the United States population can trace their ancestry to an immigrant that entered Ellis Island.

On New Year’s Day Morning 1892 on the deck of the steamship Nevada stood three adolescents, Annie Moore and her brothers Phillip and Anthony. They were perhaps staring at another recent immigrant from France, the Statue of Liberty. The children had made the twelve-day voyage from Cork in the claustrophobic conditions of steerage to be reunited with their parents and older siblings who had traveled on ahead to make a new life in America two years earlier. In addition to the natural apprehension of starting a new life in a strange land, the children had no doubt heard that they would be subject to a series of examinations at the immigration station; they would be checked to ensure they were healthy and then interrogated to ensure they were neither a threat or likely to become “a public charge”. A slight malady or a wrong answer could result in them being returned to the Nevada and a trip back to Ireland alone. It therefore must have been with some anxiety that Annie realized that she would be the first to go down the gangplank.

It must have been quite a shock when Annie now found herself caught up in what we would now call a PR event surrounding the opening of the new immigration station. The New York Times was there and described Annie as “a little rosy-cheeked Irish girl… fifteen years of age.” (Actually, Annie was closer to seventeen years of age. The children’s ages were all misstated on the manifest, perhaps an attempt by their parents to save money on their passage.) Instead of an anonymous immigration agent, Annie was officially registered by the former private secretary to the secretary of the treasury. The Times continued “When the little voyager had been registered Col. Weber presented her with a ten-dollar gold piece and made a short address of congratulation and welcome. It was the first United States coin she had ever seen and the largest sum of money she ever possessed. She says she will never part with it.” This moment was later commemorated in the song “Isle of Hope, Isle of Tears” popularized by the Irish tenor Ronan Tynan.

Sadly, there would be no fairy tale ending to the life of Annie Moore, her brief moment of notoriety would be a shining moment in a hard and trying life. The statement that Annie would never part with the ten dollar gold piece was likely an invention of a romantic reporter; the coin probably never lasted the day when Annie was reunited with her family who was eking out an existence on her father’s longshoreman salary. She would spend the rest of her life living in a series of tenements near the Fulton Street Fish Market. She would marry the son of a German immigrant who was employed as a bakery clerk. They would have 11 children, but would bury five of them. Annie herself would die at the early age of 47 in 1924; burned out by a life of poverty and struggle.

Annie Moore was initially buried in an unmarked grave in Calvary Cemetery, Queens until it was rediscovered in 2006. Through the efforts of the Irish American community, the grave was marked by a Celtic Cross of Irish Blue Limestone. Some cynics questioned the elaborateness of the memorial given the grim reality of Annie’s life. However, in honoring Annie Moore we honor all the other anonymous Irish men and women who came to this country and sacrificed their present for future generations’ tomorrow while at the same time building America. It is reported that many of the current descendants of Annie’s surviving children are successful and respected members of the community.

It is right and proper that we remember the many great Irish American men and women who gained well deserved distinction in government, the military, the arts and sciences. However in remembering Annie Moore we remember the countless other anonymous Irish Americans who loaded our ships as Annie’s father did, built our railroads, fought our fires, patrolled our streets and taught in our schools.

Annie Moore is a reminder that the success of Irish America comes from sweat, sacrifice, and tears and not “the luck of the Irish”. It is time we reclaimed the struggle and successes of Irish America from the unmarked grave where it currently lies buried in our school’s curricula. She is also a reminder that the “Golden Door” that she once walked through is now unjustly closed to Irish immigrants as it freely swings open to others; a challenge to complete her memorial by seeking a fair and just immigration policy for today’s Annie Moore’s.

Neil F. Cosgrove  ©

John Phillip Holland was born on February 24, 1841 in small coastal town of Liscannor, County Clare. His mother was a native Irish speaker and young John himself would not learn English until he attended school. Holland’s father was a coastal patrolman for the British Coastguard Service and instilled in the young Holland a love of the sea. With aspirations to go to sea, young Holland walked 5-1/2 miles each way to attend the Christian Brothers secondary school in Ennistymon because they offered a course in navigation. However Holland’s dreams of maritime life were soon dashed by frail health which would plague him throughout his life and poor eyesight.

The family moved to Limerick, where Holland became a student of Brother Bernard O’Brien, a distinguished science teacher and excellent engineer who was a tremendous influence on him. With his father’s death, young Holland began a career as a teacher, and then decided to take his initial vows as a Christian Brother himself. It soon became apparent that young Brother Holland was an inveterate inventor, at one point building a mechanical duck that fascinated his students.

Holland’s health soon intervened in his aspirations to be a Christian Brother. Falling ill, Holland was sent to an Aunt for treatment and to recuperate. While recovering, Holland was taken by accounts of the ongoing Civil War in America and was particularly fascinated by reports of a revolution in Naval warfare: the battle between the ironclads USS Monitor and the CSS Virginia (Merrimack). Holland realized that the age of wooden ships was gone forever and that ironclads were the future. As a child who had experienced the dark side of British rule during the Great Hunger, Holland was concerned that England’s industrial might positioned her to dominate the new technology. Holland wondered “how [other peoples of the world] would protect themselves against those designs.” The course of Holland’s life was set.

Holland returned briefly to the Christian Brothers, but before he could make his final vows illness struck him again causing him to withdraw from the order. Holland decided to follow his mother and brothers who had immigrated to America. Arriving in 1873, Holland took a lay teaching position at St. Joseph’s school Paterson and brought with him plans to counter England’s naval ambitions: a submarine.

Holland initially approached the U.S. Navy to sponsor development of his submarine, but his design was dismissed as impractical. However, Holland’s brother Michael soon found a sponsor for Holland’s work: Clan na Gael, the American branch of the Irish Republican Brotherhood, or Fenians who saw in it a weapon to fight for Ireland’s freedom. After a successful demonstration, the Fenians funded development of a full size submarine that would later be dubbed the ”Fenian Ram”. Holland’s submarine had many of the features that became fundamental to submarine design: it was driven by a combustion engine on the surface, but used battery power when submerged, it was fitted with both ballast and compressed air tanks. In an initial trial, the submarine made 3-1/2 knots on the surface and was able to stay submerged for over an hour and successfully return to the surface.

However, there was one challenge that Holland had not counted on: the classic “Irish split”. Internal fighting within the Fenians and allegations of inappropriate use of the “skirmish fund” resulted in cancellation of funding for Holland’s submarine development. A faction of the Fenians stole the “Fenian Ram” and another prototype. The prototype sank in transit while subsequent attempts by inexperienced crews to operate the “Fenian Ram” resulted in it being impounded as a menace to navigation.

Submarines however were finally gaining the attention of the U.S. Navy. Holland competed for and won a contract to develop a submarine to be named the USS Plunger for the Navy. However, Holland soon realized that the Navy’s shifting design requirements were dooming the project to failure. On his own Holland began developing his own design, the Holland VI. When sea trials came, the USS Plunger proved to be the disaster that Holland had predicted. Holland then demonstrated the Holland VI which in trials exceeded the Navy’s requirements. The Holland VI was commissioned into the U.S. Navy on April 11, 1900 as the USS Holland, the U.S. Navy’s first modern submarine and an order for an additional six more was placed.

It would be nice if the story could conclude on this triumph as a happy ending, but it cannot. Holland’s vision always exceeded his meager pocketbook and he was near poverty. To continue his work Holland formed a partnership with Isaac L. Rice, a businessman who controlled the manufacture of the storage batteries that were integral to Holland’s design. Holland and Rice formed a new company, fittingly called Electric Boat, which is still in operation today as the leader in submarine design. Holland soon found that his partner began isolating him, forcing him into less and less significant roles within his own company while others took credit for Holland’s ideas as they now rapidly evolved with proper financial backing. Holland left Electric Boat to form his own company, only to be dragged through the courts by Electric Boat who claimed not only ownership of Holland’s patents but even Holland’s own name as applied to submarines. While Holland eventually won in court, the damage had been done, potential investors had been scared off. Holland, broken and bitter, was forced into retirement. John Phillip Holland died at his home in Patterson on August 12, 1914 just as World War I was breaking out in Europe, a war in which Holland’s vision of the submarine would be proven with devastating effectiveness.

The genius of Irish Immigrant John Phillip Holland deserves a kinder fate. Holland’s discoveries and his over twenty patents are still protecting our national security today in the shield that is the Navy’s submarine fleet.

Neil F. Cosgrove  ©

At the young age of 32, Thomas Foley was already an 11-year decorated veteran firefighter of the FDNY and a legend. He was a larger than life individual who embraced life to the fullest and seemed to excel at everything he tried from powerlifting to skydiving. Having learned to ride horses on visits to his grandfather’s farm, he even excelled as a competitor on the rodeo circuit. With boyish good looks, Thomas Foley was featured twice by People Magazine and appeared in the FDNY’s “2003 Calendar of Heroes.”

However, being a firefighter was Thomas Foley’s first passion; it was all he wanted to do since visiting the firehouse of a family friend as a boy “running around and getting filthy dirty.” Years later, young Tommy Foley’s dream was fulfilled; a fellow firefighter remembered Thomas Foley as “Coming out of a fire, filthy, coughing, covered in black soot and when he’d see you he’d have that big smile on his face.” On August 30, 1999, Thomas Foley gained national notoriety when he rappelled down a seventeen-story building to perform a daring rescue when a collapsed scaffold left two workmen hanging on for their lives. He was truly one of the Bravest of the Bravest.

Responding to the attack on 9/11 as a member of the elite Bronx Rescue Company 3, Thomas Foley rushed to the World Trade Center; he and his entire Company would be among the 343 FDNY firefighters killed on that day when the towers collapsed.

Dan Foley, Thomas Foley’s younger brother, had followed in his brother’s footsteps to join the FDNY. He was off duty on 9/11, but rushed to the site when it was reported that his brother Tommy was missing. When it became apparent that Tommy was gone, Dan Foley promised his parents he would not leave the site until he found his brother. Amazingly amidst the tons of rubble and debris, Dan Foley found his brother ten days later and carried the body of his body from ground zero; Dan kept his word, he brought his brother home.

What Dan Foley and hundreds of other first responders engage in the recovery efforts at ground zero did not realize was that they too would become casualties of 9/11. After a distinguished 21-year career with the FDNY as a member of his fallen brothers Rescue Company 3, Dan Foley passed away from 9/11 related cancer on February 22, 2020, leaving behind a wife and five children. He was forty-six. It is not surprising that days before the diagnosis of his illness, on what would be his last day as a firefighter, Dan Foley was credited with saving four young children from a burning apartment.

At one awards ceremony where Thomas Foley was being honored, he responded to a question regarding the source of his drive and accomplishments by smiling and saying, “When anyone asks me, I just tell them ‘I’m Irish.’” Our heritage seems to generate remarkable men and women with astonishing regularity. The story of the Foley Brothers is a story that our Irish heritage has so often produced; the story of the Foleys now joins the story of the Sullivan and Niland brothers. Because of Irish Americans like Thomas and Dan Foley, we too should never hesitate to say “I’m Irish” and never let being Irish be trivialized.

THIS IRISH AMERICAN HERITAGE MONTH PROFILE IS PRESENTED BY THE ANCIENT ORDER OF HIBERNIANS (AOH.COM)

#IrishAmericanHeritageMonth

Neil F. Cosgrove  ©

In the history of the Medal of Honor, the United States Highest award for “conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty“, only 19 men have been awarded the medal twice. Among them is Marine Sergeant Major Daniel Daly, one of only two marines to receive the Medal of Honor Twice for separate acts of heroism and nominated for a third.

Daly was born in Glen Cove, Long Island, New York, on 11 November 1873. He was slight of stature, only 5’ 6″ in height and weighing 132 lbs, yet enjoyed an early reputation as a fighter, a reputation he would prove more than deserved.

Daly was part of the U.S. Embassy Guard in Peking when the Boxer Rebellion broke out in 1900. In one of the most memorable acts of that war, the Boxers surrounded the compound of the foreign legations in Peking and laid siege to it for 55 days. At one point, when German Marines of the German embassy were forced back, Daly by himself took a position in a bastion on the Tarter Wall and remained there throughout the night. Subjected to sniper fire and numerous attacks, when relieved in the morning Private Daly was still holding his position with the bodies of numerous attackers surrounding his position attesting to his bravery. For this he was awarded his first Medal of Honor.

Fifteen years later found now Gunnery Sergeant Daly in Haiti fighting against the Cacos. The reconnaissance company of 38 men that Daly belonged to was ambushed by over 400 of the enemy while attempting to ford a river at night. Among the casualties was the mule carrying the company’s machine gun. After getting his men to a good position, Daly returned, alone and under enemy fire, to the river and searched for the gun. He found it, and was able to bring the gun and its ammunition back to the Marine position. Daly then took command of one part of a three pronged assault on the rebel position, killing 75 rebels and scattering the rest. As one of the two officers present noted, “Had one squad failed, not one man of the party would have lived to tell the tale. Gunnery Sergeant Daly, 15th Company, during the operations was the most conspicuous figure among the enlisted men.” Daly was awarded his second Medal of Honor.

However, Daly was not finished yet; there was yet the incident for which he is perhaps best remembered in the Marines. In June 1918, at the battle of Belleau Wood in World War I, the Marines were under a heavy artillery barrage and pinned down. Realizing that to stay where they were would lead to certain death, the now 44 year old Daly, led a counter-attack with a battle cry that has become Marines lore, “Come on, you sons of B——, do you want to live forever?!” Later in the battle, Daly single-handedly eliminated a machine gun nest with nothing more than his 45 pistol and grenades. In the course of the battle he was wounded three times.

Daly was recommended for a third Medal of Honor, and the NY Times reported it as a certainty.   However, petty bureaucratic politics came into play, and a capricious decision was made that the Medal of Honor could only be awarded twice, no matter how deserving subsequent acts of valor were.  Daly’s third Medal of Honor was denied solely on this technicality; instead, he was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross, the Navy Cross, and France’s Médaille Militaire.

Perhaps the greatest tribute was paid by General Smedley D. Butler, the other Marine to be awarded two Congressional Medals of Honor for separate acts of valor, who called Daly “The fightinest Marine I ever knew.” Offered promotion several times, Daly once remarked “I would rather be an outstanding sergeant than just another officer“.

Neil F. Cosgrove  ©

Nellie Bly was born Elizabeth Cochrane on May 5, 1864 in Cochran’s Mills, now part of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.   Her father, Michael Cochran (Elizabeth would add the ‘e’ to the last name later), was the son of an immigrant from Derry who has started as a laborer and had prospered to the point of buying the local mill after which the town was named.  Elizabeth was one of five children Michael had with his second wife, Mary Jane Kennedy.  Michael Cochran had ten children by his first wife.

The young Elizabeth’s world suddenly collapsed when her father died when she was six years old without leaving a will. The Court directed that his assets be sold and divided amongst the children of both marriages, putting her mother in precarious financial circumstances.  Her mother remarried, but the second husband was abusive, resulting in a divorce that further strained the family’s finances, forcing Elizabeth to drop out of school where she had been studying to be a teacher.

Given the experiences she had so far endured in her young life, it was little wonder that a condescending article entitled “What Girls are Good For” in the Pittsburgh Dispatch provoked a fiery response from young Elizabeth, who penned a letter to the editor dramatically signed “Lonely Orphan Girl.” The editor was so impressed with the rebuttal that he ran an ad asking whoever wrote it to come forward and identify herself.   Meeting Elizabeth Cochrane and impressed with her spirit, he offered her a job.  It was customary for women reporters to write under a pseudonym; the editor suggested “Nelly Bly,” the subject of a popular Stephen Foster song.  When it went to print, “Nelly” was accidentally changed to “Nellie” and stuck; Nellie Bly was born. 

Showing her spirit for adventure, Bly traveled to Mexico despite knowing no Spanish lived and lived among the Mexican people, sending back reports on their daily lives and customs. However, her streak as a crusader also manifested itself, and she soon had to flee the country before being arrested for criticizing the government of dictator Porfirio Díaz.  Her dispatches were later compiled into a book entitled “Six Months in Mexico.”  

Despite proving herself as an investigative reporter, Bly soon found herself given nothing more than “domestic topics” to write on despite her protests.  One day her editor came into the newsroom to find a note from Bly stating, “I am off for New York. Look out for me.”

Despite being an experienced reporter, Bly found it nearly impossible to break into New York journalism.  Bly eventually talked her way into  Joseph Pulitzer’s The World newspaper offices with a proposal to do an investigative piece on New York City’s notorious Women’s Lunatic Asylum on Blackwell’s Island (now Roosevelt Island) by having herself committed as a patient.  As events would later prove, this was a hazardous undertaking;  it was later admitted that they were not clear on how they would get her out of the asylum at the time.

Bly got into her character with a vengeance.  She practiced a “faraway expression in a mirror” and stopped practicing personal hygiene.   She then dressed in tattered second-hand clothes and checked herself into a boarding house for women, where she began looking for a non-existent trunk and ranting.  Within 24 hours, her outbursts had the residents calling the police in fear of their lives.  A judge remanded Bly to Bellevue Hospital’s psychiatric ward, where the chief doctor diagnosed her as “delusional and undoubtedly insane.” She was committed to Blackwood Island.

Bly would spend ten days in the hell of Blackwood’s asylum.  She would later write of spoiled food, lack of warm clothing and a treatment of ice-cold baths that simulated drowning.  The matrons were abusive; some were actually inmates from a penitentiary that shared the island, who regularly beat and choked the patients.  Even worse were prolonged periods of social isolation.  Bly wrote:

 “Take a perfectly sane and healthy woman, shut her up and make her sit from 6 a.m. to 8 p.m. on straight-back benches, do not allow her to talk or move during these hours, give her no reading and let her know nothing of the world or its doings, give her bad food and harsh treatment, and see how long it will take to make her insane. Two months would make her a mental and physical wreck.“

More concerningly, Bly found that many of the women confined at the asylum were sane.  One patient was a German woman whose only malady was that she had such a thick accent that she had been diagnosed as speaking gibberish.  Some were inconvenient wives whom their husbands had put away.  Ominously, Bly dropped her insane act once she had achieved her goal, yet found “the more sanely I talked and acted, the crazier I was thought to be.” It was clear that once a woman was committed, it was virtually impossible to be released.

After ten days, the lawyers for “The World” appeared with a court order for her release. Bly’s expose “Behind Asylum Bars,” which would later form the basis of a book, “Ten Days in a Madhouse,” became a nationwide sensation and Bly a national celebrity.  The attention she raised resulted in the appropriation of an additional one million dollars (a tremendous sum in the late 19^th century) to the annual budget for the treatment of the mentally ill in New York City.

Bly would not be out of the public consciousness for long.  She proposed to Joseph Pulitzer recreating the fictional journey of Phineas Fogg in Jules Verne’s Around the World in Eighty Days and to complete the trip in even less time.  Pulitzer resisted sending her. He told her that her gender would make the trip impossible. “Very well,” Bly replied, “Start the man, and I’ll start the same day for some other newspaper and beat him.” By this time, Pulitzer knew it was no idle threat and conceded.

Bly began her trip with but a single carry-on bag. When she reached Paris, she had lunch with Jules Verne, who offered her his encouragement.  When she left New York, Bly was unaware that a competing paper had dispatched their own woman reporter in an attempt to beat her; their reporter turned out to be no competition as while she wrote flowery prose about scenery and sunsets, Bly reported on people and their customs.  The public followed her daily reports with fascination as she traveled lands they had never heard of.

When Bly arrived in California, she was behind schedule by two days due to storms in the Pacific but found that Pulitzer had chartered train waiting to bring her home. She arrived back in New Jersey on January 25, 1890 completing the trip in just over seventy-two days.  Nellie Bly was a national sensation.

Bly continued to be a crusading reporter for several more years, but never equaled the fame of her earlier exploits.   She married millionaire manufacturer Robert Seaman, a man forty-two years her senior, and left Journalism.  Upon her husband’s death, she took over his Iron Clad Manufacturing Co., which made steel containers.  As with all her endeavors, Bly threw all her energies behind it.  She obtained several patents in her own name for designing new containers.  However, as if coming full circle to her earlier life, finances proved her bane.  As biographer Brooke Kroeger noted, “She ran her company as a model of social welfare, replete with health benefits and recreational facilities. But Bly was hopeless at understanding the financial aspects of her business and ultimately lost everything.”  

Bly briefly returned to journalism, even covering WW I from the eastern front, before succumbing to pneumonia at the age of 57; a representative of a type of journalism which we should seek to recapture and an Irish American we should always remember.

Neil F. Cosgrove  ©

For many Irish Americans, watching John Ford’s ‘The Quiet Man” is as much a part of St. Patrick’s Day tradition as Frank Capra’s “It’s a Wonderful Life” is a part of Christmas. Both movies depict an idealized time and place that was much simpler than today, or in fact, ever was, but the basic themes of the importance of values and friendship still speak to us. Not to be overlooked in our enjoyment of “The Quiet Man” is the very complex man who gave us this movie, Irish American John Ford. 

John Ford was born John Martin Feeney in Cape Elizabeth, Maine, on February 1, 1894. His parents were Gaelic-speaking immigrants; Ford’s father, a saloonkeeper and Democratic Party Ward boss, was born in Spiddal County Galway, his mother from the isle of Inishmore in the Aran Islands. Despite being one of eleven children, several of his siblings not surviving childhood, Ford grew up in reasonably comfortable surroundings. However, the slights and offenses he and his family endured as Irish Americans in Yankee-dominated New England forged a pugnacity that would mark his later life. In an era when all Americans were expected to assimilate, Ford took a defiant pride in his heritage and culture. As actor and fellow director Orson Wells would observe, “(Ford) had chips on his shoulder like epaulets.” 

John Ford entered into a career in film after following his older brother Francis (who was the first to take the stage name of “Ford”), an already established actor and director of silent films, to California in 1914. He began a three-year apprenticeship where he learned his craft through being an assistant, handyman, stuntman, and occasionally an actor. In 1917 Ford was given his first film as a director, “The Tornado,” a movie in which he also starred. Per Ford, then Head of Universal Studios Carl Laemmle gave him the job of director with the recommendation, “Give Jack Ford the job—he yells good.” It is unlikely that Mr. Laemmle realized at the time that this 23-year-old young man who “yells good” would go on to make over 140 films and win six Academy Awards. Ford’s first film would also set the themes for the movies John Ford is most associated with: the West and the Irish. The film was a western where Ford himself played a cowboy who earns a $5,000 reward, which he sends to his mother in Ireland so she can keep the family home. 

Ford pioneered location shooting and the “long shot,” where his characters are framed against a vast natural terrain such as Monument Valley, Utah, an area still called “John Ford Country.”  Fellow directors  Akira Kurosawa, Orson Welles, and Ingmar Bergman cited him as one of the greatest directors of all time. Orson Wells stated that he watched John Ford’s “Stagecoach” forty times before he began shooting “Citizen Kane“.

However, perhaps an even greater trademark of Ford is the inclusion of Irish American values in his films: Duty, Loyalty, Family, and the commitment to the values of one’s heritage within a bigger and sometimes hostile society. These are themes that are to be seen whether the subject matter was a coal mining town in Wales in “How Green was my Valley,” an isolated western cavalry post in “Fort Apache,” the struggles of an old-time party machine politician whose world is changing in “The Last Hurrah” or Ireland during the Black and Tan wars in “The Informer.” Many of Ford’s films are filled with Irish immigrants who are willing to sacrifice themselves so that future generations may advance up the social ladder, but never at the sacrifice of their cultural identity. Even in his Academy Award-winning film “The Grapes of Wrath” concerning Oklahoma farmers forced to leave their farms during the Great Depression, Ford saw parallels to Ireland’s Great Hunger.  

Ford lived the values of loyalty and family off the screen. Ford and his actors bonded in an extended family (sometimes called The John Ford Stock Company) that he used, again and again, in his pictures; more than a few actors whom other directors rejected, thinking their marquee value had faded, could always find work with John Ford. 

Another theme Ford embraced in film, and his personal life was that there was no conflict between being proud of one’s heritage and patriotism to one’s county. At the outbreak of WW II, John Ford joined the United State Navy, where his talents as a director were used to make morale-boosting documentaries, two of which earned Academy Awards. Ford was on Midway Island when the Japanese launched their attack and continued filming while in an exposed position, being wounded by enemy machine gun fire in the process. Ford was present on Omaha Beach on D-Day, landing himself with a team of Coast Guard Cameramen filming the landing while under heavy fire. In addition to being cited for bravery, John Ford eventually attained the rank of Rear Admiral. 

While many great directors cite John Ford as their influence and consider him one of the great directors of all time, some unfairly applying today’s standards to works produced more than half a century ago, regarding his work as “Politically Incorrect” rather than realizing how revolutionary they were in the context of their own time. The film “Fort Apache” was unique for its time in portraying Native Americans sympathetically as victims of the U.S. government, a theme Ford revisited in his film “Cheyenne Autumn.” His film “Sgt. Rutledge” was perhaps the first major Holywood film to recognize the contribution of African American Buffalo Soldiers and the struggles they faced.

Others criticized works such as Ford’s “The Quiet Man” as overly simplistic or depicting an Ireland that never was and missing the point this is not a history of Ireland but a poetic story of a child of immigrants longing for a connection to his heritage. Ford tells us this clearly when the character Sean Thornton says, “Since I was a kid livin’ in a shack near the slag heaps, my mother’s told me about Innisfree …. Inishfree became another word for heaven to me.” Or perhaps the best response is one Ford gave to a film historian who was questioning why Ford deviated from history in his film “My Darling Clementine.”   “Did you like the film?” Ford asked. The historian admitted it was one of his favorites. Ford replied sharply, “What more do you want?” 

For those who still don’t understand, perhaps all that is left are John Ford’s words to Eugene O’Neill “If there is any single thing that explains either of us, it’s that we are Irish.” 

When someone wants to quickly set an atmosphere of “Irishness,” whether it is a major motion picture or a local Irish restaurant, they invariably use the same element: music.  Music is an essential element of Celtic life; the harper, piper, and the fiddler hold a place of honor and esteem.  Wherever the Irish have traveled, they have taken their music with them as one of their prize possessions, and the sound of Irish music can be heard in Dublin, Denver, and Durban.  Irish music is a highly personal art form; it is an aural tradition passed on from generation to generation through playing and listening.  It is one of our culture’s most identifiable and enduring elements. Yet, it was nearly lost if not for the tenacity and dedication of one man: Chief Francis O’Neill.

O’Neill was born in the town of Tralibane, West Cork, on August 28, 1848, one of ten children.  He was fortunate enough that his childhood was spared the horrors of the Great Hunger, but he would witness the scars that this tragedy left upon the land and its people and the pattern of massive emigration it set in motion.  The O’Neill’s appeared to have weathered the Great Hunger and subsequently prospered by the standards of rural Ireland of the time, allowing young Francis an opportunity at a good education.  The O’Neill home was constantly filled with music, O’Neill’s maternal grandfather was respected as one of the last of the Gaelic clan chieftains, and he would follow the ancient custom of extending hospitality to itinerant musicians.  O’Neill’s mother naturally absorbed a great collection of the tunes and songs of Munster and, through her singing, passed them on to young O’Neill, creating what he would in later life describe as a “madness” for music.  Francis taught himself the flute and soon became an accomplished player. 

O’Neill’s education and quick mind seemed to destine him to be a teacher or for the priesthood, but the quiet life of a scholar was not appealing to the young man.  At the age of 16, he ran away to sea, circling the world at least twice and surviving a shipwreck in the South Pacific and a subsequent “Robinson Caruso” existence.  O’Neill left the sea and married a young Irish woman he had met on one of his voyages.  He tried ranching in Montana and teaching in Missouri before finally settling in Chicago. 

In the aftermath of the Great Chicago Fire of 1871, the city of Chicago earned a reputation for lawlessness and corruption.  O’Neill was sworn in as a policeman in 1873 and was shot a few months later while apprehending a notorious gangster.  The bullet was too close to the spine to be removed, and O’Neill carried it for the rest of his life.  Achieving top marks on every police exam he took, he soon worked his way up through the ranks, eventually obtaining its highest rank as Superintendent, also known as “Chief.”  Renowned for his honesty, he once locked up a powerful alderman and personally redesigned the Chicago Police Badge so that Id numbers were more visible and Officers could be held more accountable.  O’Neill was so respected that even in an age where patronage was rife, he maintained his appointment over two different administrations.

However, music remained O’Neill’s passion.  He soon found in the rich Irish immigrant community of Chicago that he had within a few blocks radius access to musicians from across the breadth of Ireland and traditional tunes which were known only locally back home. However, O’Neill saw in this byproduct of the diaspora not only an opportunity but a crisis:  as the Irish spread across the world, the aural tradition of Irish music was removed from the close confines of Ireland, and its protective incubator was in peril.   O’Neill actively sought out Irish musicians and began collecting tunes.  Following in his grandfather’s footsteps and giving a new connotation to his official title, “Chief,” O’Neill would often sponsor Irish musicians in need of employment for jobs on the Chicago Police Department.  A running joke at the time was, “What do you call an Irish Musician in Chicago?  Officer.  What do you call a great Irish Musician in Chicago?  Sergeant.“

O’Neill had one limitation in his tune collecting; like many Irish Musicians, he learned by ear and had a tremendous ability to retain tunes in his head, but he could not read nor write music.  Fortunately, one of his officers James O’Neill (no relation), was not only a respected fiddler but could read and write music.   O’Neill would act as a human tape recorder going about the city, mentally capturing tunes he heard and then playing them back for James O’Neill to set down on paper.  What was unique in Francis O’Neill’s endeavor was that this was not preserving the music of kings and heroes of a bygone age; this was creating a permanent record of the music of the ordinary people of Ireland, the music of the parlor and the ceili.  When Thomas Edison’s phonograph was displayed at the 1893 World’s Fair, O’Neill was one of his first buyers.  Thanks to Chief O’Neill, we can hear some of the legendary Irish Musicians of the age.

O’Neill eventually published eight books of traditional Irish music; his “The Music of Ireland” is considered a definitive reference.  According to the Music Librarian of Notre Dame, “Without (Francis O’Neill), the music would have died.”  Thanks to Irish American Francis O’Neill, the rich legacy of Irish music was preserved for generations. 

It is a reminder of how fragile our history and culture are and the duty of all of us to “Keep the tradition alive.”

Neil F. Cosgrove

The Shea family traces their roots to Irish immigrants who came to America during the height of the great hunger. The Shea’s story in America begins with Michael Shea who came to the United States in 1847. He came from the area of the Dingle peninsula in County Kerry and married fellow Irish immigrant Mary Courtney. His grandson Jack Shea was born September 7, 1910 in Lake Placid, NY.

At age 3 Jack started skating at a nearby lake; by the time he was in high school, he had won the North American men’s championship. As if by preordination, while a sophomore at Dartmouth it was announced that the 1932 Winter Olympics were to be held in his hometown of Lack Placid. So well regarded was Shea by his fellow athletes that he was selected to take the Olympic Oath on their behalf in the opening ceremony. On the first day of the competition, he won the gold medal in the 500-meter speed skating event. The next day, he followed up by winning the 1,500 meters; making him the first double gold medalist in Winter Olympic history. He returned to Dartmouth to a thunderous welcome (and humorless professors who held him accountable for the classes he missed).

When it was announced that the 1936 games were to be held in Garmisch-Partenkirchen, Germany, Jack Shea refused to skate to defend his title; as a political science major, he was well aware of what was developing in Nazi Germany.

Jack Shea graduated 10^th in his class from Dartmouth, but the Great Depression and the needs of his family cut short his dreams of becoming a lawyer; a regret he carried throughout his life.  When it was announced that the 1936 games were to be held in Garmisch-Partenkirchen, Germany, Jack Shea refused to skate to defend his title; as a political science major, he was well aware of what was developing in Nazi Germany.  Shea urged his fellow athletes publicly and privately to not support the games in Germany.  Jack proceeded to a respected career in local government in his hometown and was instrumental in bringing the games back to Lake Placid for the memorable 1980 Winter Olympics; the site of the “Miracle on Ice”. Shea would continue to skate recreationally unit he was 84.

Jack’s son, Jim Shea Sr. wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps as speed skater, but his talents turned out to be in cross-country skiing. He was a member of the 1961 NCAA champion University of Denver team that won the team title in skiing. Shea made the 1964 U.S. Winter Olympic team where he competed in Nordic Combined skiing and two cross-country ski events.  While he did not medal, he did go on to coach the U.S. biathlon team in the 1972 Winter Olympics.

Jack Shea’s grandson Jim Jr. took another path to the Winter Olympics by competing in Skeleton, an event where competitors ride a sled similar to a child’s “flexible flyer” down a bobsled run attaining speeds of over 80 mph and pulling 5 G’s in the turns.  In 1999 Jim Jr. became the first American to win the skeleton World Championships.  Skeleton had been an Olympic sport in two prior Olympics but had not been competed in 54 years.  Jim Shea persuaded the U.S. Olympic Committee to make skeleton an event at the 2002 Winter Games (it has been competed ever since)

At the time of the 2002 games, 91-year-old Jack Shea was now the oldest living Winter Gold Medal Olympian.  All seemed in place for a fairy tale ending. His grandson was selected to publicly take the Olympic Oath as his Grandfather had done seventy years earlier and the three generations of Olympic Sheas were to be honored during the opening ceremonies.

However, it was not to be.  Seventeen days before the games, Jack Shea was killed just blocks from his home, when his car was hit by a van whose driver was later charged with driving while intoxicated.

With his grandfather’s funeral card tucked inside his helmet, Jim Shea won the gold medal in skeleton.  After the competition an emotional Jim Shea describing his winning run told reporters “My grandpa was with me the whole way“.

The story of the Shea’s is about more than medals, it is a story of determination, principle and, most importantly, family.  It is in its essence a story of Irish America. 

Note: In the same 2002 Skeleton competition where Jim Shea won the Gold, Ireland’s Clifton Wrottesley missed winning Ireland’s first Winter Olympic medal by 0.32 seconds.  It remains Ireland’s highest placing in the Winter Games

Neil F. Cosgrove  ©

In the historically Irish neighborhood of Woodside, Queens, stands a monument to those who made the ultimate sacrifice for their country in the Vietnam War.  On the monument are inscribed the names of 27 young men from the local Zip Code of  11377,  more than any other postal code in the nation to die in that conflict.   However, the Irish community of Woodside has another unique distinction touching on the Vietnam War, the story of two childhood friends from that community who would both enlist in the Marines and earn our nation’s highest award for valor, with sadly one also earning an inscription on that monument. Robert Emmett O’Malley and Thomas Patrick Noonan were born within five months of each other in that special neighborhood in 1943.  A picture of the 1949 Kindergarten class of P.S. 76 shows the two boys as classmates.  The two attended school and church together and were close friends throughout childhood.

After graduating High School, O’Malley enlisted in the Marines, where he and his three brothers would serve their country. On 18 August 1965, while leading his squad, they came under intense fire from a strongly entrenched enemy force pinning his men.  With complete disregard for his own safety, O’Malley raced across an open rice paddy to the trench where the enemy was located.  Jumping into the trench, he attacked the Viet Cong with his rifle and grenades and single-handedly killed eight of the enemy. He then led his squad to the assistance of an adjacent Marine unit which was also taking heavy casualties, where O’Malley personally assisted in evacuating several wounded Marines. Ordered to an evacuation point by an officer, Corporal O’Malley gathered his badly wounded squad and led them under fire to a helicopter. Although he himself was wounded three times, O’Malley continued to cover his squad’s boarding of the helicopters while, from an exposed position, he delivered fire against the enemy until the last of his men were safely on board. Only then did O’Malley permit himself to be removed from the battlefield. O’Malley would become the first living Marine to receive the Medal of Honor for service in the Viet Nam War.

Equally brave but not as fortunate, O’Malley’s childhood friend Thomas Noonan also enlisted in the Marines.  On 5 February 1969, Lance Cpl. Noonan was serving as a fire team leader with Company G, Second Battalion, Ninth Marines, Third Marine Division in Quang Tri Province when they came under heavy fire as they descended a treacherous, muddy hill.

Four Marines were wounded and pinned under continuous enemy fire. Noonan scrambled from his own position behind cover toward the wounded men, diving behind some rocks as he went. Finally “he dashed across the hazardous terrain and commenced dragging the most seriously wounded man away from the fire-swept area.” Although “knocked to the ground by an enemy round,” Noonan resumed dragging the man toward safety. “He was, however, mortally wounded before he could reach his destination.”  Noonan would be awarded the Medal of Honor posthumously for his selfless sacrifice.  After Noonan’s death in Vietnam, O’Malley remained in contact with the Noonan family and visited Noonan’s mother every year on Memorial Day.

On presenting the Medal of Honor to Robert Emmett O’Malley, President Johnson remarked:

 “Every time I have awarded the Medal of Honor, I wonder what it is that makes men of this quality and I wonder what a man can say in the face of such bravery.”

The fact that two men of such quality were classmates from the same Irish American neighborhood in New York, joining the company of numerous other Irish Americans who hold our nation’s highest honor, is a testament to the heritage, culture, and traditions which produces such men and women of quality with remarkable regularity.

Kathleen Rita McNulty was born in the village of Creeslough on February 12, 1921, the third of six children of Anne Nelis and James McNulty.  Her father was Commandant of the Doe Battalion of the Irish Volunteers. On the night of her birth, he was arrested and imprisoned in Derry Gaol for two years for his republican activities. On his release, the family emigrated to the United States and settled in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, where James worked as a stonemason and went on to establish a successful construction business, frequently working with Irish American John B Kelly, the father of the future Oscar-Winning actress Grace,

Coming from the Gaeltacht, Kathleen did not start speaking English until she began to attend school.  Her mother encouraged her “to prove that Irish immigrants could be as good, if not better, than anybody.” She proved a bright student and won a scholarship to Chestnut Hill College.

 Kathleen loved mathematics and took every math course available, including spherical trigonometry, differential calculus, projective geometry, partial differential equations, and statistics.  McNulty graduated as one of the school’s few female math majors in 1942.

Graduating at the height of WW II, she soon saw an ad in the Philadelphia Inquirer seeking women with math backgrounds.  The U.S. Army was seeking women to perform the grueling and precise calculations to compile firing tables for long-range guns, calculations that needed to be accurate out to ten decimal places.  Kathleen was hired with the official job title of “Computer.”

Within a few months, McNulty was transferred to work with the “differential analyser[sic]” at the Moore School of Engineering at the University of Pennsylvania.  The “analyser” was the most sophisticated calculator of the time.  Using the “analyser,” a single trajectory that had previously taken 50 hours to compute by hand could now be performed in less than one hour. Kathleen excelled at the detailed, meticulous work and was soon promoted to supervising calculations. She and other staff members worked six days a week, with the only holidays being Christmas and the Fourth of July.

In 1945, Kathleen and five other women were selected to work at the Aberdeen Proving Grounds in Maryland to develop the programs to run the top-secret 30-ton machine called the Electronic Numerical Integrator and Computer (ENIAC), the world’s first programmable, electronic, general-purpose digital computer..  ENIAC could perform the calculations that took the “analyser” an hour in less than ten seconds but would require developing a brand-new engineering discipline: Software Engineering.  McNulty is credited with creating “the subroutine,” a block of reusable computer code that can be used again and again rather than being rewritten over and over, to work past some of the limitations of ENIACs early logic circuits.  McNulty would later recall that in making ENIAC a success as the first digital computer, she made herself “the human computer” obsolete.

With the end of WW II, the vital role that Kathleen McNulty and her fellow women “computers” was soon unceremoniously and unjustly forgotten.  When the decision was made to reveal ENIAC as the first digital computer to the world, the role of Kathleen and the other women played in making ENIAC successful was relegated to the shadows.  They were told to act as hostesses to the government officials and reporters covering the event and to “stand by the computer and look good.”

Kathleen McNulty married ENIAC’s designer Mauchly and went on to have five children with him (in addition to raising two from his previous marriage).  While she continued to contribute to the field of computer science, programming several of her husband’s later computers, it was always behind the scenes.  After Mauchly’s death, she late married Severo Antonelli.   

Kathleen McNulty died on April 20, 2006.  She had come along way from the little Irish girl who had come to America not speaking English, and in the process, shaped the digital world we now live in. She deserves to be better remembered, and this is why we have and need Irish American Heritage Month.

Neil F. Cosgrove  ©