The short, restless sleep of The O' Rahilly was broken by a volley of machine-gun fire from someplace in the southern part of the city. British of course. The insurgents had no machine-guns. O' Rahilly as munitions officer, was painfully aware of that. But they would be well acquainted with machine-guns before before long. The British would soon be putting them through an intensive familiarisation drill. O' Rahilly opened an eye to the dull light that timidly announced day at the glass-free, top-floor windows of the Post Office. He put his hand to his face, thoughtlessly smoothed back each side of his wide mustache, then turned over on the mattress and sat up. How long had he slept? Not long enough. He must write another note to the family. Yesterday's note was perhaps not the last he would ever write after all. He stood up, stretched, and went into a nearby room where he looked into the wide-open eyes of his friend, Desmond Fitzgerald. " What happened to your schedule? " Fitzgerald asked him. " I thought we were to be wiped out yesterday. " O' Rahilly laughed, " So we should have been, " he said. " It's against all the best military rules that we're still alive. " The laughing smile faded from his face. " But don't worry. It won't be put off for long. "