The Lambs Read online

  ‘There ye are, wee fella,’ said the soldier, shoving the ball with his good foot. The boy picked it up, cradling it in his arms as he looked up at the man. Davey stepped closer. Mickey trembled, unable to contain the emotions welling up from within. There was a little girl with him now, a mass of wayward auburn hair and deep-brown eyes. ‘And aren’t you the spit of your ma?’ he mumbled. The girl cocked her head. She reached out, touching his hand. A tear welled in his eye.

  ‘Who’s that with the kids?’ Janet asked, getting to her feet, Daisy in her arms. Mary was up too, following her. ‘I told you before not to go talking to strangers,’ she called.

  ‘It’s all right, Mummy, it’s not a stranger, it’s Daddy,’ Lizzie replied without taking her eyes off the soldier.

  ‘I’m really sorry. Ever since their daddy went they keep calling every man in a uniform daddy,’ apologized Janet, looking up at the soldier for the first time. There was something about him: the scars, the eyepatch, the clear blue eye. The eye. ‘It’s impossible,’ she gasped.

  ‘Hello, Janet, my darling,’ said Mickey.

  CHAPTER 12

  Thursday 27 April 1916, British front line, Hulluch, north-west France

  ‘Watch where you’re going,’ Fallon grumbled, elbowing his way along the crowded communication trench. He was tired after a long night manning the front-line trench. The place stank like an overused public toilet on a hot bank holiday. He wasn’t a happy man. It was barely 4.30 a.m. It had been a long night. At least he was heading in the right direction: away from the front line. Whoosh! A flare hissed, arcing overhead, bathing the line of soldiers snaking towards the front line in an eerie green glow. He could see Devlin leading his heavily laden platoon forward.

  ‘Jerry’s restless,’ muttered Collins as he traipsed along behind Fallon.

  ‘Look, it’s that gobshite Gallagher and his la-di-da pal Flynn,’ hissed Fallon, pulling the peak of his cap low over his eyes to shade his face as he strode through the chaos of humanity. He dropped his shoulder, catching Flynn in the chest and sending him flying.

  ‘Hey, watch it!’ Flynn snapped as the two ammunition boxes he was carrying clattered to the floor. Devlin cursed. Someone yanked him to his feet. Then his mystery assailant was gone, lost in the crowd and shadows. ‘Bloody eejit,’ Flynn muttered before scurrying after the others.

  ‘So what was that about?’ asked Collins. Without breaking his step, Fallon held up something for Collins to see. It was a grey cloth PHG gas helmet. He had taken it from Flynn when he barged into him. It was a classic pickpocket’s ruse. He crumpled the gas helmet into a ball and tossed it over the parapet. ‘Let’s see how yer man gets along without it.’

  ‘Do you think they’ll be gassed, then?’ asked Collins.

  ‘Let’s hope so!’ replied Fallon with a wink.

  By 5.00 a.m. the entire Irish Division was in position and as the sun began to peep over the horizon it promised to be a clear day. A warm breeze played on Flynn’s cheeks as he gazed across the flat, waterlogged wasteland that separated them from the Germans. Despite the chill morning air, he was sweating, a ball of excitement in his gut, and the scar tugging at the corner of his right eye itched. They were below the watertable so oily black water oozed into the trench, collapsing the sides. They would be busy later. Lieutenant Colonel Thackeray was doing his rounds. He was their third commanding officer, drafted in from the Highland Light Infantry and a breath of fresh air. Captain Stirke and the adjutant, Captain Heffernan, were with him.

  ‘Look,’ said Flynn, pointing at the German line. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It looks like some sort of banner,’ replied Cronin as he squinted through the telescopic sight mounted on his rifle. He passed the weapon to Flynn.

  ‘It says: “Irishmen! Heavy uproar in Ireland! English guns are firing at your wives and children. Throw your arms away; we will give you a heart welcome!”’ Flynn read.

  ‘What’s that about?’ asked Gallagher. Flynn shrugged.

  ‘Have you really not heard the news?’ asked Doyle. ‘There was an uprising in Dublin last Sunday. The Shinners seized the GPO. I heard that there’s still fighting going on.’

  ‘You’re joking me?’ scoffed Gallagher. ‘Even the Shinners aren’t that stupid, not with us fellas out here. They’ll muck it up for everyone.’

  ‘Look, I had it from old Hackett,’ insisted Doyle.

  ‘Then it must be true,’ sneered Cronin to a chorus of laughter that was cut short by the rumble of guns on the horizon. The Germans were opening up. Flynn’s gut tightened, his bowels loosening slightly, and as he pressed himself against the wet clay trench wall he realized there was nowhere to hide: the bunkers were flooded. He closed his eyes, impatiently awaiting his fate as the shells screamed over.

  ‘Why aren’t the bloody things exploding?’ shouted Gallagher as shells plopped into the mud.

  ‘Perhaps they’re duds?’ offered Docherty, looking pale, just as Captain Murphy staggered into view. He was coughing. Callear was with him, his eyes streaming.

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’ asked Devlin.

  ‘B-blasted Boche is tear-gassing the support trenches,’ coughed Murphy. The thunder of the guns was rolling across their front now like a drum roll. ‘Best you get under cover, lads,’ he added. ‘I think we’ll be getting a visit from Jerry any minute soon!’ Then the high explosives began to fall, shaking the ground, jarring their insides. Hot metal hissed overhead, overwhelming Flynn’s senses in an orgy of noise. He screamed. They all did. It helped ease the pressure throbbing through his skull. His nose began to bleed. Dirt showered down around them, fraying his nerves. He lost track of time. Someone screamed for a stretcher-bearer and as he pressed himself deeper into the wet mud he felt a pang of guilt that he was happy that someone else had been injured and not him. He noticed Cronin edging up to the parapet.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he shouted.

  ‘There’s a fecking great green cloud coming towards us,’ said Cronin.

  Devlin was up in a bound, by his side. ‘Shit! GAS! GAS! GAS!’ he screamed as the ominous green cloud billowed closer. The cry rippled down the line as Gallagher tore his gas hood free of its bag and pulled it over his head; others followed suit. It stank of chemicals and the mica eyepieces steamed up in an instant. Flynn was flapping around.

  ‘I can’t find my mask!’ shrieked Flynn, teetering on the brink of panic as he scrabbled at his kit. All the while the silent green cloud ghosted nearer.

  ‘What do you mean you can’t find it?’ barked Devlin. Trembling, Flynn pathetically held up the empty gas-hood bag. The sergeant muttered something but his words were muffled by his mask as he stomped off. Flynn could smell chlorine, nudging his panic closer to the precipice. He thought about running but before he could Devlin was back, stuffing a sodden lump into his hands. ‘Strap it over your nose and mouth,’ Flynn heard him say. He hesitated. It was a field dressing. Devlin shoved it onto his face. It smelt like an old toilet and his eyes smarted as the languid green cloud began to tumble into the trench. Gallagher tied it off then patted his friend on the shoulder. The gas swirled around them, plunging them into a green fug that crept into every nook and cranny, leaving shadows that flitted like wraiths through the gloom.

  ‘Here they come!’ shouted Murphy as loud as he could through his gas helmet. It looked like the cloud was being carried on hundreds of jackbooted legs. Men scrambled to the parapet as the Germans desperately raced across no-man’s-land. Two men bundled a Vickers machine gun into place, then cocked it with a harsh, metallic click-clack. Flynn took up a firing position, slipping off the safety catch and taking aim. His eyes burned. He could hardly see. He felt the hard trigger on his finger and he took up the slack, the first pressure; he was halfway there. ‘Fire!’ shouted Murphy. He squeezed. It was like a storm breaking as every ounce of the Irishmen’s pent-up fear, anger and frustration unleashed itself in a torrent of gunfire that tore across the front.

  Palming th
e bolt, he fired, then fired again and again until the hollow metallic click told him it was empty, then snagged his fingers as he stuffed fresh rounds into the breech. The noise was deafening. Field-grey bodies hung in rags on the wire, staccato machine-gun bursts tearing chunks from writhing flesh. Cronin was back on the parapet carefully selecting targets. Devlin dashed to and fro replenishing ammunition. Someone wrestled with a misfire. He had no idea where Gallagher was, or anyone else for that matter; anonymous beneath the shapeless bags of their gas masks.

  There was a flash. He staggered, ears ringing. His head hurt. He couldn’t hear. He felt sick. Then, through the swirling mist he saw them: the Germans, their spiked helmets and respirators demonic in the gloom. Someone grabbed his shoulder. He turned, lashing out with his rifle. The butt thudded into a yielding skull. He heard it crack. Another shape loomed and he screamed, driving his bayonet into the shadow’s core. He jabbed and jabbed again. Around him shapes swirled, grappling, living and dying. Devlin raged, flailing a gore-caked shovel like a two-handed axe: a throwback to some Irish legend of old. Then it stopped. They were gone, fleeing across the wasteland from whence they came. Cronin mounted the parapet once more, coolly picking out targets until the gas thinned, then he amused himself peppering the Germans’ banner. Others joined in, reducing it to an indecipherable sieve. Slumping against the sandbags, Flynn couldn’t be bothered; he was too knackered, emotionally and physically. Then he pulled the pad from his nose and mouth, sucking in lungfuls of foetid air.

  ‘What was that?’ asked Flynn.

  ‘A Jerry attack,’ replied Gallagher.

  ‘Not that, this?’ said Flynn, brandishing the sodden field dressing.

  ‘Oh, that?’ said Devlin. ‘It’s an improvized gas mask. Before the boffins came up with these things,’ he held up his gas hood ‘some fella told me that if ye piss on a cloth and strap it over yer face it’ll do the job.’ Flynn dropped the pad.

  ‘You pissed on a field dressing!’ spluttered Flynn.

  ‘Ach, don’t be soft. I didn’t have enough time so I dipped it in the piss bucket over there,’ Devlin informed him, beaming, bloody shovel in hand as he pointed at an old tin bucket full of urine and fag ends. Flynn spat, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Try as he might, the tang lingered. The others laughed, desperately seeking emotional relief; laughing too hard for the humour of the joke. ‘Anyways, ye should be grateful ye didn’t cop it. Now, maybe next time ye’ll look after yer kit,’ he chided before moving off to check on the others. The Duke dished out cigarettes from a battered tin; Carolan lit them.

  ‘But I’m sure I had it,’ Flynn grumbled. Docherty sat staring into space, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Fitzpatrick flopped down next to him. This was their first real taste of battle. Flynn tried to wipe the blood from his bayonet, trying to ignore the hair-flecked smears on the butt of his rifle. There was a vile taste in his throat and he needed a piss. Someone groaned. A German writhed on the duckboards clutching his gut. Doyle jumped down, offering the man water. A medical officer appeared, working his way through the trench, assessing casualties. He gave the German a cursory once-over, shook his head and moved on, followed by weary stretcher-bearers; disentangling the living from the dead. A whistle shrilled and unthinking they scrambled back to their positions.

  ‘Don’t these fellas know when they’re beat?’ groaned Fitzpatrick wearily.

  ‘Shut it and watch yer front,’ snapped Devlin, who had reappeared minus his shovel.

  ‘Come off it, Sarge, even Jerry isn’t eejit enough to have another go today. They’ll be as knackered as us,’ observed Gallagher. The shelling was random now, the odd explosion rather than a rolling clap of thunder. Everyone’s faces were pinched with strain. Flynn noticed Cronin was still on the parapet, straddling the sandbags, scanning no‑man’s-land for prey.

  ‘Will you stop trying to win a VC and get your arse down here before you get a wooden cross,’ said Flynn, but Cronin didn’t seem to hear. He glanced, eyes shining exuberantly, flushed with victory. Despite his youth, Cronin was a master of his craft; an angel of death at home on the battlefield. Flynn was just thankful to be alive. ‘You really enjoy this shit, don’t you?’ he’d once asked Cronin.

  ‘What’s not to like?’ he’d replied with a shrug and a grin. ‘It’s fun.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about getting killed?’ asked Flynn.

  ‘Why? If you’re alive there’s nothing to worry about and if you’re dead, well, you’re dead.’

  Flynn had to admit that there was an inescapable logic to what Cronin said, envying his stoicism.

  ‘When in doubt, make tea!’ Gallagher said, pulling a brew kit from his webbing and pottering over a petrol stove. Flynn took a drink from his water bottle. It tasted of chlorine. It reminded him of a swimming baths. He rinsed his mouth, spitting out the brackish water. It didn’t make much difference, only making him thirstier.

  ‘So, Joe, what’s this about fighting in Dublin?’ Flynn asked Doyle, keeping his eyes on the tattered German banner fluttering lamely in the slack air.

  ‘Don’t listen to him, he’s talking shite as usual,’ Carolan muttered.

  ‘I’m afraid not, lads.’ It was Lieutenant Callear. Murphy was behind him. Instinctively they braced but Callear gestured for them to relax. ‘Sadly the papers are full of it. From what I hear the Fenians are holed up in the city centre. The navy have shelled Sackville Street. It’s madness, utter bloody madness.’

  ‘We’ve enough to be getting on with here,’ added Murphy, scowling at Callear. It was obvious that he didn’t want his men dwelling on their home town’s troubles at this precise moment. ‘Now, Private Cronin, do as Corporal Flynn says and get down here before you get shot! We’ve lost enough good men today.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ Cronin replied reluctantly. He looked disappointed as he turned to jump down, swinging his leg over the sandbags just as a shell erupted in front of their position, flinging the boy head first into the trench to land amid the filth and shattered duckboards. He lay still.

  ‘C’mon, Pat, stop acting the goat and get up,’ said Doyle, offering the boy a hand. He groaned. Doyle rolled him over. There was blood on his leg. ‘You all right, Pat?’ he asked. Flynn jumped down, running his hand over the boy’s wounded leg. His trousers were rent. Cronin cried out. Someone shouted for a stretcher-bearer. Flynn’s hands were slick with blood.

  ‘It’s all right, Pat, you’ve been hit. There’s a bit of blood but …’ Cronin struggled to sit, shoving Flynn’s hands from his leg, but Doyle restrained him, pushing him back. Flynn tore open Cronin’s trousers. His flesh was smooth and pale, milky from lack of sun. There was a ragged gash in the boy’s thigh, coating everything in thick dark blood. It was deep but to Flynn’s relief it wasn’t an arterial bleed. Cronin twisted, thrashing his legs, desperately twisting away from Flynn’s hands as he tore away the boy’s underwear. There was a gasp of horror.

  ‘Jaysus, Mary and Joseph, they’ve blown his fecking prick off!’

  Cronin squirmed and so did several onlookers. Flynn scowled, unable to fully grasp what he was seeing.

  ‘Will you eejits get a grip?’ snapped Devlin, elbowing Flynn aside and pressing a large field dressing to the boy’s wound, blotting away the blood. Then he began to laugh.

  ‘Don’t you think you’re being a bit heartless, Sergeant?’ asked Flynn, taken aback by Devlin’s apparent callousness.

  The Ulsterman shook his head. ‘Suddenly it all makes sense,’ Devlin muttered to himself.

  ‘What do you mean, Sergeant?’ asked Murphy.

  ‘Well, to be honest, sir, it’s not like young Cronin here had a prick to lose, is it?’ Murphy looked puzzled, then Devlin beckoned him over, pulling aside the gory pad. ‘You see, sir, unless I’m much mistaken, young Cronin here’s a girl!’

  CHAPTER 13

  Woolwich, London

  Mary sipped her tea, staring at the glowing embers in the grate as they consumed the last of her old newspapers.
The cold didn’t bother her; besides, it would be payday soon. She could buy some more fuel then or work extra shifts and keep warm at the arsenal’s expense. No, it was the loneliness that rankled. Ever since her brother had taken Janet and the children back to Ireland, she felt abandoned, isolated, alone. To make matters worse, Daiken had upped the rent. She’d been looking but lodgings were hard to come by. Events in Dublin hadn’t helped, the Rising merely resurrecting anti-Irish prejudices that had only been partially buried by the war. Whenever she opened her mouth she attracted wary glances, despite the sacrifices of her family and thousands like it all across Ireland, as if she was the enemy within. Even the girls at work had become standoffish. Her father had written to say that everyone was fine and not to believe everything in the papers but the pictures said it all. British guns had laid waste to her home town.

  Sighing, Mary put down her cup. The damp room smelt vaguely of old cabbage but thanks to the chemicals she handled every day at work she didn’t really notice. They’d damaged her once frothy blonde hair as well as her sense of smell. Her hair was lank and brittle, her hands callused and worn. She felt old; old and tired. All she needed was a good night’s sleep but sleep evaded her. Every time she closed her eyes her mind drifted back to her brother and Flynn, out there somewhere risking their lives for an ungrateful country. Flynn’s letters were welcome relief but it had been a week since his last. It seemed like an age. She tried to tell herself that no news was good news but still she worried. A tap on the door disturbed her thoughts. It was quarter to nine, making her wonder who would call so late. It was Daiken.

  ‘Good evening Miss Gallagher,’ he said, fixing his watery eyes on Mary’s chest. His tongue darted over his thin lips, reminding her of a reptile. Even her blunted sense of smell was overwhelmed by the stale odour that followed him in as he stepped, uninvited, into the room. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you.’ His eyes remained on her chest, mentally peeling away her clothes as he stood with his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets. ‘It’s about the rent,’ he said. ‘It’s overdue.’