The Lambs Read online

  ‘Is that so, Sar’nt? You know Fallon says that he’s a witness, a Private … er …’ He shuffled through the papers on his desk. ‘… Collins. He says you struck him in the groin in an utterly unprovoked attack.’ Gallagher couldn’t help grinning, the memory too sweet. Clee glowered, moustache twitching, and Devlin jabbed him sharply in the back of the ankle with his boot, wiping the grin from his face.

  ‘Collins is lying too, sir,’ Devlin added as he stared blankly into the middle distance, properly at attention like Gallagher.

  ‘Is that so, Sar’nt? And you are willing to give me your word that there is nothing in Private Fallon’s allegations?’ asked Murphy, fumbling with his pipe.

  ‘Aye, sir, I am,’ declared Devlin, snapping to attention himself. Murphy sighed, leaning back and letting out a long stream of blue-grey smoke. ‘We were nowhere near the estaminet last night, sir. Just ask Sergeant Mahon, sir. He was orderly sergeant last night. He saw us in camp when the fight started, sir,’ said Devlin. Clee narrowed his eyes. He knew that Devlin was covering for Gallagher and he knew that Devlin knew that he knew but as long as the sergeant was willing to defend his corporal then Fallon’s word was meaningless, even if Collins backed him up. After all, the word of a sergeant and a lance jack trumped two privates every time. That’s how the army worked. That’s how discipline survived.

  ‘Very well, Sergeant Devlin, Corporal Gallagher, I hope that I will hear no more of this nonsense. Sar’nt Major, find Private Fallon for me and in the meantime, Corporal Gallagher, try and keep out of trouble.’ They were dismissed. Outside, Flynn and the others were waiting.

  ‘And?’ asked Flynn.

  ‘And what?’ replied Gallagher.

  ‘And now we make ourselves scarce,’ said Devlin, watching Mahon trotting red-faced towards them. ‘Why don’t we visit Cronin in hospital? It’s not far.’

  ‘Oi, Sar’nt Devlin!’ shouted Mahon. ‘I’ve been looking for you. Mr Callear has a little job for you.’ Devlin rolled his eyes – life had taught him to be wary of officers who had ‘little jobs’ – but Callear wasn’t bad as officers went. ‘By the way, thanks for dropping me in it with the captain, saying I knew where you lot o’ drunken eejits were when half the battalion was rioting down town. Don’t worry, I covered for you, so you owe me,’ he added, shoving his cap to the back of his head and mopping his sweaty brow with a crisp white handkerchief. He didn’t look too upset.

  ‘Good man!’ said Devlin, slapping the ageing Guardsman on the shoulder, winking conspiratorially. Mahon rubbed his arm and was about to reply when they heard the abrasive tones of the provost sergeant, a beast of a man from Dublin’s north side, bellowing abuse that would make even the most jaded whore from Dublin’s notorious Monto red-light district blush. He was haranguing a squad of men under full pack, rifles held high above their heads as they stumbled towards the battalion’s makeshift parade ground. Provost corporals snapped at their heels like a pack of feral dogs. Fallon was there with Collins, sweating away their hangovers. ‘Kevin, do me a favour. Keep Terry here out of trouble and take him with you. Give my regards to Cronin. The rest of you come with me,’ said Devlin before striding away smartly with Mahon at his side.

  The walk cleared Flynn’s head, exorcising the last of his hangover. It took hours to find the hospital: a collection of tents and huts in the grounds of a small chateau that could deal with around a thousand casualties at a time. A convenient railway siding made casualty evacuation easier and a cemetery provided for those unfortunates beyond help. Flynn asked a worn-out-looking Medical Corps sergeant where reception was. He looked at them with the eyes of a man one step ahead of his past and pointed at a large, off-white tent sporting a huge red cross on its roof.

  ‘We’ve come to see Private Patrick Cronin, 9th Battalion, Royal Dublin Fusiliers,’ Flynn told the corporal at the reception desk, a scrubbed, folding wooden table strewn with files. The corporal flicked through a list, then sat back looking at Flynn and Gallagher. Flynn was conscious of how clean the corporal was and how shabby they were, especially as Gallagher was sporting his tatty ‘Gor Blimey’ hat and vacant grin.

  ‘Sorry, mate, there ain’t no Private Cronin on the list,’ he replied.

  ‘Are you sure? She was brought in a couple of days ago,’ said Flynn. It felt funny saying she. The corporal watched Flynn, expectantly fiddling with a lighter. Reluctantly, Gallagher tossed a battered packet of Woodbines onto the table.

  ‘She, did you say, mate?’ he answered, deftly palming the cigarettes into his tunic pocket. ‘Well, there is a female patient over in the big house. Talk of the town, it is; we don’t have many of them here, mate.’ His tone irritated Flynn. ‘Now let me see, I think she’s called Louise Dempsey. If she’s your girl then you’ve got no hope of seeing her. Rumour has it she’s a brigadier general’s daughter,’ he added, rather too smugly.

  ‘Good job there’s a hospital nearby, mate,’ growled Gallagher, stepping forward, but Flynn blocked his way with his arm. The corporal paled, the smug look sliding from his face as he leapt to his feet, knocking over the chair.

  ‘Look, it ain’t up to me, mate. You need to find a fanny—’ Gallagher balled his fists, assuming he was making some obscene comment about Cronin. ‘Er … you know, someone from the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry. They’re the girls looking after her,’ he gabbled, pointing in the direction of the chateau. They were beginning to attract unwanted attention. A white-coated medical officer with a neatly clipped moustache and slicked-down hair began walking over, accompanied by two burly orderlies.

  ‘Quick, let’s get out of here,’ said Flynn. They ducked behind a wooden hut, some kind of store, then Flynn noticed a slim young woman in some kind of khaki uniform standing by one of the chateau’s side doors finishing her cigarette. She looked like an officer, her raven hair pulled back in a bun beneath a shapeless khaki cap. She was watching them. ‘Maybe she knows where Cron … er … I mean Dempsey is.’ The name felt strange, unfamiliar.

  Nursing Sister Jane Carmichael wrinkled her nose, downwind of the two approaching scruffy soldiers. The smell shouldn’t have bothered her – she’d been in France long enough – but it did. She couldn’t abide filth, which was probably why she made such a good sister, but they looked friendly enough: a tall, dark-haired corporal and a stocky lance corporal about her height wearing a tatty old cap, who reminded her of a half-witted dustman. ‘Can I help you, gentlemen?’ she asked in an aristocratic drawl. Gallagher grinned, looking straight into her hazel eyes, obviously liking what he saw and heard. She noticed the tall corporal’s sad, intelligent grey eyes. A scar ran from the tip of his right ear to the corner of his right eye, giving him a rakish look, like some sort of swashbuckler. They saluted and, whilst she wasn’t really an officer, Jane saluted back.

  ‘We’re looking for a friend of ours, ma’am.’ Jane looked sceptical. ‘He, I mean she, copped a blighty a few days ago and we were told she was here. The fella at reception said Miss Dempsey was over here.’

  ‘I’m not sure that would be at all possible,’ she replied, biting her lower lip. She seemed a little unsure of herself. The tall one looked disappointed but there was something strangely compelling about the short one with his cheeky wry grin and chocolate-button eyes. He seemed friendly enough despite his shabby uniform and somehow endearing as he screwed his cap in his hands, setting his bizarre glib flapping in the breeze. There was a vulnerability to him utterly missing in his melancholy friend. Then Gallagher said please. She relented. ‘All right then, but only one of you can see her, understand?’

  ‘I think I’m in love,’ Gallagher whispered to Flynn, imbibing her musk of starch and soap as they followed her up some narrow stairs. Flynn rolled his eyes. The stairs smelt of bleach. It felt strange to be around someone so clean.

  ‘You’ll have to wait here with me,’ Jane told Gallagher when they reached the door to Louise Dempsey’s room. Gallagher couldn’t help grinning. She smiled. ‘You’ve got five minutes and then you’ll have
to go,’ she insisted. Flynn tapped on the door and disappeared inside, leaving Gallagher with Jane outside. It was an airy room, well lit and clean. A gentle breeze wafted in through the open window. Louise Dempsey lay propped up on pillows on a large, ornate brass bed clad in a flannel nightdress whilst a cage kept the weight of the blankets from her damaged leg. She looked small, pale and vulnerable, her haircut the last vestige of who she used to be. She looked up.

  ‘Kevin! How on earth did you get here?’ she gasped. Even her voice had changed, Cronin’s rough Dublin brogue erased by an upper-middle-class Anglo-Irish one that some would sneeringly call West Brit. He felt strangely awkward, unsure for the first time why exactly he was there despite all they’d been through together. He didn’t know what to say. ‘Look, I’ve still got my leg!’ she offered, throwing back the blankets, making him blush and look away. It was foolish really; he’d seen her legs before but things were different now. ‘I’m sorry I lied to you chaps but I had no choice.’

  ‘Who are you?’ he finally blurted, the words sounding brutally blunt. ‘And is it true your old man’s a brigadier? And more importantly, who the hell is Pat Cronin?’ he asked. She pulled the blanket back over the cage, flopping wearily against the pillows and gazing into his eyes.

  ‘If you must know …’ The look in Flynn’s eye said he must. ‘I’m from Newcastle West over in Limerick. My old man isn’t a brigadier, he’s a major general. Major General the Viscount Dempsey to be precise and I’m the Honourable Louise Victoria Dempsey, though I have to admit it was more fun being plain old Pat Cronin of the Royal Dublin Fusiliers.’ It didn’t make sense. She patted the bed, inviting Flynn to sit down. He sat. ‘My brother Charles was killed right at the start of this business. He was cavalry, like Papa; shameful use of good horseflesh if you ask me. Anyway, I wanted to make the Boche pay but the blessed army doesn’t let girls join up, do they, so I had to cheat a bit. Poor Pat Cronin thought he was on to a sure thing, cheeky beggar! He was off to join the Munsters; met him at the railway station. He had a letter from his parish priest and everything, so I led him on a little, plied him with drink, and then when he passed out I took the lot, got a haircut and hopped it to Dublin. After all, I couldn’t join my local mob, could I? Someone might have recognized me and, besides, that’s where the real Pat Cronin was headed, so I joined the Lambs.’ Flynn was speechless. ‘Now Papa knows I’m here so they’re evacuating me in the morning.’ She smiled, touching Flynn’s hand. It felt strange. Wrong somehow. ‘I’m glad you came.’ So was he.

  ‘Look, I’ve got to go,’ he stammered, getting up suddenly and backing to the door. She smiled, her face softening as she held his gaze. ‘I’ll write,’ he added, opening the door. There was a commotion outside as Jane and Gallagher hurriedly disengaged, untangling what Flynn recognized as a passionate embrace. He didn’t know how Gallagher did it but the girls seemed to like him despite his dishevelled appearance. ‘When you’ve quite finished,’ he stammered, flustered, trying not to watch Jane blush as she straightened her uniform, fiddling with her tunic buttons. ‘We’ve got to get back and it’s a long walk to camp.’

  ‘I’ll catch you up,’ replied Gallagher as he held on tightly to Jane’s hand, a beaming grin plastered across his face. He winked. Jane was smiling too. Suddenly, he felt very alone; missing Mary terribly.

  CHAPTER 15

  Woolwich, London

  It was a miracle that Rory was alive; at least, he thought he was. It was hard to tell buried in claustrophobic darkness. He could see nothing, his eyes clogged with grit, his nose and mouth clogged with fine brick dust that he couldn’t wipe away. His arms were pinioned. He couldn’t move his legs either. Something sharp dug into his back; he had no idea what. There was a draught near his left foot. Managing to expel some of the dust in his mouth, he chewed his tongue, then dribbled; it trickled down his cheek. He was upside down. Then there were voices. He tried to shout but something pressed down on his chest. Rubble groaned, beginning to move. He fought to stay calm. Something seized his leg and for a moment he thought he was going to be crushed, then he was out, gasping for air as he was dragged free. Someone draped a blanket over his shoulders as he gasped for breath. His face hurt. Someone handed him some water. He sluiced his mouth before spitting it out. The sunlight stung his gritty eyes.

  The air stank of burnt wood and brick dust. There was ash everywhere, coating the rubble-strewn street. Soot-stained firemen were clearing up whilst others picked over the rubble of Daiken’s house. The houses on either side were in ruins too and the street’s windows were out. Rory couldn’t remember what had happened. He wasn’t sure why he was there. There were policemen holding back a small crowd and for a moment he thought he was in Dublin until a woman emerged with a tray of tea from one of the standing houses and offered him one in a broad London accent. He took it.

  ‘You’re lucky to be alive, sonny,’ said a weary-looking St John Ambulance Brigade sergeant wearing an old Victorian campaign medal on a filthy, rumpled uniform. The tea was laced with rum. ‘Bloody Zeppelins!’ he cursed.

  ‘Over here!’ someone shouted and Rory looked to see firemen tearing away at the rubble. Others joined him whilst the silent crowd looked on, swaying like wheat in the wind. Then Rory remembered Mary. This was Mary’s street. It was coming back to him now. He had been with Mary. He’d been looking at her. The firemen were bundling something onto a stretcher; keeping it out of sight as they covered it with a thick red blanket that did nothing to hide the misshapen lumps beneath. He felt sick.

  ‘Friend of yours?’ asked a policeman as Rory watched the stretcher pass. A charred arm flopped out, hanging limply in a greasy old cardigan. He thought he could smell boiled cabbage but it must have been his mind playing tricks. The sleeve looked familiar. Then he remembered; he remembered all of it.

  ‘I think that’s some fella called Daiken,’ he said. The policeman scribbled a note. He took Rory’s details too – name, rank and number as well as his unit. ‘Have you found anyone else? My sister was with me.’ The policeman gave the St John ambulanceman a quizzical look that was far from reassuring.

  ‘We’ve pulled out five – no, six – including the last fellow and you’re the only one we’ve found alive so far,’ said the ambulanceman, avoiding his gaze. There was a row of bodies draped with red blankets, feet protruding from the ends. Some of the lumps were tiny, childlike even, and then he saw a woman’s foot. He felt sick, struggling to his feet. The shoe was charred black. There was another shout, then the firemen lifted something else. It was floppy. He couldn’t see as they manhandled it onto a stretcher beneath another red blanket.

  ‘Stay here!’ ordered the policeman as he and the ambulanceman scrambled up the rubble just as an ambulance clattered around the corner, bell ringing, horses hoofs’ clattering on the cobbles. Rory ignored it, intent on the firemen. ‘She’s alive!’ shouted the copper and Rory felt a rush of relief. It had to be Mary. They had her by the ambulance. He staggered over. The policeman was smiling, talking softly to whoever lay on the stretcher. They were sliding the stretcher into the ambulance. Then he saw her face, all ash and bloodstains, but it was her.

  ‘Thank God you’re alive!’ he gasped, squeezing her hand. She managed a strained smile.

  ‘At least I’ve still got my teeth, I think,’ she said after testing her mouth and fat lip with her tongue. Rory couldn’t help laughing. She tried to laugh too but it hurt too much. Her left arm was numb like her face. She tried to be brave as Rory ran his hand down her arm, his training kicking in. It was broken. The ambulanceman agreed and began to splint it. ‘Where’s Daiken?’ Rory shook his head. She tried to look upset but it wasn’t working.

  ‘You’ll have a proper shiner,’ he commented, changing the subject. ‘Now let’s get you to hospital and get you sorted,’ he said, climbing into the ambulance beside her.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked.

  ‘A couple of bloody Zeppelins must have sneaked over,’ said one of the ambulance crew. �
�They normally have a pop at the docks but I reckon they were after the arsenal last night. Jesus, but it would’ve lit the place up like a flipping Christmas tree if they’d hit it. Your street took the brunt. It’s a bloody miracle you survived, if you ask me. Flipping shabby way to wage war, dropping bombs on women and kids in their beds like that. I heard we got one of the little bleeders; came down in the Channel on its way home. I hope the bastards burned all the way down!’ he added.

  ‘Shame they didn’t get it before it got here,’ moaned Rory.

  ‘They’re quiet little blighters are your Zeppelins. Unless someone gets lucky and sees them coming over, the first thing you know is wallop! They’re dropping all sorts on you.’

  ‘You’d’ve thought it’d be easy to shoot down a great bag of gas,’ said Rory.

  ‘You’re joking, right? Our aeroplanes can’t get high enough and there aren’t enough anti-aircraft guns. It’s pathetic. You’d have thought someone in the bloody government’d get a bloody grip, but who am I, eh? What would I know?’ grumbled the ambulanceman as they jolted towards the hospital, doing their best to keep Mary comfortable. There wasn’t much they could do so Rory gazed out the window watching the streets go by. Then they were there.

  ‘I think it best that you wait here,’ ordered a formidable-looking nursing sister in a heavily starched uniform as they took Mary inside. Rory couldn’t help thinking she looked like she’d swallowed a bees’ nest. She didn’t look like contradicting her was an option so he didn’t bother. Instead, he slumped against the wall, lighting a cigarette. He would wait. Someone brought him a mug of tea. People always seemed to bring him tea. Not that he was complaining; it helped pass the time as he watched people come and go. Some spared him a curious glance in his dirty, dust-stained uniform while others didn’t look past the red crosses on his sleeves. He noticed his toecaps were scraped pale grey, devoid of the gleaming shine he’d lovingly built up with spit and polish.