The Lambs Read online

  ‘Can I tempt you?’ said an awfully well-spoken young redhead in a Volunteer Aid Detachment uniform, smiling at him and proffering a plate of sandwiches. She looked clean, making Rory realize how dirty he was in his grimy uniform and unwashed hands. He wiped them on his thighs. It was a token gesture; they were still filthy. He laughed, sidestepping the obvious innuendo, and took one. She appreciated his gallantry.

  ‘You’ve lovely eyes,’ he blurted, making her blush.

  ‘I saw you out here and thought you may be hungry. You look like you’ve been through the mill.’ She was right. He was famished. It had been ages since he’d eaten. The corned beef tasted good as he tore into the sandwich. She held up a cup of tea.

  ‘You’re an angel,’ he said with a wry grin. She looked away, fiddling with her hair.

  ‘Was that your girl you came in with?’ she asked.

  ‘My sister,’ he replied and he couldn’t help seeing a brief sparkle in her eye. He was about to ask her if she could find out what was happening when the formidable nursing sister thrust her head out of the door; scanning the area. She looked stern as ever, scowling at the young nurse. She beckoned her over.

  ‘When you’ve quite finished, Miss Chapman!’ she barked in a voice like nails down a blackboard. Miss Chapman treated Rory to an apologetic smile. She had good teeth. Then, as she scurried back towards the hospital, he couldn’t help watching her backside, hoping he would see Miss Chapman again, but it was not to be. Instead, he was left to his own devices until the streetlights flared into life. A chill wind scudded in off the Thames and he flipped up his collar, gleaning scant warmth from yet another cigarette. The clock over the main entrance struck nine. If he didn’t go soon they’d think he’d deserted. At least he had a note from one of the policemen explaining his predicament, so hopefully he’d get past the guard with little difficulty, despite his dishevelled appearance.

  ‘Still here?’ asked Mary, as she stepped into the street, her arm in a sling. ‘I’ve a bit of a broken arm and save for a few cuts and bruises the doctor says I’ll be fine.’ She was pale and drawn and looked like a vagrant in her dirty, torn clothes. ‘Will you look at me and I’ve nothing but the rags I’m wearing,’ she complained.

  Rory gave her a hug, doing his best not to crush her plastered arm. ‘Will you stop your moaning? You’re alive, aren’t you? Now let’s find somewhere for you to stay,’ he said, leading her by her good arm. Everywhere seemed to be shut or had signs saying ‘No dogs, no blacks, no Irish’ stuck in the window, and it was gone ten by the time they finally found somewhere to stay. It was shabby, tucked in a back street, and Rory thought it looked like the sort of place that rented rooms by the hour. Mary didn’t bother to ask him how he knew what that sort of hotel looked like. The man behind the counter didn’t ask questions; he just grunted that it would cost two shillings for the night. ‘That’s outrageous!’ gasped Rory.

  ‘Take it or leave it,’ replied the man indifferently. ‘Bedding is thruppence extra. Do you want the bedding?’ he asked with a crooked, insincere smile, exposing blackened, broken teeth. Reluctantly Rory slapped two shillings and thruppence down on the desk top. They vanished into the man’s pocket, then he handed Rory a big brass key followed by a bundle of greying sheets.

  ‘Jaysus knows what you’ll be sharing a bed with, sis,’ he said, sniffing the sheets. They smelt of stale sweat with a hint of other things he couldn’t quite identify. Deep down he couldn’t help thinking he was better off not knowing. The landing reminded him of a urinal. The door to the room was stiff. He forced it open. It was damp and draughty and there were stains on the bare floorboards. The rickety bed groaned under his weight. At least the door had a bolt so Mary would be safe as she slept. ‘So what now, sis?’ he finally asked, handing her a ten-bob note. ‘You’ll need this. After all, you can’t stay here again, it’s a fleapit!’

  ‘Whisht, it’s not so bad,’ she said, glancing out of the window to the street below, but she could tell Rory wasn’t convinced. The problem was she wasn’t either. He was right, it was a fleapit! ‘All it needs is a wee bit of a clean and it’ll be grand.’ Then she sighed and flopped down onto the bed next to her brother. The bed creaked ominously; not long for this world. Then she relented, laughing. ‘You’re right, it’s a dump all right, but I’m thinking the fleas would be extra like the sheets!’ Rory couldn’t help laughing. ‘I guess I don’t really have much choice but to go back to Ireland,’ she finally said. ‘I’ve nothing left here now.’

  ‘Well, you’ve cleaned me out, sis, and ten bob isn’t going to get you very far,’ he said. ‘Tell you what, I know of some fellas over in Kilburn who’ll help.’

  ‘What fellas?’ Mary asked.

  ‘Just some fellas I met in the pub. They said they looked out for us Irish in this old town. They’re always sniffing around Aldershot looking out for Irish soldiers, keeping us informed about what’s what back home. You know the ones.’

  ‘You mean Fenians, don’t you? Oh Rory, you’re not mixed up with Fenians, are you, not after last Easter?’

  ‘Of course not, but if they can get you back over the water then I couldn’t care what their politics are! Now, you get your head down. I’ll bivvy here and I’ll take you to them in the morning.’

  ‘Won’t you be in trouble with the army?’ she asked.

  ‘What, because of the Fenians?’

  She rolled her eyes, hitting him with a limp pillow. ‘For being late, of course, you eejit!’

  ‘Technically I’m already absent without leave as it is. My pass expired yesterday so another day won’t make much difference. Besides, one of the peelers gave me a chit,’ he said, brandishing a crumpled piece of paper. ‘Worst comes to the worst I’ll get jankers and a wee fine. It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Jankers?’ she asked. It was as if soldiers spoke a foreign language.

  ‘You know, jankers: punishment. I’ll be given a bit of extra work and some running around. I’ll be fine,’ he explained as he settled onto a wobbly old chair, folding his arms and closing his eyes. Mary slipped out of her dress and curled up under the covers and was soon asleep, snoring gently. Rory didn’t sleep; he couldn’t. The chair was too uncomfortable and he was afraid it would collapse from under him, so eventually he lay down next to his sister and slept. The next morning he was up early; it was a habit he’d got into. Without a razor, shaving was out of the question and smartening up was pointless. He looked like he’d slept in his clothes, which of course he had, and his cap was gone. Mary looked just as bad; except she didn’t have stubble!

  They left before sunrise and Rory decided it best to remove his tunic and puttees, hoping that in the half-light he’d be mistaken for a labourer. There were military policemen at the tube stations so they had to walk, keeping to the back streets and alleyways to try and avoid undue attention as they crossed the city. It took hours to reach Kilburn. Rain battered down on them, making their trek more miserable. The Golden Harp was tucked down an alleyway, taking Rory another twenty minutes to find it. He’d never been there before. He hammered on the back door. It opened a crack, secured by a heavy chain.

  ‘What do you want?’ asked a hard-faced man with a thick Cavan accent.

  ‘I was told to come here and ask for Mick if I needed help,’ replied Rory.

  ‘Mick’s not here, but you best come in,’ said the man, opening the door.

  None of them noticed the man in the shadows further down the street watching them. In fact, Detective Constable Rawlins of Special Branch almost missed them too. He was bored, poring over The Times crossword, when he’d noticed a man in what looked like the remnants of a uniform – a deserter, no doubt – and a scruffy blonde slip down the side street trying not to be seen; being cautious but not cautious enough. It was the first suspicious thing Rawlins had seen since he’d been assigned the Golden Harp. Everyone knew the place was crawling with Fenians but no one took them seriously until that business in Dublin. He tucked his paper under his arm and settled
back to watch and wait. Half an hour later the deserter emerged from the back door clutching a brown paper package under his arm. He was wearing an old overcoat and a battered fedora hat pulled low, shading his features. The girl was nowhere to be seen. The deserter took a quick, furtive look up and down the street then set off in the direction of the High Street. Rawlins turned up his coat collar – it was raining heavily now – curious to know what was in the package, so he decided to follow.

  Rory wasn’t happy leaving Mary in the pub but he didn’t have much choice. He needed to get back to camp whilst the people in the pub would sort her out some fresh clothes and a ticket home. It was a no-brainer and besides, if he didn’t get back soon he’d be in serious trouble. A few days confined to barracks wouldn’t hurt but going to chokey was another matter. He was just about to enter the tube station when something made him look around; he didn’t know why but he thought he saw a smartly dressed man duck into a doorway. Maybe it was the Fenians keeping an eye on him. He shrugged, joining the queue to buy a ticket. Then he noticed the man in the doorway was speaking to one of the policemen by the entrance. They were looking at him. He resisted the irrational urge to run. After all, he’d done nothing wrong. The man walked over, accompanied by the policeman. There was something unnerving about him, like a man who knew exactly what he was capable of.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, but I think you better come with me,’ said Rawlins, holding up his warrant card.

  CHAPTER 16

  13 May 1916, British front line near Hulluch, north-west France

  It was a moonless night. It was his first trench raid.

  ‘It’s time to go,’ Devlin whispered to Flynn, who took one last drag on his cigarette before flicking it away. Around him others were doing the same all along the trench, needles of light piercing the darkness. A flare soared skyward bathing them all in eerie green light. It was almost midnight.

  ‘Do you suppose they know we’re coming?’ asked Gallagher as he watched the flare drift lazily back to earth. ‘Because if they do, I can think of better things to be doing of a night,’ he added with a grin.

  ‘I bet you can and I can imagine who with,’ replied Flynn.

  Gallagher had spent much of his off-duty time with the nurse they’d met when they visited the hospital.

  ‘You know, I don’t know what she sees in me,’ said Gallagher.

  ‘Well, you’re not alone there,’ answered Flynn, earning a reproachful scowl and an elbow in the ribs from his friend. Somewhere in the darkness, a machine gun spluttered into life. ‘Sounds like one of ours,’ Flynn added, sounding like a veteran. He fumbled in his pocket for a fresh cigarette.

  ‘They’ll be the death of you,’ Gallagher joked, heaving his Lewis gun onto his broad shoulder. He was the obvious choice to hump the twenty-eight-pound machine gun and despite huffing and puffing like a steam train, he easily managed the weight.

  ‘When you ladies have quite finished,’ grumbled Devlin testily. He was on edge and who could blame him? After all, he was about to lead a trench raid. Flynn stopped rummaging and shuffled after Devlin along the greasy duckboards. They were travelling light. Raiders always did.

  ‘Join up, they said. See the world, they said. Good food, they said,’ grumbled Gallagher as he followed them. ‘You know I should be catching up on me beauty sleep.’ He wasn’t looking forward to lying out in no-man’s-land half the night waiting to give the withdrawing raiders covering fire.

  ‘For the love of God, will ye stop yer fecking bitching, Corporal Gallagher? Ye’re more of an optimist than I took ye for if ye think sleep’ll help looks like yours!’ rebuked Devlin. ‘Now shut up or I’ll have that stripe off ye!’ Gallagher flashed him an oafish grin, making Devlin roll his eyes in despair.

  ‘What’s his problem?’ Gallagher whispered to Flynn, who gave him a long-suffering look that rivalled Devlin’s. A wet canvas-ripping crescendo reverberated off the trench’s walls, filling the air with the sulphurous stench of rotten cabbage and a ripple of nervous laughter. ‘What?’ Gallagher protested.

  ‘Do you do that sort of thing in front of Jane?’ spluttered Flynn, wrinkling his nose in eye-watering disgust. Gallagher jiggled his leg as if checking he’d only farted.

  ‘Devlin’s a bit windy,’ said Gallagher.

  ‘You’re not trying to blame him for your rotten guts, are you?’ asked Flynn.

  ‘No, I mean your man seems a bit windy about all this,’ replied Gallagher.

  ‘Can you blame him?’ said Flynn, who was glad that he wasn’t responsible for leading the raid. Devlin looked round, scowling furiously enough to devastate a small bunker. He gestured them forward. Viscous slime oozed over the tops of Flynn’s boots and it took several tugs from Gallagher and Devlin to work him loose from its cloying grip. The sentry on the fire step spared them a cursory glance before resuming his vigil. Flynn thought the sentry looked like Fallon but in the gloom he couldn’t be sure. His hand drifted to his gas mask bag, checking it was there. It was.

  ‘Wait here,’ ordered Devlin. They were outside a dugout. Flynn already felt tired. It was always the way before the cocktail of adrenalin, caffeine and nicotine kicked in. It was quiet. He wallowed in the silence, languishing in it like someone luxuriating in a hot bath. In a perverse way it was beautiful. Devlin flipped back the gas cape that served as the dugout’s door, splashing them all with amber light, unmasking the foetid trench in all its squalid glory before darting inside. Another flare burst into life overhead, sending shadows scuttling for cover as the aroma of frying bacon and tobacco wafted up from below. Flynn’s stomach grumbled loudly. He hadn’t eaten in ages, not properly anyway, and was pretty sure that a hard-tack biscuit smeared in Marmite didn’t count.

  ‘I suppose this must be C Company’s command post,’ observed Gallagher quite unnecessarily, as there was a large sign declaring as much by their heads.

  ‘You don’t say?’ replied Flynn, keeping deadpan. He was hungry and he let his mind wander to what he would eat when they got back: if they got back. Moments later, a fresh-faced subaltern sporting a baggy cricket sweater emerged unleashing another surge of smells. Flynn didn’t recognize him. The machine gun ripped into life once more as if fanfaring the officer’s appearance. Flynn thought the officer painfully young, which was ironic considering they were all quite young compared to their regular army counterparts. Distant guns joined in the machine gun’s concerto, rumbling like a summer storm. Someone else wouldn’t get much sleep, he mused.

  ‘It’s a piece of cake really,’ Flynn heard the officer saying to Devlin in a middle-class Irish accent that contrasted starkly with the sergeant’s harsh Derry brogue. ‘Just pop over to Jerry’s place and crash his party; find out what you can and bag a prisoner or two. Make sure you get you and your lads back before sunrise. There’ll be hot scran and a tot of rum waiting.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ replied Devlin, placing the sort of emphasis on the word ‘sir’ that only a senior NCO could – utterly devoid of deference. The sergeant touched the peak of his cap in a lacklustre semblance of a salute. The officer responded in kind, but then officers weren’t meant to salute properly: it was bad form, part of that studied amateurism most officers cultivated.

  ‘Who’s the Rupert?’ asked Gallagher after the officer had ducked back inside.

  ‘Buggered if I know,’ said Flynn, shrugging.

  ‘You’d make a passable Rupert, you know,’ observed Gallagher. ‘After all, you’re work-shy and talk all posh. You’d fit in grand!’

  ‘Will you two eejits stop yer blathering!’ hissed Devlin. ‘If you hadn’t noticed, we’re about to pay the Hun yonder a wee visit; so Corporal Flynn, get along the line and check that no one’s kit rattles. I don’t want us crossing no-man’s-land sounding like a bag of spanners!’ He scowled, jumping up and down to test his own kit. ‘Well, jildy, quick smart! Oh, and try and make it look like you know what you are doing.’

  ‘Oh well, people to see, places to go. You know how it is?’ chirped Ga
llagher, but Flynn ignored him. Instead he focused on the task in hand, diverting his mind from what was to come. He pulled off his woolly cap comforter, raking his fingers through his greasy hair before checking the line. Most of them wore woolly cap comforters although some wore balaclavas and one for some reason wore a bobble hat, a present from his mum. All of them had gas masks, just in case, but not their webbing. Instead their pockets were crammed with everything they needed, or thought they would need. None had rifles – they weren’t looking to get bogged down in a fire fight – just a vicious array of clubs, knives and shillelaghs, like throwbacks to an earlier age. Carolan had a pickaxe handle swathed in razor wire, Fitzpatrick a cosh and Doyle a machete. Flynn had a shovel, honed to a razor edge, and a service revolver just in case. Gallagher had his Lewis and the Duke a sawn-off shotgun to cover their withdrawal. Devlin had a shovel and pistol like Flynn.

  ‘Right then, follow me,’ whispered Devlin once he was satisfied they were ready. Flynn felt light-headed as fear began to build in his gut. He tried hard not to show it, unable to tell if the others felt the same. Soldiering was like that; you learnt to hide your feelings. His boots skidded on the wet clay as they scrambled up the sally port into no-man’s-land. The smell of chlorine lingered on the yellowed grass as the raiders crept forwards, ethereal in the darkness as they passed through the wire.

  ‘I’ve an idea,’ said Fallon as he watched them fade into shadow. ‘Keep your eyes peeled,’ he added, looking up and down the deserted trench.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Collins. ‘They’ll shoot you if you run.’

  ‘I’m not running, I’ll be back in a sec,’ he replied, skipping down from the fire step. Collins watched him flip open a box of trench stores and rummage inside. Then he jumped back up, holding something bulky in the crook of his arm.