The Lambs Read online

  Dolan shook his head. ‘This young gentleman—’ emphasizing the word like a bad taste, ‘was just leaving, weren’t you, Mr McNamara, Constable Gough.’

  McNamara paused, glaring at the two peelers and then back at Gallagher.

  ‘May you die in Ireland, you West Brit bastards,’ spat McNamara before sloping away to melt into the Grafton Street crowd. A flock of gulls shrieked overhead, dispelling the silence along with the tension that slipped into the gutter and washed away.

  ‘Some would say he was right. Ironic even,’ mused Flynn as they passed beneath the Fusilier Arch into St Stephen’s Green. Carolan gave him a curious look.

  ‘You know, ironic, like we were told in school; when you says something and mean the opposite,’ Gallagher explained, seemingly incongruously academic.

  ‘You eejit, I know what ironic is! I mean what is he on about?’ Carolan retorted, jabbing his thumb at Flynn.

  ‘That some people call this Traitor’s Gate when half the city seems to have relatives in the Dubs,’ observed Flynn.

  ‘Your problem is you think too much,’ Gallagher replied with a wry grin.

  ‘YOU!’ brayed a harsh Derry accent, bulldozing its way across the park towards them. It was Devlin, his face puce. ‘What the hell do ye think ye’re doing?’

  ‘Someone’s for it!’ chuckled Gallagher. Devlin oscillated with rage.

  ‘Christ, Terry, I think he’s shouting at us,’ said Flynn. Devlin exploded into life, jabbing his lacquered pace-stick in their direction. Flynn felt sick.

  ‘Us? Away with you,’ replied Gallagher as he flashed Devlin one of his innocent schoolboy smiles. Devlin went a darker shade of puce as Gallagher pointed at himself, mouthing the word ‘me’. Devlin exploded, storming towards them like an angel of death.

  ‘Aye, you, the three feckin’ musketeers! Move it! Jildy!’

  ‘Who’s Jill Dee?’ asked Carolan.

  ‘I think my Uncle John knows a Jill Dee,’ said Gallagher.

  ‘Christ knows, but she doesn’t sound like a nice girl!’ replied Flynn.

  ‘WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, BLOODY SCOUT CAMP? AT THE FECKIN’ DOUBLE!’ Devlin screamed.

  ‘Move where?’ Carolan quailed in terror, desperately fighting the urge to run.

  ‘There!’ Flynn snapped, pointing at a marquee sporting a signpost that said ‘Orderly Room’.

  ‘What’s an orderly room?’ Gallagher asked. Devlin was close now.

  ‘I don’t flaming know but it’s better than standing around here!’ Flynn replied. Then they ran. They burst into the tent. It stank of mildew and damp humanity. There were a few familiar faces. Fitzpatrick and Cronin were there.

  ‘What now?’ asked Gallagher. There were tables at one end piled with papers. Smart, moustachioed NCOs snapped like terriers, keeping the lines of recruits moving. Nearby a clerk stood poring through a clipboard of papers.

  ‘Let’s ask this fella,’ said Flynn. ‘Excuse me, but what do we do now?’

  The soldier, red-faced, looked up. ‘Name?’ he snapped.

  ‘Kevin Flynn.’

  ‘Over there.’ He pointed at a desk marked ‘D-F’.

  ‘Don’t mind Garvey, he’s a miserable old bugger,’ said the clerk at the ‘D-F’ desk. He took Flynn’s papers. Gallagher was at the next desk: ‘G-H’. ‘Now let’s see,’ muttered the clerk. ‘Ah, yes, Flynn K. Well, Private Flynn, it looks like you’ve been allocated to B Company. You’ll be somewhere on the north side of the pond. It’s signposted.’ He handed Flynn a brown envelope. ‘Your papers and pay book are inside. Whatever you do don’t lose them.’

  ‘And my pals, can you tell me what company they’ve been put in?’ Flynn asked, worried that they could be split up. ‘The leaflet said we’d stay together.’

  The soldier smirked knowingly. ‘Believing that clap-trap was your first mistake.’ Flynn looked worried. ‘All right, let’s see, then,’ relented the clerk. ‘What are the names?’ Flynn told him. ‘Carolan J and … er … Gallagher T … um … yes, it looks like your chums are in B Company too.’ Flynn felt a surge of relief wash over him. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Off you go, then, jildy doh. Next!’ Flynn hesitated. ‘Yes?’

  ‘What does jildy mean?’ he asked the clerk.

  ‘It means quickly, comes from India.’ He pronounced it ‘in-juh’. ‘Now jildy, eh? There’s a good lad.’

  Flynn stepped out of the marquee, armed with his papers and his first piece of army slang. Gallagher was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Hey, buddy, I heard you was looking for Company B,’ said Fitzpatrick, who was behind Flynn in the queue. ‘Me too, buddy. Some fella said it was this way. Just stick with me.’ They made their way along the north shore of the lake until they reached an off-white, open-sided timber pavilion. A crowd of maybe 200 men chatted excitedly and Flynn felt a sudden surge of relief when he saw Gallagher and Carolan gathered with the rest of their footballing mates. Company Sergeant Major Clee was there too, at the edge of the pavilion, his 12th Lancers cap badge replaced by a Royal Dublin Fusiliers one. His spurs were gone too: only field officers and the adjutant wore spurs in the infantry although Clee still wore his horse soldier breeches. Two sergeants hovered nearby. Flynn recognized the old Irish Guardsman. He was wearing an RDF badge too. The prickly Ulsterman was there, also, looking sullen and dangerous. Young officers in freshly tailored uniforms stood in the shade whilst an ancient colonel and a white-haired captain sat on horseback, the pair an island of calm amid the chaos. Then Clee stepped forward and saluted the colonel with elbow-cracking precision before climbing onto the steps in front of the milling crowd, jamming his cane tightly under his left arm.

  ‘QUI-ET!’ His voice ripped through the crowd, stilling the hubbub. ‘Right, now that I have your attention,’ he sneered. ‘My name is Company Sergeant Major Clee. When you speak to me, you will call me sir. From this moment on you belong to me. You do not do anything, do not take a shit without my say-so. Is that clear?’ he barked, making the veins of his purple face bulge. There was a ragged response. He scanned the recruits with theatrical disdain. ‘Jeezus-bloody-Christ, and I thought you people were supposed to be the fighting fucking Irish? Answer me like fucking soldiers, not a bunch of girlie-bloody-guides. My bloody daughter can do better than that. Now, I said DO YOU UNDERSTAND?’ he roared.

  ‘YES, SIR!’ they bellowed.

  He seemed satisfied. ‘Now we’ve got that out of the way, let’s get down to business, shall we? Is there anyone here with previous military experience?’ There were a couple of hands. ‘Right then, get out here. You lot are now NCOs – report to Sergeant Mahon for your stripes.’ He pointed at the old Irish Guardsman who stood with a box of armbands which he dished out, catapulting recruits to the heady heights of corporal or sergeant depending on their experience.

  ‘We’re still divvy, sir,’ Mahon informed Clee, who nodded, examining the remaining armbands, his lower lip poking out in thought. The officers looked on, aloof. The colonel nudged his horse closer, followed by the captain, their spurs and swords glinting in the sun.

  ‘Ah well, beggars can’t be choosers, Sergeant. I suppose we’ll have to make some of the National Volunteer fellas up,’ announced Clee. He didn’t have much time for weekend warriors like the Territorials let alone a load of politicized paramilitaries like the Volunteers. Mahon gave Clee a look that betrayed his own suspicion of amateur soldiers. ‘At least they’ll be able to march.’ The Guardsman wasn’t convinced. ‘Right, Sargent Mahon, sort it out,’ he added, stepping back to let Mahon get on with it, and half an hour later they were formed into platoons and sections.

  Then they were set to drilling but at least Flynn was amongst friends. Gallagher, Carolan and Fitzpatrick were all in his section. So was an odd-looking lad with an aquiline nose and brown hair called Wellesley who rather predictably became known as ‘the Duke’ after that other Irishman of the same name. The Gaelic football team’s half-back Mickey Doyle was also in their section along with the willowy Cronin. T
here was Jim Docherty – Fitzpatrick knew him – a fellow Volunteer who’d grown up in the Monto, Dublin’s notorious red-light district, whose harsh slum accent sounded like a foreign language to Flynn. Then there was their section commander, Corporal Martin Fallon.

  ‘Right, you shower of shite, let’s start at the very beginning, shall we? I want the tallest on the right … er … that’ll be you, Private … er … Carolan and the shortest on the left. That’ll be you … er … wee Private Gallagher. The rest of you fill in the middle. MOVE!’ snapped Fallon. His grating whiskey- and nicotine-stained voice, made worse by his broken nose, jarred like nails down a blackboard.

  ‘Best we tread carefully with this fella,’ Flynn muttered to Gallagher out of the corner of his mouth as Fallon strutted up and down in front like a threadbare old peacock in a worn brown suit that stank of stale sweat, cheap tobacco and yesterday’s whiskey.

  ‘Silence in the ranks!’ snapped Fallon, his beady eyes fixed on Flynn. He’d already developed a dislike for the tall, wavy-haired youth with his well-made suit and la-di-da middle-class accent. ‘I’m watching you, Flynn!’ His weathered face hovered inches from Flynn as he poured out a tirade of spittle-laden abuse before turning on the others. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, that was pathetic! My flaming daughter could do better!’ Flynn began to suspect that soldiers’ daughters were unnaturally proficient at military evolutions. Then, Clee’s scalpel voice sliced through the park, bringing the company to a sudden, bone-jarring silence. They stood to attention. The white-haired captain, Henry Stirke, spurred his horse forward. He thought his soldiering days were over but they’d dug him out of the reserve to be the battalion’s second in command. He felt a tingle of pride as he eyed the silent ranks and Flynn could hear the leather creak as Stirke leant forward in his saddle.

  ‘Looks like Sar’nt Major Clee’s whipped ’em into a frenzy, sir,’ Stirke quipped dryly as he surveyed the silent ranks of motionless men. The colonel gave a curt nod; at fifty-nine and after a lifetime in the Indian Army, Charles Harman had rather hoped for a quiet retirement. Instead they’d given him a battalion. He stood in the stirrups, addressing his men.

  ‘Men of B Company, let me welcome you to the 9th Battalion, the Royal Dublin Fusiliers.’

  ‘Hang on, I thought we joined the 8th?’ Gallagher whispered.

  Suddenly Devlin was at his shoulder. ‘Shut it, stumpy! If I ever catch you yapping whilst the CO is speaking I will shove this’ he jabbed his pace-stick under Gallagher’s chin ‘where the sun don’t flaming shine!’ The colonel paused. Clee made a note. Devlin moved in; close enough to kiss Gallagher’s cheek if he’d wanted to. ‘I’ve got my eye on you.’ Then he stomped off.

  ‘What’s his problem?’ Gallagher muttered.

  ‘I may be wrong but I think he’s our new platoon sergeant,’ Flynn whispered back.

  ‘Oh great, just feckin’ great,’ moaned Gallagher, rolling his eyes in despair. ‘That’s all I need.’

  CHAPTER 3

  November 1914, Royal Barracks, Dublin

  ‘Ah, there you are. Corporal Fallon wants you,’ Gallagher called to Flynn. The open row of ablutions stank, the acrid stench singeing his nose hairs. ‘Jaysus, is that you?’ he spluttered.

  Flynn shrugged. His sense of smell was not good at the best of times and, besides, he was past caring. He folded down the top corner of the page of the Sherlock Holmes novel he was reading and glanced up wearily.

  ‘Can’t a fella take a crap in peace?’ grumbled Flynn as he tore off a sheet of cheap, shiny toilet paper. ‘It’s no wonder people call this rubbish scratch and polish!’ he added ruefully.

  ‘Will you get a move on or yer man will have another of his hissy fits,’ spluttered Gallagher, looking away, still not reconciled to the army’s utter lack of privacy. Flynn wasn’t so finicky, but somehow he still thought of the lavatories as some sort of sanctuary – holy ground, even – to relax and read despite the lack of toilet cubicles. Gallagher heard the toilet flush and then the rush of water as Flynn washed his hands.

  ‘It’s a wonder, isn’t it?’ Flynn mused as he wrestled with the buttons of his Kitchener blue tunic, a stopgap until the war office could supply enough khaki Service Dress uniforms for the battalion. They looked like postmen.

  ‘What is?’ Gallagher sighed wearily.

  ‘You know, old Hackett over in stores told me that when the army builds a camp it assumes that the average man produces two pounds of shite a day.’

  ‘What are you on about now?’ Gallagher asked.

  ‘Like I was saying, old Hackett over in stores—’ Flynn persisted.

  ‘What would that old bugger Hackett know about anything?’ replied Gallagher.

  ‘Old Hackett’s almost as old as this place,’ Flynn said with a sweep of his arm. ‘He knows his shit! So, c’mon, Terry, how many fellas do you reckon live in this barracks?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘Go on, how many?’ Flynn urged.

  ‘I don’t know; there’s a load of 7th Battalion’s lads, a few odds and sods from the 8th and us lot, so … um … maybe 1,500 fellas, give or take a few. Anyway, what’s this got to do with Fallon?’

  Adjusting his Glengarry cap in the full-length mirror by the door, Flynn noticed how easily the cap adhered to his head since his unruly curls had been inexpertly shorn away by the garrison barber.

  ‘All right, let’s say 1,500 …’ Flynn’s tongue protruded slightly from the corner of his mouth as he tallied something with his fingers. ‘That means that this barracks churns out almost a ton and a half of shite a day.’

  ‘Isn’t that truly a load of shite,’ Gallagher replied briskly.

  Slapping his friend on the back, Flynn laughed. ‘Well, that’s the army for you, Terry, me old mucker! Now we’re on the subject of shit, what does that lazy bastard Fallon want anyway?’

  ‘Don’t ask me, I’m only the bloody messenger!’ Gallagher grumbled. Outside the air was stiff and cold, a soft day. Bawling NCOs rifted the latest recruits, lobbing sarcasm like hand grenades reverberating off Royal Barracks’s 200-year-old walls. The 7th Battalion, the Royal Dublin Fusiliers, were almost ready for war.

  ‘At least they’ve got proper uniforms,’ observed Flynn.

  ‘We’ll get our khaki kit soon enough,’ Gallagher said. ‘These fellas have only got theirs cos they are off over the water soon.’

  ‘So how come Fallon’s got a proper uniform?’ Flynn grumbled.

  ‘Cos he’s an ex-reg, I guess.’

  ‘That’s the flaming ARABs for you,’ Flynn replied. Gallagher frowned. ‘You know, ARABs – Arrogant Regular Army Bastards – they take care of their own. Anyway, old Hackett thinks we won’t be long after them.’

  ‘Does he, now? And did he pick up that gem when he was taking tea with Lord Kitchener himself, then?’ Gallagher asked. ‘He probably thinks we’re still at war with bloody Napoleon, he’s been here so long!’

  ‘So you don’t think we’re off overseas soon, then?’ Flynn asked.

  ‘What do you think? If that old soak knew his arse from his elbow he wouldn’t still be a private at his age! Why should we? The rest of the battalion are out in the sticks, somewhere near Cork, so it stands to reason we’ll be joining them sometime,’ replied Gallagher.

  ‘So why d’you reckon our platoon was left here as battalion rear party when the other lads left?’ Flynn asked.

  Gallagher shrugged. ‘Maybe Corporal Fallon didn’t fancy emigrating to County Cork,’ he suggested with a wry smile. ‘After all, it’s pretty cushty here.’

  ‘Aye, so where is the miserable beggar anyway?’ asked Flynn.

  ‘Oh, over in the stable block. He’s got us mucking out the Ruperts’ gee-gees,’ Gallagher said, just as the gloomy stables came into view. There was a tang of warm horseflesh and urine in the air as they crossed the empty yard.

  ‘I told you, more shit!’ said Flynn, but Gallagher’s attention was elsewhere.

  ‘Steady, Kev, here comes trouble,’
he muttered just as Fallon, resplendent in khaki, emerged from the shadows. He braced his fists on his hips, staring in sullen silence. Flynn sensed the man’s rodent eyes following him from beneath the peak of his cap.

  ‘Where the hell do you think you’ve been, you idle bastards?’ Fallon shrilled. Just as they reached the stable door he blocked their path. ‘DOWN!’ he barked. Flynn and Gallagher hesitated, glancing at the matted morass of excrement and hay. ‘I said down. You owe me twenty for being late!’ Gallagher’s face darkened, his eyes narrowing.

  ‘Easy,’ Flynn muttered quietly to Gallagher; he’d been in the army long enough to know that striking an NCO would be just about the worst thing his friend could do, short of deserting. Gallagher gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head and dropped into the press-up position. Brown sludge oozed between his fingers. Flynn joined him.

  ‘I said down!’ shrilled Fallon, shoving his foot hard down on Flynn’s back until his face vanished beneath the mire. ‘Now give me twenty, you useless feckin’ eejits!’ he ordered. He lit a Woodbine and leant back to watch their exertions, barely concealing his enjoyment of the moment. The stink of cheap tobacco melded unpleasantly with that of the stables. Flynn straightened his arms. Gallagher did likewise, his thick biceps distorting his tight sleeves. The press-ups were easy; after all, press-ups were the small change of a recruit’s life, a way of earning remission for sins real or imaginary. No, it wasn’t the push-ups that bothered him but the effluent-stained cobbles that soiled his tunic with every dip of his arms. It was bad enough he looked crap; now he smelt of it as well! ‘Now you’ve done down there you can get inside,’ Fallon added, flinging down a long-handled shovel.

  ‘Very good, Corporal,’ Flynn replied with studied civility, anxious to get Gallagher away from the corporal before he did anything stupid. Fallon’s eyes narrowed, disliking Flynn’s tone.

  ‘Still here?’ growled Fallon, exposing nicotine-browned teeth that reminded Flynn of something unpleasantly feral.