The Lambs Read online

  ‘Er … I came round last night … um … Terry said you’d gone to bed,’ he stumbled. She smoothed the lapels of his greatcoat, drawing even nearer. He could smell her hair; it was tied back with a green silk ribbon. Her breath was warm on his cheek. ‘Look, Mary … er … I mean … um … I was thinking … ah … would you mind if … you can say no if you want … er … I’d understand …’ She pulled him close and kissed him, pushing her tongue into his mouth. He melted into her arms, ignoring the barracking cheers and wolfwhistles.

  ‘That’s enough of that,’ snapped Devlin, like a malevolent sídhe through the steam. The others were boarding the train. Gallagher was grinning manically from a carriage window.

  ‘You make sure you write, Kevin Flynn,’ said Mary, pulling away from him. The train whistle shrieked. ‘Now get away with you. You’re no good to me on the run for desertion.’ The train began to stir, making Flynn run through the bank of smoke and steam. He felt Gallagher’s hand on his shoulder, heaving him through the door. When he looked back she was gone, leaving a warm, lingering memory to sustain him on his journey.

  CHAPTER 5

  January 1915, Buttevant Camp, County Cork

  It was early, but that didn’t bother Flynn. Since arriving at the camp, their day had always begun before the dawn. He’d got used to it. He’d got used to the ablutions too. They were dark and draughty but at least there were cubicles giving a semblance of privacy and a place to sit and read. Cronin was already there, wiping away the last dregs of shaving soap from his pink chin. He was always there before everyone else. He kept himself to himself. Flynn just assumed he was an early riser or one of those people who was uneasy with the intimacy of communal living.

  ‘I don’t know why you bother shaving – your chin’s like a baby’s arse,’ Flynn quipped light-heartedly as he lathered his stubbly jaw. In a way he was jealous. He hated shaving, especially in cold, peaty water, knowing he would cut himself as usual. Flustered, Cronin muttered something about King’s Regulations, suddenly eager to leave. Flynn started to shave, the razor stinging his wet flesh as Cronin headed for the door.

  ‘Out of my way, you eejit,’ snarled Fallon as he barged in, deliberately sending the slightly built youth flying. Flynn didn’t know what the corporal’s problem was with Cronin but he’d been picking on him ever since Dublin. He’d had enough.

  ‘Leave the wee fella alone,’ snapped Flynn, turning.

  ‘It’s Corporal to the likes of you, Private,’ replied Fallon, his eyes flicking to the razor in Flynn’s hand. He stepped closer, close enough for Flynn to smell the stale whiskey on his fetid breath. ‘Are you threatening a superior officer?’

  ‘No, but I am,’ said Gallagher, his stocky, khaki-clad frame blocking the doorway. It looked like the rest of the section was with him.

  ‘I’ll have you all up on a charge!’ shrieked Fallon, his face pale with rage.

  ‘It’s amazing how easily accidents can happen on these wet washroom floors,’ Gallagher replied, calmly. ‘Isn’t it, lads?’ The others nodded and Flynn thought he saw Fallon shrivel under the realization that he was quite alone. Flynn sniffed and packed his things, slowly, deliberately, before walking to join the others.

  ‘What do you think he’ll do now?’ asked Flynn as they crunched through the snow back to the wooden hut they now called home.

  ‘What can he do? It’s his word against the rest of us,’ replied Gallagher. Flynn knew he was right. ‘Jaysus, I’m bored!’ he added, lobbing a pebble at a nearby barrack wall. A face appeared at the window, frowning, before disappearing once more. ‘The war will be over at this fecking rate!’

  ‘At least they trust us with guns now,’ said the Duke as they watched a platoon march off to the ranges, belting out sentimental old rebel songs. Somewhere Sergeant Mahon’s parade-ground voice was putting someone through their paces. Flynn liked drill. In a bizarre way it was relaxing; you didn’t have to think, only do. He got the impression the army didn’t encourage thinking: not from lowly privates anyway. It was probably for the best.

  ‘Here we are, fellas, home sweet home!’ declared Fitzpatrick, pushing open the door to their hut. A large, blacked-iron stove squatted in the middle of the hut, its grate open, empty and unused. Carolan lay curled on his bunk ensconced in a balaclava and greatcoat beneath two grey army blankets. The rest of the bunks were empty beneath angle-iron frames that served as a boot rack-cum-wardrobe and three pegs beneath which new Lee Enfield .303 rifles nestled in iron brackets. They trooped in. Fallon’s bed was at the far end, screened off by a washing line of purloined blankets.

  ‘I said to Sergeant Devlin there was no point having a stove if we’ve no turf or coal to burn in it,’ complained Doyle. For once his pasty slum complexion looked positively rosy against the wintry backdrop as he stamped his feet for warmth.

  ‘And what did the good sergeant say?’ asked Flynn.

  ‘He said organize some,’ replied Doyle.

  ‘What the feck does that mean?’ said Gallagher. Doyle shrugged.

  ‘Well, I’ve had enough. I’m off to see if I can nick some coal from behind the guardroom,’ said the Duke, snatching up the coal bucket. Carolan had his back to them and Flynn assumed he was looking at something pornographic under his blankets.

  WOOF!

  ‘What was that?’ asked Flynn.

  ‘Nothing,’ Carolan replied rather too quickly.

  None of them looked convinced.

  WOOF! There was a brief scuffle as they wrenched away Carolan’s blankets, revealing two large, chocolate-brown eyes surrounded by a ball of black and tan fluff. It was a dog; a Yorkshire terrier, to be precise. Just about the scrawniest, scruffiest Yorkie any of them had ever seen. Its tongue lolled. In fact it bore an uncanny resemblance to Carolan. ‘I found him wandering around the camp. It’s cold outside; I couldn’t just leave him,’ protested Carolan.

  ‘If you’ve not noticed, it’s bloody cold in here too!’ said Gallagher, fending off the yipping puppy’s excited advances.

  ‘He could be our mascot,’ offered Carolan. ‘All the other Irish regiments have them.’

  ‘They have wolfhounds, not a useless ball of fluff,’ joked Flynn as he tickled the pup’s belly, its stick-like legs flailing in the air.

  ‘I called the wee fella Spud,’ said Carolan.

  ‘You called it Spud?’ spluttered Gallagher.

  ‘Sure I did, he’s all dirty with eyes!’ Carolan said defensively. ‘So what do you say, lads, do we keep him?’

  ‘Fallon won’t like it,’ Flynn said.

  ‘Bugger Fallon!’ snapped Gallagher.

  ‘To be honest I’d rather not,’ replied Flynn, reducing the others to renewed fits of juvenile laughter.

  ‘By the way, this arrived for you,’ said Fitzpatrick, remembering he’d collected the section’s mail that morning.

  It was a letter from Mary. Scraping the ice from the window, he angled the paper, making the best use of the thin light to read. He could hear them talking about a corporal called Dempsey who dropped dead in training.

  ‘That’s two, three if you count the old CO we’ve lost, and we haven’t even left Ireland yet,’ moaned Gallagher.

  ‘They’ll be after a new corporal,’ Fitzpatrick mused. Spud yipped.

  ‘What’s the new CO like?’ asked Doyle.

  ‘Colonel Connolly?’ Gallagher said. ‘Well, they say he’s a decent enough fella. He’s a dugout like the old fella was, some sort of Marine.’ Gallagher noticed Flynn was quiet. ‘So what’s that sister of mine got to say for herself?’ She didn’t write to him.

  ‘Not much. Rory’s still mad about his medical,’ Flynn said, scanning the page. ‘She says she’s off to London to stay with your Mickey’s Janet now that the baby’s due. She says she doesn’t know when she’ll be getting back.’ He felt dejected as Gallagher lumped his hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Why the long face, you great eejit? We’re bound to pass through London on our way to France. Maybe you’ll see her then
?’ Flynn was about to speak when the Duke burst in, clutching a bucket of whitewashed coal. He’d been running.

  ‘Quick, get a bloody match to this stuff,’ he gasped. They could see the provost sergeant not fifty yards off. He was squared up to Devlin. Neither looked happy. Fitzpatrick snatched the pail and emptied its contents into the stove then Carolan stuffed it with paper. Gallagher struck the match. They were partners in crime. The coals smouldered, crackling into life. Spud skipped over, stretching like a suckling pig waiting to be roasted. Doyle and Docherty busied themselves doing nothing on the ends of their bunks. The door banged open. It was Devlin, immaculate as usual in heavily starched khaki and gleaming brass. The Duke nudged the grate shut with his knee.

  ‘I see ye managed to organize some coal, Private Doyle,’ he said, inspecting the flakes of whitewash in the bucket with his stick. ‘Best ye get this cleaned out. Don’t want no sloppy soldiering, do we, sonny?’ He sniffed, warming his hands on the stove. ‘Funny, but the provost sergeant was just bending me ear that some ne’er-do-well had lifted some coal from behind his guardroom. Upset that lads on punishment won’t have anything to paint.’ They did their best to look innocent. Spud yipped. He looked down. ‘By Christ, it’s a bloody boot brush!’ he said, breaking into a broad grin as he squatted down to pet the dog. It was the first time any of them had seen the sergeant smile. ‘Don’t bother explaining; just keep the wee fella out of the way.’

  ‘So we can keep him?’ asked Fitzpatrick.

  ‘Did I not just say that?’ he sighed. Then he looked around the room as if looking for something. ‘Where’s young Cronin?’ His voice was stern once more. Flynn realized the youngster was missing. ‘Where’s Corporal Fallon?’ Devlin added.

  ‘They’re outside, Sar’nt,’ said Flynn. He could see them on the path outside. Fallon was jabbing the boy in the chest. He gave Fallon something. Flynn couldn’t see what. Devlin’s face darkened, his eyes hard as he strode to the door. Then they heard shouting, lots of shouting, sending them to the window like children outside a sweetshop. Spud stayed by the stove. Moments later Cronin came in, pale and red-eyed on the cusp of tears: more childlike than ever.

  ‘You all right there, Pat?’ Flynn asked as he sat down next to the boy. ‘Is that bastard picking on you because you lied about your age?’ Cronin began to protest. ‘Look, none of us give a damn if you did; you’re one of us now and we look after our own,’ he added, hesitantly putting his arm around the boy’s slight shoulders. The boy wiped his nose on his sleeve and smiled weakly, suddenly childlike behind his large blue eyes. For some reason Flynn felt awkward, unsure what to do. His father had never been tactile. The others tumbled from the window.

  ‘Shit, it’s Mr Murphy!’ cried the Duke as he dived for his bunk and began studiously shining a brass belt buckle. Carolan stuffed Spud into his backpack whilst Gallagher, Doyle and Fitzpatrick engrossed themselves in small talk about polishing boots. Cronin began cleaning his rifle. They looked guilty as sin. Flynn walked to the window. Murphy was talking to Devlin whilst Fallon stood rigidly to attention, his gaze in the middle distance.

  ‘What’s the craic?’ asked Gallagher, glancing up from a toecap.

  ‘Fallon doesn’t look a happy chappie. Murphy’s taking them somewhere,’ he replied. Spud poked his head from Carolan’s pack.

  ‘What now?’ Doyle asked.

  ‘This is the army, me ol’ mucker, so we march to the last command,’ replied Gallagher as he pulled a chair up by the stove.

  ‘But we’ve not been told to do anything,’ said Carolan.

  ‘Precisely!’ declared Gallagher with a cheesy grin, warming his hands. Flynn reread Mary’s letter. The door flew open, drenching them in an icy blast. It was Fallon. They tensed but he said nothing; instead he marched inside, pursued by two provost corporals barking like irate terriers. For a moment Flynn thought they were about to be arrested for what had happened earlier, but then he realized they were barking at Fallon. He was hatless and beltless, his stripes gone: under arrest.

  ‘Private Fallon will be collecting his kit,’ said Devlin from the door.

  ‘Serves the gobshite right,’ muttered the Duke.

  ‘Wind yer neck in, Wellesley,’ snapped Devlin before shouting at Fallon to move faster. Moments later their nemesis was gone, doubling through the snow in full kit with his rifle above his head.

  ‘So who’s our new corporal, Sarge?’ asked Docherty, fiddling casually with his sandy moustache. Devlin chose to ignore his familiarity; for now. Instead he scanned the room then rummaged in his pocket. His gaze fell on Flynn, who shifted uncomfortably.

  ‘Why are ye out of uniform?’ asked Devlin. Flynn checked his uniform, giving Devlin a puzzled look. ‘Mr Murphy, in his wisdom, has decided to put ye in charge of this shower of shite so you’d better put these up,’ he added, tossing a set of corporal stripes at Flynn. He felt sick as the colour washed from his face. Gallagher laughed. ‘I don’t know what ye’re laughing at, ye Jackeen eejit, cos he’s made you a lance jack!’ Gallagher stared at the two braided chevrons that landed on his bed. ‘Now, you’ve got ten minutes to get them sewn on and outside – full marching order. Mr Murphy wants to take us out for a stroll!’ No one moved. ‘Well?’

  ‘Marvellous,’ groaned Gallagher.

  Outside it began to snow.

  CHAPTER 6

  September 1915, MV Cambria, Dublin Bay

  The lord lieutenant and the GOC saw them off on the morning tide. Flynn had never been to sea before. Overhead, circling gulls screeched. The weather deck was crowded, throbbing beneath their feet as the Cambria, one of the vessels that regularly ferried soldiers across the Irish Sea, slipped its moorings into Dublin Bay. A lone piper, up in the eyes of the ship, skirled a lament.

  ‘Well, the Wild Geese are flying,’ said Flynn quietly as he watched the grey smear of land shrink on the horizon.

  ‘Them’s gulls not geese, you eejit,’ replied Gallagher, scanning the sky. Flynn didn’t bother to explain. His cap was on the back of his head, letting wisps of oiled hair dance in the wind. ‘How long is it?’

  ‘That’s a rather personal question,’ quipped Flynn.

  ‘No, I mean how long is it since we joined up?’

  ‘A year,’ replied Flynn.

  ‘At least we’ll get a chance to show the Kaiser what the Irish can do,’ added Fitzpatrick. ‘Wasn’t this all supposed to be over by Christmas?’

  ‘Yes, but no one said which Christmas,’ said Flynn. It was a weak joke but it made them laugh every time.

  ‘Seriously, though, things have changed,’ said Doyle, leaning on the guard rail. ‘When I was home on leave I got plenty of funny looks—’

  ‘It’s them bloody Shinners,’ interrupted Carolan. Flynn noticed him fiddling self-consciously with his wedding ring; he’d married his girlfriend, Lizzie, on his last leave and for a moment he felt jealous. Not of Lizzie (though she was nice enough), nor the extra money (although that would be useful), but because Carolan had found someone special, someone to share his life with, and for a brief moment he toyed with asking Mary to marry him when he saw her next. Then he glanced back at Carolan, who was gazing mournfully in the direction of home, and dismissed the thought: maybe after the war.

  ‘No, it was the lads in my old Volunteer unit. They said I was an eejit; a traitor even, for doing England’s dirty work,’ added Doyle. The war had split the National Volunteer movement but the battalion, indeed the division, was full of them, none the less. ‘Remember that day we were marching down in Cork, came across a load of Volunteers drilling outside Ballyhooley? You know, the ones who turned their backs on us as we marched by? You mark my words, there’s trouble brewing.’

  ‘Not that old England’s adversity is Ireland’s opportunity nonsense,’ said Gallagher. ‘The Fenians haven’t done anything since they cocked it up in ’67,’ he said, referring to the last failed Irish rebellion almost half a century before.

  ‘But England wasn’t at war then,’ said Docher
ty.

  ‘True,’ said the Duke. ‘But surely there’s no point in rebellion. All we’ve got to do is win the war and we’ll have Home Rule. It’s as good as in the bag. A rebellion would fuck it up for everyone.’

  ‘Lieutenant Reid says Jerry was a holy terror in Belgium; bayoneting women and children. He was in the Volunteers and he says we’ve got to do something and if we don’t, then who will?’ asked Gallagher.

  ‘I’m just saying what I heard,’ replied Doyle.

  ‘What about the Prods from up north? Those fellas are as Irish as you and me. Maybe they think if they help win the war the government will kybosh Home Rule?’ said Flynn.

  ‘They’ve only got one division,’ answered Fitzpatrick, meaning the Unionist 36th Ulster Division, ‘whilst we’ve got two: ours and the 10th. The English will owe us twice as much. Besides, not all Prods are the same. Lieutenant Callear’s one and he don’t seem to mind taking orders from Captain Murphy. Maybe this war will finally show that we can get on together.’ Murphy had recently been promoted, Callear his replacement.

  ‘Orange and Green meeting in peace, like the Shinners’ flag?’ asked Flynn.

  ‘It’s a thought,’ said Fitzpatrick.

  ‘It’s bollocks,’ replied the Duke. ‘Mr Callear’s not a proper Prod. He’s like Wolfe Tone: one of ours. Not like them fellas from up north.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Doyle, ‘Protestant, Catholic, whatever, we’re all a bunch of Micks to the English.’

  Flynn sighed. He’d heard this discussion a thousand times and still it depressed him, hating both the Anglophobia and sectarianism of his country’s politics. Cronin, until now quiet, jack-knifed noisily over the rail, retching violently despite the dead calm, just as the battalion’s padre, Father Doyle, emerged from the crowd.

  ‘There, there now, my son,’ soothed the middle-aged Jesuit, rubbing the boy’s back. ‘You’ll be better for a lie-down,’ he added as the boy mustered a weak, vaguely vomit-smelling smile before wiping his mouth with his sleeve. ‘We’ll be ashore soon.’ Cronin tottered away, helped by Carolan. It was three hours to Holyhead. Spud yapped at the Jesuit’s feet and he squatted to pet his fur as he chatted to the lads, offering cigarettes and comfort. The boys seemed to like him. The wind picked up and Flynn gathered himself into the depths of his greatcoat, staring at the grey skies. ‘You look troubled, Corporal?’ Father Doyle asked.