An Ocean Between Us

by Rachel Quinn

  He was manhandled on to a truck and spent the next ten minutes with a rifle inches from his chest. With each lurch of the truck the rifle rapped on to his ribs and toyed with his mind. How many times until the soldier’s finger was jolted the wrong way? And arguing was pointless. Even if the man understood English, Peter’s theory of luck told him to accept when he was winning.

  Peter.

  Niall could hardly believe he’d only known the man for one day. He would miss him.

  The gunfire was now more distant but still frightening. For a moment he thought about asking the soldier where he was being taken. But he stayed silent.

  Then the truck stopped. Moments later the canvas cover at the back was flung open and they were all told to get out.

  Niall stepped down and looked around. Once again, a current of cold fear travelled up his spine. This was no town. It was the middle of nowhere. Why had he been ordered off the truck? It didn’t make sense. If they were going to shoot him . . .

  And then all became clear. Niall and the German soldiers walked around to the front of the truck. Sergeant Brandt stepped down from the cab to join them.

  A large tree branch had fallen across the road.

  ‘Help us,’ Brandt said.

  Niall and the three soldiers bent down to grab the branch.

  Then all hell broke loose.

  There was gunfire, shouting, and a few seconds later Niall found himself kneeling, but leaning back awkwardly against the branch, a rifle sticking into his neck, pinning him in place. His hands were aloft, although he couldn’t remember having put them there. At the other end of the rifle was a figure – and it wasn’t a German soldier.

  He glanced around. Two of the German soldiers lay motionless on their bellies, their limbs splayed out unnaturally. It was dark, but pools of liquid around their torsos reflected the moonlight. There were other people – all with woollen hats and scarves covering the lower halves of their faces. Sergeant Brandt and the other German soldier were still standing, but had rifles pointed at them and held their hands aloft.

  The figure standing over Niall leaned in to get a better look at his uniform, but kept the rifle poised. ‘You are British, yes?’ The accent was heavy, the voice as hazy as a September sunset.

  Niall nodded. ‘I’m British,’ he blurted out. ‘Yes, I’m British.’

  The scarf was pulled aside, letting long black hair cascade down.

  ‘French Resistance?’ Niall said.

  ‘Who else?’ she replied. She stepped back to let him get up.

  ‘Thank you,’ Niall said. ‘Thank you so much.’

  She said something in French to one of the other Resistance people, who came over.

  ‘This is Eugene,’ she said. ‘He will take you along a footpath to the British Army position.’

  ‘What about your new prisoners?’ Niall said, looking at the two Germans.

  ‘What do you think?’ she whispered. ‘Should we kill them?’

  Niall looked over at them, at their faces, now stricken with dread of a fate unknown – a feeling Niall knew all too well. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t think you should. I think you should treat them as well as you can.’

  She shrugged and said, ‘I will decide. But now you must go. Join your army.’

  ‘Of course. Thank you again.’ He looked toward Eugene, who turned and started walking. Niall started to follow, then stepped sideways to face Sergeant Brandt. ‘I just thought you should know,’ he said. ‘My father didn’t die fighting the British. He died fighting the Germans.’

  He waited for a reaction from Brandt, but there was none. He hurried along after Eugene.

  Leetown, County Wicklow, into 1945

  For the Sweeneys – for all people in the Irish Republic for that matter – ‘The Emergency’ meant rationing and general food shortages. The autumn months of 1944 brought welcome potato and apple harvests, but the winter months, when little grew even in Ireland’s mild climate, were times of hardship. Food stocks dwindled, rivers were plundered for fish, and almost every part of farmyard animals was cooked and eaten. And still, belts felt looser.

  By the spring of 1945 there was finally hope that the war would end very soon. British wireless broadcasts kept the Irish people up to date with progress – and there had been a lot. Advances were slow, with colossal casualties on both sides, but it was progress.

  On the Western Front, Allied troops had long since recaptured France. By early February Belgium was entirely in Allied hands. In the Netherlands only small pockets of territory were occupied by stubborn German forces. And inroads had been made into Germany itself. On the Eastern Front, the Soviets had made equally significant advances.

  In the summer of 1945 the war finally ended, although hardships in Ireland and Great Britain were to continue for many years. The huge logistical task of sending soldiers into battle across the globe ceased, but the process of gradually winding down the Forces and sending millions of soldiers home was only starting. It would end up taking many months.

  Chapter 20

  Manhattan, New York City, 1995

  ‘How long now to Arturo’s?’ Aileen says, leaning forward.

  The cab driver cocks his head to the side. ‘I’d say about twenty minutes. That okay?’

  ‘That’s just fine,’ the man sitting behind him replies.

  Aileen checks her watch and says quietly, ‘Aren’t we late?’

  ‘Who cares?’ he replies. ‘It’s our wedding anniversary. We’re entitled to be a little late.’

  In front of them, the cab driver groans to himself in frustration. ‘Too many cars,’ he mutters, ‘not enough road.’

  ‘They’re probably there already,’ Aileen says. ‘I wouldn’t want to keep them waiting.’

  ‘Mmm . . . I know. But it’s a nice place to be kept waiting in.’

  ‘I guess so.’ Aileen nods acceptance. Arturo’s is more pizza hotel than Plaza Hotel, but it’s cosy, quiet, and has long since been a tradition for their wedding anniversaries. Their children went with them in the early days, but not now.

  ‘Couldn’t we walk from here?’ she whispers to her side. ‘It’d be quicker.’

  A quick shake of his head dismisses the idea. A few silent minutes go by, and they’re only a few yards further forward. Aileen catches his eye and raises her eyebrows. He understands. He leans forward and points, making sure his hand has caught the driver’s eye. ‘Just drop us off at the lights up there. We can cut through and walk the rest.’

  ‘You sure, buddy?’

  ‘We’re sure,’ Aileen says before her husband can reply.

  He sits back and turns to Aileen. ‘I guess from your clock-watching you’re looking forward to it.’

  ‘No more than any other year.’ She turns and looks directly at him, her eyes holding on to his for a few seconds. ‘It’s good to reminisce. Don’t you think it puts things into some sort of perspective when you remember how things were?’

  He nods thoughtfully. ‘You’re right. Life’s so fast. Jeez, the whole thing goes by so fast. But you know I don’t like to dwell on the past.’

  ‘Don’t you think you get to the stage where the past is pretty much all you have left?’

  ‘That’s morbid, Aileen. I like to look forward. We have a future to plan.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Wills and probate, hip operations, incontinence devices, nursing homes, dribble rags.’

  ‘Hey, I’m trying my best to be all sympathetic here, and you know that doesn’t come so easy to me. On the other hand, I guess I can see what you mean. It’s good to think back, to remember who we once were – as long as it’s only once a year.’ He frowns and thinks for a moment. ‘What’s a dribble rag?’

  ‘Can’t you guess?’

  ‘Well, I could. I just never heard the phrase before.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘Right.’ He grunts a laugh.

  The cab stops. They pay the driver and clamber outside.

  ‘Are you sure you can walk the rest of
the way?’ Aileen says.

  ‘Hey, you’re the one who’s complaining about being old.’

  ‘Celebrating being old, if you don’t mind. And if you feel so young and full of energy why don’t you offer to give me a piggyback?’

  ‘That’s very funny,’ he says as he zips his jacket up around his neck.

  The cab drives off, and a chilly breeze seems to sweep them up toward what the sign describes as ARTURO’S FINEST ITALIAN RESTAURANT.

  Dublin, Ireland, September 1945

  It was early one morning when the overnight ship docked in Dublin. The previous night, as the ship prepared to leave Liverpool, Niall had fallen in with some other soldiers returning home to the Irish Republic after fighting for the British Army. They were easy to spot: young, fit, smartly dressed, and with an obvious but unspoken foreboding about what awaited them back home. Over a few drinks in the bar they exchanged their experiences.

  Liam had served in North Africa – the dryness and the heat had been such that he struggled to complete basic physical exercises. They all said it was normal – especially so for an Irishman. But he got progressively weaker, with chills, headaches and fever, and at one stage was hardly able to move. After months of appearing to recover but falling ill again, he was eventually diagnosed with relapsing fever, and made a recovery of sorts with medical attention. Despite not feeling anywhere near healthy, he didn’t argue when he was sent to the front line and then on to Sicily and Italy. Although Niall thought he looked fit and well, Liam said he’d never felt completely the same since the illness, and that he was looking forward to the wet, mild weather of his homeland.

  Jack had been posted to Burma to fight the Japanese. He also looked fit and well, but there was a twitching unease on his face when he spoke of his capture and incarceration in a POW camp. He said in a mere three months his body had been ravaged so much by malnutrition and disease – coupled with hard labour for every waking hour – that he had made his mind up. He’d made peace with his maker and was going to force a guard to shoot him. But the guard saw through his plan, and so merely beat him. Only the liberation of the camp by British troops saved his life. Like Liam, he was sure his body would never fully recover. He shed a tear when he told the others how much he was looking forward to planting his boot on Irish soil, and swore to God never to leave it again.

  Pearse, like Niall, had served in France, taking part in the D-Day landings and the push through Belgium and into Holland. In Belgium he’d sustained a bad bullet wound to his leg. Bandaged up but in growing pain, he fought on, but was taken to hospital after the liberation with a serious infection. Yes, he now appeared fit and well too, but a rap of his knuckles on his wooden stump showed that he too would never be quite the same again. Nevertheless, his spirits were good, which buoyed everyone else.

  Barry was also a D-Day survivor, and had continued fighting into Germany. He thanked God he hadn’t been injured. He’d shot German soldiers, thrown grenades into rooms where they were known to be hiding, and on three occasions had used a knife to kill. He also said he’d seen the results of many of his actions at close hand. He couldn’t shake away memories of those sights, but tried not to consider that the men he’d killed left behind mothers, wives and children. He now wanted to forget all of that, to return to his wife and family, and to tend to his smallholding. He did, however, let slip that he had just lately started suffering from nightmares. But they would go in time, he was sure. Yes, they would. Until then he would simply ignore them. At least he had his health.

  Niall gave a potted history of his exploits too, of his capture and subsequent escape, of his own relentless push toward Germany, of the friends of many nations he’d lost, sometimes listening to their final desperate words. He too was relieved that he’d survived the war unscathed. Blessed, he thought he’d been. He didn’t mention the conversations he’d had with fellow soldiers who had walked into Bergen-Belsen concentration camp after the German surrender. They might ask questions, he told himself.

  The five of them stopped off at a café in the dockside area of Dublin for a farewell fry-up breakfast, and all wished one another the best before going their own ways. Before they parted, one of them suggested they meet up again. They all agreed, but no details were exchanged, no plans made. The truth was that although Niall had enjoyed the men’s company and listened intently to each of their stories, he didn’t want to see them again. There was guilt at that, but he knew they all felt the same. It was over. The world was now at peace. They were all young men with the best years of their lives ahead of them. Like Niall, they probably had people to meet and things to do – normal things like feeding livestock, playing with their children or making a little money.

  After a detour to buy a small bunch of flowers, Niall headed for the station and took the first train to Leetown.

  He knew trouble lay ahead, but at least he’d met Mr Sweeney before – and had even had a couple of cordial conversations with him before the falling out. Aileen had told him of the further rows she’d had with him, but Niall was certain that in spite of their political differences Mr Sweeney was a reasonable man who only wanted his daughter to be happy.

  And if Niall could face up to a German soldier – if he could feel the cold, hard steel of a pistol pressed against his temple and survive the ordeal – then coping with an angry, middle-aged Wicklow man shouldn’t be beyond him. The war was now over and it was a time to heal old wounds. All people – British and Irish included – should be celebrating the end of the costliest conflict the world had ever known.

  Yes, he would simply apologize for any offence caused, tell Mr Sweeney he’d now left the British Army and still wanted to marry his daughter, and they would plan the wedding. And he would have to talk to Mrs Sweeney too. She was sure to be excited about her daughter getting married. With that formality complete, he could start seeing Aileen again with no subterfuge – no messages passed on via Aileen’s sister or secretly arranged liaisons – and become her husband.

  After the tough years of fighting, of travelling and living in squalor, after the utter repulsiveness of witnessing his friends being killed and maimed, the occasions that he too could so easily have been one of the casualties – after all of that, life was now getting so much better, with everything to look forward to. More importantly, after all the letters he and Aileen had exchanged, he knew she was waiting for him, and that they were going to be together.

  The train crossed the Crannagh and he leaned over to see. Yes, the wooden footbridge was still there, linking the village to the sandy beach on the other side of the estuary where he’d first met Aileen. He grinned, wiped a hand over his jaw to hide his joy from the other passengers, and headed for the doors with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

  He managed to open the door and jump off the train before it had come to a standstill, and soon the hissing clouds of steam were far behind him. He positively skipped along Station Road to the coast road, where he took a lungful of sea air but didn’t stop, just turned and carried on walking briskly, which was a legacy of all that good exercise, those healthy rations and, he had to admit, good luck.

  At such a pace, it took only a couple of minutes to reach Sweeney Cottage. He glanced down at himself, and how smart he looked in his demob suit. Yes, that would do. That would impress Mr Sweeney.

  He took his flat cap off, pasted his hair down neatly, glanced down to check his tie was straight, then gave the front door a few confident taps with his knuckles.

  He could feel his breathing running away from him and tried to tame it. As he stepped uneasily from one foot to the other, he took a few swallows to wet his dry throat and wiped his clammy palms on his jacket.

  God, it was like being with that German soldier again.

  Then the handle rattled and the door started to open. He took a sharp breath, stood up straight, and put on his warmest smile.

  ‘Mrs Sweeney,’ he said. But she said nothing. Perhaps she’d forgotten him. ‘Hello again. It’s Niall
, Niall O’Rourke.’

  She stood there, her eyes shocked, her mouth not knowing what to do.

  ‘We . . . we met some time ago,’ he added.

  He offered the flowers. She didn’t react at first, her glazed eyes looking him up and down. Then she took the flowers.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said flatly. She looked back into the cottage, then at Niall, then back again.

  ‘Who is it?’ someone shouted out. Niall recognized the voice.

  ‘I’ll not be wanting any trouble,’ she said to Niall.

  This was far from the welcome Niall had expected. ‘You won’t be getting any from me,’ he said. ‘Sure, all I want is to see Aileen.’

  Another figure appeared from the shadows behind her. Then it grew a little taller as it spoke. ‘Holy mother of . . .’

  ‘Hello again, Mr Sweeney,’ Niall said, firmly but calmly.

  Mr Sweeney looked at his wife, then at the flowers. He snatched them from her hand and flung them out on to the road. ‘I thought I recognized the voice,’ he said, ‘but I told myself no – he wouldn’t have the nerve to turn up here again.’

  ‘I’ve come here in good faith, Mr Sweeney. I don’t mean any—’

  ‘Well, you can just go away this second in good faith. Aileen doesn’t want to see you anymore, so get yourself away and make sure you don’t come back either.’

  Niall tried to glance over Mr Sweeney’s shoulder, but he stepped to the side, blocking the view as he clearly struggled to control his anger.

  But Niall’s heart was anything but faint. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘if I could just come inside and talk.’

  It was then that they all heard the voice, and Niall couldn’t hold back.

  ‘Aileen!’ he shouted out. ‘Aileen, it’s me!’

  Aileen spoke again, but her mother turned back to face her, and Niall heard a half-whispered argument coming from inside the cottage.