Through The Barricades: Winner of the SCBWI SPARK Award 2017

by Denise Deegan

  In the early hours, they were awakened by the sound of shelling. They rose in dreaded silence and stood in darkness watching the flash of guns and shells from Turkish positions, high up on a ridge. It was their first hint of the terrain – low-lying beaches backed by high ground. One did not need to be a war strategist to work out that they would be picked off as they tried to land.

  In the darkness, all around them, bobbed the red and green lights of hospital ships. Moans came to them over the sea. Beside Daniel, a man thumbed a rosary beads. Daniel remembered the veteran at the Curragh Camp who had warned that prayer was the only preparation for what was to come. His stomach heaved.

  Just before dawn, they waited to board motor lighters that would take them ashore. Stores, ammunition and cases of rations were loaded onto the first of the lighters. Then the troops received the order to board. More and more men were loaded on until there was standing room only. As the lighter took off, Daniel wished it Godspeed.

  One by one the lighters left. Too soon, it was Daniel’s turn to board. He and Michael exchanged a glance, an embrace and a clap on the back. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then they dropped silently onboard.

  Daniel’s prayers started up again along with the engine. They tumbled out, one after the other: the Our Father, the Hail Mary, the Glory Be. The order did not matter. Daniel just kept them coming. If he died mid-prayer perhaps he would go straight up, cut out purgatory altogether and, Heaven-forbid, hell. Maybe he should pray to be killed before he himself took a life. But he wanted to live! He had so much to live for. He was eighteen! He turned in horror to the sound of shellfire. The first of the lighters was coming under fire. A voice in the darkness cursed ‘Johnny Turk’.

  Daniel’s heart had never raced so fast. He needed to crap but that was clearly out of the question. And all the time they inched nearer and nearer to shore. Dawn broke quickly and, through a light mist, Daniel saw the beach and on it stretcher-bearers carrying wounded down to the sea. He had the strongest feeling that they were arriving at the gates of hell.

  The lighter stopped close to shore. The gangplank went down. They were ordered up. Michael was one of the first, Daniel directly behind him. Then somehow, in the swell to disembark, Daniel found himself six or so men behind. He pushed forward and was up at last. He had only taken two steps when he heard a shell come in. There was a great plume of water to his right and he was blown in the opposite direction into the sea. Cold, salt water swamped him, rushing into his eyes, ears, mouth. He gasped for air and tried to swim but his kit was dragging him down. He struggled to remain calm as he went under, reminding himself that they were close to shore; the seabed could not be far. But his kit unbalanced him, forcing him down, back first, so that his legs rose above him. His breath began to fail him. Sweet Mother of Jesus, was this how he would die, on his first day, without firing a single shot?

  His kit made contact with the sea floor, giving him his bearings. He struggled onto hands and knees, got his feet under him and pushed up with all his might, kicking his legs as he had never kicked before. He broke the surface, grabbed a mouthful of air, tried to right himself into a swimming position but was dragged down again.

  He hit the bottom and pushed up once more. Breaking the surface, he thought to remove his kit. He struggled to do so, weakening now and beginning to go down again. His face had just submerged when his descent stopped. Then someone was pulling him up out of the water by the collar of his jacket. Who could be that strong? He turned. And could not fathom what he saw. It was the recruiting officer from the 6ths! What was he doing here? It made no sense. And how could he be this tall?

  ‘Ah, ’tis yourself,’ he said to Daniel as though they were long-lost friends. Then he threw him over his great shoulder, kit and all.

  Behind them, Daniel could see a great horde of Irishmen run along the gangplank. It was a cheering sight. Then bullets began to ping water that was now up to the officer’s thighs.

  ‘I’m grand now, sir,’ he shouted, fearing a shot in the ass.

  He was tossed abruptly forward and went under again. This time, though, his boots struck ground and when he stood, he was waist deep. He turned to thank the officer but could not see him. He looked towards the beach and back again. Then there he was, face down in the water. He had not tossed Daniel deliberately. He had been hit.

  The sea slowed Daniel’s dash to a wade. Reaching the officer at last, he grabbed his shoulders and heaved him over. Bright red blood spurted up into Daniel’s face. The man was bleeding from the neck. Daniel knew from first aid that if he did not stop the bleeding, death would follow in minutes. Putting one hand under his neck and pressing the other flat against the wound, Daniel waded backwards towards shore, the salt water working with him now, to support the officer’s weight. And still the bullets came. He felt one enter his kit bag and closed his eyes, expecting the end. But it did not come. He felt nothing at all. Reaching shore at last, he heaved the giant up onto the sand, dropped to his knees and pressed both hands flat against the wound. Sniper fire peppered the sand around them as Daniel shouted for a stretcher-bearer.

  ‘Fuck on off with you and that’s an order,’ the fallen man said but very weakly and with affection.

  A stretcher-bearer was hurrying to them.

  ‘He’s bleeding from an artery,’ Daniel shouted.

  The stretcher-bearer dropped to his knees beside Daniel. ‘Ah, sure, he’s gone. Sorry, lad.’ He clapped Daniel’s shoulder.

  Daniel stared down into eyes emptied of life. A great rage rose inside him. What kind of heathen would kill a man trying to save a life?

  Then he was being hauled up.

  ‘He’s gone, Danny.’

  Daniel looked up as if from a trance. Michael had come back for him.

  ‘Come on quick before you get yourself killed.’

  ‘He saved me, Mick.’

  ‘Then he died a hero.’ Michael picked up the dead man’s rifle and held it out to Daniel.

  But Daniel was a sniper; his weapon had been adjusted specially for him. He scanned the sand in desperation. Then he saw it. He crawl-raced to it, grabbed it and scrambled to his feet. Bent low, he and Michael stumbled forward, past stretcher-bearers, wounded, dying, dead, past groans and muttered prayers.

  A shell came in, sending them diving to the ground.

  ‘Are you all right?’ they shouted together.

  Then answered together. ‘I’m all right.’

  Ears ringing and mouths spitting sand, they were up again and running.

  A mine exploded some poor unfortunate to pieces. Daniel stopped at the sight: a person, a life, shattered, fractured, disintegrated. Gone. In an instant.

  ‘Healy!’ Michael shouted.

  He came to his senses. And followed.

  Out of breath, they reached the base of the ridge, where they took shelter. Daniel looked back. At the water’s edge, the sea lapped gently over the body. Minutes from landing and already Daniel had learned two lessons of war: The most unexpected of men can make heroes. And heroes can die. Bowing his head, he prayed for the man’s soul.

  Michael shoved a flask into his hand. ‘Drink,’ he instructed. ‘And forget.’

  Daniel drank the burning rum. Forgetting was another thing.

  ‘See anything?’ Michael asked, looking up the ridge.

  Daniel squinted but could see nothing only sand, rock and scrub. ‘No. You?’

  ‘No.’

  Daniel had always imagined the enemy as one man, faceless and contemptible. Now he knew otherwise. The enemy was terrain. It was unbearable heat, already at this hour. It was thirst. It was shells, machine-gun fire and mines. Plus the faceless contemptible man, better armed, better positioned, better camouflaged and better motivated because he was a man defending his land.

  As they awaited orders, other regiments joined them, the 5th and 6th Royal Irish Fusiliers and the 6th Inniskillings from the north of Ireland. How strange the workings of the world, Daniel thought. Had there been
no war and Home Rule instead, he might have been fighting these very men in a civil war.

  twenty-five

  Maggie

  In the Dublin Mountains, Maggie and Patrick stood side by side, each holding a rifle. Maggie had little respect for the Mauser, needing as it did to be reloaded after every shot and cast aside to cool after every three. It also produced a three-foot flame, turning the shooter into a target the minute the trigger was pulled. Still, a gun was a gun.

  They took aim. On the count of three, they fired.

  ‘You’re losing your touch,’ Patrick said triumphantly.

  His smile was like a star appearing in the night sky. Since Ypres, he had barely spoken. The darkness of his hair and eyes seemed to spread beyond their edges and swamp him. He carried his anger with defiance. But there was more than anger; there was a sorrow so intense that it seemed to ooze through his very pores and into the air. The sudden smile gave Maggie an idea.

  She missed the next shot altogether.

  He looked at her. ‘What was that?’

  ‘You moved.’

  ‘Don’t blame me.’ He was smiling again.

  Her third shot wasn’t a total disgrace or he might have copped on.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Stop.’

  ‘Stop what?’

  ‘Letting me win.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  He gave her a look. ‘I’m not an eejit.’

  ‘Well, you must be because I’m not letting you win.’

  His face changed, the darkness returning. ‘I don’t need pitying, Ruairí, all right? I can still shoot.’

  ‘I know you can.’

  ‘Then stop.’

  ‘I can’t stop what I’m not doing.’ But she did stop.

  And when they resumed after the rifles cooled, he did win.

  They passed the guns to the next two and made their way to a nearby stream to wash soot from their hands and faces. They took advantage of the warm August sun and sat on a boulder that formed part of a pathway across the stream. The gurgling water was peaceful and, for a moment, Maggie forgot all else. She threw a stick in and watched its bumpy journey.

  ‘How’s Daniel?’ Patrick asked.

  Her heart thudded. ‘His last letter was from Egypt. He’s on his way to Gallipoli, Patrick.’ Only it didn’t feel like he was on his way. It felt like he was there. She had awoken from a dream where she was not drowning in smoke but water. Ever since then she felt fear like she had never felt it before. She pressed her lips together. She could not cry. Not here. She picked up a stone and fired it downstream. It punctured the water with a plop that seemed too innocent for the times they lived in.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ruairí.’

  She just nodded.

  ‘Does he write often?’ he asked, a longing in his voice as if he’d give anything for one last letter from his father.

  ‘Most days but they arrive haphazardly.’

  He turned to her. ‘God. You must be fierce close!’

  She gazed down at her hands. ‘He’s my best friend in the world.’

  ‘You’re lucky. My brothers crucified me at your age.’

  She had cut her hair, dressed as a boy and yet this was the first time that it felt like a lie. She considered telling him the truth. Then discarded the idea. Patrick Shanahan put Na Fianna Éireann before all else. He would have her dismissed.

  twenty-six

  Daniel

  They had waited in the sweltering heat. They had advanced and then retreated under terrific fire. Now, as the Turks concentrated their efforts on the beach, they were ordered inland once more. The sun beat down. The air hummed with heat. Flies formed a welcoming party, feeding on their perspiration. Daniel tried to ignore the thirst; his ration had to last till sundown.

  Up ahead, a mine exploded into the 5th Royal Irish Fusiliers.

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Christ.’

  Without even knowing it, the Pals halted.

  How quickly war took you into its jaws.

  As they were ordered on, Daniel prayed for their souls. He prayed for his own. Every step, now, was a gamble, a game of life or death. At any moment, it could all be over. How great would the pain be? Missus Daniel Healy. Missus Daniel Healy. Missus Daniel Healy, he repeated to himself. As he passed their remains, he called to mind Maggie’s face, every detail, the exact green of her eyes, the freckle on her lip, the most beautiful eyebrows in the world, black and arched and full of expression. She smiled at him then and whispered the words, ‘You can do this’. He felt her strength in him and he began to believe those words.

  Another mile in the hellish heat and they were ordered to remove their packs. They were leaving behind the weight but also their blankets, oil-sheets, clothing and washing materials. Daniel hurried two pairs of socks into his pocket and wrapped Maggie’s scarf about his waist.

  On they went, bayonets glinting in the sun. They reached a saltwater lake that had dried up from the heat. The sand glistened like diamonds as their boots disturbed it. Daniel tried not to think about what might be buried underneath. He tried not to think what might be hidden in the hills that surrounded them. Here, they were fully exposed to fire.

  And it came, just as they reached dry, ploughed fields. Ahead of them, if they could only reach it, was the most basic of cover – small hillocks, rocks and brushwood. They broke into a run. Months of racing against each other paid off as they dived for cover. Then, from the sea, British Army naval guns opened fire on the hill.

  The Pals dug in as best they could. Daniel could fight the thirst no longer. He took a swig of water, warm now. He swished it around in his mouth, making it last. Swallowing finally, he forced himself to cap his flask.

  The bombardment lasted twenty minutes, leaving the top of the hill smoking like a volcano. Dusty and sweating, the troops were ordered on once more. As they advanced on the base of the hill, Daniel readied himself for the next onslaught. But when they arrived at a network of trenches they found them empty. They fell into them, grateful to be alive.

  ‘What is that tied about your waist, Healy?’ an officer asked.

  Daniel’s heart sank. ‘It’s a scarf, sir.’

  ‘Give it here, like a good man.’

  Daniel held it a moment before handing it over.

  The officer picked up a stick and pushed it, in and out, through the scarf. ‘Perfect,’ he said and held it up.

  Maggie’s scarf had become an Irish flag. Daniel smiled. How she’d love that.

  Too soon, they were ordered to ready themselves to move out. They fixed bayonets. Daniel fumbled for his photograph of Maggie. Fingers trembling, he gazed at it. Then he kissed and put it back in his breast pocket. All around him, men prepared themselves. Some were doing what he had done. Others bowed heads and blessed themselves. Michael took a swig of rum. Behind them someone retched. Then the Commanding Officer let out a mighty roar and was off, up out of the trench. They followed with the deafening cry of a Lansdowne Road rugby chant. It was as if craziness had entered their blood. But they needed that craziness.

  Racing up the hill, they met the enemy face-to-face and screaming. They ran at each other in a frenzy of gun and bayonet. Run and fight, run and fight and try not to think, to see. All around, men met death, some with terrifying wails, others curses, and other still with a proud silence. Daniel would go screaming blue murder. And yet the force of his will to survive surprised him. He leapt and stumbled over bodies, over rocks and scrub that reached up to trip and scrape. Then a shell. Michael heard it come in and let out a roar. They hit the ground, the explosion deafening. Then blackness engulfed them like a blanket.

  Daniel awoke, covered in debris. One by one, he tried his limbs. He lifted his head. Smoke obscured his view like a thick fog, climbing into his eyes and up his nostrils causing him to cough. It seemed too quiet for war. He raised himself onto hands and knees and searched for his gun. He found it, intact, in the scorched earth beside him. He searched for Micha
el. Crawling, he trawled the blackened ground, calling his name with growing desperation. Bodies lay strewn like dropped puppets. Daniel forced himself to check the face of every Pal. With each one, he died a little inside. Guilt flooded him, guilt at the relief that none of them was Michael.

  He looked up the hill. There was only one answer. He must have advanced. This was war. There was no place for waiting for friends to regain consciousness.

  Daniel had a sudden feeling of being left behind. Far off up the hill, his friends were fighting the enemy without him. He took off as fast as the terrain allowed, ever alert. Intermittently, smoke obscured his view. The ground was a carpet of bodies, dead and wounded. Men groaned and called out as he passed, tugging at his heart.

  ‘The stretcher-bearers are coming,’ he reassured. Orders were to fight and if everyone abandoned orders, there would be no order at all. That was how wars were lost.

  And so he carried on. Passing wounded Turks, he feared a shot in the back. And when smoke blew into his face, he expected, at any moment, to be confronted by an enemy face or a silent bayonet in the gut.

  Missus Daniel Healy. Missus Daniel Healy. Missus Daniel Healy.

  A hand gripped his ankle. He whipped around, bayonet at the ready.

  Ah, God, he thought. It was a Pal, the lad in the canteen who had asked of war. A shell had got him. It was a miracle that he was alive.

  ‘Finish me off,’ he begged.

  Squatting down to him, Daniel scrambled for his ration of rum. Fingers shaking, he put it to the boy’s lips. But he spluttered and choked and wasn’t able for it.

  ‘Shoot me, for pity’s sake,’ he said weakly. ‘Put me out of my misery.’

  Daniel’s heart was tearing; he imagined he could feel it. ‘Don’t ask me that. Anything but that.’

  ‘Don’t leave me here to bleed to death. Release me.’

  Daniel closed his eyes and asked the Lord for strength.