Through The Barricades: Winner of the SCBWI SPARK Award 2017

by Denise Deegan

  ‘Release me, Healy, old sport.’

  Daniel opened his eyes, then looked at the boy and nodded.

  His smile was beautiful. ‘Tell them I fought like a hero, won’t you?’

  Daniel put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I will.’

  ‘I’m ready.’

  Oh Jesus, Daniel thought. He told himself that if the roles were reversed and he had to die, he’d want it to be quick. It was what they all wanted. And so, he put the gun to the boy’s head, turned away. And fired.

  He had to make sure. And so he looked. A great sob gripped him. Never had he imagined – and he had done a lot of imagining – that he would ever take the life of one of his own. The relief on the boy’s face did nothing for Daniel’s pain.

  twenty-seven

  Daniel

  The sounds of battle grew nearer. The smoke was everywhere, now. Daniel could not see, could barely breathe. And then he was falling, tumbling down into blackness. Landing on hands and knees, he saw that he had stumbled into a great smoldering crater. He picked himself up, found his gun and, bent low, hurried forward to the lip. He peered out. The smoke was clearing in patches. On and off, he had a view ahead. The sniper in him awoke. He removed his jacket, folded it and placed it on the ground before him. Then he lowered himself onto one knee and readied his rifle.

  He watched for the flash of machine-gun fire. Slowly, patiently, he pinpointed the gunner. He took aim. His blackened, shaking fingers stilled. He breathed slowly, deeply, and then released a single shot.

  The machine-gun fire stopped instantly.

  There was no regret in taking this life. The pacifist in Daniel had died.

  A burst of fire alerted him to the location of another gunner. Calmly, like before, he took him down. He waited, coldly, for someone to take over, for it to begin again. Behind him, a footstep! He flung around. Out of the smoke, loomed the whites of two eyes, a face covered in soil.

  Which side? Which fucking side?

  ‘Healy, is that you?’

  Daniel almost pissed himself in relief. ‘Christ! Sergeant Miller! Sorry for cursing, sir.’

  The sergeant looked like he was made of soil. He had lost his helmet and his jacket was ripped at the arm.

  ‘Are you wounded?’ Daniel asked.

  ‘Only a graze.’

  Daniel took off his helmet and passed it to his superior. Miller refused it, then simply bent down and picked one off the ground. Behind him, three men loomed into view. Daniel raised his gun.

  ‘At ease, Private,’ Miller said.

  Daniel lowered his weapon.

  ‘Picked these lads up along the way,’ the sergeant said.

  None of them were Pals.

  ‘You haven’t seen Hegarty, have you, Sarge? I’ve lost him.’

  Miller shook his head. His eyes were sad but then his eyes were forever that way, beautifully sad. You’d nearly want to hug him.

  ‘I imagine he’s up ahead,’ Miller said. ‘Are we safe to advance, do you think?’

  ‘Don’t know, Sarge. I just took out two gunners. I was waiting to see if they’d be replaced.’

  They took up positions at the lip of the crater, watched and waited.

  ‘Do you have any water, Healy?’

  ‘I’m drained, Sarge. The smoke.’

  Miller grinned. ‘And we thought Basingstoke was bad!’

  ‘What I wouldn’t give for an old English puddle.’ On route marches they had drunk from them.

  ‘Right oh,’ Sergeant Miller said after five minutes had elapsed without fire. ‘Ready to move out.’

  They readied themselves and, at the order, climbed from the crater. They picked their way through bodies and scrub. Neither bullet nor shell came their way. The smoke was at its thickest now. The only sounds were the groaning of the wounded. Daniel tried not to think about what he had done to his dying comrade but knew that he would remember it for the rest of his life – however long that would be.

  Nearing the top of the hill, they grew ever more cautious. They crouched low, expecting, at any moment, to come under the terrific fire of a last stand. Bayonets at the ready, they made their final approach. They exchanged one last glance, then ran and leapt into the air.

  They landed in amongst their own men who immediately surrounded them, bayonets at their throats.

  ‘At ease, boys,’ Sergeant Miller ordered.

  They obeyed in relief.

  ‘Healy!’

  Daniel turned. ‘Walkey!’

  They laughed and embraced while all about them, men collapsed into weary heaps. Those with water drained their bottles, one with his tongue out to catch the last drop. From down in the bay floated cheers from the men aboard the Royal Navy gunboat that had been guarding their left flank all the way up.

  ‘We did it!’ Walkey said. ‘We took the hill!’

  ‘Have you seen Hegarty?’ Daniel asked.

  He shook his head.

  ‘Has anyone seen Hegarty?’

  Crouched low for fear of snipers, he made his way through the trench. If he didn’t find him, he’d go back down.

  Then he was laughing. He and MacDonald clung to each other.

  ‘You little fucker,’ MacDonald said affectionately.

  Tears sprang to Daniel’s eyes. It felt as though they were holding each other up.

  ‘We did it!’ MacDonald exclaimed.

  Daniel pulled back. ‘I’m looking for Hegarty. Have you seen him?’

  ‘No but I’ll help you look. You go that way. I’ll go this. Don’t worry, we’ll find him.’

  Good old MacDonald.

  Daniel passed men pushing the fly-infested bodies of dead Turks and the odd German officer up out of the trenches. He stepped over a body, then halted, his foot in mid-air. What heathens would have women at the front-line? Then he thought of Maggie, unstoppable in her quest to fight for her country. She could not end up like this. He would not let it happen. It was why he was here. All he had seen, all he had done, was for that reason. He was glad to be reminded of it, to find some sense in this.

  Yards ahead and around a corner came the sound of someone dropping into the trench. Daniel raised his rifle on reflex. He approached, bayonet at the ready, praying he wouldn’t have to use it, praying for the killing to be over, at least for today.

  He rounded the corner.

  Bent double, catching his breath, the soldier slowly turned. At the sight of Daniel, he smiled, exhausted. ‘There you are, you old bastard.’

  Daniel had to laugh to hide his tears. ‘Where were you? I looked everywhere. I thought you’d advanced without me. I was about to go back down.’

  ‘The shell threw me clear, knocked me out for I don’t know how long. When I woke, I was alone. You’d all gone on.’

  ‘But I looked everywhere!’

  He shrugged. ‘I was black as the ace of spades.’ He examined himself then and laughed. ‘Look at me, not a scratch.’ He dusted himself down as if he could not believe his luck. Then his voice changed. ‘Who’s here?’

  ‘MacDonald and Walkey! The two Gunnings. Sergeant Miller.’

  ‘I’m almost certain I saw Lieutenant Julian go down.’

  ‘Ah, no.’ He thought of his father.

  ‘I need a coffin nail.’ Michael pulled a battered packet of cigarettes from his pocket.

  Neither of them had smoked before the war but whatever one got in rations one gladly took. Daniel accepted a cigarette with thanks. They sat on the floor of the trench. Daniel removed his pith helmet and scratched his scalp. Immediately, he had to replace the helmet against a swarm of flies.

  ‘Maybe the smoke will get rid of them,’ Michael said hopefully.

  ‘Nothing will, Mick. It’s like they’ve been released from hell itself.’

  But they ignored the flies, the bodies and the stench of already rotting corpses. For a few precious moments, they stole a slice of peace.

  Darkness fell.

  The groans coming from outside the trench grew louder, reminding Daniel
of all the wounded he’d walked by. Soon, he could bear it no longer.

  ‘I’m going out.’

  ‘You are not.’

  He began to climb the trench wall.

  Michael pulled him back down.

  ‘Just one, Mick. Just, for Christ’s sake, one.’

  ‘What if it’s a Turk?’

  ‘Then it’s a Turk.’

  ‘You’re mad.’

  ‘I’ll go mad if I don’t get him.’

  It was one of the 6th Iniskillings, a lad no older than them, the shadow of a moustache barely forming. His bottle was dry and no one had any to share. There were no stretcher-bearers. Daniel doubted that they would have been of use. He removed his own blackened jacket, rolled it and tucked it under the boy’s head. Michael covered him with his but it did not stop the shaking. It was with relief that they saw the padre coming along the trenches, placing his hand on a man here, another there, administering words of comfort and prayer.

  Daniel raised an arm. ‘Padre!’

  He came immediately in that calm way of his. They moved aside as he knelt beside the lad. He tipped a little water into his mouth and whispered a few words. Daniel wondered if it mattered that the boy might not be Catholic.

  He called for his mother as death took him.

  Daniel shivered. It was the saddest, loneliest moment.

  With the sun gone and the sky clear, another enemy arrived. Cold settled in on them. Daniel remembered Maggie’s scarf. He would not survive the war without it. And that had nothing to do with insulation.

  When he finally tracked it down, his heart sank. An officer had it wrapped around his neck. Daniel turned to walk away but an image of Maggie slaving over it for months had burned itself into his mind. He could not let it go. He approached the officer.

  ‘Sir, the scarf, if you don’t mind. It was a gift.’

  The officer seemed more surprised than annoyed by the request but, with officers, you never knew what they were thinking until it was too late.

  ‘I’ve grown quite attached to it, Private.’

  ‘It’s of great sentimental value, sir.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  Daniel produced his picture of Maggie.

  The officer peered at it by the light of the moon. ‘Is that a boy or a girl, Healy?’

  ‘Girl, sir.’

  He looked up, surprised, as though he had decided otherwise. ‘What happened to her hair?’

  ‘Long story, sir.’

  ‘I’ve all the time in the world, Healy.’

  ‘She sold it to help the poor, sir.’

  ‘She did, did she?’ He sounded impressed.

  ‘She did, sir.’

  ‘Have you anything to trade me for the scarf, Private?’

  Daniel thought. ‘A fresh pair of socks, sir.’ They would be invaluable after the day’s marching but would they be as invaluable as a scarf on a freezing night? Perhaps he’d take the socks and hold on to the scarf.

  ‘Well, why didn’t you say so earlier?’

  That’s exactly what he was wondering. He pulled them from his pocket.

  ‘I don’t want your socks, Private.’

  ‘No, sir?’

  ‘I only wanted to see how important the scarf was to you.’

  ‘Important, sir.’

  ‘I can see that.’ He took a drag on the cigarette. ‘Private?’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Your girl?’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘She’s very beautiful. Despite the hair.’

  He smiled. ‘I know, sir.’

  The officer unwrapped the scarf. It took a while. ‘She made enough of it.’

  ‘She did, sir.’

  Daniel made his way back to Michael. He sat down and held the scarf to his face. What he wouldn’t give to have her here with him, to watch her frown and fret and give out about Ireland’s history. But then, he wouldn’t bring her to a place like this. Not for one minute.

  He and Michael received sentry duty together. For two hours, they stood on the fire-step, looking out into an alien wilderness. Daniel didn’t know which was colder, his hands or his weapon. And yet, despite the cold, the thirst and constant fear of attack, his eyes began to close. He widened them. They closed again. He slapped his face to stay awake.

  ‘Here, let me do that,’ Michael offered.

  ‘Feck off you mad bastard.’ Daniel wondered how he’d have survived without him.

  twenty-eight

  Maggie

  There began to appear on the streets of Dublin men with missing limbs, scarred faces, haunted eyes. They limped and hobbled as if from out of hell itself. People stared. Mothers turned their children in to their skirts. Maggie’s nightmares became more frequent. In them, it was Daniel who faced the flames now and, instead of running from them, he was walking calmly towards them. When Maggie woke calling his name, Lily was always there. Maggie worried what it was doing to her.

  ‘Tonight we are letting our hair down!’ their mother announced. ‘We are going to see Madame perform at the Abbey Theatre.’

  Maggie smiled. She had always wanted to see Madame on stage.

  They took the tram, all of them except Tom who, as usual, was busy.

  As Lily chatted, Maggie’s eyes returned, again and again, to a handsome couple talking quietly to one another, heads almost touching. She knew that they did not appreciate the easy togetherness they shared – a person could not truly appreciate such things until they lost them. But they climbed into her heart, proof that love could survive war.

  They disembarked ahead of Maggie and her family. Arm in arm, they too seemed theatre-bound. She laughed at something he said and rested her head against his shoulder.

  Ahead of them, the lights of the Abbey looked gay and inviting. A small cluster of women had gathered outside. In their hands, they held small tins.

  ‘They must be collecting for the war effort,’ Maggie’s mother said and reached for her purse.

  One of the women approached the young couple, blocking their way, forcing them to stop. From the tin, she took a white feather.

  The young man stared at the symbol of cowardice that had somehow ended up between his finger and thumb, then hurried the shame into his pocket. The group of women shared triumphant glances. The couple rushed on, heads down.

  Suddenly, Maggie was moving, propelled forward by a breathless need to tip the balance back in favour of love. She marched up to the woman, blocking her path. She held out an upturned hand as though asking for a feather but before the baffled woman could respond, she shot her hand forward under the tin and brought it swiftly up. It leapt into the air and then clattered to the ground. The wind whipped white feathers against the woman, covering her. One attached itself to her lip. She batted at it as though struck by a fatal disease.

  ‘If you are so keen to get people to the front-line why don’t you sign up yourself?’

  She stared at Maggie as if she had lost her mind. ‘I’m a woman.’

  ‘Are you saying that war is not for women?’

  ‘You know that it’s not.’

  ‘In that case, keep your nose out of it.’

  Lily began to clap. David and their mother joined in. Then strangers.

  The woman stared at Maggie’s mother. ‘What kind of children have you raised?’

  ‘Children that I’m incredibly proud of,’ she said, placing an arm behind them and guiding them forward into the theatre.

  The play was a spectacle, Madame a sensation. Was there anything she could not do?

  ‘Let us go backstage and tell her how wonderful she was!’ Missus Gilligan enthused.

  ‘Yes, let’s!’ Lily said.

  ‘No!’ Maggie blurted at the same time.

  ‘Why not? She hasn’t seen us since the food kitchen closed. She’d be delighted-’

  ‘Mam, she’s involved with Na Fianna. She sees me regularly – as a boy. I can’t have her recognise me.’ She touched her shorn hair.

  Her mother frown
ed. ‘What is Madame doing with Na Fianna?’

  ‘She helped set it up,’ Maggie said.

  ‘Lord God. Is everyone in the world becoming a rebel? What is wrong with a peaceful solution?’

  People turned at the sound of a raised voice.

  The mood had changed. It was as if the evening had become tarnished. Maggie wished that she could make the war go away, the British go away, produce a pied piper who would simply attract them out of Ireland. If only life were as easy as stories.

  twenty-nine

  Daniel

  It seemed a lifetime since they had taken the hill. It was days. The 6ths had fought fiercely to advance further inland but the Turks, heavily reinforced, had been ready for them. Now orders were to ‘sit tight’. They crouched like animals in holes dug by the enemy, while heat, thirst and flies drained whatever strength they had left. They baked by day and froze by night. Lips cracked and blistered. Faces hollowed out. Eyes grew bloodshot and haunted.

  In Basingstoke, Daniel had believed himself pushed to the limit of human endurance. He had had no notion of what that was. Time and again, the words of the war-weary soldier at the Curragh came back to haunt him. He had been right. Nothing could have prepared them for this. All the drills, all the marching seemed like a joke now when they couldn’t even stretch their legs. All of those personal hygiene lessons had omitted one crucial fact: for a man to clean himself, he needs water. There was not enough to drink, never mind to work up a lather. Daniel had seen men rub sand onto their skin to rid themselves of grime. Leftover tea, a rare commodity, was used for washing but nothing could rid them of the stench of sweat, dirt, latrines and rotting flesh. Corpses bloated in the sun and burst open – they had not learned that at the Curragh.

  Constant sniper fire kept heads low and prevented them from burying their dead. Now and again, a truce was agreed so that both sides could dig and fill graves, the most upsetting, stomach-churning work Daniel had ever known. They did it for their friends – their brothers, more like. They hoped that there would be someone to do it for them should their time come.