Through The Barricades: Winner of the SCBWI SPARK Award 2017

by Denise Deegan

  Despite everything, Daniel laughed. Then he closed his eyes and thanked God for their salvation.

  ‘I need to know who’s made it,’ Michael said then.

  It was like wondering which of your family had survived.

  Moans, sobs and tearful prayers filled the night sky. Stretcher-bearers began to creep about. Daniel wondered when the war was over – if it ever were – would they continue to walk with a stoop as though expecting a bullet at any moment. He met the eyes of a stretcher-bearer, then. They were bloodshot, exhausted and melancholy.

  ‘Up the Irish,’ Daniel called.

  The eyes smiled. Then they were gone.

  Listening posts were set up. Daniel and Michael were positioned closest to the edge of the ridge. Lying in the dark on full alert, the hairs on the back of Daniel’s neck stood on end.

  ‘Do you still have that bad feeling?’ he whispered to Michael, his breath fogging up in the cold night air.

  ‘Worse than ever, old pal. Worse than ever.’

  Daniel wished that he had left Maggie with a proper goodbye or, at least, a goodbye fitting a soldier that might not return. But then, a proper goodbye would have terrified her.

  Just before dawn, stiff, frozen and dying for a piss, Daniel heard shells flying in overhead like a great flock of birds. Sounding the alarm, he stared at Michael. Never before had they experienced such a bombardment. Behind them, ground and men exploded. And still the shells kept coming, no stop, no break. The only sensible response was to reply with grenades. But after two days of fighting, supplies were exhausted.

  As Daniel saw it, he had two choices, to lie waiting for the end or do what he had been trained to do. He turned to Michael and tapped his gun. ‘Let’s take out a few, so our men can advance.’

  ‘Fuck,’ was Michael’s way of agreeing.

  They blessed themselves and began to crawl forward. Daniel prayed that the Turks weren’t advancing at the same time. At last, skin torn from scrub and rock, they peered over the edge.

  They were everywhere, emerging time and again from behind rocks to lob over their grenades.

  ‘Tell me when you’ve found a target and we’ll fire together on three,’ Daniel whispered.

  They fired. Two men went down.

  They looked at each other, nodded, and went again. With equal success.

  Machine-gun fire broke out. They clung to the ground.

  ‘Awww shite!’ Michael groaned.

  Daniel turned. Michael’s face was in the soil. His uniform had been torn to shreds where bullets had entered. ‘Oh Christ,’ Daniel uttered, dropping his gun and scrambling back to Michael’s feet where he began tugging him out of range.

  A shell went off beside them, blowing Daniel clear.

  Dazed, he crawled back, ears ringing.

  ‘It’s all right. It’s all right,’ he said over and over.

  But Michael wasn’t responding, wasn’t moving, eyes closed, face flat to the ground. Fumbling, Daniel checked his neck for a pulse and cursed in relief when he found one. It was weak, though. Almost gone. He looked towards the ridge. Orders were to fight not tend to the wounded. He looked down at his best friend. They’d shared so much: laughter, fear, thirst, life. Brotherhood. Michael would not be there if it weren’t for him. He knew his duty. It was to his friend.

  He grabbed Michael’s arms and heaved him onto his back. As he turned down the hill, the sky lit up with an explosion. Like something out of a dream, he saw a Pal leap up into the air, arm outstretched.

  ‘Oh Jesus,’ Daniel whispered, realising that the Private was trying to catch an incoming grenade.

  A split second of darkness, then the sky lit up again to reveal him snatching it from the sky, letting his arm arc back, under and forward again to release the ‘cricket ball’ back at the enemy.

  ‘Another one for Ireland, if you don’t mind,’ he called.

  Daniel wanted to scream. It was Wilkin! He remembered him laughing in the sun, snatching Michael’s orange out of the air. Now he was catching death in his bare hand and firing it happily back as if he were on the cricket pitch on a sunny afternoon. If Daniel survived, this is what he would remember of heroes – his pal, Wilkin.

  Wilkin was hurtling towards another cricket ball when they were plunged once more into darkness. Then bravery lit up the sky. Good old, fucking adorable Wilkin, blown into a million pieces. The scream in Daniel’s head would not stop. He didn’t want it to. Wilkin was gone. Wilkin who had all those times fallen back to tell them to ‘take it handy.’ There was no justice in the world.

  In the rapidly breaking dawn, Daniel made out a company of Pals, led by Captain Hickman, running towards him in a bayonet charge. It was a heartening sight – until they too exploded, right before his eyes, so many of his beloved Pals – years and years of life and love perishing in a split and ugly second. A great numbness fell over him. He could feel nothing now, not even his legs. But they must have been moving still because he found himself at a wall, behind which was a makeshift trench. He climbed over and in. Hands reached up to take Michael. Daniel called for a stretcher-bearer. But there were none, just more men readying to go over the top. Desperately, he looked for something to bandage Michael with but there was nothing. He would die if Daniel didn’t get him down to the beach. He looked at Major Harrison.

  ‘Permission to bring Hegarty down, sir.’

  The major paused. He looked at Daniel and then at Michael, the most inseparable of Pals.

  ‘You are, of course, wounded yourself, aren’t you, Healy?’ he hinted.

  ‘Yes, Major.’

  The major winked. From his breast pocket, he produced a notebook and pencil. He scribbled a note, tore out a page and passed it to Daniel. ‘You’ll need this.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Harrison put a hand on Daniel’s shoulder. ‘You’ve done your bit, Private. Off you go.’

  Daniel saluted. He watched as the major moved to the head of his men, then paused for a moment, head bowed. Daniel saw a number of men bless themselves. Then Harrison gave a sharp blast on his whistle and yelled, ‘For Ireland!’

  With a mighty roar, the Royal Dublin Fusiliers charged up into the breaking dawn.

  Daniel, too, blessed himself. Then he heaved Michael onto his back.

  He had no memory of how he got down all those miles alive but here he was, on the beach, carrying Michael into the field ambulance tent. They had to peel his friend off his back. They placed him on a stretcher bed and began immediately to attend to him. Daniel hovered.

  ‘Let us do what we can,’ the medical officer said, without looking up. It was a kind way of asking him to leave.

  Outside the tent, all energy drained from him and, no longer able to stand, he sank to his knees, shaking all over.

  His journey to the sea was on hands and knees. He crawled into the wash and lay in the ebb and flow letting the gentle surf lap over him like the stroke of a mother’s hand. His eyes were closing, his body shutting down. She came to him then, Maggie, telling him to wake up, wake up and find a safe place to sleep. With all his might, he heaved himself onto his elbows and then used them to drag himself backwards away from the sea. Halfway up the beach, he collapsed onto the sand and let the blackness come.

  He woke to a raging sun, feeling at the same time hot and cold. His head pounded with pain. His mouth did not have enough space for his tongue. Michael! He sat up and squinted in the blare of the sun. Down at the shore, a lighter was being loaded with wounded. Daniel stumbled towards the field ambulance tent. Outside it, now, lay row upon row of wounded and dying, carried down during the night. Weary orderlies tried to attend to them.

  Inside the tent, chaos reigned, with doctors desperately trying to spread their care.

  Daniel found Michael alone, unconscious, barely clinging to life. He knew only one thing. There were too few medics here with too many demands for Michael to survive. Daniel had to get him onto that lighter. He eased his arms under his friend’s back and legs and l
ifted him. If anyone noticed, they did not stop him.

  At the shoreline, casualties were lined up, awaiting evacuation. A quick glance told Daniel that he’d need a stretcher to get Michael onto a boat. He lowered him onto the sand and hurried back to the tent. The first man waiting outside was unconscious. Daniel lifted him from his stretcher and carried him inside to Michael’s bed. It would be better for him in the shade and he’d receive medical attention quicker.

  Daniel raced the stretcher to the shore. He was lifting Michael onto it when sniper fire broke out, lifting sand in spouts. A stretcher-bearer fell. Two others helped him to the tent. The casualties were abandoned on the beach. The engine started up on the lighter. Daniel raced to it, arms waving.

  ‘Just one more! Please! Take one more!’

  The Private looked at Daniel and seemed to take pity on him. ‘Hurry then.’

  Daniel ran to Michael and began to drag his stretcher over the sand.

  The soldier jumped from the lighter to help.

  ‘How quickly can you get him to a hospital ship?’ Daniel asked as they carried him aboard.

  ‘I’m sorry, lad. They’re all full. All we can do is seek out trawlers that are headed for Mudros.’

  Daniel panicked. Mudros had hospitals but would Michael survive the journey without medical attention – if indeed they found a trawler? It was a gamble, just as leaving Michael here was a gamble. Daniel looked back at the hospital tent. And decided.

  ‘Take him. Please.’ He put his hand on Michael’s chalk-white forehead. ‘Godspeed, my friend.’

  Daniel jumped ashore and the boat departed in haste.

  He sat at the water’s edge watching the lighter till he could see it no longer. Then he stripped naked and walked into the sea. He dived down. Underwater, he was free from sound and sight. He emptied his mind of the horrors, concentrated only on the sensation of water on his skin, the weightless stretch in his limbs as he swam. Up ahead, something zipped through the water, a bullet, he realised, zooming down into the depths. After it, came another, then another.

  ‘Fuckers,’ he said, as Michael would have.

  Then he dived down further.

  A medical officer, out for a hastily smoked cigarette, found him unconscious on the sand, diagnosed him with exhaustion and ordered a week of rest. In reality, he was granting Daniel a week of life.

  And so, for one week, Daniel lived.

  He swam, slept, washed, ate and, when he had the energy, shaved every hair on his head. He treated himself and his uniform for lice. And he drank and treasured every bit of water that came his way. After three days regaining his energy, he started to make himself useful. He constructed shelters for those waiting on the sand. He used all he knew of first aid to help them as they waited to be seen. He shared cigarettes and water. The wounded shared their stories, stories that Daniel did not want to hear. Major Harrison had been killed in action, leading the Pals forward. Daniel’s heart swelled with sadness, remembering the note that the major had written for him, the note that he hadn’t needed after all. He took it out now and read it.

  Private Healy is acting on my orders. Harrison (Major).

  One of the last things he had ever done was save their lives.

  He longed for news of Walkey and MacDonald. But there was none. Instead, he heard with growing frustration that his beloved unit was out of ammunition and water, still valiantly continuing to hold the ridge, throwing anything they could get – rocks, unexploded grenades – at the enemy and refusing to retreat until they received the order. Where was the fucking order? What good were they doing up there? Get them bloody down!

  He smoked cigarette after cigarette, praying for the Pals on the ridge and praying for Michael. Had they found a trawler? Would Michael reach Mudros on time? Would he have had a better chance here? Or had Daniel made the biggest mistake of his life?

  part four

  thirty-two

  Maggie

  November 1915

  Maggie had retired to her room when there was a call to the front door. She wondered who could possibly be calling at this hour. She thought of Danny and her heart went cold. She hurried out onto the landing, wrapping her dressing gown about her. If it were a telegram she would die.

  ‘Who are you and what business do you have here?’ she heard Tom demand.

  Relief flooded her; it wasn’t a telegram.

  She wondered if it could be Patrick. But why would he be calling to the house – and so late?

  Halfway down the stairs, she – and her heart – stopped. Light spilling onto the porch revealed a military uniform.

  ‘Danny!’ She began to run.

  Tom stood aside but did not leave.

  The soldier removed his cap.

  She stopped dead. ‘Michael!’ She did not mean to sound so disappointed. He was – after all – alive. She turned to Tom. ‘It’s fine. Go back to bed.’

  But he stood glaring at the enemy.

  ‘Tom! I said it was fine. This is my friend.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Another friend in the British Army?’

  ‘Go!’ She began to shoo him.

  And finally, with a grunt, he went.

  She turned back to Michael. ‘Don’t mind him. Come in! It’s so good to see you. Danny has been so worried. We all have.’

  He stepped into the light.

  Maggie tried not to stare. His face. It was different, unbalanced. Unnatural. It was a mask, she realised. It covered the left side of his face, beginning at his eye and extending down to cover his cheek and half of his mouth, disappearing under his chin. She wondered if what was behind it could be any more grotesque than the mask itself. She tried to ignore it.

  ‘I’m sorry for the late hour.’ He touched his face. ‘I don’t venture out by day.’

  ‘Do you think I care about the hour? You’re alive!’

  Maggie’s heart ached for him as she showed him into the drawing room. She gestured to a seat by the fire. He limped to it with the aid of a cane and sat slowly as though it pained him to do so. He settled with one leg outstretched, the other bent. Maggie sat opposite. She held steady as his eyes rested on her for the longest time. It was as if he was trying to match the face before him with one from the past.

  ‘That photograph of you was the most looked at in the whole of Gallipoli. He lives for you, Maggie.’

  Tears welled; it no longer felt that way to her. ‘His letters have changed, Michael. He has changed.’

  ‘War does that to a man.’ His voice was filled with regret.

  ‘But your being alive will change everything! He is desperate for news of you! I have been scanning the casualty lists, daily, for him.’ In truth, it was David who was doing the scanning while Maggie paced the room, unable to read name after name with the words, ‘killed in action,’ ‘missing in action,’ or ‘died of wounds’ beside them.

  Have you written to him?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Then you must!’

  ‘I’ve tried, Maggie. I’ve been home two weeks now and I still can’t find the words to tell him I won’t be returning to fight alongside him.’

  ‘Those words would be music to his ears, I can assure you. He would not want you back there.’

  He smiled his half-smile. The mask took care of that.

  ‘What do you think of it?’ he asked.

  ‘Of what?’ she pretended.

  ‘You can’t take your eyes off it, Maggie. No one can.’

  She struggled. ‘It’s good.’

  ‘Good?’

  ‘You’d hardly notice it,’ she lied.

  ‘Will I remove it?’ he dared.

  She held his eyes. ‘If you wish.’

  His voice lost its bitterness. ‘It’s all right. You don’t want to see it.’

  ‘I do, Michael.’ For his sake.

  ‘You may believe so.’

  ‘I know so.’ Whatever horror there was, she must not react.

  With a scarred hand, he unhooked the m
ask from behind an ear. There was a fist-sized hole in his cheek as though a great metal claw had torn it away. Maggie could see the inner workings of his mouth, his teeth as though bared.

  ‘You hide your horror well, Maggie.’ He began to hook the mask into position.

  ‘Is it painful?’ she asked as if the look of it did not matter.

  ‘Only in the way people react. Michael Hegarty no longer exists. There’s not one person who treats me as they did.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Then punch me.’

  She laughed but could as easily have cried. She rose and went to him. She took his scarred hand in hers. ‘You’re home, Michael. You’re safe. That’s all that matters.’

  ‘Nothing matters.’ His voice was dead.

  ‘Your friendship with Danny matters. Write to him.’

  ‘Sometimes, I wish he’d left me there on the ridge.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Anyway, I didn’t come here to moan. I came to make things right. I’ve had time to think – a lot of time. I wasn’t the best person when I had my face. I didn’t treat you well, Maggie.’

  ‘If I recall, it was I who punched you.’

  ‘I tried to turn Daniel against you. I told him that you were trouble.’

  ‘Perhaps I am.’ She smiled.

  ‘The truth is,’ he determined. ‘I was envious of what he had with you.’

  ‘Michael, none of that matters now.’

  ‘Should he get out of that hell alive, you must love him. I mean really fucking love him – I’m sorry, my language – but you must – no matter how many bits he’s in.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Promise me. It’s all I live for now – for him to return and find happiness in you.’

  She was trying so hard not to cry. Michael had left Dublin a boy, a happy, carefree boy. ‘You can be happy in yourself, Michael.’

  ‘How, when I’ll be forever alone?’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘Who will love me with this face, this non-face?’ He tapped out a hollow sound from the mask.