Willson looked at it and sniffed distastefully, a look of melancholy disappointment in his eyes. ‘Jeez, when will the flaming Shinners give it a rest,’ he replied, shaking his head slowly.
‘So, what will we do about it, Sergeant?’ Flynn asked.
‘Well, Constable Flynn, my boy, I guess that O’Neill and I will be having a wee one-to-one with that young Mick Early fella.’ Flynn furrowed his brow, unsure what Willson meant. Willson gave Flynn a wry grin. ‘Sergeant McLain was kind enough to point out the local troublemakers for me and Early’s the little Fenian gobshite who’s been putting the things up.’
‘How on earth do you know it’s him, Sergeant?’ asked Flynn.
‘Because I watch him do it,’ laughed Willson. ‘The wee eejit is too thick to realize that I can see him from the barracks’ window! That’s him up there in the doorway with that other fella pretending not to follow you.’ Flynn blanched. ‘Don’t worry yourself – he’s a useless beggar and I think me and O’Neill will be having that wee chat now,’ he said chirpily.
Fitzgerald looked around just in time to see Willson striding up the road towards him and he grabbed Mick Early by the lapel. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said as they raced off up the street.
CHAPTER 5
The Muldoon farm near Drumlish, County Longford
‘JOE, LOOK! PEELERS!’ Paddy Doyle pointed towards the road.
‘Will you calm down!’ Maguire snapped. He knew that he shouldn’t be so short with Doyle but his inexperience irritated him as did the youth of most of his troops. Doyle’s open features were flushed with fear and excitement as his knuckles whitened on the stock of his old Howth Mauser.
‘Some bastard has grassed us up!’ Doyle shrieked.
‘I don’t think so. If they was onto us there’d be a damn sight more than two of them,’ Maguire replied, licking his lips, watching the two policemen pedalling casually towards the farm, before looking around at the three gunmen standing behind him and flashing a grim, humourless smile. ‘If you ask me I think yon peelers may well come to regret their wee trip in the country!’ His companions brayed, trying to mask their fears, putting on a front.
‘Paddy, you stay up here with me,’ Maguire ordered Doyle, before turning to the others, two brothers with a long track record of fighting, and killing, for Ireland. ‘Jerry, Mick, get down to the lane there and find a good position for a shot. We’ll cover you from up here.’ As the McNamara brothers loped off down the hill, Maguire called after them. ‘Oh, and boys, don’t do nothing until I say, understand?’
He glanced at his watch. It was just gone one o’clock and gossamer wisps of cloud scudded across the skies, banishing the last vestiges of the morning’s drizzle as he caressed the familiar butt of the revolver nestling in his coat pocket. ‘Right, Paddy.’ Maguire watched the policemen get closer, their rifle-green uniforms looking almost black in the feeble sunlight. ‘Stick with me and do what I say and you’ll be all right!’ he said, patting Doyle reassuringly on the shoulder before heading towards one of the outbuildings. Relieved, he noticed that neither policeman had a carbine and reasoned that he held the advantage.
Stray cattle blocked the policemen’s path and a large brown heifer stared at them with huge, rheumy, dark eyes. ‘You’ll be at home with all these cows then, Jim!’ Flynn shouted, as O’Leary slammed on his brakes.
‘Away with you, city boy,’ O’Leary called as he leapt with a practised flourish from his bicycle straight into a fresh, green, steaming cowpat. ‘Shit!’ O’Leary muttered half to himself.
‘You don’t say, Jim! You’d best be careful where you step there!’ Flynn chuckled as he quickly scanned the ground, stepping gingerly from his bike, doing his best to avoid the steaming cowpats littering the ground like squidgy landmines. ‘Christ, what a flaming dump!’ he sighed, looking up at the rambling, moss-strewn dry-stone walls and the unkempt pastures before him.
‘Will you stop whinging, you miserable jackeen, and get yourself up to the farmhouse. Go find old Tom and I’ll get these bloody cows off the road,’ O’Leary called as he scraped the clinging muck from his boot.
‘All right, you culchie git, I’ll fetch the old bugger,’ Flynn replied, propping his bike against the shabby wall and looking up at the dilapidated grey-stone, slate-roofed buildings ahead. As he struggled through the muck, Flynn glanced back at O’Leary’s lamentable attempts to herd the cattle into a nearby field and laughed, shaking his head. O’Leary may have been a country boy once but he’d definitely lost his touch with cattle, if indeed he ever had one.
Ahead a dog barked. The track was ankle-deep cloying mud that splashed up the legs of his trousers as he squelched up it. The sensation of cold slime seeping into his boots, oozing into his socks, felt vaguely familiar, and in the back of his mind it reminded Flynn of trudging up to the front but that seemed ages ago, another life.
As Flynn neared the farm building, his nose hairs tingled from the stink of chicken droppings. The dog was still barking, a persistent bark, an attention-seeking bark, short, sharp, repetitive and anguished, and a vaguely familiar feeling grew in the pit of his stomach, churning deep inside, and in a dark, half-forgotten recess of his mind. Unthinking, he loosened the stiff leather flap of his pistol holster, exposing the wooden grip of his revolver.
The front door was ajar and squinting into the gloom Flynn gently pushed it open and carefully stepped inside. ‘Hello there, Mr Muldoon! Are you there? It’s Constable Flynn! Sergeant Willson from Drumlish sent me! Mr Muldoon?’
Nothing stirred. The room was still and the barking more anguished, intense, close by. The air reeked of smouldering turf, an old chipped enamel-tin mug of tea sat on a sturdy old oak table, a tatty crucifix adorned the wall above the fire-blackened mantelpiece and a tired old chair lay upended on the ochre-tiled floor. He gently patted the mug with the back of his fingers. It was stone cold.
His gun rasped on his holster. ‘Mr Muldoon?’ The silence made Flynn feel alone, vulnerable, afraid. The hair rose on the back of his neck. He was back in no man’s land. The hammer of his pistol felt stiff under his thumb – ‘Click!’ Instinctively his tread became cautious, on the balls of his feet, alert – ready.
Maguire watched the young policeman step from the house and into the farm’s back yard. Heart racing, he rolled back the hammer of his pistol with the heel of his left hand before pressing himself into the shadows. Doyle was as white as a ghost and trembling with fear and excitement. The dog’s bark was grating on both men’s nerves and Maguire regretted not shooting it when he had the chance.
The ancient mongrel saw Flynn first and pogoed in excitement, straining against its leash as he crossed the yard. Flynn grimaced as his boot skidded in a fresh dog turd. The stench of the decrepit outhouse reinforced the pervading air of atrophy. ‘Easy, old fella,’ Flynn said, trying to calm the animal, ruffling its matted pelt. ‘Where’s your master, eh, boy?’ he asked as it lolled its tongue, its meaty breath warm and rank on his face until it quietened and wetly nuzzled his hand.
Maguire shifted his position and aimed his pistol, resting the barrel across his left forearm. Doyle blinked nervously, his mouth suddenly dry and coppery as he eased the butt of his ancient single-shot Mauser into his shoulder. Oblivious of the danger, Flynn knelt by the dog.
Something caught Flynn’s eye in the shadows of the byre opposite and he stared at it intently, trying to work out what it was. It seemed strangely familiar and then he realized that it was an old brown boot, worn and caked in mud. Close by, a second lump began to take on the shape, then a pair of legs and then a lump wrapped in a soiled threadbare tweed jacket. It was a body.
Cautiously, Flynn rose and walked towards it and nudged the corpse with the toe of his boot. It was heavy; a dead weight that rocked slightly and slumped back. Its hands were bound behind its back with faded green twine. A small hole oozed in the back of its head and most of the face was gone, torn away by the exit of a heavy-calibre bullet, scattering gobbets of flesh, bone and blood on the
ground. A disembodied blue eye watched Flynn from the filth. He ran his finger across the entry wound; it felt slick, still fresh. The gunshots shattered the silence and Flynn realized he had walked into a trap. ‘Jim!’ he shouted as he ran back towards the farmhouse and the road beyond.
Flynn tore through the cottage and off down the track, spraying mud behind him, praying that he could reach the road before his pursuers managed to shoot him. Ahead, he saw two men standing on the nearside of the wall, peering over at something on the ground in the lane. His heart sank. Where was O’Leary? He loosed off a couple of rounds and kept running. They were too far away for him to have a hope in hell of hitting them but he’d startled them and knew that he only had seconds to turn the fight around.
A bullet brushed past Flynn’s face and he dove behind a twisted brown lump of rusting farm machinery by the trackside, banging off another couple of rounds. He plunged down. Another bullet ricocheted off what looked like a spoke near his head. ‘Shit!’ he yelped.
Maguire was as startled as Flynn by the gunshots and shifted his position into a classic duellist stance, aiming at the policeman. He squeezed the trigger – Click! Click! Click! Three misfires. ‘Shit! Shit! Bloody Brit bullets!’ he spat, fumbling frantically to empty the dud cartridges onto the ground and recover some fresh ammunition from his pockets whilst Doyle hopped from foot to foot trying to get a bead on Flynn’s retreating form. ‘Well, drop the bastard!’ Maguire barked angrily.
‘I would if you got out of the bloody way!’ Doyle wailed, barging Maguire aside and jerking the stiff trigger of the ancient Mauser, sending his shot high and to the right. The bullet tore through the rotting lintel of the back door in a shower of splinters and Maguire saw Flynn flinch as he darted into the cottage, a reflex response to being shot at.
‘Quick! After him, don’t let him get away!’ Maguire cried, skidding erratically on soggy manure after Flynn. Behind him, Doyle fumbled with his rifle bolt and stumbled off after Maguire. Hard as he tried, Doyle found it difficult to stay calm; it was his first real operation with the IRA and he could already feel his nerves shredding. He cursed his lack of skill with his rifle and didn’t relish the thought of killing. He wasn’t a killer.
He knew that Muldoon was a traitor but the sight of his brains pouring out had made him feel sick. Doyle thanked God he’d missed the kill – the McNamara brothers had executed the old man before he and Maguire had arrived at the farm – but he had been shocked at Maguire’s angry outburst at their not waiting for him. Doyle knew he would never be as hard as Maguire or the others.
O’Leary felt like he had been struck by a sledgehammer. His left arm was numb and there was a shooting pain in his right leg. His nose and mouth were full of a bloody, coppery taste mixed with shit. Somewhere, far away, almost dreamlike, he heard a succession of bangs. Slowly, as his senses returned, he realized that he had been shot and agonizingly he levered himself onto his side, looking groggily around. He began to make out the shape of a blurry figure in a shabby suit and flat cap plugging away at someone. Trembling with exertion, O’Leary lifted his gun and, summoning up a final burst of effort, squeezed the stiff trigger before blacking out once more.
The shot was high and clipped the back of the man’s head, throwing up a fine spray of blood and hair as it tore the cap from his head, forcing the chin down into his chest as he crumpled onto the ground with a groan. His dead hands clenched violently, snatching off a stray shot into the muck at his feet.
Maguire saw Jerry McNamara go down; he also saw the British army Crossley tenders approaching, soldiers bobbing nervously up and down, weapons ready, bayonets glistening in the embers of the day, Lewis gunners protruding from cab roofs, scanning the horizon for targets. ‘Shit!’ he cursed. ‘It’s a bloody army patrol; they must have heard the shooting.’ Doyle hefted up his rifle, preparing to open fire, and Maguire quickly batted the weapon down. ‘Are you stupid? The bastards’ll slaughter us. Let’s go,’ he snapped.
‘What about Jerry and Mick?’ Doyle asked anxiously. ‘We can’t just be leaving them, can we?’
Maguire hesitated for a moment before he looked at the whey-faced youth staring at him. ‘There’s too many, we’ll not stand a chance.’ He waved in the direction of the road. ‘Only a fool throws his life away, d’y’hear? We’ve enough martyrs already – it’s soldiers we need! Unfortunately those two have just become casualties.’ The lad’s head jerked awkwardly as he took one last fearful look at the enemy before scuttling off after Maguire, who was already out of the cottage and into the fields beyond.
Flynn cursed his stupidity. From the moment he had tumbled behind the rusting machine he realized that it was a dead end – a death trap. He was stuck. He couldn’t move forward or back without risking being shot. ‘Bloody fool!’ he cursed again as he shrank as small as possible, watching the two gunmen in the field.
O’Leary’s gunshot startled him and it barely registered when the gunman nearest the wall collapsed in a welter of gore. His companion seemed unable to take it in either and looked frantically around before making a half-hearted lunge for his brother’s rifle, then losing his nerve and fleeing, snapping off a few wild shots from his Browning automatic. ‘Not so funny now, is it, you gutless shit,’ Flynn shouted, as he levered himself up onto his knees and took aim at the fleeing gunman. Click! Nothing happened. ‘Shit! Count your bloody ammo!’ he cursed in frustration. It was a schoolboy error and he knew it.
He heard engines roar and several NCOs barking orders. It all seemed so familiar and placing the derelict machine between himself and Muldoon’s shanty, Flynn called back over his shoulder: ‘Police! Don’t shoot!’ A young officer poked his helmeted head over the wall and looked in askance at Flynn, who indicated that there were still enemy nearby.
‘How many?’ the officer shouted.
Flynn shrugged. ‘Don’t know, sir.’ The head ducked back and he could catch snatches of a muffled conversation, quick battle orders. He recognized the gruff tones of an NCO dishing out orders and the sounds of boots, rifles and webbing on the move. His nerves were ragged as he crawled back towards the wall, trying to press himself as flat as possible, trying to become part of Mother Earth, and it felt like an eternity before he slid behind the wall’s solid cover. All along the lane soldiers crouched in nervous anticipation, high on adrenalin, sweating fear. He could almost taste the excitement, taste the fear. He half expected to hear a whistle blow followed by the anguished tear of machine guns.
O’Leary lay on his back with bandages swaddling his arm and leg. He groaned as a medical orderly tied them off and Flynn scurried over to him. ‘How is he?’ he asked anxiously. O’Leary watched him wearily.
‘I’m not flaming dead!’ O’Leary muttered.
The medic looked up at Flynn and puffed out his cheeks in thought. ‘He’ll live,’ the bemedalled lance corporal grunted and Flynn knew that his friend was in good hands. ‘He’s caught one in the shoulder and one above the knee. He’s a lucky bugger. It could have been much worse but I think his dancing days are over!’
Flynn nodded, relieved, and looked down at his companion, patting him gently on the shoulder. ‘You know, there was a time I would have jumped for joy to catch a Blighty like that.’ He pointed at O’Leary’s bandages. ‘Hey, look on the bright side – at least you’ve got a good excuse to get out of dancing with the sergeant’s wife next Christmas!’
O’Leary smiled weakly and beckoned Flynn to come closer. He leant forward, placing his ear close to O’Leary’s mouth. ‘Good job I can’t dance, eh?’ O’Leary coughed with a crooked smile before slumping back onto the ground.
‘Constable!’ someone shouted somewhere behind and Flynn spun around sharply to see the young officer strolling casually towards him. He looked very young and unconcerned with taking cover, which confirmed Flynn’s building suspicion that the danger had passed. ‘Well, Constable, who the devil are you?’ the officer asked.
‘Constable Flynn, sir, Drumlish RIC Barracks,’ he replie
d smartly, chopping off a sharp salute. ‘To be honest, sir, I wasn’t expecting to see you either but I must say I’m glad I did! My colleague over there is Constable O’Leary,’ Flynn continued, pointing at O’Leary.
‘Well, Constable … er … Flynn.’ The officer paused as he caught a glimpse of Flynn’s medal ribbons. ‘I’m Lieutenant Crawford, First East Yorks,’ he replied, holding out his hand. Flynn shook it firmly. ‘My men have just about cleared the area and it looks like any Shinners up there—’ He pointed at the farm ‘—have scarpered. We bagged one of the little blighters though,’ Crawford said with a boyish grin. ‘Caught him trying to slink away. Haven’t had a chance to have a little chat with him yet though. Care to join me, Flynn?’ Two soldiers shoved a forlorn figure towards one of the lorries. ‘Sorry about your chum, by the way,’ Crawford said. ‘Rotten luck, what, but Corporal Johns says he will live. That’s something at least. By the looks of it we must have got here in the nick of time, old chap!’
‘Just about, sir. A few minutes longer and I think me and Jim, I mean Constable O’Leary, here would be in real trouble!’ he said, pointing his thumb at O’Leary. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, sir, why are you here? After all, you really did arrive, as you say, in the nick of time.’
Crawford carefully weighed up his response. ‘We had a tip-off. Our intelligence boys said that something was going on over here and that we should gatecrash the party! So we did. Would have been here almost an hour ago if it hadn’t been for these bloody country lanes. Doesn’t anyone believe in road signs in this place?’
Officers and bloody maps more like, Flynn thought. ‘It’s funny, though, it looks like your people were on to something all the same. When we got here I found the farmer, Tom Muldoon, trussed up like a chicken and shot in one of his sheds. My sergeant said that he had something important for him but it looks like the Shinners got to him first, poor bugger. The whole bloody area is riddled with Shinners.’
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