England's Janissary

  Something off to the right caught his eye, a movement perhaps at the very periphery of his vision, and instinctively he tightened his grip on his carbine. A lone line of bed sheets on a washing line flapped in the breeze in the back yard of the last house and the hairs began to rise on the back of his neck, his pulse quickening, as if he sensed untold unseen eyes watching him, anticipating his destruction. Ahead, there was a dip in the road and as the mail car began its descent into Gaigue, towards the crossroads, he knew that he was entering a perfect killing zone, the perfect location for an ambush. His pulse raced and he felt his palms begin to slick with sweat.

  Flynn couldn’t see the young IRA scout hugging the shadows at the edge of the village, watching the mail car pass. The scout’s mouth felt dry as anxiety and fear welled in the pit of his stomach and swirled through his abdomen. He slipped out of the back door into the yard and, grasping the long wooden prop, jerked the washing line, billowing off-white sheets like the sails of some long-lost galleon up into the air. A quarter of a mile further on, a lone figure crouching in the back garden of one of the now-empty cottages watched as the washing line innocently swept up and dropped, with the finality of the guillotine blade, back down.

  The man was masked from the road as he turned and rose to his feet, waving his arms in the air like a human semaphore tower in the direction of Gaigue, and as he finally dropped his arms he saw something flash in the distance. The sun glinted briefly on the polished glass lenses of MacEoin’s binoculars as he stood in silent contemplation of what he was about to unleash. ‘This is it, boys! Get ready!’ he called excitedly, anticipating the adrenalin rush to come. ‘Remember, hold your fire until I say.’ Then he doubled away to a low building, squatting on the crossroads, alert, his rifle at the trail.

  MacEoin was glad that he had told the villagers to get out and stay out until the morning’s business was concluded and relieved that they had packed up and left without a fuss. For the most part, the villagers were good republicans and those that weren’t were no friends of the police anyway. Besides, the last thing he needed was a load of civilians getting in the way of a gun battle, getting themselves shot up. He knew the propaganda boys would make a meal of anyone getting caught in the crossfire, blaming the British for butchering innocent civilians, but that wasn’t MacEoin’s style. He saw himself as a soldier of Ireland and whilst he had no qualms about killing enemy soldiers, he was glad that the civilians were away. He would have got them away even if they’d been rabid Orangemen one and all.

  Meanwhile, on the outskirts of Gaigue, the newly promoted section leader Paddy Doyle, stiff with tension, pressed himself down as far as he could behind the grey dry-stone wall that screened him from the road. He felt painfully responsible for the two young Volunteers, barely past their mid teens, who squatted wide-eyed and white-knuckled, clutching their rifles next to him, waiting for the trap to spring. ‘Don’t worry, boys,’ Doyle whispered. ‘Just do as I say.’ He was in charge of the cut-off group at the Bandra end of Gaigue. ‘Now hush,’ he ordered, as he listened for the approaching mail car.

  Clutching his brand new oil-smelling .303 rifle close to his chest, Doyle waited, hunched in cover, his heart hammering against his ribcage as if it were going to explode. He felt like he was about to have a heart attack as sharp pains lanced through his chest and sweat pooled in the armpits of his shirt and ran down his back. His stomach churned as if someone had plunged a whisk into it and was cranking it frantically, making him feel light-headed and sick, but he dared not show weakness in front of the others.

  His mouth tasted bitter and he was desperate to remain calm. He tried to think what Maguire or MacEoin would do now; he couldn’t imagine them falling apart under stress like he was. He needed to set an example to his new charges, it was what was expected of him, and it began to dawn on him that being in charge was all a charade and he was painfully aware that if he panicked the others would too. It was as simple as that.

  ‘Hail Mary, full of grace …’ he began to mutter as he slipped the safety catch off on his rifle with a gentle click. It was funny, he thought, how fear made the mind zero in on trivial details and he found himself staring intently at the grass at his feet, watching myriad bugs scurrying about their business, oblivious of the affairs of men. From behind the wall he heard, and even felt, the mail car rumble past. It was so close he could smell its engine fumes. He trembled with fear and excitement. His time had come.

  Suddenly, the quiet was ripped apart at the seams by a shrill, short whistle blast followed by the frantic crackle of gunfire. ‘This is it, lads!’ Doyle said to his boys, suddenly calm as he peeked over the wall to see a pall of gun smoke and muzzle flashes spitting from the cottage on the left-hand side of the crossroads.

  The mail car windscreen shattered, showering Constable Mullan and the driver with razor shards of glass, making Mullan yelp in pain as one embedded itself in his nose. Another gouged a furrow in the driver’s cheek, causing him to flinch, swerving the vehicle violently to the right as he flung his hands up across his face, exposing the rear of the vehicle to gunfire. ‘Go! Go! Drive!’ Mullan screamed frantically at the startled driver, as dark, venous blood oozed down his lacerated nose, dribbling onto his tunic.

  Panicking, the driver missed the brake, stamping hard on the accelerator, over-revving the engine, which shrieked agonizingly as the vehicle lurched towards the corner of a low dry-stone wall. Crash! It smashed into the wall, grinding up onto three wheels as the engine squealed and coughed into silence. ‘Get it moving!’ Mullan shouted urgently at the driver and Flynn grunted in pain as he was thrown head first against the back of the cab with a dull thud.

  Pale, wide-eyed and shaking, the driver stared in horror at the blood pooled in the palms of his cupped hands. ‘Sod this!’ he cried before diving out of his seat and huddling pathetically in the meagre dead ground behind the chassis, gulping for breath before leaping up and fleeing into the fields beyond before anyone could stop him. ‘Get back here, ye gutless little bastard!’ Mullan screamed but the driver wasn’t listening, he was up and off over a low wall, running as fast as his fear-fuelled legs would take him whilst stray bullets clipped the wall.

  ‘Leave him! Leave him!’ MacEoin bellowed above the rising crackle of gunfire. ‘Don’t bother with the driver – concentrate on the peelers!’ He raised his weapon to his shoulder and squeezed off another shot, which punched through Constable Brogan’s chest, sending him tumbling backwards in a thick welter of dark spraying blood, as if struck by some invisible force.

  ‘Shit!’ Flynn yelped as bullets gouged chunks from the wooden facia of the mail car, showering him with splinters. The stink of blood and cordite was overpowering and Flynn felt light-headed and sick. He could see Brogan lying on his back, agonizingly grinding his feet into the bed of the vehicle, his hands snatching at the front of his tunic as dark blood oozed between his fingers, staining it black. Meanwhile King and Reidy squatted as low as they possibly could, trying to make the most of their scant cover, occasionally loosing off barely aimed shots in the rough direction of the cottage in a desperate attempt to keep their attackers’ heads down. Flynn felt a hot brass cartridge case bounce off his shoulder as another bullet zipped overhead, close enough for the air to ruffle his hair on its way past.

  Bizarrely, it felt like being back in the butts on a rifle range except this time he was the target! He screwed up his courage, bobbed up and snapped off a shot, inviting a flurry of bullets in reply. He saw Mullan fire off a hastily aimed shot before a hefty blow smacked him down hard into his seat. Mullan felt his shoulder go numb and warm blood flooded into his shirt and tunic, making them sticky as his strength ebbed from his fingers. He desperately fought against the rising tide of weakness and panic. He groaned as his carbine slipped from his knees and bounced, muzzle first, into the road.

  Flynn watched Mullan tug at his holster, releasing a .38 revolver, and heard him grunt as he thumbed back its stiff hammer, shaking with pain before snapping of
f a shot at his assailants. Wood splintered from a flaking window frame and a shadowy figure ducked back into cover. Coppery blood filled Mullan’s mouth and white lights began to dance before his eyes. ‘Flynn! Reidy! King! Brogan! Get yourselves into cover!’ Mullan grunted, as he snapped off a couple more rounds. ‘Move when I say! I’ll cover you!’

  Bullets zipped past, flooding Flynn’s mind with uncomfortable memories of khaki-clad men waiting to hop the bags into no man’s land and stagger into the scything hail of gunfire. ‘Ugh!’ Mullan grunted, as a bullet tore through his knee, shattering the joint as he tried to shove open the passenger side door. He clutched the shattered joint and biting back his pain looked over to Flynn, his eyes burning with adrenalin-fuelled fury. ‘Flynn, I’m done for! Get the others into the cottage! When I say move, go.’

  Flynn shook his head. ‘No! Hang on, John, I’ll come and get you!’ Another bullet ripped through the mail car near Flynn’s head, showering him with debris, and he flinched back into cover.

  ‘Flynn, just do it,’ he pleaded and without a word Flynn nodded, knowing that Mullan wouldn’t make it, accepting the inevitable as he had too many times before. The man may have been a bigot but he was a brave bigot nonetheless. It was a replay of a scene he had seen too many times before and had prayed that he would never see again. Straining against unconsciousness, Mullan banged off two more shots and then glanced back at Flynn. ‘Give me your pistol, Flynn, I’m almost out!’

  Flynn tossed his pistol onto the seat next to Mullan and then loosed off another shot from his carbine. Mullan dropped his empty revolver into the footwell and snatched up Flynn’s loaded pistol, steadied it on the passenger door, took aim and fired, roaring like the dying Cúchulainn, his coarse Tyrone accent thick with pain.

  Glancing over at the others huddled in the back of the mail car, Flynn shouted, straining to be heard over the cacophony. ‘Reidy! King! Listen!’ The two policemen looked at Flynn, a mixture of fear and anticipation in their eyes. ‘If we stay here we’re finished!’

  ‘Tell me something I don’t know!’ Reidy snapped irritably.

  ‘You two get into the cottage,’ Flynn barked urgently, pointing at the nearest house, instantly taking charge of the situation. ‘Me and Mullan’ll cover you! When I say move, you and King get out and try and force your way into that cottage over there.’ He pointed frantically with his right hand, palm extended. ‘When you get there, cover me! Understand?’ King and Reidy nodded anxiously and, after visibly steeling themselves, slid quickly over to the other side of the van into the dead ground behind, getting ready to move.

  ‘Prepare to move!’ Flynn bellowed, pausing briefly to fire. ‘MOVE!’ he shouted and they moved. Flynn rapidly palmed the bolt of his carbine, emptying the ten-round magazine in a flurry of unaimed shots, and saw one of the IRA gunmen jerk back into cover in a shower of brick dust and woodchip.

  Constable King yelped as a bullet clipped his shoulder, spraying more blood high into the air as he rose to sprint for the cottage, and threw himself face first into the dirt. ‘Blast!’ King cursed as he forced himself back to his feet and trailing his damaged arm he bent low and doubled, weaving erratically towards the sanctuary of the cottage door. He hit it with a thud, winding himself, but it caved in easily under the full impact of his body weight and that of Reidy, who tumbled after him into the cool dark of the cottage.

  From his vantage point opposite, MacEoin had a clear view of the crossroads. It should have been a perfect killing ground but things were already beginning to go badly wrong. The policemen had survived the initial salvoes and he feared that a protracted gun battle – something he was anxious to avoid – was unfolding before his eyes. That did not stop him feeling a degree of satisfaction, watching the policeman in the front passenger seat thrash in agony as he clutched his shattered knee. It was obvious that the man was finished and both MacEoin and the policeman knew it. MacEoin tapped Fitzgerald on the shoulder and pointed at Mullan.

  ‘Brendan, finish him,’ he ordered and Fitzgerald took up the pressure of the trigger but snatched it as he loosed off a round. ‘Shit!’ he muttered as he missed.

  ‘Quick! The bastards are getting away!’ MacEoin shouted when he saw two of the policemen slip out of the mail car into the dead ground behind. ‘Brendan, Eunan, get round to the left and try and get a shot at those two!’ He pointed where he wanted them to go and, without hesitation, Fitzgerald and Hegarty obeyed, keeping low to avoid the odd stray bullet that smashed into the room, to find a better fire position. MacEoin didn’t watch them go and heard the side door bang open, letting him know that they were gone.

  Mullan slid half out of the passenger door and snapped off another shot, shouting incoherently, but MacEoin ignored the man’s cries and shifted his position slightly before squeezing off another shot. The rifle kicked back violently, fighting against his firm grip, and he saw another shard of wood spiral away into the air. The next bullet took Mullan in the head, just above the left eyebrow, sending fragments of bone and brains spewing across the back of the mail car cab.

  The debris of Mullan’s trauma splashed against Flynn’s face in a shower of warm, sticky gobbets. ‘Christ!’ Flynn cursed, wiping his face with the back of his sleeve before glancing at Mullan’s corpse, now hanging out of the cab door, a fist-size hole gaping in the back of his head. ‘Sod this!’ he hissed as another lump of razor-sharp wood tore itself from what was left of the facia, slicing his face as it passed. Blood ran down his cheek and trickled into the corner of his mouth. It was warm and bitter and he knew that if he did not move soon there would be a lot more of it – he would be finished. The sheer volume of adrenalin coursing through his body was making him queasy and he was trembling, wanting to puke. ‘Deep breaths, deep breaths,’ he repeated like some sort of holy mantra, steadying his nerves and trying to think.

  ‘Flynn! Mullan! Can you hear me? Get ready to move! We’ll cover you! Move!’ Reidy shouted frantically from behind him as rounds zipped close over Flynn’s head. He couldn’t tell whether they were Reidy’s or the IRA’s; he just knew that he could not stay where he was any longer or he would die. With a grunting burst of fear-fuelled energy, Flynn seized the writhing Constable Brogan’s tunic by the collar and hefted him off the crippled mail car.

  Brogan let out a long despondent wail of agony and clawed at the front of his tunic. He was a dead weight but Flynn knew that he couldn’t leave him lying out in the open, even if his bulk slowed him down. They floundered momentarily on the ground before Flynn finally rolled awkwardly onto his knees. Slinging his carbine across his back and grabbing Brogan as firmly as he could with his blood-slick hands, he hefted him towards the open cottage door.

  Bullets zipped by, kicking up dirt around his feet, causing Flynn to skip slightly in a little dance as he made one last lung-bursting push to get the wounded man to safety. With a loud grunt he finally shoved Brogan through the door, stumbling and falling across the incapacitated man who cried out in agony. King slammed the battered door shut as it shook under the impact of several bullets smacking into its chipped planking.

  Flynn felt himself shaking violently, sweat stinging his eyes as he levered himself off of Brogan and looked straight at King. He placed a nearby cushion under the badly wounded policeman’s head and said wearily, ‘Mullan’s dead.’ King gripped his wounded shoulder, his eyes dilated with shock as blood oozed between his fingers, dripping dark teardrops onto the tiled floor. Brogan moaned loudly and squeezed his chest in with both his gory fists, writhing on the floor amongst the empty cartridge cases and the heavy, rotten egg reek of cordite.

  ‘He’ll live,’ Reidy said, nodding at King, ‘but your man there …’ He didn’t finish the sentence. Flynn knew that they had to act fast if they were going to keep Brogan alive and stop the IRA from overrunning the cottage and killing them all. He grasped Reidy by the shoulder, snapping him out of his stupor.

  ‘Reidy,’ Flynn panted, ‘you keep an eye on the back. Get upstairs and make sure none
of the bastards get near the back door! They’ll try and flank us, you mark my words.’ Reidy nodded and, snatching up his carbine, bounded up the cottage stairs. King was pale and stared wildly at Flynn as he pulled open his tunic, examining the gunshot wound. The bullet had gouged into King’s shoulder, tearing out a jagged chunk of flesh, but thankfully it looked much worse than it was even if he was bleeding like a stuck pig. ‘You’ll be all right, it’s only a scratch,’ Flynn said reassuringly, smiling at King. ‘You keep an eye on Brogan here and I’ll keep an eye on the front for you.’

  Flynn snatched an embroidered linen antimacassar from a nearby chair and stuffed it firmly into King’s gunshot wound to soak up the blood and staunch the flow before pulling the man’s tunic back over to keep the makeshift dressing in place. King seemed reassured and his face was beginning to pink again as he crawled over to where Brogan lay and began examining his wound. ‘Shit! He’s been shot in the chest,’ King announced after pulling open the wounded man’s tunic. ‘Sure he’s done for!’

  ‘Not if I can help it,’ Flynn shouted. Bright blood frothed and bubbled from the sucking chest wound every time Brogan wheezed out slurping breaths that were slowly inflating his chest cavity and collapsing his lungs. Without rapid action Brogan would die and both policemen knew it. Flynn looked frantically around the room for something to staunch the wound. ‘Get into the pantry,’ he shouted at King, ‘and see if there is any greaseproof paper and some honey or jam!’