England's Janissary

  ‘Shut up, Corporal Purton!’ the company sergeant major snapped, as he trotted briskly past. He hated attracting the CSM’s attention. More bullets zipped overhead but, despite his best efforts, he couldn’t see where they were coming from. ‘Where the bloody hell are they?’ Purton snapped as his section straggled alongside him, staring wide-eyed, awaiting inspiration. The novelty of command was already beginning to wear off and Purton suddenly remembered exactly why he had avoided promotion like the plague during the last show.

  Much to Purton’s disgust and astonishment, he couldn’t help noticing that Sergeant Eastbury looked relaxed, ever the consummate professional, an ‘Old Contemptible’ who had been all the way through the Great War from the very beginning and yet the chaos and carnage of battle never seemed to faze him. Men like Eastbury unnerved Purton.

  ‘Get a brew on, Buscott! Looks like we’re going to be here a while,’ Eastbury snapped at one of Purton’s soldiers, a fresh-faced lad who had missed the war and who was quite obviously bricking himself. Trembling, Buscott rummaged frantically through his haversack, snagging his cold fingers until they bled on the buckles and damp webbing, yanking out a brew kit wrapped in a brown cloth pouch, along with a small stove. The stink of petroleum spirit wafted towards Purton as Buscott fumbled with a match, lighting the stove, before filling a mess tin with water from his canteen and balancing it precariously on top.

  Brewing up was one of those timeless rituals as old as the British army, a rite enacted by generations of soldiers across the empire. It was good for morale; it steadied the nerves; whatever you do, when in doubt make tea! Without tea the British army would be finished, everyone knew that.

  Zip! Zip! A few more stray rounds passed overhead and Sergeant Eastbury absentmindedly pulled a hard-tack ‘dog’ biscuit from his pocket. He gave it a cursory glance before grunting as he bit off a corner with a crunch. Crumbs, like fragments of baked shrapnel, cascaded down his tunic and he equally absentmindedly brushed them away with his left hand. ‘You know, Corporal Purton, old chap, I think that we’ve just been given a great big, crusty, steaming shit sandwich and I am afraid that we are all about to take a great big bite!’ he said with a toothy, humourless smile.

  ‘Thanks for that, Sar’nt,’ Purton said, giving Eastbury a sidelong glance. ‘That’s made me feel so much better!’ Sergeant Eastbury looked at Purton for a moment before sniffing disdainfully and gazing off into the middle distance once more. Purton couldn’t help but notice how hard and empty the sergeant’s eyes were, glinting in the morning sunlight like beads of jet, his thousand-yard stare always searching. Eastbury gave Buscott a grin and a wink. ‘Two sugars and a splash of condensed milk, lad. Guram chai, jaldi! Jaldi!’ He turned back to Purton. ‘It’s just like the old days!’ he declared, looking genuinely pleased before picking up his rifle and heading towards the platoon command post further up the road. Purton had an awful sinking feeling that Sergeant Eastbury was one of those worrying people who actually enjoyed the war and missed it now it was over.

  Lieutenant Crawford gave Sergeant Eastbury a slight nod of recognition and, clutching a badly folded map, looked anxiously back at the houses a hundred yards or so to their front.

  ‘What seems to be the problem, sir?’ Eastbury asked Crawford as they squatted in the lee of one of the lorries.

  ‘Bloody Shinners have felled a telegraph pole across the road. It looks like we will have to go in on foot.’ Eastbury said nothing but eyed the young officer nervously.

  ‘Yes, Sergeant? Is there a problem?’ Crawford asked.

  ‘Could be messy, sir. Street fighting can be hard work.’

  Lieutenant Crawford smiled at his sergeant and stuffed the map back into his leather map case; he knew that men like Eastbury were the glue that held his platoon together, the backbone of the entire army. ‘Well, I don’t suppose the lads are afraid of a bit of hard work, eh?’

  ‘Suppose not, sir.’ Eastbury sniffed. ‘But this’ll be the first time for most of the lads, sir. First proper fight, I mean. It might be a bit of a shock for them. Close quarter stuff is always messy.’ Crawford shifted his weight slightly, acutely aware that his sergeant’s comment was probably aimed as much at him as most of his soldiers. Zip! Zip! More stray rounds passed overhead and Crawford did his best to act as if nothing was happening.

  Eastbury noticed a trace of concern on the lieutenant’s face and gave him a reassuring smile. ‘Don’t worry, sir. The lads will be fine once they get going. It’s the waiting that does for you, not the doing. You could see it when we were hanging around on the fire step, time to think, but once you’ve hopped the bags, you’re too scared, too busy or just too knackered to think.’

  Crawford watched his sergeant carefully. Major Calvert, his company commander, had said something similar. ‘Keep ’em busy, keep ’em moving!’

  ‘Well, carry on, Sergeant. Get the lads standing by. We go on my command,’ Crawford said softly.

  Eastbury nodded and turned to face the line of helmeted Tommies huddled in the ditch. He slid his bayonet from its scabbard with a soft shush and held it high above his head.

  ‘SEVEN PLATOON, LISTEN IN!’ he bellowed in a clear parade-ground voice that rolled down the line like a summer storm. ‘SEVEN PLATOON! SEVEN PLATOON WILL FIX BAYONETS! FIX … BAYONETS!’ Suddenly, the ditch was alive with the sound of bayonets rasping from scabbards and clicking menacingly into place. Purton fixed his own bayonet. He never liked it when they fixed bayonets in earnest; it always meant that the enemy were going to be getting far too close for comfort!

  Eastbury felt a deep well of satisfaction as he looked up and down the line; there was something about this moment, the moment before the chaos that always gave him a buzz, a warm, tingling feeling. To his right and left, the rest of the company were doing likewise and soon a line of bayonets was glittering in the sun like a silver cornfield swaying in the wind. When he was satisfied, he turned back to the lieutenant. ‘On your command, sir.’

  Crawford licked his lips. His mouth was gritty and his stomach churned as he slipped his revolver from its polished holster. ‘Thank you, Sar’nt. The OC wants Seven Platoon to clear the area to the left of the road and secure that cottage there—’ He pointed at a croft next to the road ‘—and then clear the roadblock so that the rest of the company can resume the advance.’

  Eastbury nodded. ‘Piece of piss, sir.’

  The buzzing of an aero engine disturbed Purton’s private misery and he looked up at a Bristol Fighter that was now circling overhead. Close air support had been invaluable during the final battles of the war and Purton took some comfort from the aeroplane overhead. ‘Shame we’ve got no artillery support,’ he said to Buscott, who laughed nervously.

  ‘We can do without the bloody drop shorts!’ Buscott muttered. Purton glanced back at the command post. His platoon commander and Sergeant Eastbury were engrossed in conversation. Lieutenant Crawford pointed up the road and he followed the direction he was pointing in, towards a cluster of cottages squatting by the road.

  Another bullet passed close overhead and as Purton sunk deeper into the ditch, he turned to Buscott. ‘You’d best put that away, lad. I think it’ll be a while before we get a brew.’ Buscott rolled his eyes and, muttering long-sufferingly, quietly but expertly stuffed his brew kit back into his haversack before putting out the stove and emptying his mess tin of its lukewarm contents.

  Purton watched Major Calvert kneel next to Lieutenant Crawford. They were too far away for him to hear what was said but he had a sinking feeling when he saw Sergeant Eastbury nod and bent low double towards where he was crouching. ‘Corporal Purton, it’s your lucky day, Major Calvert has got a little job for you!’ he announced smugly and pointed at the waiting lorry.

  It only took a few minutes to get to Kilshrewley and Purton rather hoped that setting up the company’s command post in some old cottage would be a bit of skive but that misapprehension was shattered along with the lorry’s windscreen when the driver pulled up
next to the nearest cottage. Purton was showered with glass and as he tumbled from the cab, with warm blood running down his cheek, he saw the lone rifleman standing next to a shabby outhouse desperately re-cocking his rifle.

  Squatting in the lee of the lorry’s cab, Purton touched his face and then looked at his fingertips. They were bright with blood. ‘Bugger,’ Purton cursed again and after two deep breaths shouted, ‘Section! Right side debus! Debus! MOVE! GO! GO! GO!’ Behind him his lads tumbled out of the lorry and huddled nearby as he cocked his rifle and poked his head around the side of the front wheel. He saw the rifleman running towards the scrub behind the outhouse and threw his rifle up into a firing position.

  ‘Not so fast, Paddy!’ he shouted and snapped off a shot at the fleeing gunman. He cursed as the bullet ripped into the branches above Hegarty’s head. ‘Bugger!’ Purton spat. ‘After him! MOVE! MOVE!’ he shouted as he re-cocked his rifle and stood to get a better bead on the fleeing gunman.

  Hegarty’s back filled his sight picture as he steadied his breath and took up the pressure on the trigger. His rifle barked and he saw his target drop in a gout of dark blood, like a broken rag doll as his legs collapsed beneath him, his momentum carrying him forward a few paces before the ground leapt up to punch him in the face. He tried to crawl towards the bushes but his body refused to respond and he writhed on the ground.

  Purton cautiously crept forward until he could see the fallen IRA man lying in the grass, then he raised his rifle. He fired again, and the body twitched under the impact. He re-cocked his rifle and moved closer, his heart pounding, blood thundering in his ears, his mouth dry. A familiar voice was screaming at him from deep within his skull as adrenalin flooded his body. He knew men like Eastbury who loved this feeling but he hated it.

  He kept one eye on the distant fields as he stood over Hegarty’s body lying on the crushed grass and cautiously shoved it with his foot. It rocked slightly and he thought he saw it move and fired a third shot into the man’s head, shattering his skull, speckling the grass with fragments of skull, hair and brain. Purton squatted down and tossed Hegarty’s discarded rifle to one side, out of the man’s reach – just in case – before seizing hold of his jacket, rolling the body over. Blood welled from two fist-sized holes torn in the man’s chest and splashed onto the wet dark stain beneath him.

  He wrinkled his nose. He had never got used to the sight of dead people, even at Wipers, and his headache was much worse now as he felt his hands trembling. He stood up shakily. ‘Steady, Jake, steady,’ he said to himself. He struggled to steady his breathing, sucking in air through his nose as he watched Privates Buscott and Fenton scanning the horizon, their bayonets glinting in the sunlight. Purton pointed, open handed, at the cottage.

  ‘Buscott! Fenton! On me! We need to clear that cottage,’ he ordered. He looked at the body. ‘Williams, get that thing on the wagon,’ he called to a young private, no more than eighteen years old, who was standing by the lorry looking suitably worried. The soldier nodded.

  ‘Right-oh, Corp!’ the boy called as he slung his rifle and doubled towards Purton, who with Buscott and Fenton strode briskly towards the cottage in an open arrowhead formation, weapons at the ready. It was then that Purton heard something move in the outhouse and, raising his right hand, he signalled the others to stop. All three froze. Purton levelled his rifle at the outhouse door and stepped forward on the balls of his feet, mouth dry.

  ‘All right, Paddy, come out with your hands up! Do anything stupid and you’re dead!’

  Maguire peered through a crack in the door at the wiry British soldier, pointing his rifle straight at the door. At that distance a .303 round would punch through the door easily and the brick behind most likely. ‘For God’s sake, don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!’ Maguire shouted as he gingerly drew back the bolt and opened the door. ‘I’m coming out with my hands up! I’m on your side!’ he shouted and stepped out into the light with his hands held high above his head.

  Purton’s bayonet hovered inches from his nose and he was acutely aware of the gaping maw of the muzzle waving around in front of him. ‘I’m on your side!’ Maguire said again. ‘I’m a British intelligence agent and unless you want to find yourself up to your neck in shit, I suggest you take me to whoever is in charge here!’

  Purton looked at him sceptically for a moment, weighing up what he’d just heard and shrugged. ‘Of course you are, Paddy! Of course you are. Now come with me!’ he snapped, as he grabbed Maguire’s lapel and dragged him towards the waiting lorry. ‘Just shut up and move or I’ll shoot you myself!’ he added menacingly.

  CHAPTER 32

  M Company HQ, Auxiliary Division RIC, Longford

  THE WATER WAS refreshingly cold as Flynn held his face beneath its surface, feeling his nerves tingle. It invaded his mouth, his nose, his ears, and a stream of bubbles snorted from his nostrils as he splashed water across his neck. Shaking his head like a wet dog, he picked up a towel and blotted his unshaven face dry as he looked at himself in the mirror, his wavy hair sticking up in unruly tufts.

  His mouth tasted foul, as if something had crapped in it, and he struggled to remember the exact details of the night before when the Auxiliary patrol had deposited him back at HQ. However, the half-empty glass of brandy and the discarded bottle lying empty on the worn floorboards helped him guess. He toyed with the idea of going back to bed but the uninviting tangle of rough grey blankets helped him easily dismiss the thought. The air was fetid, reeking of stale booze, and his shirt was stiff with dry sweat. He opened the window with a grunt and grimaced slightly as he caught the odour of his armpits. He wrinkled his nose in disgust and peeled off his soiled shirt, tossing it in a ball onto the bed.

  ‘What the hell has happened to you, Kevin, my boy?’ he muttered as he picked up the empty bottle and tossed it, clattering, into the bin by the door. He looked at the glass on the dresser; it had been the only way that he had been able to get to sleep, the only way to blot out the dreams, his only path to oblivion, and it worried him that drink was becoming an old friend ever since the Somme. He picked up his towel and wash bag and headed for the ablutions.

  Shaved and showered, he felt baptised, resurrected, revived and slightly less nauseous as he buttoned up a fresh shirt and gazed at the courtyard below. It was a bright November day, crisp and fresh, and the cold air caressed his face as he whistled tunelessly to himself. The sunlight pricked at the dull ache behind his eyes but it was worth it to get some fresh air. He was suddenly gripped with an overpowering craving for caffeine and bacon sandwiches.

  It was then it struck him. Where was everybody? The motor pool was empty and, except for the obviously bored Auxiliary guarding the main gate, lounging against the sandbags as he smoked, not a soul stirred. The guardroom door swung open and a second Auxiliary emerged clutching two mugs of what Flynn assumed was tea, a cigarette hanging from his lips.

  Flynn smiled; he couldn’t work out whether the Auxiliaries deliberately flouted the basic mores of police or even military etiquette by smoking and drinking in public in uniform, although he seriously doubted whether they even cared. The Auxiliaries were, for the most part, the detritus of the war, staving off unemployment in a society that neither wanted them nor knew what to do with them – a law unto themselves.

  One of the Auxiliaries laughed; a harsh bray that disturbed Flynn’s musings. The sentry drained the last dregs from his mug and flicked it two or three times to make sure it was empty before handing it to the other man, who headed back towards the guardroom, shaking his head and laughing quietly. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a battered, mud-bespattered army lorry drawing up to the main gate. Its canvas awning gaped in places as if something had punched through it and he saw that the windscreen had a fist-sized hole in it, radiating a web of lines across its shattered surface. As it got closer, it became obvious to Flynn that it had been shot out.

  The sentry frantically took one last drag on his cigarette before grinding it out with his boot and pi
cking up his .303. He strolled over to the right-hand side of the cab to speak to the driver whilst, behind him, the other Auxiliary stepped out onto the guardroom veranda cradling a pump-action shotgun – just in case. A helmeted Tommy leant down from the cab but Flynn was too far away to make out what they were saying.

  The sentry nodded and hefted up the barrier whilst the man with the shotgun slipped quietly back into the guardroom and the warmth of the stove that was belching contented puffs of dark smoke into the morning air. The lorry pulled into the courtyard and stopped directly below Flynn’s window. He finished buttoning up his tunic as he watched a helmeted soldier leap out of the passenger side of the cab and walk to the back of the lorry.

  The soldier’s face was obscured by his helmet but from his vantage point Flynn could see the man was a lance corporal and, by his shouting, obviously in charge of the men who were disgorging, bayonets fixed, from the back of the lorry. Two of the squaddies reached into the back of the lorry and heaved out a handcuffed civilian, who landed heavily and fell to his knees. ‘Up you get, Paddy!’ one of the soldiers announced as he lifted the man back to his feet.

  ‘Don’t go giving me any grief, Mick,’ the lance corporal added wearily. Then Flynn recognized the lance corporal: it was the squaddie he’d chatted to on the army truck the day his friend Jim O’Leary had been wounded over at old Tom Muldoon’s farm. The stripes were still bright and clean on the soldier’s worn khaki sleeves and Flynn guessed that the lance-jack was only newly minted. The prisoner looked up at the sky and as he surveyed his surroundings caught Flynn’s eye and gave him a broad, toothy grin. It was Maguire.

  ‘What the …’ Flynn muttered.

  ‘Good morning to you, Sergeant Flynn!’ Maguire called out with a grin and a cheery wave of his cuffed hands.