by Fred Allen
The worst fights occurred when one of the other students had the temerity-and lack of good sense-to make reference to the boys’ lack of hair. Even the oldest and biggest boys in the school soon learned that the word “bald”, in all its forms, must be expunged from their vocabulary or risk severe physical pain to be inflicted by three small but highly energetic tiger cubs.
As the three boys entered their teens Father O’Brien dreaded the day when they discovered that girls could offer as much pleasure as fighting. But before this situation reached the crisis stage the good Father’s prayers were again answered as England and Germany declared war.
Early in 1916, just past his seventeenth birthday, Patrick(Sharkey) made his way to the Recruiting Depot of the Brigade of Guards in London. At two inches above the minimum height for guards’ recruits and as the son of a well-known warrant officer of the battalion who had died in action, Sharkey was welcomed with open arms. One year later when Patrick could meet the height requirement-although a few months short of his seventeenth birthday-the other two boys were also welcomed into their late father’s regiment.
Father O’Brien breathed a sigh of relief as he concluded, although without absolute certainty, that the boys’ entrance into puberty had not, as yet, affected the population of his parish. It now would be the problem of London and the many training areas of Southern England where fathers and husbands were at risk. He felt just a tinge of sympathy for the unsuspecting citizenry of those regions, but this vanished quickly as he recalled all of the actions of British troops in Ireland. On further reflection, he decided it was just possible that the three Shawkey boys might exact total revenge for the Irish people.
Sharkey was in action in France within three months of enlisting. During his rather brief training he demonstrated two aptitudes that were noted on his Individual Training Record for future guidance. First, he was judged to be a superior marksman and probably suitable for employment as a sniper. Second, he was assessed as having above average mechanical ability and this, coupled with his ability as a marksman, just might make him suitable for employment with the new heavy machine guns that were being issued to the front line infantry regiments. His predilection for fisticuffs was also noted and he gained a reputation for a series of victories achieved in inter-training squad boxing matches.
When Sharkey arrived at the front he was allocated to the Sniper Section where he was taken under the wing of a grizzled old veteran whose advanced age was ample evidence as to his skill in a highly dangerous occupation. The term “advanced age” must be recognized as a relative term because the “grizzled old vet” was only in his late twenties but when the short life expectancy for snipers is taken into consideration, Sgt Nicholls was truly a “grizzled vet”.
Under the sergeant’s tutelage Sharkey proved himself an excellent student and, fortunately, Nicholls emphasized survival as the primary objective of successful snipers. His outstanding marksmanship contributed to his early success as a sniper but the task of sniping lost some of its luster when he discovered that as much as he was enjoying picking off unsuspecting and distant Gerries, he was not that fussy at becoming a target himself. Sharkey had a few close calls in the first six months at the front. Eventually, his luck ran out.
Nicholls had tipped him off about what appeared to be a Gerry command post that he been keeping under observation for several days. He grudgingly gave the details to Sharkey when he finally realized that the target was at the limit of his range but quite possibly vulnerable to the keener sight of Sharkey’s younger eyes. Sharkey recognized this as a potential plum because potting a Gerry officer would mean two weeks of leave in Blighty and, probably, a gong.
Late one night, Sharkey worked his way very carefully out to the deserted old farm building that Nicholls had identified as his vantage point. From the upper level of the building he was able to identify the area of the suspected command post as the first light of dawn broke through the haze of the battlefield. He moved to the lower level when he realized that the upper level was too obvious and very exposed. He was delighted to find that he had a clear line of sight to his target area from a small window on the lower level. He settled down to wait for improving light and increasing activity at the command post to present him with a target and, very carefully. lit a cigarette.
This was the last cigarette Sharkey ever lit. No matter how careful he had been in lighting the cigarette the act came so close to costing him his life that he never smoked again. The Gerry sniper was just inches off in his aim as the heavy Mauser slug caught Sharkey in the shoulder and knocked him head over heels off the low windowsill where he had been sitting. The initial shock was like being kicked by a mule and Sharkey lost consciousness.
When consciousness returned, Sharkey thought he must be dreaming because all he could hear were the epithets being spouted by Nicholls. “Of all the God damned stupid Micks I ever met Sharkey you are the dumbest. If I hadn’t come looking for you you’d be one dead Dogan right now. Just think of it, a sniper being sniped by a sniper. The only dumber sniper on earth was that Gerry who sniped you. He came over looking for a souvenir and I got the bastard right between the eyes.” He pointed to the lifeless body sprawled over the windowsill at the other end of the room.
Nicholls had applied a field dressing that staunched the flow of blood and but Sharkey’s shoulder what throbbing all over like a poisoned thumb. Sharkey groaned and a heavy gloved hand closed quickly over his mouth. “Not a f…ing sound you silly bastard or you’ll get us both killed. I’ll carry you back tonight. Consider yourself lucky. You’ll live and you’ve got what we call a “Blighty” that will take you back to England for treatment and maybe, home on convalescence leave. I just might get lucky myself. When I carry you back, and if you say all the right things, I might just get a gong and fourteen days leave.”
Nicholls half-carried and half dragged Sharkey back to their lines that night. The pain from his wound was excruciating but Sharkey survived and said all the right things to the intelligence officer even providing some embellishments as to Sgt Nicholl’s act of bravery. Nicholls was recommended for a bar to his Military Medal and granted fourteen days’ leave to England. Unfortunately, Sgt Nicholls was killed by a surprise German artillery bombardment of the collection area where personnel proceeding on leave were awaiting transportation to one of the Channel ports.
Sharkey was in a big military hospital just outside London within seventy-two hours of receiving his first medical treatment in the Regimental Aid Station after Nicholls had carried him back to the regimental lines.
Sharkey’s young body healed quickly. Miraculously the slug that hit him in the shoulder only chipped the bone of his shoulder blade before exiting leaving massive soft tissue damage but no fractured bones. Hospital beds were in very short supply and the doctors decided that all Sharkey needed was rest and the tender loving care that could be provided while at home on convalescence leave. They recommended that he be returned to the Guards Depot for a week of light duty after which he was to be sent home on thirty days’ convalescence leave.
Meanwhile, back in Ireland, Bridget Shawkey had received several pieces of correspondence on the same day. Official looking correspondence was always dreaded by parents with sons at the front and two of the three letters arriving on this particular day appeared to fall into this category. The third was from Michael and Sean. Bridget opened the less ominous envelope first and her two younger sons advised her that they had arrived in France and would be joining their older brother at the front after a few more weeks of advanced training. The second letter Bridget opened advised her that her oldest son, Patrick O’Brien Shawkey, had been wounded in action and evacuated to England for treatment and convalescence. The second official looking letter was from the Roman Catholic Padre at the military hospital in England where her son was being treated. The Padre assured Bridget that Patrick’s wound was not life threatening and that heshould be discha
rged within a few weeks. He would then be returned to the Guards Depot with the recommendation that he be granted at least thirty-days of convalescence leave to complete his recovery at home.
It was only two weeks later that the dreaded telegram arrived. Bridget opened it fearfully, read the brief contents at a glance, threw on her coat and, with tears streaming down her face, made her way to Father O’Brien’s sanctum in the old village church.
Bridget collapsed into the priest’s arms, her body still wracked with sobs. “They’re gone, Father, Michael and Sean are dead. What am I going to do?”
Father O’Brien did his best to calm the grief stricken mother and, as a last resort, took the large bottle of Jamieson’s Old Irish Whiskey from his desk drawer. This was kept for purely medicinal purposes, of course, and the priest made an executive decision that this was such an occasion as he poured two large glasses. After some persuasion he managed to get Bridget to drink from her glass. He then drank deeply from the second glass judging that his shattered nerves were as much in need as Bridget’s.
Father’s O’Brien assured Bridget that he would organize suitable memorial services for both boys at the church and would ask the bishop himself to offer suitable prayers for them at his regular Sunday service at the cathedral.
The good Father also told Bridget that he had received a letter from the Padre at the hospital in England where Patrick was recovering from his wounds advising him that Patrick was doing very well and they could expect him home in the near future for an extended period of convalescence leave. While Patrick was home on leave he would write to the Roman Catholic Padre General at the British War Office and ask that Bridget’s loss of two young sons-in addition to her husband who had been killed in action in India-be considered in deciding Patrick’s future military employment. Bridget left the priest’s office late in the afternoon and Father O’Brien reflected that his grief counseling had been successful but also noted that he was in need of another large bottle of Jamieson’s Old Irish Whiskey.
The shortage of hospital beds resulted in Sharkey being discharged from hospital about twenty-five days after his admission, but the discharge papers recognized that he would need daily medical inspection for at least ten days. He was to be transported to the Guards Depot and he was to spend at least ten days there on light duty. He was to report to the MIR (Medical Inspection Room) twice a day so that a physician could inspect his wound. He was to be confined to barracks and,while this was a normal condition for soldiers on light duty. it should be stressed in Private Shawkey’s case because of his medical condition.
Sharkey was healing rapidly and as the pain eased he found confinement to barracks just a bit frustrating. Also, being on light duty, the wet canteen was out of bounds to him. After about seven days of being confined to barracks, he stopped in the Depot Orderly Room to check the weekly casualty returns from the front. He had a normal morbid interest in checking on how many of his former comrades “Had bought it.” As his eyes quickly scanned the “Killed in Action” list there was no glint of recognition with the first six names on the alphabetized list, but he read and reread the last two names on the list as if his mind refused to accept the meaning of the two neatly typed names. The first was Private Michael O’Brien Shawkey and the second was Private Sean O’Brien Shawkey. He stood there in front of the notice board for several minutes before the true meaning penetrated his awareness. Michael and Sean were dead. Not even eighteen and they were both gone. A flood of memories welled up in his mind: there were no tears yet. Their family relationship had never been emotional but they had always been together; often fighting each other and even more often joining together to fight others who crossed one, two or all of them.
Sharkey was stunned as he made his way back to the barracks and, as he passed a group of recruits, in high spirits, making their way toward the barracks’ gate and a night out on the town, Sharkey resolved that “confinement to barracks” or no “confinement to barracks” these stinking barracks were not big enough to hold him that night. Back in the barracks he dug into his kit bag for his little bag of souvenirs. One thing that Sgt Nicholls had taught him was the value of the souvenirs that he might acquire during his excursions into no-man’s land and even, on occasion, into enemy lines. Of greatest value were German pistols closely followed by Iron Crosses. Sharkey had no money because the Depot Sergeant-Major realized that to pay him would probably put too much temptation in the mind of a thirsty Irishman who was on light duty and restricted from access to the wet canteen. Sharkey took two Iron Crosses from his bag of souvenirs and put one of them in each stocking and tucked them into the top of his boots.
Sharkey had been tempted to break out a couple of days earlier but had resisted the temptation when he found that the dressing of his wound still required daily changing. He was also still relying on a stout walking cane for support and this would immediately attract the attention of the MPs who constantly patrolled the street outside the depot. However, his reconnaissance had revealed a back gate to the barracks that was not guarded after it was locked up at about six o’clock in the evening. At a few minutes after six, Sharkey tossed his walking stick and followed it over the locked gate..
His first stop was a small local shop where there was always a market for souvenirs. He asked the proprietor for ten pounds for his two Iron Crosses and after considerable haggling, agreed on seven pounds. Even seven quid would buy a lot of Irish whiskey.
Sharkey hailed a horse cab and directed the driver to take him to a local public house that was a favorite haunt of recruits from the Guards Depot. A lot of Irish recruits hung out there and it also attracted many civilian residents of London with ties to the “ould Sod”. The lady at the bar recognized the good-looking bald Irishman and favored him with a continuing supply of Irish whiskey. The spirits had the predictable effect on an empty stomach, but his efforts to drown his sorrows were only marginally successful. The casualty list just kept coming back time after time and he just couldn’t escape the significance of the last two names on the list. Then, as the liquor took hold, the tears came and no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t stem the flow.
Other soldiers tried to comfort him and to learn the nature of his problem. He dismissed their efforts with a loud stream of foul epithets which amounted to “mind your own f…ing business…just leave me f…ing well alone.” To escape his tormentors, Sharkey staggered to an isolated table at the far end of the room. Aside from tears of frustration at the height of a fight, Sharkey could never remember crying and now he just couldn’t stop no matter how hard he tried. He was at a loss to explain this emotional response to the death of his brothers. They had always been together, they had fought between them selves and fought with others who had aroused their displeasure but none of these experiences had tested the emotional ties between them. He found himself highly embarrassed by this demonstration of emotion and, in an effort to conceal his condition, put his head on the table between his arms.
Through the noise and the haze of the pub-and over the muffled sounds of his own sobbing-he heard a voice saying “OK soldier, I want to see your Service Book and pass.” To which Sharkey replied without even raising his head “F–off you Limey bastard. Just leave me alone!”.
The voice continued, “well, well, what do we have here? A foul mouthed drunken Irishman and a bald one at that and bawling his f…ing eyes out!” The magic words had been uttered relating to his bald head and-as always-the shit hit the fan. Sharkey swung from his heels and had the immediate satisfaction of solid contact and, jumping over the table, landed on the crumpled figure on the floor. With his tormentor in his grasp, Sharkey swung several additional punches before two large MPs were able to pull him off what was now, quite obviously, a Second Lieutenant in the Military Police.
The two big MPs had Sharkey firmly in their combined grip as they asked their detachment commander if he was all right and to tell them what had happened.
“That bald, drunken Irishman is under close arrest. He broke my f…ing nose. He’s probably a deserter too. That’s one bald headed, drunken Irishman that needs a lesson and I’m going to see that he gets one!” The mention of the magic words “bald headed” again spurred Sharkey into action and, getting one arm free, he succeeded in knocking the officer on his ass again. The officer came up swinging his swagger stick and raining blows on Sharkey’s chest as the two big MPs regained their firm hold on Sharkey.
One of the MPs held up his hand to stop the blows from the swagger stick. “Just a moment, Sir, he’s bleeding!”
“Well,” the officer was saying, “the f…er will bleed some more. I think he’s broken my f…ing jaw!”
“I’d advise that you hold on for a moment, Sir. This soldier has been wounded and his stitches have given way. He’s wearing a surgical dressing and this must be his walking stick.”
“OK! OK!” said the officer, “Let’s get him out of here!”
Getting Sharkey out was not as easy as it first appeared. Other occupants of the pub, both civilians and men in uniform, had formed a ring around the scuffle and had taken in the word that the officer had used his swagger stick to beat a soldier already wounded and wearing a surgical dressing.
The officer warned them off, telling them that they would just get into trouble. A riot being avoided only when Sharkey called to them to leave the MPs alone and with the announcement, laced with epithets that questioned the parenthood of the officer and advising them not to worry. “Don’t worry boys, I can take anything these Limey bastards can hand out and come back for more!” With this the ring around the MPs, their officer and Sharkey opened and Sharkey was escorted to the Paddy Wagon outside the pub.