‘Is that a dinner gong?’ Stephen asked, frowning. Then they heard Richard D’Arcy’s voice, loud and clear enough to carry out to them.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please.’ He paused, and there was the hiss of the crowd shushing one another.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry to interrupt your entertainment, but I have just received a very important telegram from London. In short, it informs me that since the Foreign Secretary has received no reply from the German Ambassador regarding his ultimatum, a state of war now exists between Great Britain and Germany.’
This statement seemed to drop into a pool of silence. Stephen brought his head up and saw Lillian’s face glowing like a pearl in the light from the doorway. After a few moments she shook her head sadly. But the ballroom exploded in applause, followed by loud cheering. Then the band struck into ‘God Save the King’.
‘Well, it looks like your sister won’t be disappointed.’
‘No, I’m rather afraid she won’t, Mr Ryan,’ she gave him a wan smile and added, ‘God save us all.’
III
‘My dear Stephen, have you gone completely mad?’
They were walking in Phoenix Park and Billy had stopped, leaned on his cane and given his friend a disbelieving stare. It was the Saturday after the ball and Stephen still bore the scars. His nose was swollen and tender, and his left eye was at the centre of an enormous bruise that was starting to go yellow around the edges.
‘I mean, did that bang on the head knock your wits astray? Or have you actually taken leave of your senses?’
Stephen walked on a few paces and turned around with his hands in his pockets. ‘I’m perfectly fine, Billy. I know exactly what I’m doing.’
He could say that with conviction now, but only because it was too late: it was done. He hadn’t been half as confident yesterday – not after nerves had kept him awake half the night and then caused him to draw blood from his bleary face when he shaved. His everyday suit, which fitted him like a second skin, had felt tight and scratchy and he had a queer feeling in the pit of his stomach as he rode the tram across town. He kept patting his pockets for the letters he had got from the college. One was a deferral, promising him his place would be kept until he returned. The other was a letter of recommendation from Captain Wheeler, the adjutant of the university Officer Training Corps. Wheeler didn’t know Stephen from Adam, but if he was a university man then, by God, that was good enough for him. He’d signed the letter with a flourish and stood up to shake Stephen’s hand. Now that the war had started, Wheeler’s time had come and he was handing out letters like benedictions.
But two letters didn’t feel like much when he stood outside the barracks, feeling dwarfed by the high walls and with the sentry staring at him from his box by the gate. When he eventually managed to explain himself he was directed to the adjutant’s office, but as he walked under the deep archway to the barracks square he was assailed by doubt. Last chance to change your mind, he thought. It’s not too late. He looked out across the quays, at Guinness’s brewery and all the barges and carts milling around the river. Normal life. But damn it, you’ve come this far, he told himself, and took a deep breath, and stepped out into the square.
The enormous space was filled with ranks of new recruits still in civilian clothes. Hundreds of men just like him, clumsily drilling under the merciless eyes of khaki-clad drill sergeants.
‘You call that a fucking straight line?’ one of them screeched, spittle flying, ‘What the fuck are you looking at, son? Did I say “eyes front”? No, I fucking well didn’t!’
The ferocity of that nearly did for Stephen there and then, but he put his head down and hurried around to the adjutant’s office. Here, he found an elderly officer with grey side whiskers sitting behind a desk stacked high with paper, some of which had overflowed onto chairs, side tables and cabinets – not to mention filling most of the floor. The adjutant looked as if he hadn’t slept well either, but he spoke politely:
‘Good morning. Can I help you?’
‘Stephen Ryan, reporting for duty, sir,’ he answered smartly, and handed the adjutant Wheeler’s letter.
‘A university man, eh? Very good.’ He nodded at the headed paper but gave the letter no more than a cursory glance before rooting around on his desk until he found a tattered brown envelope covered with spidery handwriting. ‘I think I can fit you into the Seventh Battalion – the Sixth is already full. How would you like that, eh? What do you say to the Seventh Dublin Fusiliers?’
Stephen had heard of the Royal Dublin Fusiliers, but didn’t know one battalion from the other. He shrugged.
‘That would be fine, sir.’
‘Very good. I’ll put you down for the Seventh, then.’ The adjutant made a minute annotation on the corner of the envelope, and asked offhandedly, ‘You wouldn’t happen to own a revolver, would you?’
‘No, sir, I’m afraid not.’
‘No? Well, I’m afraid you’ll have the devil of a time getting hold of one. They can’t be had for love nor money these days. What about a sword?’
‘A sword, sir?’
‘Yes. Didn’t they give you one in the cadets?’
He was on the point of replying that he hadn’t been in the cadets when he pulled himself up short. Not wise with Wheeler’s letter lying open on the desk.
No, sir.’
‘Well, you’ll need one of those as well. Take this chit to the paymaster. He’ll give you your equipment and uniform allowance, and an advance on your pay. You’ll have to make up the rest yourself. Report back when you’ve got yourself kitted out and I’ll write you an order for the Curragh. The Seventh is already forming, so you’ll have to get down there pretty quick.’
‘But you’ve gone and joined the army!’ Billy exclaimed. He stopped at a park bench and they sat down. Billy took off his hat and mopped his brow with a handkerchief.
‘Yes, Billy. I’ve joined the army.’
‘You do know there’s a war on? You realize that you’ll be expected to fight.’
‘Of course I will. As I understand it, that’s what they do in the army. They fight.’
‘Well, after your performance the other night, I’m sure the Kaiser has nothing to worry about on that score. But seriously, Stephen, I do fear for your safety. This is a proper war. People will be killed.’
‘I thought you’d be all in favour of it. Isn’t it going to get us Home Rule at last? Didn’t John Redmond just get up and say every Irish Nationalist should join up, to show Britain that we can be trusted?’
‘Oh, balls to John Redmond! He’s too old to fight. And, besides, the Unionists are joining up in their droves as well – only they’re doing it to make sure we don’t get Home Rule. Who wins in that case? The ones who spill the most blood? It’s not a flaming game, Stephen. There won’t be any winners.’
‘Well, I’ve thought it through, Billy. I understand the risks, and I think it’s the best thing I can do right now.’
‘But you haven’t even finished your degree. One more year. Would that kill you? One more year and then you can bugger off and die with a baccalaureate.’
‘Yes, but it’s one more year at the pleasure of the senior fellows,’ Stephen said. ‘That’s the whole point, don’t you see? Look at my face,’ he turned and thrust his wounded eye towards his friend. Billy quailed visibly. It was grotesque to see the bright blue of the iris gleaming out from the middle of all that puffy, bruised flesh.
‘What do you think they would make of that? If I went in front of them next week with my cap in my hand, begging for my sizar-ship. Do you think they wouldn’t notice? Do you think they wouldn’t have heard that I was fighting with Alfred Devereux, of all people? You know very well what they’d say: Brawling in public. Bringing disgrace on the college. I’d be out on my ear!’
But he knew in his own mind that it wasn’t as cut and dried as all that. There were mitigating circumstances: he was a promising student who had never put a foot
wrong before, and they had already invested three years in him. They would think twice before cutting him off now – particularly by the time Professor Barrett was finished eulogizing about him. He didn’t need Billy to tell him the merits of his case; there was the fact that he hadn’t struck the first blow, and what followed had been more in the way of a beating than a brawl. And then Devereux’s behaviour was certainly not above reproach. But the fact was he didn’t want to argue. He didn’t want to beg and plead because he didn’t believe it would be worth it. He had looked beyond his degree and all he could see was that grubby little office. Inky fingers, one tedious day after another. There had to be more than that.
Billy sensed it too. ‘So are you telling me that joining the army is your way of atoning for your sins? Pleading forgiveness by fighting for King and Country? I mean, come off it.’
It was a fine day and the sun-dappled grass was dotted with children playing and courting couples enjoying the heat. The war seemed a million miles away, and yet, down the path came two officers on horseback. Their mounts moved at a slow walk but they looked all the more magnificent for that. The high sheen of the horses’ polished coats, the creak of leather and the jingle of spurs as they passed, the stiff, upright bearing of the men.
‘That’s part of it, yes.’
But only part of it. Stephen’s eye followed the passing officers and he thrilled to think he might be one of them soon. They belonged to a world he hardly knew existed and the chance of seeing it, of trying it for himself, was what he had taken. He didn’t want to go to that nameless little office and grow old in it. He wanted to live, even if living brought danger and the threat of death. He’d had the first inkling when he offered to walk Lillian and her sister home from the ball. They declined at first; it was too much trouble, they wouldn’t put him so far out of his way, but then they’d relented and he found himself – he, who’d never had a girl on his arm before – walking the pair of them down Baggot Street, with them laughing and talking across him. And all the while one part of his mind was wondering what might have happened if he hadn’t taken that first reckless step. Half a dozen drinks with Billy, a good laugh and a few hellos to people they knew. But in the end he’d be letting himself into his house in the small hours, slightly tipsy but no further forward than he’d been when he set out. This was the other way.
‘It’s the only way,’ he added, after the two officers had rounded a bend and were lost to sight. ‘It’s the only way I’ll be able to see something of the world before I fall in step with everybody’s expectations.’
‘It’s the only way you’ll be able to get bloody killed.’
‘You think I haven’t thought of that, Billy? Trust me, I have. I’ve thought about little else since I made my mind up. But I still think it’s worth it. I’d say the war should last a year at the most, and when I go back before the fellows I’ll have done my bit. They won’t be able to argue with that. All it will cost me is a year, and who’s to say I won’t enjoy myself?’
Billy thought about this for a few moments.
‘There is a certain logic in what you say,’ he admitted. ‘But I still think you’re cracked. This is going to be a real fighting war. It might last a year or it might be all over by Christmas, as some people think. But I’ll tell you this: it’s been so long coming that they won’t pack it in until there’s been some proper bloodletting.’
‘It’s all the one, Billy. I could be run over by a tram tomorrow. But I’d prefer to live before I die.’
‘Well, my only hope is that you get the chance, my friend. But tell me, what does your family make of this sudden change of tack? What did your father say?’
‘Oh, he’s delighted. He was always a Home Ruler, even back as far as Parnell. He makes me read Redmond’s speeches out of the newspaper for him, and when I told him I was going to join up, he shook my hand and told me I was doing a great thing for my country.’
Stephen’s voice trailed off. While what he had said was true, it wasn’t the whole truth. He didn’t mention the other things he had to read from the newspaper: the accounts of the German invasion of Belgium, of Austria-Hungary’s attacks on Servia. His father had never had any interest in international politics, nor had he paid any attention to the long drawn-out series of events that had culminated in war. But the moment war was declared he had shown a sudden and childlike fascination with it. He couldn’t hear enough about it, and writhed in his bed when Stephen read out accounts of atrocities, or even shelling. In particular, he’d conceived a hatred of Kaiser Wilhelm, and made a face whenever his name was mentioned.
‘That fella’s the Divil!’ he often spat out, but when Stephen stopped reading and looked self-consciously at the floor, he would urge him on, ‘What else? Is there more? Read it again. Tell me about the fighting.’
It was distressing for Stephen, and he had taken to lying or skipping over large tracts of the newspaper articles. His father had always been mild-mannered and gentle to a fault. But had this viciousness, this spite, always been in him? Was this mere raving, or was it the real man he was seeing? He was afraid it wasn’t pride that made his father’s eyes light up when he told him he was joining the army, but vengeance: all the bitterness and bile he’d built up lying sick in his bed spewing out unchecked.
‘You’ll show them,’ the old man had whispered, his bloodshot eyes burning, and he held his son’s hand so tight that the veins stood out under the parchment-dry skin. ‘You’ll get them back for what they did to us!’
‘I’m sure he must be very proud,’ said Billy, giving him a sidelong look. ‘But what about your brother? What does he make of it?’
‘He’s disgusted,’ Stephen answered, and smiled to himself. His brother had laughed out loud when he saw his face the morning after the ball. And he’d dined out on it too, smirking to himself the whole week long – until Stephen came back from the barracks on Friday afternoon. That had put the smile on the other side of his face. ‘He nearly had a fit when he found out. “You’re fighting the bosses’ war for them,” says he. “You’re taking the King’s shilling. You’re spitting on the workers.” But I think it sticks in his throat more that I’ll be an officer.’
‘God love him,’ Billy chuckled, ‘he must be the only socialist in the country with a brother who’s a King’s officer.’ He stood up and pushed his boater back on his head, his face suddenly brightening as he pulled out his pocket watch. ‘Come on, the pubs are open. We’ll have to have a drink to celebrate – wet your commission or whatever it is.’
Stephen started to get up from the bench, but groaned and subsided again.
‘Help me up,’ he asked holding out his hand, ‘my ribs hurt like hell whenever I try to stand up.’
Billy hauled him upright and looked him up and down with some concern. ‘I know Kitchener’s said every man should do his bit, and I’m sure they’re probably taking all comers, but really – how did you get past the medical in that state? You look like you’ve already been in the wars. What did they say about all the damage?’
‘Oh, there’s nothing broken,’ Stephen said cheerfully, as they set off towards Parkgate Street. But he still remembered the shock on the doctor’s face when he pulled up his shirt. There were so many new recruits he’d been working flat out all week and he’d seen his share of rickets and TB and the mange. But he’d not seen anything to match the yellowish mottling that covered half of Stephen’s ribcage. ‘It’s just bruises. The MO said they should clear up in a week or so.’
‘But wasn’t he the least bit curious as to how you came by them? Didn’t he ask?’
‘Of course he asked. I told him I got them playing rugby.’
‘And he believed you?’ Billy laughed out loud, ‘You cheeky sod! You lied your way into the army!’
‘Well, whether he believed me or not is beside the point. He still passed me fit. Anyway, it’s half true. Most of them were on the rugby team.’
‘He must have thought you were a bloody awful rugby player.�
��
‘I’m sure he did. He said I should think about taking up cricket.’
‘Cricket?’ Billy laughed again. ‘For God’s sake, you’ll hardly have time for that. Doesn’t he know there’s a war on?’
The flat plain of the Curragh offered no shelter from the wind, and by the time Stephen got to the officers’ mess it was snowing again. He could feel the flakes matting in his eyelashes and he had to kick the slush from his sodden boots before he went in. He’d been out in the open all day and was numb with the cold. As the afternoon slowly turned into night he’d started dreaming about the warmth of the mess and now he could hardly wait. The fire had been burning in there, day and night, for the last week, and the moment he stepped inside he felt his ears begin to burn and his eyes water. The familiar reek of turf smoke brought a smile to his pinched face, but his heart sank when a figure turned to look at him from the ragged armchair near the fireplace. The good armchair.
‘Ah, there you are, Ryan. The CO is looking for you.’
He might have known Hamilton would already be there. He’d hoped to get a few minutes warming himself by the fire, but Hamilton had beaten him to it. Doctor’s orders. He had a blanket around his shoulders and his feet in a basin of water. Frostbite in three of his toes. Half the mess had already come by to see him – partly as an excuse to bask in the heat for a few minutes, partly out of morbid curiosity. Frostbite in Ireland? Who’d have believed it? But who would have believed the weather could be so appallingly bad, and for six weeks with no respite. Day after day the freezing north wind had brought more snow and ice. Trees were falling down under the weight of it. The drifts were thigh deep in places, and the latrines needed boiling water tipped down them to melt the ice.
But they couldn’t let the weather stop them, not when they were this close. They were at the tipping point: on the cusp of becoming soldiers. Spring was just around the corner, and then they would be going to war. So with only a two-day break for Christmas they’d stuck it out: standing guard through the frozen nights, drilling together, digging trenches in the iron earth. They learned to ambush and skirmish in the snowy heather. They went on route marches across the frozen plains, and they climbed into the Wicklow Mountains with the cold pinching their faces and the icy wind howling around their ears. Maybe it wasn’t so shocking that Hamilton had come down with frostbite. Perhaps the real surprise was that he was their only case.
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