The Lambs

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Collins, doing his best to keep his voice down.

  ‘You’ll see,’ replied Fallon before slipping into the darkness after the raiding party. Collins was confused, unable to work out what his friend was up to. Fallon kept low, crawling along the same narrow path the raiders had used to get through the British wire. When he reached the other side he stopped, drinking in the scene, straining to hear. It was unnaturally quiet. He felt unnaturally alone. He decided not to dwell on it. Instead he put his weight behind pushing a wooden stake into the thick clay soil before fitting a flare to its top. He carefully stretched a tripwire from the flare to a picket post, closing off the gap in the wire. He smiled, satisfied with his handiwork, then slithered back to his post. It had taken ten minutes at most. For Collins it seemed like an age. ‘Now, with a bit of luck all we have to do is sit back and wait,’ Fallon told Collins when he got back. Collins still didn’t understand. ‘Let’s just say that Devlin and his band of merry men will regret getting me in the shit with Captain Murphy.’ Then Collins noticed Fallon had begun humming softly to himself as he gazed off into the darkness waiting for the show to begin: ‘A Nation Once Again’.

  Out in the quiet, ever-shifting shadows of no-man’s-land, Flynn’s nerves were being steadily frayed. At least the Germans were on the ridge above them, masking their movements in darkness. They’d frozen a couple of times as green flares fizzled overhead but other than that their crossing had been uneventful. Devlin stopped them short of the enemy wire with a curt hand gesture which Flynn assumed meant ‘keep an eye out’. He wasn’t as good as he should be at ‘monkey talk’ – the hand signals they were supposed to use in the field. The sweat cooled on his back as he lay watching shadows morph into imaginary Germanic hordes, gripping the haft of his spade. His cap comforter was sodden too but at least it stopped the sweat stinging his eyes. Whoosh! He fought the urge to run. To move meant death; it was a lethal game of statues, nothing more, nothing less. He kept one eye closed in an attempt to preserve his night vision. A salvo of shells ploughed into the German line a mile or so away and more flares arced skyward. The diversion had begun. The light fizzled into darkness.

  ‘Move!’ snapped Devlin. The ground began to rise and Flynn suddenly realized that he needed to pee. He could hear Clee’s sage advice rattling around his mind – never go into battle with a full bladder or an empty stomach. It would have to wait and if he wet himself, so what. He was past caring. Gallagher slipped to one side with the Duke, setting up the Lewis on the lip of a small crater.

  ‘Flynn, take Fitzpatrick and clear a path through the wire. Once ye get into Jerry’s trench, hoot like an owl and then we’ll get after ye,’ said Devlin without looking at him. It was a battlefield habit, not looking at who you were talking to. It didn’t make much difference in the dark but in daylight doing so could inadvertently show an enemy sniper who was in charge. Snipers liked shooting people who were in charge.

  ‘Hoot like an owl? You are taking the piss, right?’ replied Flynn. Crestfallen, Devlin shot him a quick, narrow-eyed glance.

  ‘All right, wave then,’ Devlin muttered. ‘I assume ye can do that?’

  Flynn nodded, quick and curt. This was it. His stomach convulsed as if wrestling with an indigestible meal. Blood pounded in his ears as he crawled slowly towards the German wire through the whispering grass. His chest constricted as if some invisible tourniquet was slowly tightening. Christ knows how Devlin stayed so calm. He nestled beneath a strand of wire, fumbling for the wire cutters. The ground was wet. Something kippery nearby stung his nostrils.

  Fitzpatrick grasped a razor wire strand, pulling it taut. Flynn snipped. For a moment it resisted, then parted, making a noise that seemed like thunder but in reality was barely audible to anything without the hearing of a bat. Fitzpatrick eased the severed strands back, tucking them out of the way before he shuffled forward with Flynn to deal with the next strand of wire.

  They had no idea how long it took to clear a man-sized gap but it seemed like ages until they finally lay close to the lip of the German trench. There was a whiff of coffee in the air: real coffee, not the vile chicory slime they mixed with water to pretend was coffee. Someone was laughing, deep in the muffled depths of a bunker. There was something else: that wet-dog smell that the Germans’ furry backpacks gave off when exposed to the elements. Steeling himself, Flynn shifted his grip on his shovel, slipping silently over the precipice until his boots crunched softly on the enemy fire step. A gramophone crackled into life just as Fitzpatrick slipped silently next to him. The traverse was empty.

  ‘What now?’ the American whispered, bright-eyed with fear and excitement. Flynn put his finger to his lips; a childlike gesture for silence, as if they were playing some kind of game, which indeed they were. He turned and waved. Something rose, a mass of darkness against the night sky, and moved towards him. It was Devlin. He thudded gently onto the step beside Flynn, his teeth white against the shadow of his face. Then one by one the others joined them until they were squatting nervously in a line. Flynn couldn’t help noticing how well made the trench was as he moved towards the edge of the traverse, spade held ready. They really knew how to dig trenches. In fact, he was so distracted he almost walked straight into the shape that stepped into his path.

  ‘Was zur Hölle … Scheisse!’ spluttered a startled German. Flynn felt painfully conspicuous, foolish even, like a naughty schoolboy caught scrumping apples, staring at the unfortunate German. They stood like gunslingers waiting for the other to draw. It seemed like ages; it must have been a matter of seconds. Then the German moved, fumbling with his rifle strap, but Flynn was quicker, swinging the razor-edged shovel like a two-handed axe and driving the blade shoulder-jarringly deep into the man’s face. He fell like a rag doll, dragging Flynn’s spade with him, and he had to push down hard with his foot to wrench the bloody blade free. Something warm flooded Flynn’s trousers. He’d wet himself. No one noticed. Devlin prodded the body with his toe. The German was dead.

  ‘That was close. Now give us a hand to get him out of the way,’ muttered Devlin as he rummaged through the dead German’s pockets, liberating his pay book and wallet. He left the dog tag in place so the body could be identified and recorded properly before it was buried. ‘Now let’s see if we can get ourselves a prisoner.’ It was obvious from the tone of his voice that he was enjoying himself. They lugged the body onto the fire step. Devlin draped a gas cape over it, making it look as if the unfortunate man was asleep rather than dead. ‘There, that’ll have to do,’ he said, surveying his handiwork. Flynn’s hands were shaking, overdosing on adrenalin. It was a rush. Suddenly, light flooded the trench as a gas cape screen was thrown back and a scruffy-looking German in a crumpled Feldmütze stepped out, stretching his arms, looking around, not quite able to take in the scene unfolding before his eyes. He froze. Everyone froze.

  ‘Alarm! Engländer!’ he screamed, going for the pistol that hung from his belt. There was an almighty bang and a stabbing flash that stripped Flynn of his vision, lancing his brain with needles of light. The German tumbled backwards, clutching his face. There were more cries. A whistle blew. Another flare shot skywards. A machine gun burst into life. The line was waking.

  ‘Shit, that’s torn it!’ cursed Devlin, smoking pistol in hand. He pulled a Mills bomb from his pocket and, tugging the pin loose, lobbed it into the bunker. There was a dull crump; cries of pain. ‘The bastards will be all over us in a minute!’ He looked worried. ‘Well, don’t just stand there catching flies, follow me!’ Then he ducked into the bunker’s entrance. Fitzpatrick dithered in the doorway until Flynn shoved him hard and together they skidded down the steps. The heavy gas cape fell back into place behind them just as the trench above began to fill with the sound of heavy boots and startled cries.

  ‘Jesus,’ Flynn cursed, skidding on something slimy coating the ramshackle stairs that led down into the bunker. It was long, the bunker deep; much deeper than the ones in their own trenches. It was
crowded. In the lume of Devlin’s torch he saw that the room at the bottom was smoky and cramped; low-ceilinged and stinking of sweat, tobacco and garlic sausage, mixed with the sulphurous, rotten-egg stench of cordite. There were bunks against the wall and a couple of bodies sprawled across the floor. He tried to avoid looking down but he couldn’t help himself. ‘What now?’ Flynn asked, trying hard to avoid the blank, fish-eyed stare of the mangled corpse at his feet.

  ‘Christ knows,’ replied Devlin quietly.

  ‘It’s a dead end,’ said Flynn.

  Devlin sighed heavily. ‘Thanks for that,’ he growled irritably. Darting into the bunker had seemed like a good idea at the time but now it looked like they’d only delayed the inevitable.

  ‘Fitzpatrick, collect what you can,’ ordered Devlin, determined not to give up hope. The American did as he was told, rummaging through the dead Germans’ pockets collecting pay books and wallets.

  ‘Bavarians,’ said Fitzpatrick, as he tore off a blue-piped epaulette.

  ‘Jaysus, we’re trapped in this fecking place!’ wailed Doyle despondently. He slumped against the wall, letting his machete hang limply at his side. He was close to breaking. Devlin knew he had to do something or they’d all go the same way soon. Panic and despair was like that. Flynn looked at the Ulsterman, whose face had become hard, devoid of emotion. Pistol in hand, Flynn crept up the stairs, stopping at the bend halfway up. There were voices and for the first time in his life he regretted not paying attention in German lessons in school. Someone shouted and he knew a grenade would follow. If it did they were finished.

  ‘Hang on, what’s this?’ asked Carolan as he pulled back a tattered canvas sheet that was strung across the wall. It was a tunnel.

  ‘Keep an eye on the stairs,’ Devlin told Flynn before elbowing his way to join Carolan. The Germans had dug deep, lacing their front line with subterranean walkways and chambers that kept their soldiers safe and sound. A pale amber light flickered in the distance. ‘Do ye reckon it leads anywhere?’

  Carolan shrugged. ‘It looks pretty narrow but it’s better than staying here,’ he said. Devlin agreed.

  ‘Joachim, Pieter, sind sie noch abgestiegen?’ shouted the voice from above. It was nearer, louder, closer.

  ‘I think they’re coming down,’ whispered Flynn, cocking his revolver. ‘Wir sind … wir sind … shit!’ He couldn’t remember what to say.

  ‘Quick, follow me!’ barked Devlin, leading the way, pistol held high. Carolan followed. The bunker trembled and dust fell as shells began to pound the ground above them. Flynn couldn’t help thinking about Gallagher and the Duke out in no-man’s-land. He hoped they were all right. Fitzpatrick had darted into the tunnel, leaving Flynn with Docherty and Doyle. There were footfalls on the stairs. A grey shape loomed around the bend. Flynn raised his pistol and fired, filling the confined space with a deafening roar and blinding light. He fired again. The shape tumbled, landing at his feet. He fired once more, barely able to control his panic. Doyle was rooted to the spot, staring at the dead German. Docherty dithered by the tunnel entrance.

  ‘What the hell ye waiting for, an embossed invitation?’ snapped Devlin, poking his head back into the room. It was enough to break the spell, galvanizing Flynn into action. He shoved Docherty towards the sergeant and, grabbing Doyle’s sleeve, he dragged him behind him into the tunnel. They’d got thirty yards when there was an almighty blast, searing Flynn’s ears like a hammer blow. Doyle sagged and he lifted him up, virtually dragging him. Thankfully the canvas curtain had taken much of the blast. Someone shouted. He cursed, blundering into a low beam as a bullet gouged at the wood near his head. He fired blindly behind, emptying his pistol in three rapid bangs until it clicked forlornly.

  CHAPTER 17

  14 May 1916, German front line near Loos, north-west France

  As Flynn fumbled to reload his revolver, an image of his mother popped into his head. He didn’t know why. It wasn’t as if they’d been close although he had no doubt that his parents loved him in their restrained, Catholic middle-class way. He kept thinking of the dead German and wondered how his mother and father would take the news of his death. With all the infuriatingly fatalistic, middle-class Catholic calm they could muster, no doubt. His mother would light a candle and clack her rosary beads. He could almost hear her voice muttering, ‘I told you so’. He wondered whether the German’s mother would miss him too but he didn’t get to wonder long. Devlin grabbed his sleeve.

  ‘C’mon! I think I’ve found a way out!’

  Flynn followed him around a corner, following a cluster of dark telephone lines fixed to the damp planked wall. Devlin paused, taking the edge of his shovel to the wires, parting them easily. ‘There, that should confuse the bastards!’ Then he expertly flicked open his revolver, checking his ammunition. ‘Are ye loaded?’ he asked. Flynn nodded. He had six shots and then he’d be out. They hadn’t come prepared for a fight. ‘Here, take this and see if ye can keep them back a while,’ Devlin added, handing him his own revolver and Doyle’s machete. Great, thought Flynn, just great.

  As he watched the others vanish up the tunnel, he thought he could hear something: muffled footfalls from whence they had come. Crouching low, he peered around the corner. The Germans were coming. He fired two rapid shots, thundering in the shadowy confines of the passageway, stinging his ears. He ducked back, expecting a salvo in return. Instead there was nothing, not even a muffled cry. Then the tunnel plunged into darkness. Steadying his nerves, he lay down, easing his head back around the corner. He could see a thin halo of light squeezing itself around the edges of the tattered gas curtain, and he thought he could make out shadows flitting behind. At least they couldn’t see him. Maybe they’d think twice before they resumed their pursuit. He hoped so.

  A stream of bullets shredded the canvas, tearing up the corridor to flay the planks on either side. Flynn pressed himself into the floor, pulling his head back out of the way. The Germans had a machine gun. He fired blindly around the corner, his shots a pathetic response to the fusillade being unleashed in his direction. Someone squealed. It was a fluke but he didn’t care. The machine-gun fire slackened.

  ‘Sod this,’ he muttered, belting off into the darkness after Devlin. Cursing as he smacked into the walls more times than was dignified, he finally blundered his way into a long stretch of tunnel. There was a red glow ahead. He slowed, holding his revolver ready just in case as he eased his way towards the light. It flickered. There were shadowy figures. The hammer clicked noisily as he thumbed it back. The shadows froze.

  ‘Who’s there?’ challenged Devlin.

  ‘It’s me,’ replied Flynn, easing the hammer forward, making the revolver safe.

  ‘Where’s Jerry?’ asked Devlin, shining the light in Flynn’s eyes.

  ‘Back up the tunnel. I think I got one of them but I don’t think they’ll hang back for long. The bastards have got a machine gun,’ he explained.

  ‘Grand!’ wailed Doyle but it was Fitzpatrick not Devlin who told him to get a grip. They were obviously all getting sick of his whining. Then Flynn noticed Carolan and Docherty loitering cautiously at the foot of a staircase. He asked where it led. They shrugged.

  ‘You stay here,’ Devlin told Doyle. ‘We’ll be back for ye in a minute. The rest of you come with me.’

  ‘Do you think it’s a good idea leaving Doyle on guard?’ Flynn asked Devlin quietly as they climbed the first couple of steps.

  ‘Look, no one knows what’s at the top of these stairs so if yer man Doyle’s going to funk it it’s better he does it down there out of the way than up here with us.’ Flynn had to agree there was a ruthless logic to it and in the end Devlin was in charge; it was his call. ‘Now give me my Webley back,’ he instructed, taking the revolver from Flynn. He cocked it, steeling himself to move onwards and upwards, the treads groaning ominously beneath his feet as he climbed. After ten feet, the passage canted to the right.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Flynn.

  ‘How the hell
should I know? My mind-reading powers are a bit weak right now!’ snapped Devlin, rubbing his temples and throwing Flynn an irritated stare. Then the sergeant looked around the corner before stepping gingerly onto the next stair. Flynn followed, head pounding as more adrenalin flooded his system. There was a glimpse of starlight. They eased into the fresh air, keeping low. A green flare hissed high into the sky. Shells fell randomly all around, the aftershocks of battle. Between explosions Flynn thought he could make out snippets of German gusting on the breeze.

  ‘Do you know where we are?’ asked Flynn.

  ‘Jaysus, but ye ask a load of questions,’ snapped Devlin, close to the edge of his patience. There was an empty machine-gun mounting at one end of the pit, nestling between two neat piles of sandbags. Naturally, the machine gun was elsewhere, safe underground, and would only be brought to the surface to repel an attack. Fitzpatrick squatted down beside them followed by Carolan. Flynn looked up at the stars. He liked the stars.

  ‘We must be somewhere near Jerry’s support line,’ whispered Flynn quietly, doing his best to ignore Devlin’s testiness, thankful he wasn’t in charge. Devlin nodded, his face strained. ‘I think our lines must be that way.’

  ‘So, what now, Sarge?’ asked Fitzpatrick. Devlin sniffed, scratching his chin, deep in thought as his brain whirred into gear, working out a plan. Docherty had joined them now.

  ‘First, someone needs to go fetch Doyle,’ said Devlin, giving Flynn one of those ‘you go do it’ looks that senior NCOs were so good at.

  Reluctantly, Flynn slithered back towards the stairs, his boots skidding on the muddy steps as he picked his way down in the darkness. He regretted not bringing Devlin’s torch. The hairs prickled on the back of his neck. Something was wrong. It was like entering a tomb. ‘Doyle, where are you?’ There was no reply so he worked his way along the tunnel, feeling his way with his fingers. The silence was deafening. ‘Stop pissing about and get over here.’ He waited a few more minutes, then went back. There was no point hanging around. Doyle was gone.