The Lambs

  ‘What the feck do ye mean, he’s not there?’ grumbled Devlin, his voice brittle with frustration and fatigue. ‘Jerry must have him.’

  ‘Do we go get him?’ asked Fitzpatrick.

  ‘What with? We’ve less firepower than a bunch of boy scouts,’ replied Devlin. ‘Doyle’s going to have to look after himself; we’ve got more pressing problems. We were sent to get information and now we’ve got it we need to get back.’ No one disagreed with him. ‘Besides, for all we know our boys are still lying out there somewhere in no-man’s-land waiting for us to get back.’ Another flare zipped skywards and Flynn glanced at his pocket watch. It was ridiculous; the sun would be up soon. He didn’t know where the night had gone. If they didn’t get back soon, whilst it was still dark, then surrender would be the only realistic option left. Maybe Doyle had grasped the nettle, letting himself get caught. At least he’d be safe if he did. Maybe they should do the same. For a moment it was tempting but he shook off the idea, deciding he didn’t really fancy spending the rest of the war in a POW cage even if his parents would probably be happier if he did.

  They could hear movement, something in the dark. Another incandescent streak of green shrieked into the night sky, bathing everything in jittery light. Angular shadows lunged at the fear lurking in the back of Flynn’s mind. He was cold, foetid water seeping through his clothes as they cowered in the sodden machine-gun nest. The Germans would start stirring soon. They had to move. Devlin slunk over the sandbags, keeping low. Fitzpatrick slipped after him. Flynn froze as the word ‘Schweinhunde’ was caught on the breeze and hurled towards them. He didn’t speak German but someone had told him it meant ‘pig-dog’. It was a strange sort of curse. Nothing happened. Carolan and Docherty were next, followed by Flynn. It was an agonizing crawl, inch by inch, pressed flat against the earth until they reached the parados of the German front line. Devlin peered into the trench. It was deserted.

  ‘Quick, down ye get,’ Devlin whispered to Flynn as he crawled up beside him. There was no point in arguing. He slid over the edge, easing his way down the revetting into its depths. His boots thudded softly on the damp wood as he landed, squatting down, shovel in hand. A match flared. His heart skipped a beat as he saw a sentry huddled nearby beneath a Zeltbahn, lighting a furtive cigarette, seemingly oblivious of Flynn or the others. Devlin dropped down beside him, a knife glinting in his hand. He moved like a phantom, gliding towards the crouching figure. The blade flashed in the starlight as Devlin grappled the unfortunate gently to the ground. ‘I could murder a drink,’ he grumbled, wiping the wet blade on his cuff as if cutting throats was a mundane chore. The stink of blood hung in the air as the others climbed down to join them.

  ‘Just in case,’ said Fitzpatrick, picking up the dead German’s rifle.

  ‘Good man,’ replied Devlin as he watched the American fiddle with the weapon’s unfamiliar mechanism. Carolan squinted into no-man’s-land, desperately seeking a gap in the wire: their only hope of escape. Then when he saw one he pulled himself up onto the parapet, keeping flat. Devlin scrambled up with him. Flynn couldn’t help staring at the dead man’s glasses, askew across his surprised face. He tried not to look but something drew him inexorably back as he helped Docherty climb up over the top. Click! Clack! Clack! Click! The metallic noise of a cocking rifle echoed down the trench.

  ‘Will you stop playing with that thing!’ Flynn snapped at Fitzpatrick.

  ‘Halt, oder ich schiesse!’

  There were Germans in the trench, bayonets flickering menacingly in the eerie glow. Fitzpatrick stood, unsure what to do, the sentry’s rifle slack in his hands.

  ‘Go!’ hissed Flynn, hoping Devlin had heard him. The Bavarians eased forward, cautious, poised, ready, their spike helmets menacing in the flickering shadows. One of them broke ranks, his luxuriant walrus moustache making him seem more bestial. Flynn noticed the medal ribbon looped through his tunic buttonhole and the NCO lace on his collar and shoulder straps.

  ‘I would put up my hands if I were you, Tommy. I would hate to have to shoot you,’ he said, pointing his Mauser pistol almost casually at Fitzgerald. His English was excellent with the merest hint of a Germanic accent. The Bavarian was calm, collected and firmly in control, betraying not the slightest suspicion that he would be disobeyed. The rifle slipped from Fitzpatrick’s hands, thudding to the floor. The Bavarian smiled, nodding approvingly. One of the Bavarians stepped forward, picking it up.

  ‘Believe me, I should hate you to have to shoot me too!’ said Flynn as he dropped his shovel, and he sensed the Bavarian relax slightly.

  ‘You British and your ironical understatements, how I miss them,’ the Bavarian answered rather light-heartedly. ‘I worked in Bristol before the war … ah, happy days, happy days.’ The man’s eyes were hard despite his comradely smile, whilst his pistol never wavered. One of his men was staring at the dead sentry, muttering something aggressively guttural before lunging at Flynn. A bayonet flashed past his face as he swerved to avoid his assailant, twisting and lashing out with an iron-shod boot. The soldier grunted, unable to riposte as the NCO wrenched him angrily aside in a tirade of abuse. Seizing him by the collar, he backhanded him savagely with his pistol, sending him reeling.

  ‘I must as you say apologize for my man,’ said the NCO, ignoring the beaten soldier. ‘Now you must come with me. I believe one of your friends is waiting to see you again,’ he added, and Flynn assumed he meant Doyle. The NCO cocked his head in a faux-deferent bow, gesturing the way. By the time they reached their destination, the sun was up, the Bavarians were stood to and Flynn’s boots were sodden and his feet blistered and torn, making each torturous step agony.

  The Bavarian headquarters wasn’t what Flynn was expecting. He could see through the swirling tobacco smoke filling the air that the walls were papered, making it look like a cheap bar rather than something hacked from the wet clay. Doyle was in the corner, crestfallen beneath the gaze of a sallow-faced guard sporting one of those oversized moustaches the Germans seemed to love, who leant on his rifle like a crutch. The guard’s washed-out pale eyes followed Flynn and Fitzpatrick across the room to a desk where a round-faced officer sat puffing on a glowing cigar. The NCO coughed politely. The officer looked up, distracted from his pile of papers. The NCO said something: a situation report, Flynn assumed, as he chopped off a crisp, professional salute. The officer glanced at the Irishmen with red-rimmed eyes, irritated that the Englanders’ unholy fixation with trench-raiding had cost him yet another night’s sleep. He couldn’t help thinking war would be a much more orderly affair if everyone stopped trying so damned hard to kill each other!

  ‘So, tell me, Corporal, what is your name and unit? What are your orders?’ he asked in passable albeit heavily accented English.

  Flynn stamped loudly to attention.

  ‘Kevin Michael Flynn, Corporal, number 4982,’ he reported, staring woodenly into the middle distance. The officer sighed, turning to Fitzpatrick, who predictably recited his name, rank and number like they’d been told to do if captured.

  The officer smiled. ‘Sehr gut, Corporal Flynn, Private Fitzpatrick. I am much impressed. At your ease, bitte. You are playing your part well, yes, but I am afraid that your friend here is not so … er … as you say, diligent. No?’ He gestured towards Doyle with a casual flick of his hand. It was only when Doyle gave an apologetic shrug that Flynn noticed his black eye and he did his best to reserve judgement. Then the officer said something to the NCO, who clicked his heels, chopping off yet another immaculate salute before rounding on Flynn, his dark eyes softer than before.

  ‘You are to be taken to the rear, my friends, for … er … questioning, then you will be sent to a prisoner of war camp.’ Flynn didn’t like the way the NCO had paused before saying ‘questioning’ but then maybe he was just being paranoid. ‘Please, Herr Flynn, do not look so alarmed,’ said the NCO, noticing Flynn’s expression. ‘We Bavarians are not barbarians, whatever your government may have you believe. Nothing will happen to yo
u. Look on the bright side, my friend, you get to sit out the war in a prison camp. For you the war is as good as over; you get to survive, after all. Surely that has to be a good thing? Now, I have instructed this Gefreiter here to take care of you.’

  ‘Ja wohl, Herr Unteroffizier,’ barked Doyle’s guard, suddenly conscious that his superior was watching him. Then he hauled Doyle to his feet.

  ‘What did you tell them?’ asked Flynn but before Doyle could answer, the Gefreiter shouted at him, spraying spittle as he shoved the prisoners towards the door. Then a thought crossed his mind. He would make the three Irishmen pay for ruining his plans for a quiet morning, snug in the command bunker. Now he faced the prospect of a long walk to regimental headquarters followed by a very long walk back after next to no sleep. The Gefreiter’s face split into a broad, disquieting grin that set Flynn’s teeth on edge.

  CHAPTER 18

  14 May 1916, German trenches near Loos, north-west France

  Flynn wandered along beside Fitzpatrick with his hands thrust deep into his pockets. He didn’t like the way the Gefreiter kept glancing furtively in his direction and whispering to the other guard. Doyle kicked along like a petulant teenager, which is really what he was, ignoring the others.

  ‘Well …’ started Flynn but the Gefreiter cut him short with a sharp blow with his rifle butt and if it hadn’t been for Fitzpatrick catching his arm he would have fallen.

  ‘No talking, Engländer!’ he barked in heavily accented English.

  ‘Hey, we ain’t English, bud,’ replied Fitzpatrick testily, attracting a glower and a threatening bayonet beneath his nose. ‘Just saying,’ he added with a disarming shrug. Flynn glanced back at Doyle. He looked drawn and pale in the morning sunlight. ‘You can’t blame the young fella, Kev. He’s just scared,’ whispered Fitzpatrick from the side of his mouth.

  ‘Aren’t we all scared?’ replied Flynn unsympathetically.

  ‘Silence!’ squealed the Gefreiter, glowering imperiously, irritated that they were defying his authority. ‘No talking or I shoot!’ he snapped, jabbing his rifle at the two men, who lapsed begrudgingly into silence. The shock of capture was wearing off and as his despondency receded, giving way to anger and frustration, Flynn thought of Mary and decided he would try and escape. It was obvious the Gefreiter was a pompous little buffoon and as he glanced around he began to try and work out how they could use the man’s idiocy to their advantage.

  ‘What you thinking, Kev?’ asked Fitzpatrick quietly, his face serious.

  ‘That we get out of here.’

  ‘What’s the point? If we go into the cages then we’ll survive this crappy war, won’t we?’ said the American.

  ‘I thought you were here fighting for the old country?’ replied Flynn, looking surprised.

  ‘Yeah, right! Like that’s such a great idea. If it hadn’t been for this war we’d be beating the hell out of the English and the Prods over Home Rule. As it is they’ve turned Dublin into a pile of rubble that wouldn’t look out of place over here.’

  ‘Well, the blasted Fenians shouldn’t have started their bloody stupid uprising,’ replied Flynn.

  ‘I don’t mean the Fenians, I mean the English! They shelled the city centre and then shot the ringleaders like they were common criminals!’

  ‘Look, the Fenians knew the risks when they rebelled and if they didn’t then they’re bloody eejits, all of them!’ replied Flynn, irritated by the way so many of his comrades seemed to condemn the Easter rebels on one hand and then vilify the army – the same army they belonged to – for putting the rebellion down the only way they knew how. He’d even read that the bulk of the soldiers who’d been involved were Irishmen anyway – something the more nationalistically minded of his comrades were rapidly forgetting.

  ‘I’m just saying they shouldn’t have shot the ringleaders, that’s all,’ grumbled Fitzpatrick.

  ‘We don’t know for sure they shot them,’ replied Flynn.

  ‘Old Hackett in stores said.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say so? It must be bloody true, then!’

  ‘Look, those guys were in the Volunteers, like most of us. It’s different for you, Kev, you weren’t in the organization. I probably know some of the fellas who took part. Doyle’s cousin was there. I heard him say so. You know he ain’t been right since we heard about it.’ Flynn resisted pointing out he had a cousin in the Volunteers; he didn’t see the point of being drawn into an argument with his friend. Besides, he had no idea whether his cousin had been involved in the Rising or not. To be honest he didn’t care. He’d never subscribed to some of his countrymen’s romanticized obsession with a rebellion in every generation; unsure what real difference being governed from Dublin rather than Whitehall would actually make to his life, or anyone else’s for that matter. Politicians were all a clique of middle-class frock coats as far as he was concerned.

  ‘Séamus is right. We’re just a load of thick-Mick cannon fodder,’ snapped Doyle. ‘When the war’s over the lying English bastards won’t give us our country back, you’ll see!’

  ‘No talking!’ barked the Gefreiter, cocking his rifle with a fluid flick of the wrist.

  ‘I’m just saying we can’t just leave the lads to it. They need us,’ whispered Flynn. Fitzpatrick nodded, mouthing OK.

  ‘Shut up!’ shrieked the Gefreiter, raising his rifle so that it pointed straight at Flynn’s head. His comrade was aiming at Fitzpatrick, flicking the muzzle occasionally towards Doyle to hold them at bay. They walked on in sullen silence and as they finally left the maze of communication trenches, Flynn surreptitiously lengthened his stride to annoy his guards. The guns were a distant rumble now, barely audible over the twitter of the birds, as they moved along a cratered gravel road through a decimated wood. Behind them the German trenches burrowed into a low ridge that both shielded their rear area and exposed that of the British to their scrutiny. Slag heaps dotted the countryside, betraying its mining heritage. Supply wagons hauled stores towards the front line and with every step in the other direction he felt himself getting more and more tired and hungry. Something buzzed overhead, making weary pioneers in black-piped Feldmützen squint anxiously into the sky. The sun was brighter now and Flynn felt its warmth playing on his skin. It was almost pleasant, stirring distant childhood memories of family outings visiting relatives in the Wicklow Mountains, and for a moment he drifted away to fantasies of strolling along leafy Irish lanes hand in hand with Mary. Then he thought of Gallagher and Devlin, wondering if they’d made it. He hoped they had.

  ‘Hey, Fritz, is it much further?’ asked Flynn. The Gefreiter scowled, brandishing his rifle with an expression that made him look like a man who had bitten a dog turd, before scuttling over to his companion. He whispered something; Flynn couldn’t hear what. Even if he had it wouldn’t have made any difference: he didn’t speak German. Flynn didn’t like the way the other guard nodded, keeping his eyes on the prisoners.

  ‘Hände hoch, Tommy. Hier, stop now, Tommy! We rest, yes?’ barked the Gefreiter after they’d walked on for a few more minutes. He gestured towards a sparse, flayed copse by the roadside whilst his companion fumbled with his own rifle.

  ‘I got a bad feeling about this,’ said Flynn. For some strange reason their expressions reminded Flynn of sheepdogs herding sheep. Doyle and Fitzpatrick were already in what had once been a small clearing about thirty feet from the road. He hesitated.

  ‘Raus! Raus!’ growled the Gefreiter, shoving him after them, making him stumble. His ankle snagged on a tuffet, twisting his foot and sending jarring pain shooting up his leg. The buzzing was louder. The Gefreiter was aiming at him, a cruel sneer on his lips, his pale, lupine eyes demonically ablaze. ‘Wiedersehen, Tommy!’ Flynn tensed, closing his eyes. So this is it, this is how it ends, he thought as despair washed over him and he felt his lips begin to move.

  ‘Hail Mary, full of grace …’ There was a flash, an almighty bang and then Flynn was flying through the air before landing heavily on his shoulders, drivin
g the air from his lungs. Groaning and gasping for breath, he opened his eyes, prising himself awkwardly into a sitting position. The Gefreiter was face down, moaning. German soldiers were dashing for cover. It was chaos. There was a gory, greasy streak across the charred grass and Flynn could feel blood pouring from his nose.

  ‘Son of a bitch, what the hell was that?’ spluttered Fitzpatrick, his face blackened like an escapee from a minstrel show. Bloody lumps of tattered flesh hung from them both. The Gefreiter was levering himself from the ground.

  ‘Where’s Doyle?’ asked Flynn, looking around.

  Overhead three spindly, two-seater pusher biplanes with their engines behind the pilot’s cockpit streaked overhead, the British roundels clearly visible on their wings as they strafed the road. They flared upwards, engines straining as they turned for another pass. As they passed by, their gunners sprayed the road but the element of surprise was gone and here and there Germans were firing back.

  ‘Doyle’s bought it,’ said Fitzpatrick, pointing to where Doyle’s shattered corpse lay; killed by a British bomb, the victim of war’s cruel irony. The Gefreiter was on his knees now, blinking and shaking his head to clear his vision. Then he looked up. His rifle was just beyond reach. He stretched out his hand just as Flynn skipped forward, driving his size nine boot into the side of the German’s head like a full-back trying to convert a try.

  ‘Way to go! Come on, the Dubs!’ cried Fitzpatrick as the Gefreiter flew sideways, grunting as he landed and lay still. ‘Is the son of a bitch dead?’ he asked, but Flynn wasn’t listening, already trying to see if there was a way out.

  ‘Let’s go. I don’t know about you but I don’t fancy hanging around here waiting to get shot. If we’re quick we might just make it,’ said Flynn before he broke into a trot through the copse and away from the road. They paused at the treeline, catching their breath as they scanned the rolling meadow beyond for signs of the enemy. There was a waterlogged nullah about a football pitch’s length away, edged with tufting long grass. ‘There!’ They kept low, moving as fast as they could, half-expecting gunshots to snap at their heels. Flynn’s side began to hurt as a stitch set in and as he skidded down the side of the slimy ditch he promised God that he’d give up smoking.