The Lambs

by Peter James Cottrell

  ‘So, what now, buddy?’ gasped Fitzpatrick, making Flynn feel secretly satisfied that his friend was as unfit as he was.

  ‘Look, over there,’ wheezed Flynn, pointing at a dense patch of woodland a few hundred yards away. ‘Maybe we can hide out there?’

  ‘Then what?’ asked Fitzpatrick.

  ‘Christ knows but it’s better than hanging around here,’ replied Flynn, glancing back at the road with its burning supply wagons and panicking horses. He felt sorry for the horses. It was still chaos but they both knew it wouldn’t last much longer. After a few gulped breaths, they got up and ran and by the time they reached the wood the British aircraft had gone. Fitzpatrick vomited, sucking down air whilst Flynn rolled onto his back, panting. He could see dots high above; presumably the aeroplanes making their escape. Several more dots swarmed towards them and they began tumbling and weaving across the sky. One of them billowed smoke, spiralling downwards, growing bigger and bigger until it swooped low overhead, its engine spluttering as the pilot wrestled with the controls. It was British and from where they lay they saw the gunner slumped in the front cockpit. They watched horrified as the stricken aircraft yawed sideways, bucking violently before skimming the sparse canopy above them and bouncing heavily through the long grass beyond, where it slewed to a halt, its engine stuttering to silence.

  The pilot jumped clear, hurling his flying helmet to the ground, looking to Flynn as if he was cursing his machine. There were field-grey figures emerging from a wood on the other side of the meadow, waving and shouting. Something flashed and Flynn winced as the familiar crack-thump of gunfire sent rounds zipping harmlessly overhead. It wouldn’t be long before they started trying to hit. A dark shadow passed overhead, their senses overwhelmed by an almighty roar as a gaudily painted German fighter plane screamed low overhead like some kind of bird of prey, waggling its wings before tearing up into the blue.

  ‘Well, it sure looks like we ain’t the only ones up shit creek!’ observed Fitzpatrick. Flynn was up, intent on the drama unfolding before them. ‘Hey, what’s up?’

  ‘I was just thinking—’

  ‘Always worrying,’ interjected Fitzpatrick.

  ‘Like I was saying, if—’

  ‘Dangerous word if,’ opined the American.

  ‘Like I was saying, if we could get to your man there and help him get that thing working again, then maybe we’ll be able to get a lift out of here?’ said Flynn.

  ‘You know, I had a feeling you were going to say something dumbass like that.’

  ‘Well? What do you think?’ asked Flynn.

  ‘I don’t think you’ll like what I think,’ answered Fitzpatrick.

  ‘So you’re up for it, then?’ replied Flynn, grinning wryly when Fitzpatrick rolled his eyes.

  ‘You know in football they’d call this a Hail Mary play,’ said Fitzpatrick.

  ‘C’mon then,’ said Flynn, crossing himself before he moved. He didn’t really know why. Unlike his parents, he wasn’t much of a Catholic and, much to his mother’s chagrin, he’d studiously avoided going to church whenever possible since his chrismation. Then they ran, hell for leather towards the downed aircraft. The pilot didn’t notice them, absorbed as he was with his frantic attempts to restart the engine. Stray bullets plucked at the machine’s tattered canvas and as they neared Flynn couldn’t help wondering how the hell the thing got off the ground in the first place. A bloody body sprawled half out of the cockpit.

  ‘Do you think you can get it started?’ asked Flynn, sucking wind. The pilot swung round, obviously startled as his hand snatched at the revolver slung from his hip like some sort of Old West gunfighter. ‘Hey, whoa there, we’re on your side,’ gabbled Flynn, holding his hands up high. ‘Look, Jerry will be here in a minute, so do you think you can get this bloody thing started or are we gonna be feasting on sauerkraut tonight?’ The pilot’s eyes narrowed, his pinched young face pale and drawn, his leather trench-coat and face stained with oil. He hesitated, unsure what to make of the two filthy soldiers who seemed to have come from nowhere. The pistol slipped back into its holster. ‘Will it take the three of us?’ asked Flynn. The pilot was looking over Flynn’s shoulder at something in the distance. They looked. It was the Gefreiter staggering down the field, rifle at the trail. On the other side of the field the Germans were closer. It was a toss-up who would kill them first.

  ‘Well … er … the FE2 is a temperamental old kite,’ he said in a mild Kentish accent that made him sound more NCO than officer. ‘I may just be able to get it started. Now, help me get the blasted crate into wind.’

  The Germans were closer.

  ‘C’mon, Séamus,’ called Flynn. ‘Jump to it!’

  ‘They’re almost on top of us!’ shrieked Fitzpatrick, pointing wide-eyed at the approaching Germans. Then Flynn noticed the Lewis gun hanging from its pintle mount at the front of the aircraft’s nacelle.

  ‘Séamus, get your arse up there and keep the bastards’ heads down,’ he ordered. ‘We’ll crack on down here.’ Almost reluctantly, the American tore his eyes from the field-grey figures looming closer and scrambled up the side of the aircraft. He eased past the limp gunner, squeezing into the cockpit and cocking the machine gun. Unleashing a ragged burst, he scattered the Germans as they dove for cover. The noise thundered through Flynn’s skull, making his ears ring. Fitzpatrick swung around, aiming at the Gefreiter, and fired again, a short staccato spray of bullets that sent him scurrying for cover too. Over the noise Flynn heard the crack of passing rounds as the Germans began to fire back, making his head swim in a cocktail of fear and excitement. It would all be over soon.

  ‘Look,’ shouted the pilot over the din, ‘I’m going to get back in and when I do this,’ he held up his fist, thumbs up, ‘I want you to heave the bloody prop as hard as you can, understand? If the bloody thing starts then get back round here and get in PDQ. I don’t think we’re going to get a second shot at this. The old girl wasn’t designed to take four so we’re going to have to ditch everything to get off the ground.’ More bullets zipped by, closer still. Flynn could feel them plucking at his clothes as they passed. The pilot gave the signal. Flynn heaved on the propeller, using every ounce of heart, soul and muscle he could muster. It turned. Acrid smoke belched in his face as the engine coughed, then spluttered, then banged, then whined, then died. The enemy were less than a hundred yards off.

  ‘Shit!’ cursed the pilot. Fitzpatrick let off a long, rattling burst that tore up flailing clods of earth. ‘Do it again!’ he shouted. ‘Do it again NOW!’ Flynn tried again, flinching as a bullet tore a jagged splinter from the propeller blade that barely missed tearing his cheek. The engine backfired, belched out more acrid smoke, then erupted into deafening life. He ducked out of the way, weaving around the machine just as it lurched forward, and for one heart-stopping moment he thought he would be left behind. More bullets zipped by. He grabbed a strut, hauling himself off the ground.

  ‘Ditch the bloody gun!’ he shouted at Fitzpatrick as he hooked his elbows over the edge of the front cockpit, one foot in the metal stirrup below. It would be a tight squeeze.

  ‘Tell me you’re kidding,’ snapped Fitzpatrick as the aircraft lurched across the rutted field.

  ‘Do I look like I’m bloody kidding?’ replied Flynn angrily, clinging desperately to the side of the plane. The noise was deafening, coursing through Flynn’s body. Fitzpatrick let off one last long burst, then unhitched the Lewis, reluctantly tossing it over the side, then he ditched the magazines. Flynn’s foot slipped as the plane bounced before thudding back to earth and for a fraction of a second he could see himself being thrown through the churning airscrew to be shredded and scattered like so much bloody chaff. His fingers ached, losing purchase. He could feel panic taking grip. Then he felt Fitzpatrick’s hands on him, reeling him in until he squirmed awkwardly, head first, into the cockpit. It was only when he’d managed to wriggle past the inert observer that he realized they were airborne – just. Below, Germans were sprinting forwa
rd, muzzle flashes silently twinkling beneath the roar of the engines, then he noticed a filth-coated figure on the edge of a ditch brandishing his fist like a pantomime villain. It was the Gefreiter.

  The engine flared, changing pitch as the FE2 lurched upward, its engine belching more dark smoke and flame. Flynn tried his best to ignore the fist-sized holes appearing in the wing as they skimmed the treetops. He’d never flown before and as the plane groped skywards he was overwhelmed by the living diorama unfolding beneath him. He’d never felt so alive. Then the observer groaned. He was alive. They were all alive and as the spluttering flying machine struggled across no-man’s-land, Flynn began to let himself believe that they would make it.

  CHAPTER 19

  Dublin Bay, Ireland

  Mary leant against the ferry’s guard rail, the wind ruffling her hair as she watched the screeching gulls circle above the foam-capped expanse of Dublin Bay. It was choppy and the swell of the deck beneath her feet felt almost reassuring as the land of her birth drew nearer. She could see fishing boats and pleasure boats tugging listlessly at their moorings as if eager to be at sea. She could see Dublin, a dark, smoky smear in the distance as the ferry eased its way into Kingstown harbour. Excitement balled in the pit of her stomach as she began to make out buildings and people. She felt like a thoroughbred champing at the bit at the Fairyhouse races. eager to be ashore, eager to be home. There was a saying: may you die in Ireland. She’d always thought it a stupid thing to say until now; after eighteen months in London she was determined never to leave her homeland again.

  The briny air was making her hungry. Her stomach grumbled but eating would have to wait. She had things to do.

  ‘It’s time,’ said a Scouse accent behind her. She turned around. He was stocky, his face lived-in and weather-beaten; one of those faces that told of a lifetime of privation and travel. She had never met him before. They had never spoken but she knew he would come. They’d told her he would. They said to keep an eye out for a man with a blurred harp tattoo on his arm. He would make contact before they landed. She guessed he was one of the crew. She’d seen him on deck but had paid him no mind during the crossing. The smell of cheap tobacco and cooking oil hung around him like bad aftershave.

  ‘Just do what the fella tells you and you’ll do fine,’ the Golden Harp’s barman, Charlie O’Connell, had told her back in London. To be honest, the first time she’d met Charlie, when Rory had left her at the pub, she’d been terrified of the hulking Irishman but he was a gentle giant, a pussy cat really, and she had no reason to doubt him. After all, he’d taken her in in her hour of need; letting her stay in his family’s tiny, red-brick terrace just around the corner from the pub.

  ‘Well, we’ve got to look after our own, don’t we?’ said Charlie’s wife, Maude, making Mary welcome. She sounded English to Mary but she was Irish enough to her own satisfaction: the great-granddaughter of a Wexford man. She had a temper too, especially after a gin or two, that kept Charlie on his guard – but they loved each other. That much was obvious. That they were both dedicated revolutionaries was less so.

  She didn’t bother going back to the arsenal. What was the point? The way Maude told it, it didn’t seem right making shells for the British, especially as some of those shells had been fired on Dublin back at Easter. At least she was getting her colour back now that she wasn’t handling dangerous chemicals all the time. She began helping out, making tea and the like for the men who met in the Golden Harp’s back room, shrouded in smoke and hushed talk of next time. She guessed they were Fenians and if her mother wouldn’t have approved she didn’t care. All the war had done for her family was cripple her older brother and send two others off to God knows what. The sooner it was over the better. Then at least they would come home.

  ‘Then we’ll make the English listen and be a nation once again,’ said Maude at the end of one of her many impromptu lectures about Irish freedom. Charlie had just gone to work and she was fussing about her kitchen when she added, ‘There are some people I’d like you to meet.’ She handed Mary her coat and led her to a crumbling old Catholic church a few streets away. There was moss on the stained, cobwebbed windows. They crunched down the gravel path past an imposing granite angel staring sternly down on them as they made their way to the parochial house next door.

  Maude knocked. a staccato tattoo, and the door opened a crack. They were ushered in by a grey-haired priest whose voice sounded fresh off the boat from Belfast despite years in London. He led them to a back room. The curtains were closed, blotting out the sunlight, and through the gloom Mary could make out the shape of a woman sipping tea in the shadows. Mary sensed the woman’s eyes on her.

  ‘Is this her?’ asked the woman, her voice soft and very Irish. Maude nodded. ‘Mrs O’Connell says that you would be a valuable recruit.’

  ‘They don’t take women in the army,’ said Mary, looking puzzled.

  ‘Ah, now that would depend on whose army, now,’ replied the woman.

  ‘She means a recruit for the organization, for Cumann na mBan,’ interrupted Maude.

  ‘Cooman nah what?’ asked Mary, guessing the words were Irish. She didn’t speak Irish; hardly anyone did any more except to prove a point.

  ‘Cumann na mBan,’ repeated the woman. ‘It means the Irish Woman’s Council. We do our bit to help our boys in the Volunteers. Mrs O’Connell here says you’re just the sort of girl we’re looking for. You’ve not been in trouble with the peelers, have you, Miss … er … Gallagher?’ asked the woman. Shaking her head, Mary wasn’t sure where this was going but she could see the woman smile, her teeth a splash of white in the darkness. ‘Well, that’s just grand! What we need now is people the peelers don’t know, especially after last Easter. Most of the boys are banged up or on the run so it’s vital we tread carefully, make sure that next time we’re ready. We could do with some fresh blood.’ Mary was uneasy with the phrase ‘fresh blood’ but she didn’t comment.

  ‘And what is it you want me to do?’ Mary asked cautiously.

  ‘Oh, this and that,’ replied the woman rather evasively and that was how she found herself on the Liverpool–Kingstown ferry doing this and that for the cause.

  ‘Well, are you coming?’ asked the Scouser, indicating that she should follow him below deck. He led her down a white-painted passageway to a store. It smelt of food and stale sweat. ‘Stay here,’ he ordered before disappearing inside, leaving her loitering conspicuously outside. A few moments later he emerged clutching a package in his hands. He handed it to her. It was heavy. She’d been told not to ask questions. ‘Hide it in your suitcase. The bizzies don’t stop women,’ he added confidently. She wasn’t so sure. ‘Take this,’ he produced an envelope ‘and stuff it in your knickers. They really won’t search there.’ Her cheeks coloured. ‘Now clear off and don’t draw attention to yourself. Understand?’ Then he was gone.

  She stowed the package in the bottom of her bag and went back on deck. Kingstown, or Dunleary, as Maude and Charlie insisted on calling it, was much closer now. They would be ashore soon. She could see people on the quayside; eagerly awaiting loved ones, no doubt. Her parents wouldn’t be there. They didn’t know she was coming. Maude had told her it was better no one knew. Even the ticket had been bought at the last minute. She hadn’t heard from Flynn either. He hadn’t answered her last letter. As she stepped ashore she didn’t know whether it was the crossing or her nerves that made her legs wobbly. There were men in the crowd in smart suits, hats pulled low as they watched the throng. She’d been warned that there’d be G-Men waiting, looking for ‘players’ – known Republicans – but Maude had assured her she was a ‘cleanskin’ – an unknown. No one would stop her. She hoped they were right. A man stepped into her path. Her heart skipped a beat. Maude had been wrong!

  ‘Do you have it?’ he asked, sparing a quick glance round. She stared at him blankly, knees weakening. He was tall, dark-haired, about thirty, handsome after a fashion and way too scruffily dressed to be a plain-clothes
man. ‘Don’t just stand there gawping. Do you have it?’ he repeated just as a scuffle broke out on the ferry’s deck. It was the Scouser. He was fighting with one of the suits. Whistles shrilled and she could see blue uniformed constables barging their way through the crowd to help the detective. She nodded. ‘That’s grand! Now, come with me,’ he added, throwing his arms around her in a warm embrace. His face was close, hovering inches from hers, and for a moment she half-expected him to kiss her. Then, as he relieved her of her suitcase, she realized that she wouldn’t have minded if he had. ‘Subtle, aren’t they?’ he said, nodding his head in the direction of a man in chalk-stripe and a bowler who was all too obviously pretending to read his newspaper. Outside the terminal, the street was teeming. Cabbies and porters vied for trade whilst here and there soldiers stood guard, bayonets gleaming wickedly in the sun. It felt strange to think that two of her brothers were wearing exactly the same uniform: the uniform of the enemy.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked but the man ignored her, leading her calmly by the hand across the street, using the distraction of the Scouser being dragged into a waiting Black Maria to cover their retreat. She felt like running but he simply strolled along as if he hadn’t a care in the world: just a man meeting his sweetheart off the boat. She squeezed his hand; it felt warm and safe. Without looking, he squeezed back. She didn’t even know his name. That wasn’t unusual: since doing this and that she’d met plenty who’d not given their names. Maude said it was safer that way; for her and them.