The Lambs

by Peter James Cottrell

  ‘Will you be quiet, woman,’ he rebuked, smiling roguishly and winking. She couldn’t help noticing his eyes. They were clear and blue like water on a bright day. She liked his eyes. ‘They call me Sweeney, Gerard Sweeney,’ he eventually said when they were several streets clear of the terminal.

  ‘Do they now?’ she replied, unsure who they were or whether he was lying. Not that she cared. She liked him; she had no idea why. He seemed so different from Flynn, who was all books and awkward charm. This one was different. He made her feel safe. ‘Well, they call me Mary Gallagher,’ she told him.

  ‘I know,’ he replied as they entered an uninviting, garbage-strewn alleyway. Plump rats foraged amongst the filth, sparing the couple only the most cursory of glances as they waddled about their business. ‘Don’t you go worrying about the smell,’ said Sweeney as he stopped outside a shabby door set in a large, windowless wall. ‘It keeps the peelers away.’ He rapped on the flaking woodwork. There was silence. He knocked again, making what almost sounded like a little tune. The door peeped open. There was an unshaven face. Sweeney shoved the door, throwing it open.

  ‘Does she have them?’ asked the unshaven man. Sweeney held up the suitcase and the man took it, testing its weight. He seemed satisfied.

  ‘I’ve my things in there,’ said Mary, suddenly afraid that the unshaven man would disappear with her suitcase. The man rolled his eyes, plonking the suitcase on the floor before squatting down and flipping it open. She didn’t like the way he rummaged through her things but there was nothing she could do as he retrieved the package. It vanished into unseen hands.

  ‘And the rest?’ the man asked. Mary blushed; she’d done as the Scouser had said.

  ‘It’s in my underwear, like the man on the boat said,’ she replied. She didn’t like the way the unshaven man suddenly perked up, leering at her with a lascivious glint in his eye. He held out his hand. ‘What? Here?’ she asked but the man didn’t say anything, he just grinned.

  ‘Feck off, you pervert!’ snapped Sweeney, elbowing the man aside. The hallway smelt suspiciously of damp plaster and urine. ‘Now if you don’t mind you can turn around and give the lady some privacy!’ She liked the way Sweeney called her ‘the lady’. Reluctantly the man turned around. Sweeney did likewise and just as Mary began to hike up the front of her dress they heard snickers from up the stairs. Without looking Sweeney snapped, ‘And you little feckers can look away too!’ There was a groan of disappointment from the shadows and the sound of a door slamming. Mary resumed rummaging. ‘Are you done yet?’ asked Sweeney after a few moments

  ‘Er, yes, sorry,’ replied Mary and the men turned around. There was a disappointed look on the man’s face as he snatched the envelope from Mary’s hand but then he wafted it beneath his nose, breathing deeply. She shuddered.

  ‘Don’t mind him, he’s an eejit. A useful eejit but an eejit all the same,’ apologized Sweeny, leading Mary by the hand back into the alleyway. ‘Now then, Miss Gallagher, let’s get you home, shall we?’ he said. She smiled. She liked the way he called her Miss Gallagher. ‘But first I think you could do with some breakfast, on me,’ he added with a smile. ‘I know a place.’ She was ravenous. They headed towards the seafront and ate in a café where Sweeney seemed well known. An anonymous collecting tin sat on the counter and she watched him drop a few coins in it as he ordered their food: bacon, eggs, soda farls, potato bread and mugs of thick brown tea. The food was filling and she couldn’t help noticing how attentively he listened as she talked, cocking his head to one side and nodding appreciatively. When they’d finished she fiddled with her hair, conscious that his eyes were still on her. She realized she hadn’t mentioned her brothers or Flynn, especially Flynn, all the time they’d been chatting. Somehow, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the here and now. All that mattered was being with this man.

  They took a tram back into Dublin. He carried her case, walking her to the corner of her street. They were arm in arm. She couldn’t help thinking how ordinary it looked, how unchanged, yet deep down she knew that everything had changed. Nothing would be the same again.

  ‘I best be off,’ said Sweeney. He could see that she was disappointed, which pleased him. He’d enjoyed their afternoon together.

  ‘Will I see you again?’ she asked, gazing into his eyes.

  He gazed back; so unlike Flynn. He smiled. ‘Oh, I expect so, Miss Gallagher,’ he replied nonchalantly. Then they both laughed for no other reason than they could. It was good to laugh. ‘I’ll tell you what, Miss Gallagher—’

  ‘Please call me Mary,’ she interrupted.

  ‘Mary, then. Why don’t I meet you here at three o’clock tomorrow?’ She liked the idea and leant forward to kiss him. She aimed for his cheek but somehow their lips met and he kissed her back, passionately, before pulling away. ‘Three o’clock it is, then!’ He beamed. For a fleeting moment she thought of Flynn and felt a twinge of guilt but sloughed it off. Flynn was in France. Besides, Sweeney was here and now. For all she knew Flynn was probably already dead and if the war had taught her anything it was that life was for living.

  She looked around but Sweeney was gone and to her embarrassment she couldn’t help feeling that she was missing him already. The feeling soon evaporated as she pushed open the door, remembering all those long-forgotten smells of childhood as she entered the house. She could hear voices in the kitchen so she followed them. Her mother looked old, washed out like clothes put too many times through the mangle. She was holding a letter in her hands.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said, looking up.

  CHAPTER 20

  May 1916, near Hulluch, north-west France

  The FE2’s engine spluttered, banging violently as the aeroplane dropped suddenly before swooping back up. For a moment Flynn thought the pilot was showing off but the look on his grimy face showed he was fighting with the miscreant machine, locked in a life-or-death struggle over the wasteland below. It was a long drop and even the thought of it was at once exhilarating and terrifying. The plane lurched, flicking the gunner’s lolling head back in a jarring headbutt that sent white daggers lancing through Flynn’s brain. He could taste blood. There was a flat metallic bang, ominously louder than the last, followed by the oily reek of hot metal. The ground was closer, faster. Fitzpatrick had wedged himself down, squeezing his eyes shut as if not being able to see danger would make it go away. He was praying and Flynn felt an overwhelming urge to join him.

  Then Flynn noticed something dark, like an angry swarm of bees, tumbling through the trail of smoke that traced their swirling trail across the leaden skies. The swarm grew bigger so he waved at the pilot, jabbing an open palm in its direction. Then he jerked his thumb downwards, hoping that the young pilot would recognize the infantryman’s hand signal for ‘enemy’. For the briefest of moments the pilot looked confused, then he nodded, trawling up distant memories from his time in the Engineers before craning over his shoulder into the lume of the sun: fighters. His heart sank. Flynn wasn’t much of a lip-reader but even he was good enough to decode the pilot’s expletives. The plane lurched sideways, slipping downwards. Flynn felt like his stomach was being forced into his throat and as the machine swerved he caught a glimpse of bodies and a burnt-out aircraft smeared across the blackened ground below. He tried not to dwell on them.

  Mesmerized, Flynn watched one of the swarm break away, careering closer: death on the wing. He tried to look away – to close his eyes like Fitzpatrick – but he couldn’t and as the blob slowly took shape before his eyes he felt his guts turn to water. It had wings and wheels and he could even make out the bulge of the pilot’s head. Silent flashes winked from its nose, stitching jagged holes along the FE2’s wing, chipping wood and cracking struts. They lurched again as wires parted. Another swarm cascaded downwards, jumbling with the first. They were feet from the ground now. The swarms were swirling, reeling through the air, locked in combat. Another strut parted. They were at rooftop level now, the muddy ground streaking by. Flynn wonde
red what it would be like to die, to feel the ground crashing into him as the plane shattered across the ground. More importantly, he wondered if it would hurt.

  For an awful moment he thought he’d wet himself, his trousers suddenly drenched, then it dawned on him: he was soaked in petrol, its overpowering reek flooding his senses, making him light-headed as if drunk. A stray bullet had fractured the fuel tank, marinating them with petrol. Tracer rounds sped silently by. One spark and it would be over. Then they lurched lower still, below the level of the broken trees. He could see pale faces staring up from the trenches as they sped over them, the aeroplane’s wheels mere inches from the ground. There were more holes in the wings as bullets stitched through the canvas, then their pursuer broke off, chased by a smaller version of their own plane: a British DH2 fighter. Shells began to fall, splaying gouts of flame and smoke, buffeting their plane. The engine stopped. The rush of the wind filled Flynn’s ears. Fitzpatrick was still praying, eyes screwed shut, knuckles white. Flynn joined him. He felt helpless, awash on the fickle sea of fate. He could hear horses; he could hear shouting; he could hear wood splintering as the ground rose up to crumple the undercarriage. They were down, skidding wildly along, sending searing pain jolting up Flynn’s spine. Then they stopped.

  ‘Quick! Run!’ screamed the pilot as he jumped from the cockpit and sprinted away as fast as he could. Flynn tumbled to the ground, banging his head on something hard. He didn’t care. Fitzpatrick was spluttering, struggling to his feet. Then Flynn remembered the observer.

  ‘Séamus, give us a hand! Quick, before the whole bastard thing goes up!’ he shouted, grabbing the observer’s shoulders and heaving him clear, his fingers slipping on the man’s petrol-soused leather coat. The plane began to burn. They staggered clear, suddenly tired and aching now the adrenalin surge was ebbing. They lowered the unconscious observer to the ground. Flynn’s back hurt but he’d rather be in pain than on fire.

  Fitzpatrick slumped to his knees, vomiting noisily before sheepishly wiping his mouth on his sleeve and muttering ‘Sweet frickin Jeezus’ again and again. Flynn flopped down beside him, grinning inanely like a schoolboy who’d just done something inordinately stupid and got away with it. He felt like puking too but didn’t. Then they noticed Fitzpatrick’s puttees were engulfed in flickering blue flame like a Christmas pudding. He screamed.

  ‘Calm down!’ Flynn cried, wearily shoving his friend down into the steaming pool of vomit and rolling him on the grass, beating at the flames, momentarily oblivious that he too was soaked in petrol. Then the flames were out.

  The aircraft was a raging inferno, its heat tight on their skin. Flynn edged away, unwilling to take chances. Spooked horses careered here and there being chased by angry skinners across the fields beside a ruined village: a scarred pile of tortured brick. He had no idea where they were but at least from the khaki uniforms they were safely on the British side of the line. One of the ramshackle buildings had a large Red Cross banner stretched taut across its shale roof. There were men coming towards them, wearing Red Cross armbands. Two carried a stretcher and after a cursory examination by one that appeared to be a doctor, the observer was bundled onto it and spirited away. One of them hung back, a round-shouldered officer wearing a dog collar and half-moon reading glasses. He was probably about thirty but looked much older.

  ‘Son of a bitch, it just ain’t goddamn right,’ cussed Fitzpatrick, smelling of burnt vomit.

  ‘It’s all right, they’ll look after him,’ replied Flynn.

  ‘Not them! That!’ he said, pointing at the blazing aeroplane. ‘It just ain’t frickin’ right, flying like that! It just ain’t natural. If God had wanted us to fly he’d’ve given us frickin’ wings, for Chrissake! I’m telling you if I ever come across those frickin’ Wright brothers I’m gonna give them what the hell for!’

  ‘Would you rather we’d left you behind?’ Flynn spluttered, laughing as tears rolled down his sooty cheeks whilst the American floundered, fumbling for a throwaway line. He couldn’t. He was overwhelmed, flopping down in befuddled silence. ‘Thought not,’ said Flynn, watching the pilot approach.

  ‘James McCudden, 20 Squadron, Royal Flying Corps,’ he said, thrusting out his ungloved hand, grinning cheerfully. He’d shed his coat, exposing his sergeant’s stripes, and despite him being the pilot it was the observer who’d been in charge of the aircraft. McCudden was merely the wounded officer’s chauffeur. After all, officers didn’t drive. That wasn’t the army’s way. Flynn took his hand, shaking it firmly.

  ‘Kevin Flynn, 9th Battalion, Royal Dublin Fusiliers.’ He didn’t bother with ranks. ‘This is Sean Fitzpatrick, one of our colonial cousins.’ Fitzpatrick prised himself up and, wiping his filthy hands on his thighs, shook McCudden’s hand.

  ‘Well, seeing as that was definitely not one of my better landings, I’m grateful for the luck of the Irish, if you don’t mind me saying. It’s good to see that you are both in one piece,’ said McCudden.

  ‘McCudden’s a good Irish name. I’m sure you’ve enough luck of your own without us. How about the other fella?’ Flynn asked.

  ‘Christ knows, he’s shot up pretty bad and the landing must have shaken him about a bit. This was only the second time we’ve flown together. Anyway, let’s hope he’s all right, eh?’ McCudden replied. There was a faraway look in the pilot’s eyes as if he were struggling to recall something he’d forgotten. Then he relaxed, his mind drifting as he scanned the roaring pyre of his machine. ‘Shame, she was a good kite.’

  ‘Well, what now, Sergeant?’ Flynn asked.

  ‘Mac. Please call me Mac,’ McCudden corrected gently with a smile. ‘I guess we need to let someone know we’re here.’

  ‘I don’t know but I think they might already know we’re here!’ chipped in Fitzpatrick.

  ‘Not this lot, you eejit, the battalion,’ Flynn added wearily.

  ‘I may be able to help you lads there,’ said the padre. His uniform was grubby, his dog collar rimed with sweat, but compared to Flynn and the others he was spotless. Dull bronze lieutenant’s pips decorated his shoulder straps in Foot Guards fashion and Flynn noticed the Military Cross ribbon over the man’s tunic pocket. ‘You chaps must be exhausted after all this excitement,’ he added with a warm smile and welcoming, outstretched arms. ‘Let’s see if I can rustle up some scoff and a hot brew, eh?’ He produced some cigarettes but then, noticing the stink of petrol, smiled apologetically. ‘Maybe later, eh chaps?’ he added.

  ‘That’d be great, sir,’ replied McCudden. ‘I missed breakfast this morning.’ Flynn couldn’t help thinking how cool and collected the aviator seemed as they strolled towards the field hospital, considering all they had just been through. The padre led them to a single-storey outbuilding butted onto the end of the one sporting the Red Cross flag. Flynn could see telephone lines snaking down the wall and across the yard to a nearby wood. His stomach grumbled. The last thing he’d eaten was a dog biscuit smeared in Marmite but that was hours ago. Maybe McCudden was right. He needed to eat. Fitzpatrick looked hungry too, his eyes hollow with fatigue.

  The room smelt of disinfectant and cheap tobacco laced with tea but none of them seemed to care. It had chairs, the sort you hired by the hour at the seaside, and a black, pot-bellied stove cracking out heat. Fitzpatrick flopped into a deckchair, luxuriating in the stove’s glow with feline pleasure. Flynn and McCudden sat at a scarred and scrubbed table, the heat making them drowsy. The padre disappeared and moments later, or at least it seemed like moments to Flynn in his soporific state, a clean-looking soldier wearing Army Service Corps flashes appeared carrying a tray of steaming tea in chipped enamel mugs and a pile of thick bully-beef sandwiches that made their stomachs growl more fiercely.

  ‘There’s plenty more,’ said the soldier as he set down his burden on the table.

  ‘That’ll do nicely,’ said Flynn, helping himself to a mug. The tea was sweet, heavily laced with condensed milk as well as rum, and its warmth flowed easily into his fingers and toes.
Fitzpatrick burrowed into a sandwich whilst McCudden took his time, savouring his tea as he cradled the mug in his cupped hands. Flynn could feel the hot liquid through the thin sides of his mug but didn’t mind, despite the growing discomfort. It was almost as if he took some perverse pleasure from the pain. Weakness leaving the body: God’s way of letting you know you were still alive. That was how their physical training instructor, a bull of a sergeant called O’Connor, had described it during one of his many beastings during training back in Ireland. He drained the mug, scalding his mouth. He didn’t care. The padre reappeared, nursing a brown china teapot, and topped up their mugs before setting it down and pulling out a battered notebook.

  ‘We’d better get a message to your units that you are all right. They must be worried sick about you chaps,’ he said, pulling out the stub of a pencil. Somehow, Flynn didn’t think they would be worried sick. This was the Western Front: people went missing every day, thousands of them. After scribbling a few details, he disappeared once more.

  ‘So, Mac,’ said Fitzpatrick between mouthfuls of food. ‘What the heck makes you want to go up in one of those goddamn flying machines, then?’

  ‘Flying’s the future,’ replied McCudden, pushing a mop of brown hair from his eyes.

  ‘Well, it ain’t my future. Nothing’s gonna get me back in one of those frickin’ death traps,’ spluttered the American before clearing his throat with a slug of rum-laced tea.

  ‘Look, I admit your introduction to the noble art of aviation wasn’t all it could have been but just think about it, chaps: where would you be now if it wasn’t for my poor old kite, eh?’ asked McCudden with a wry smile. He was right. Without McCudden and his aeroplane they would still be prisoners of war or worse. ‘Me? I love it. Always have, ever since my brother took me for a flight over Salisbury Plain before the war. Look, why don’t you chaps pop round to my squadron? It’s just north of here, I think, and I’ll take you up for a spin.’ Fitzpatrick’s eyes widened. ‘Do a few circuits and bumps and then see how you like it without Jerry trying to knock seven bells out of you, eh?’