The Lambs

by Peter James Cottrell

  ‘Well what?’ replied Fitzpatrick.

  ‘Are you going to stand there all day?’ asked Flynn, conscious that he was still sitting on the toilet. The American braced, knocking out a mock salute before turning and swaggering away smartly towards their tents. A small shape charged from the nearest tent, yapping excitedly. It was Spud, their unofficial mascot. He noticed the word ‘Verdun’ in blotchy print. When he’d finished, he pulled up his trousers.

  ‘Cleanliness is next to godliness,’ he mumbled to himself as he scrubbed his hands as best he could in the scummy-soaped water in a galvanized trough nearby. Bugs travelled fast in the close confines of the camp and even the slightest relaxation of strict hygiene discipline would lay half of them low with what the army referred to rather innocuously as ‘D and V’: diarrhoea and vomiting.

  He’d found it amusing during training that they’d taught them how to wipe their own backsides, even brush their teeth, until it dawned on him that some of the recruits knew how to do neither. Out of the trenches life was one long, endless cycle of work and sleep punctuated by bodily functions in or out and Flynn couldn’t help thinking the rudimentary toilets that played such a part in their world were a metaphor for army life.

  June had been wet, reducing their trenches to glorified sewers that could put even the most ardent roast dinner eater off gravy for life. Trench foot cases were up as men’s feet rotted in their sodden boots. That was why he checked his boys’ feet every morning and night; by torchlight if needs be. An infantryman with rotten feet was no good to anyone. At least he didn’t have to check Gallagher’s feet any more, he thought. It never ceased to amaze him how long Gallagher had seemed to be able to eke out a pair of socks.

  ‘If they stick to the wall, it’s time to change them,’ Gallagher used to say and for a second he half-expected to see his friend’s oafish grin waiting to greet him. Instead there was Spud, sprawled on the grass making the most of newly arrived sun. Gallagher was gone, along with the Duke and a lad called Mahoney, who Flynn didn’t know. They were buried together – at least that was something – in the corner of the makeshift cemetery a few miles up the road. Jane hadn’t taken it well. There was no reason why he should but he’d felt he had to tell her. It hadn’t been easy watching the aristocratic nurse crumple before his eyes and he’d been unsure what to do. He could hardly take her out and get her drunk. That’s what squaddies did to dull the pain. Instead he’d mumbled a few awkward words and left, feeling a coward and a failure, routed by her sobs. He’d written to Gallagher’s parents too, choosing his words carefully. Captain Murphy had also written, using the usual platitudes: brave soldier, well-liked NCO. They were just words, and for the first time in his bookish life he’d realized that words just weren’t enough. Spud didn’t need words, sprawled in the sunlight watching the world go by with expressive brown eyes, not a care in the world. In a way, Flynn envied the scruffy little Yorkie. He was fed, people fussed him and he didn’t have to go into the line. What more could anyone want?

  ‘There’s plenty more fish in the sea,’ said Fitzpatrick as he eased the letter, that letter, from his hand. He hadn’t realized he was still holding it. He watched his friend walk over to the company noticeboard and pin it up with all the others. It was like it was official: the decree absolute dissolving their relationship. It didn’t make it any easier. ‘Don’t beat yourself up about it. If the dame won’t wait for you then she isn’t worth worrying about,’ declared Fitzpatrick, with all the certainty of a man who’d never had a girlfriend.

  ‘It wasn’t the waiting,’ replied Flynn. ‘It was the fact that I’m out here in the British Army, propping up the English Empire, she said.’ It was a sentiment they’d all heard before, which was ironic considering almost everyone in the battalion, even the division, was some sort of Irish nationalist. ‘She says we’re all traitors.’

  ‘Sounds like she’s been knocking about with Shinners,’ said Fitzpatrick, referring to the Irish Republican Sinn Féin party, who were agitating for a complete break from Britain and the empire. So much so that the government were convinced, wrongly as it happened, that Sinn Féin had been behind the ill-fated Easter Rising.

  ‘Knocked up by a fecking Shinner more like,’ snapped Carolan, who was worried what effect all the adverse comments back home about soldiers was having on his wife. He hated being away from her. Flynn chose to ignore him although deep down he had an awful feeling he was right. Mary had never mentioned politics before the war, not even in London, and it was obvious to anyone with eyes to see that someone else had filled her head with all the rebel claptrap she’d spouted in her last letter. To be honest, he was amazed that the censors hadn’t black-inked most of it.

  ‘Yer man’s right,’ said Devlin. ‘There are plenty of braw colleens out there and if this one won’t wait then find another. Ye’ve got to bury yer dead and move on,’ he added, churning out yet another martial cliché. They talked a lot in clichés; it made life easier, numbed the pain. They exemplified that all-important principle of war – economy of effort. You bought the farm; caught a blighty; went west; neutralized the enemy; targets fell when hit. No one actually said what they were doing: killing and dying, maiming or being maimed.

  Flynn liked economy of effort: as a principle it was a soldier’s friend and they all tried to live by it. It was a way of staying sane and as he sat listening to Devlin and the others he realized why NCOs and officers seemed to play a part, keeping everyone at arm’s length. Everyone he’d let close – well, almost everyone – was gone: Gallagher, the Duke, Doyle, even Cronin and Mary. What guarantee was there that Devlin and Fitzpatrick wouldn’t follow them down the long, long trail? Then he noticed Devlin was watching him, his dark eyes burrowing into him as if the Ulsterman knew that he was experiencing some sort of epiphany.

  ‘Sergeant Flynn?’ It was a young corporal. Flynn thought his name was Dooner. He wasn’t sure. ‘The CO wants to see you.’

  Flynn felt his heart sink. ‘Did the colonel say what he wanted?’ he said rather too testily. It had been a long day already and being summoned to the CO’s office was rarely good news. That said, it could have been worse. The RSM could have been looking for him.

  ‘Don’t know, Sarge.’ Dooner shrugged. ‘They just told me to fetch you.’ Flynn stood up, letting out a deep sigh as he buttoned up his tunic and rubbed the toecaps of his boots on the backs of his puttees. It didn’t really make much difference but it was the thought that counted. Battalion HQ was busy, a beehive of activity, and he couldn’t help noticing some red-tabbed staff officers chatting away with Major Stirke and the adjutant. Thankfully, the RSM was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘The colonel wants to see me,’ he told one of the HQ clerks, who led him down a narrow corridor to a door that said ‘Commanding Officer’ on it. The clerk knocked. The RSM opened the door and gave Flynn a withering once-over that made him think he really was in the shit.

  ‘Uniform,’ was all he said. It was enough.

  ‘Sergeant Flynn to see the colonel, sir,’ said the clerk. Flynn marched in, stamping loudly to a halt in the middle of the colonel’s spartan office. He chopped off his finest, elbow-wrenching salute before staring woodenly into the middle distance.

  ‘Please, stand at ease, Sergeant,’ said Colonel Thackeray. ‘I’m so glad you were able to join us,’ he added, as if Flynn had actually had any say in the matter. ‘The general here would like to speak with you.’

  The general! It was worse than Flynn thought. He had no idea why a general would want to speak with him. He allowed his eyes to drift. There was an immaculate figure by the window sporting major general’s rank tabs and glittering spurs. He was exquisitely tailored and although Flynn couldn’t put his finger on it, there was something vaguely familiar about the man. He assumed he’d seen him during one of their parades; after all, they were often paraded in front of visiting senior officers. The man was playing with his clipped moustache, watching Flynn like a hawk. Flynn avoided his gaze, which seemed to
amuse the general. He was a man used to power.

  ‘Thank you, Colonel, that will be all,’ said the general, dismissing the CO and RSM without so much as a glance. They closed the door. The general strolled around the room with a bandy horseman’s gait. Flynn resisted the urge to turn. He knew better, standing properly at ease, staring at some imaginary point in the distance. ‘So, you’re Flynn,’ said the general, finally coming to rest on the edge of Thackeray’s desk. He was pure Anglo-Irish ascendancy. ‘You know the colonel speaks very highly of you.’ He couldn’t think why. ‘Anyway, enough chit-chat, eh? I suppose you’re wondering why you’re here, eh, Sergeant?’ Flynn didn’t answer. ‘My daughter speaks very highly of you too,’ he added. Flynn wasn’t sure what he meant. Then he almost laughed as he realized who was talking to him. The general snorted, braying like a stallion; obviously enjoying himself. ‘You’ve probably guessed that I’m Major General Viscount Dempsey.’

  ‘How is … er … your daughter, sir?’ Flynn asked, at a loss what to call Louise Dempsey.

  ‘Please stand easy, Sergeant, relax,’ he added, but Flynn didn’t really feel like relaxing. ‘Unfortunate business, what, eh? Lady Dempsey and I were worried sick about Miss Dempsey after she disappeared. My daughter said that you took good care of her. Actually, she said that you took good care of all your chaps. Anyway, I’ve something to ask of you, Sergeant,’ he put emphasis on the word ‘sergeant’, ‘something rather delicate.’

  ‘I had no idea that Private Cronin was a woman, sir, until she was wounded!’ blurted Flynn, suddenly afraid that the general was about to accuse him of doing something improper with his daughter. ‘None of us did!’

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ replied the general. ‘If I thought you had …’ He left the sentence hanging. ‘Anyway, as I was saying, I’d rather people didn’t know that my daughter has spent the last year and a half playing at soldiers.’ Flynn couldn’t actually remember Cronin playing at soldiers. ‘We told everyone she’d gone to visit relatives in Canada. Now, seeing as my daughter speaks so highly of you, I’m willing to recommend you for a commission, so long as you keep her little jaunt to yourself.’

  Dempsey’s offer seemed to Flynn to smack of shutting the stable door after the horse had bolted but he kept his opinion to himself. Officers rarely actually wanted a soldier’s opinion, even when they asked, unless of course it reinforced their own.

  ‘Well, man? What do you say?’ asked the general, slapping Flynn hard on the arm in what he assumed the general meant to be a comradely gesture. Flynn thought there was something unsettlingly vulpine about the man.

  ‘But I don’t want to be an officer, sir,’ replied Flynn. He didn’t want the responsibility, the expense of a new uniform, the mess fees – but more importantly he didn’t want the short life expectancy that junior officers had in the trenches. It was the general’s turn to look confused. He was a professional officer. It was beyond his ken that anyone would turn down the chance of the King’s Commission and all the social kudos that came with it. More importantly, he wasn’t used to people contradicting him.

  ‘What do you want then, Sergeant?’ the general asked, suddenly suspicious of the tall NCO standing before him. Everyone wanted something, he thought, as he looked Flynn up and down. It had to be money. His sort always wanted money.

  ‘Nothing, sir,’ Flynn replied after a slight pause. The general sniffed, looking more than a little puzzled, unsure that he had heard correctly. ‘I don’t want anything. You don’t have to worry, sir: no one talks about your daughter. Not any more.’ Which was true; they rarely spoke about those who had gone. ‘And if you say she was in Canada, sir, then I’m sure she was in Canada.’

  The general looked satisfied as he picked up his expensive gold-braided cap, fiddling with it momentarily before looking back at Flynn. There was something of Cronin around the general’s eyes.

  ‘Excellent! Well, Sergeant, off you go! I doubt we shall meet again.’ Flynn hesitated. ‘Yes, Sergeant?’ The general couldn’t help thinking the sergeant was going to ask for something after all. They always did.

  ‘Please give my regards to Miss Dempsey, sir,’ Flynn said.

  ‘I don’t think that will be necessary,’ replied the general and without the need of another word Flynn knew he’d been dismissed. He saluted, about-turned and marched smartly from the office, pausing briefly to open the door.

  The RSM was in the corridor, scowling fiercely. ‘And what did the general want with you, Sergeant Flynn?’ he asked after the colonel had gone back into his office. The RSM didn’t like his NCOs talking to officers, especially senior officers, without him, just in case they aired a little too much of the battalion’s dirty laundry in public.

  ‘Nothing, sir,’ replied Flynn, emphasizing the word ‘sir’ in a way that few soldiers ever did for mere officers. The RSM leant in closer, his brows furrowing more deeply, his eyes blazing more savagely. Flynn could smell his breath: tea, tobacco and a hint of rum. He looked unconvinced and as Flynn marched away he decided it would be best to avoid him for the next couple of weeks.

  CHAPTER 22

  1 July 1916, Thiepval, the Somme

  Everything was noise, like ripping canvas punctuated by savage, ear-rending bangs.

  ‘What now?’ shouted Rory Gallagher. Screwing his eyes shut, he forced his face deeper into the chalky soil as a fusillade of machine-gun rounds zipped overhead. Private Andy McNee stared blankly, doing a passable impression of a pancake. It had been a busy day for the stretcher-bearers. The Ulster Division had made good progress, overrunning its objectives, but now they had stalled, fired on from three sides. They would have to pull back soon or risk being cut off and at this precise moment Rory was beginning to regret Special Branch not arresting him. At least a prison cell would have been infinitely safer than the shallow depression that he and McNee were hiding in.

  He had no idea why they’d sent him to the 36th Ulster Division. He’d asked for a posting to one of the Irish divisions, one of the proper Irish divisions, not one full of Ulster Prods who wouldn’t have been seen dead in the company of a Catholic Jackeen like him back home – which was ironic, really, when he thought about it, as there were plenty of dead Prods around him right now. All he could think was that the postings clerk had been English; it was the only explanation.

  ‘What’s so funny, ye taig eejit?’ growled McNee, a dour Ulster Protestant from Ahoghill in County Antrim. Rory had grown used to being called a taig, even a croppie, by those who preferred their sectarianism more traditional. The division had been built around the loyalist Ulster Volunteer Force and whilst he certainly wasn’t the only Catholic in the division, there was no doubt that it was overwhelmingly Protestant, overwhelmingly Presbyterian and definitely much too Orange for Rory’s tastes. Usually they rubbed along, shoulder to shoulder, giving as good as they got, but when they were away from the front line, alcohol usually resulted in violence between the two Irish tribes.

  The ground shook as a flurry of shells sent shards of hot steel zinging by, joined by renewed bursts of machine-gun fire. An almighty clang set Rory’s ears ringing as his head was snatched backwards, the chinstrap of his ill-fitting helmet biting into his throat. His hands were already raw and shoulders stiff from heaving stretchers but that was nothing compared to the searing pain that shot down his neck into the base of his spine, sending his vision into a kaleidoscope of black and white stars.

  ‘They got me!’ he shrieked, his head flopping forward. He lay still. McNee slithered closer.

  ‘Eejit!’ snapped McNee. ‘They’ve dented your tin hat, that’s all.’ Rory reached up, cautiously running his hand over the battered steel. The dent felt huge but was probably no bigger than his thumb. The helmets, like oversized soup bowls, were a new idea. They all wore them now. If he hadn’t, he’d be wearing his brains down the back of his tunic. He couldn’t help grinning. It was stupid, really, but it was the only thing he could think of to disguise the queasiness churning his gut.

 
‘We can’t stay here,’ he said.

  ‘Really?’ replied McNee, who was huffing like an old shunting engine. Foolishly, Rory raised his head, attracting a fresh salvo of gunfire that kicked up dirt around them. He shuffled sideways, away from where he’d last been seen, and poked his head up once more. There were bodies everywhere and through the swaying grass he thought he could make out what he assumed was the German position: a fortified redoubt on a piece of rising ground some 300 yards off. He could be wrong – after all, he was a Medical Corps private, and no one told him anything. Shells were still falling, almost randomly it seemed, and he couldn’t tell whose they were. Not that it mattered. Dead was dead no matter where the shells had been made. He could see men moving in a depression about a hundred yards away. They looked wounded, cowering from the machine gun behind a berm of flayed chalk. The machine gun shifted its fire to probe the edge of a shattered wood, seeking out Ulstermen hiding behind splintered trunks.

  ‘Do you have any water?’ asked Rory. He was parched, his lips dry, feeling as if every drop of moisture had been sucked from his body.

  ‘The water’s for the wounded,’ said McNee.

  ‘So it is,’ said Rory. ‘Now give me what you’ve got.’ Reluctantly, McNee handed over the three water bottles he was carrying. They were full; heavy. Rory slung them around his neck, then crawled over to another stretcher-bearer who sprawled dead nearby and relieved him of his canteens. McNee didn’t really approve of his partner genuflecting but in the circumstances he let it pass as Rory heaved himself onto his knees.

  ‘Cover me!’ barked Rory as he leapt to his feet and sprinted towards the berm, no longer feeling guilty about visiting that brothel back in Albert. He’d never have dared back home, his mother would have killed him if she’d found out, but here was different. At least he wouldn’t die a virgin, which was something!

  ‘What with, a bloody stretcher?’ shouted McNee in confusion but Rory had already gone. Except for their gas masks, haversacks full of bandages and spare water, they were completely unarmed.