The Lambs

by Peter James Cottrell

  ‘Hail Mary, full of grace …’ Rory murmured. He kept low, as low as his tumbling gait would allow without overbalancing, sidestepping randomly. He expected to die; after all, movement attracted attention. That’s what people saw from the corner of their eyes and right now he was about as conspicuous as a turd in the middle of a dining-room table. Bullets tore at the ground at his feet. ‘Pray for me now and at the hour of my death …’ he said as shell-bursts showered him in dirt. It was a miracle they missed. As he reached the berm, something thudded into his back. He fell. Rolling over, he half expected to see his own ribcage protruding from his chest but instead it was McNee.

  ‘Well, I couldn’t let an eejit taig take all the glory, now could I?’ said McNee as he started rummaging through his medical bag. Nearby lay an officer with a severe head wound. Next to him were two ashen-faced privates who stared expectantly at the new arrivals. One clasped his wrist, slick with blood as he held up his shattered hand, staring at it as if he couldn’t quite work out how he’d lost so many fingers. The other lay on his side, his left arm hanging limply at his side.

  ‘We need to get this one to a doctor,’ said Rory, examining the arm. It was a clean wound. He would live; if they got out, that is. Then he cursed. ‘We’ll have to carry him!’ The man’s legs were riddled with shrapnel. Another salvo of machine-gun fire streaked overhead, making him duck.

  ‘What now, big fella?’ McNee asked, liberally scattering iodine powder over the officer’s head and bandaging it.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Rory replied. He hadn’t really thought that far ahead when he’d made his dash. He gazed back at the stretch of exposed ground they’d just crossed and realized he was more than a little annoyed that McNee had followed him. There was no need for the two of them to die. ‘We carry them back, I guess,’ he finally said. McNee nodded. Crack! Crack! Crack! Another burst flew overhead. ‘Mind you, if we want to get back there, we really shouldn’t be starting from here,’ he added with a juvenile grin. McNee frowned, the sort of frown he reserved for people who talked in chapel, wondering what he’d done to be stuck in the middle of no-man’s-land with a Jackeen eejit for company. There was movement on the edge of the wood and for a moment he thought the Germans had flanked them but the soup-plate helmets told him they were friendlies. The machine gunner saw them too, shifting his aim. Rory heaved the officer over his shoulders in a fireman’s lift. ‘I might just be able to make it to that shell hole,’ he said, indicating a crater about thirty yards away. ‘Stay here. Keep an eye on these fellas. I’ll be back.’

  The men in the wood were firing. Rory could see their muzzle flashes. He staggered forward, eyes firmly on the shell hole as he blotted everything else out. The officer groaned, writhing awkwardly as Rory staggered under his weight. He was a heavy bugger but the adrenalin had kicked in, speeding his steps. Then they were there; in the crater; alive. Oily slime lapped at his knees as he arranged the unconscious officer beneath its lip. His lungs were on fire as he gasped for breath and his helmet, pressing down on his skull, was giving him a headache. The machine gun was still preoccupied so he took his chance. Seizing the officer by the lapels, he dragged him back into the open and down into a second crater twenty feet further on. Then he took a look. Shells were still falling. He ducked down, at a loss what to do.

  ‘Hey, over here!’ shouted someone in pure East Belfast. Screwing up his courage, Rory poked his head up once more, looking for the voice. He saw soup-plate helmets less than twenty yards off. They had a Vickers machine gun. ‘We’ll cover ye!’ shouted the voice again. He saw a thin face, ludicrous beneath an oversized helmet, sporting a droopy walrus moustache. He was waving, beckoning Rory over. ‘Just give us a sec to get this thing set up!’ he shouted. Rory nodded, then watched the men fumble with the machine gun until the man stuck a thumb up. ‘Right‑o, sonny, after three! One! Two! Three!’ The Vickers spewed into life, sending tracer rounds arcing in the direction of the German machine-gun nest. The men in the wood joined in and the Germans’ fire slackened. Grabbing the officer, Rory was up, staggering to safety. By the time he reached the Vickers he was drenched in sweat, muscles quaking. He felt sick. Then he vomited, thanking God he hadn’t wet himself instead. He was in an old communication trench. There were others there, bayonets wavering like barley in the wind. The Vickers let off another long burst that set his ears ringing. He noticed the gunner’s tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in childlike concentration.

  ‘Well, now, that’ll turn their bloody gas down!’ crowed the man with the huge moustache. He was a sergeant, obviously the gun commander. Several men cheered then, anxious-eyed, scrambled over the top, vanishing into the howling maw of battle. ‘Ye done good, sonny,’ added the sergeant, slapping Rory on the shoulder. ‘Now let’s get yer man here to the doctor, shall we?’ He tasked off two riflemen to take the officer to the rear before handing Rory a water bottle. He took a long swig, regretting it instantly as fiery liquid seared his throat. It tasted like paint stripper; or what he assumed paint stripper tasted like.

  ‘Jaysus, Mary and Joseph, what the feck was that?’ spluttered Rory, handing back the canteen to the sergeant, who seemed momentarily taken aback by both his Dublin accent and distinctly Catholic outburst.

  ‘Sure now, ye’re jammy wee taig,’ he said. ‘I thought ye’d cop it.’

  ‘You and me both, then,’ replied Rory with a weary smile, choosing to ignore the sergeant’s sectarian jibe. After all, the man probably hadn’t even given it a thought. It was a reflex action, like swearing was to most of them. ‘My mucker’s still out there,’ he added. Whatever the sergeant had given him had revived his spirits slightly but he still felt very, very tired as he leant against the trench’s side. ‘Can you give me covering fire whilst I go get him? He’s some wounded fellas with him.’

  The sergeant nodded and as the Vickers laid down a blanket of fire, he hauled himself out of the trench once more, feeling awfully exposed. Then he ran, noise thundering through his skull, overwhelming his senses, as he kept low, zigzagging back the way he came. Something snatched at his sleeve, sending him tumbling. He patted his arm, searching for the tell-tale slickness of a wound, but there was nothing save a jagged tear in the cloth. Then he was up again, running, careering headlong into McNee’s position. He’d made it.

  ‘You didn’t think I’d leave you, did you?’ gasped Rory, panting for breath. He could see McNee was afraid, close to breaking, looking like a sheep in the abattoir yard. Taking a deep breath he said, ‘I don’t know about you, big fella, but I think it’d be a good idea if we got out of here.’ Unsurprisingly, McNee and the others didn’t look keen to abandon the relative safety of the berm. ‘Sure, it sounds worse than it is. It’s not so bad once you’re out there,’ he lied, amazed at how easily the words had come. It was obvious that it was what McNee and the others wanted to hear. Rory grinned. They were buying it: another little miracle. ‘Now, give us a hand,’ he said, checking over one of the casualties’ bandages. Then the Vickers opened up again just as the four of them made their dash. ‘There now, that wasn’t so bad!’ panted Rory when they reached the first crater. McNee didn’t look convinced. Neither did the man with the shattered forearm, whilst the one who had lost his fingers just rocked back and forth, keening gently as he stared into space, eyes shining brightly against his milk-white face. ‘Not much further.’

  They were all running on empty. He knew he had to keep them moving. He seized the fingerless man’s webbing and ran, pulling him behind him. He didn’t look back, praying that McNee had followed. Then they were down in another shell hole, panting for breath. More shells fell, masking them from German fire. Seeing his chance Rory was up again and running, dragging the wounded man behind him. One went down, wrenching Rory’s arm. He cursed. More bullets zipped by. A surge of relief washed over him as he realized the man had only stumbled.

  ‘Let’s go!’ he shouted, seeing McNee hard on his heels with his own man. The Vickers was covering them as stray rounds grope
d at their feet, making the wounded man do a panic-stricken jig. Then they ran. It was the longest thirty yards of Rory’s life and his feet felt like they were made of lead, too large and cumbersome for his legs.

  ‘Ye really are a jammy wee taig,’ said the sergeant, who seemed genuinely pleased to see that Rory had made it back.

  ‘Aye, Gallagher here’s a good man, Sarge,’ replied McNee, unsure whether he liked anyone but him calling Rory a taig. Unfazed, the sergeant handed Rory his water bottle. Rory gratefully took a long pull on the fiery liquid before passing it to McNee. He sniffed it suspiciously, declining to drink. McNee wasn’t much of a drinker – not exactly tee-total but he declined his rum ration on the rare occasions they were given one. He’d seen too many good men ruined by drink. The two casualties were less circumspect, gulping down the spirits, much to the sergeant’s chagrin.

  ‘There’s an aid post about a hundred yards down that way,’ said the sergeant to the two walking wounded, prising loose his precious canteen from one of their hands. They stumbled away, looking more than a little relieved to be out of the fight. Then the sergeant turned to Rory. ‘Well, sonny, I reckon you deserve a flaming medal for all that,’ he said, extracting a notebook from his tunic pocket along with a stubby pencil. He licked the end, preparing to write.

  There was an almighty flash.

  When Rory opened his eyes, he was on his back. His ears were ringing, the noise flooding his senses. He was soaked. He sat up. The sergeant was gone. So was the Vickers team. He looked round. All that remained was a steaming hole where they once had been, littered with twisted metal and sodden lumps. He stood up, his legs wobbly. Someone groaned. It was McNee, sitting nearby, cradling his head in his hands, his face masked by his helmet brim. He went over to him.

  ‘Let’s get out of here!’ shouted Rory.

  ‘There’s no need to shout, ye eejit!’ McNee shouted back, obviously temporarily deafened as well. His hands were red. Rory knelt down beside his friend. McNee’s face, or what was left of his face, was soaked in blood, a tattered mass of flesh exposing bone. His eyes and nose were gone and Rory felt a bitter taste rise in his mouth as he bit back the urge to puke. He struggled to stay calm, to sound calm.

  ‘Ach, it’s not so bad,’ he lied as he wrapped a field dressing around McNee’s face, then he took his blinded friend gently by the hand, helping him to his feet. ‘C’mon, Andy, let’s get you home.’

  CHAPTER 23

  Wicklow Mountains, Ireland

  Mary couldn’t quite put her finger on it but Dublin had changed somehow since she’d left. It wasn’t the damage to Sackville Street, although that was bad enough; it was subtler than that. It just felt different: sadder somehow.

  She knew Sweeney had been involved in the Rising – he didn’t really say how but whenever they strolled past Dublin’s Liberty Hall he seemed to look at it like an old friend. In fact, he was a bit of an enigma; cagey about his past. She rarely saw him excited, except when he started talking about someone called Marx – she’d never heard of him – but she happily sat and listened to him going on about a time when everyone would be equal, when war would be abolished. That sounded good to her.

  ‘It’s his sort that keeps the Magdalene Laundries and the gallows in business,’ her father had said after meeting him, which she thought a little unfair. It was obvious they preferred Flynn but she didn’t care. Flynn was the past; men like Sweeney were the future and the war had taught her that that’s all that mattered. She didn’t tell them about Cumann Na mBan: she knew they wouldn’t approve. They’d only blame Sweeney for leading her astray. Anyway, she liked Sweeney leading her astray. She knew her parents really wouldn’t have approved of that! She knew he would ask her to marry him; he just hadn’t got round to it yet.

  ‘Will you come away from the window,’ she said from the comfort of the bed. ‘People might talk!’

  ‘Isn’t that the curse of Ireland?’ he replied somewhat bitterly. ‘That people talk.’ He was naked, sipping tea as he leant from the croft’s window, gazing at the lush green hills peeping over the surrounding treetops, oblivious of his nakedness. She’d never known anyone quite like him; someone devoid of all that Catholic guilt and angst, someone so at ease with himself. ‘Will you stop your fretting,’ he said, turning and smiling. ‘We’re in the middle of nowhere.’ Of course he was right: there was no one for miles. He seemed to like it that way.

  Mary smiled back, still half-asleep, snuggled beneath the blankets. The remnants of a turf fire smouldered in the grate, filling the croft with a homely, earthy smell. It was Sweeney’s home, or at least he said it was, tucked away in the Wicklow Mountains; where they had come when they left Dublin, when she had left home, sick of the frosty atmosphere and endless fights. It was spartan, its uneven walls daubed with whitewash, accentuating the dusty shafts of sunlight thrusting across its one room. She’d baked some bread; it lay hacked and discarded next to some empty stout bottles and a jar of blackberry jam. A Webley revolver lay nearby along with a box of cartridges. Sweeney never left home without it. Sometimes she went with him. He said they were less likely to be stopped that way. There was a car in the yard, a black two-seater Riley 10. She didn’t know where Sweeney had got it from; she didn’t ask nor did she care because it had brought them to this island of calm after the hubbub of Dublin and that’s all that mattered.

  ‘Isn’t it too early to be up and about?’ she said, patting the bed. ‘Come back to bed, you’ll catch your death like that.’ She stretched languidly, letting the blankets fall away to expose her naked breasts.

  ‘You’re shameless, utterly shameless,’ he said, shaking his head in mock disapproval as he crossed the room. His bright blue eyes twinkled mischievously as he ran them over Mary’s exposed contours. She looked healthier than when they’d met, no doubt because she didn’t play with explosives any more. ‘What would people think if they could see you now?’

  She blushed slightly, making him grin all the more. She liked his grin; she’d liked it ever since they’d met that day at Kingstown. She didn’t know why; she just did. ‘Well, from the look of you it’s easy to tell what’s on your mind! Is it all you think of?’ she replied, unable to take her eyes off his groin.

  ‘I’ve not heard you complaining,’ he quipped.

  ‘My parents said you were trouble. Called you a Fenian corner boy.’

  ‘I’m shocked,’ he quipped mockingly. ‘I’ve never been a Fenian though I’ve been called worse!’ She didn’t doubt it as he pulled back the blankets, fully exposing her nakedness to the light of day. She stretched, accentuating her curves.

  ‘Your parents aren’t fans?’ She didn’t contradict him. ‘So whatever we do won’t change their opinion of me.’ He was right. ‘Anyway, it’s not what they think of me that counts,’ he added, leaning over her. Her skin tingled with excitement. He was exciting. He was a good listener too. She liked that. He asked her what she thought. She liked that too. Her parents never asked her what she thought; it was as if London had never happened, as if she wasn’t supposed to have an opinion. Even when the news had arrived saying Terry was dead. For all she knew, Rory was dead too. The papers were full of the names of poor Irish lads duped into dying for the English crown when they should have been at home, dying for Ireland if there was any dying to be done.

  She didn’t regret sleeping with Sweeney. How could she? He was kind and gentle and in his arms she felt safe. In his arms the nightmares had gone, the spectre of falling rubble and children’s screams that had stalked her dreams since that awful night when Daiken’s house had been bombed. He’d insisted on using a condom. He always did. When he’d first suggested it she said that the Church wouldn’t approve but she dropped the matter when he pointed out that condom or no, the Church definitely wouldn’t approve of what they were doing. She didn’t care. He’d given her life meaning and now she had no regrets, none, about giving herself to him. Life was for living.

  ‘What’s it like out?’ she asked, gazing u
p at him.

  ‘Can’t you see for yourself?’ he answered, beaming cheekily.

  ‘Not that! The weather, you cheeky eejit!’ she replied.

  ‘Ah now, you know what Oscar Wilde said about people who talk about the weather,’ he said.

  ‘Oscar who? Is he one of them fellas at HQ?’ she asked, looking puzzled. Sweeney was always meeting people from the local Volunteer HQ. He rarely mentioned names. He said it was better that way; safer.

  ‘You’re kidding me, right? Are you seriously telling me you don’t know who Oscar Wilde is?’ he asked in astonishment. ‘Oscar Wilde: the great Irish writer.’ Flynn would have known. He always had his nose buried in a book of some sort.

  ‘Ah well, you read too much. I was never one for books,’ she replied.

  ‘You know they say that a man who reads books lives a thousand lives, whilst a man who doesn’t only lives one,’ said Sweeney. Their faces were close now. He liked her face; it was her mind that wasn’t up to much but he didn’t mind. It wasn’t really her intellect he liked.

  ‘Well, I’ll settle for one life. Now, will you shut the window. It’s letting in the cold,’ she said, twisting to one side and swinging a pillow at his head. She was quick, but he was quicker, rolling to one side and rolling her on top of him as they entwined in a raucous tangle of laughter. ‘So what did this Wilde fella have to say, then?’ she asked. It was his turn to look puzzled. ‘You know, about people who talk about the weather.’

  ‘He said they had no imagination!’

  Mary frowned, pouting childishly.

  ‘I’ll show you who’s got no imagination, Gerard Sweeney!’ she squealed, planting a passionate kiss on his lips. Sweeney grinned, pinning Mary to the bed. Later she lay with her head on his chest, listening to the gentle beating of his heart. Then Sweeney glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece.