The Lambs

by Peter James Cottrell

  He’d been shelled before, they all had, but not like this. Nothing could have prepared him for the anguished keening steel rending the air as if all the tormented souls in the underworld had been unleashed from the homicidal abyss opening its maw outside. Spud whimpered, cowering beneath a flea-bitten old bunk in the corner of the foetid, muggy dugout, unable to make sense of it. All around him scruffy, careworn NCOs slumped together behind a nicotine smokescreen, listening just a little too intently to Murphy’s warbling.

  ‘Bloody long-range snipers are dropping short again,’ muttered Devlin as the dugout trembled beneath an ill-aimed British shell. Several men coughed, clearing their lungs of the dust cascading from the rafters like dandruff. Flynn shrugged, filling his lungs with Woodbine smoke. Popular wisdom had it that chain-smoking neutralized the effects of gas, so ever since Hulluch Flynn smoked far too much. Ever since Gallagher’s death he drank too much. He wasn’t alone. There was a nip of rum in the air over the fug of tobacco. He fiddled with the hessian-covered tin hat he’d been issued. None of them wore them, not in the dugout. There was no point: if the roof came in a steel helmet wouldn’t help. The ground shuddered again, the shock wave rumbling up through the soles of his hobnail boots.

  It wasn’t that Flynn wasn’t scared; only a fool or a lunatic didn’t feel fear. It was just he couldn’t be bothered, it was too much effort, and wasting effort was pointless. Everything he valued was gone. It was as if he had nothing left to lose and if Gallagher’s death had set him on the path to that realization, Mary’s letter had been the epiphany. It had sealed the deal. It made no difference whether you were good or bad, cruel or kind. Death didn’t care and if it sought you out there was nothing you could do about it, absolutely nothing. The sad truth was that shit happened; that was that. Nothing more, nothing less, and the sooner you accepted it the better.

  He sat back, staring down at his helmet, feeling detached, light-headed even, as the rumble of the guns reduced Murphy’s voice to an annoying buzz in the background. It all felt like it was happening to someone else, as if he was some sort of voyeur vicariously eavesdropping on someone else’s nightmare. Unthinking, his hand delved into his pocket, grazing the edge of the envelope. It had been an unexpected letter and his skin tingled as his finger probed inside. It was from Louise Dempsey, crafted in neat copperplate that made Mary’s looping scrawl look childishly illiterate. He still found it hard to think of her as Dempsey, his mind defaulting to Cronin. But Cronin was gone, like Doyle, like the Duke, like Gallagher, consigned to oblivion. Instead there was Louise Dempsey, the general’s daughter, and despite the shared intimacy of military life, the shared intimacy of war, she was a stranger to him. She’d written to apologize for her father’s boorish behaviour. She said she missed the battalion but Flynn wasn’t sure she’d recognize it any more – so many had died. She said she was a nurse now, volunteering as soon as her leg had healed, and was back in France. She didn’t say where – the censor’s pencil would have put a stop to that anyway – but Flynn couldn’t help thinking she would be somewhere near the Irish Division. He didn’t know why but he kept the letter, neatly folded and stowed in his pocket. He’d ditch it later.

  ‘The attack will commence at four-forty-five pip-emma.’ Murphy’s words flèched through Flynn’s thoughts, making him sit up. ‘Mr Kettle will continue the briefing.’ He saluted. The RSM shouted, ‘Sit up!’ and then the temporary CO departed. Flynn wasn’t sure about Kettle. He was an unknown quantity, a johnny-come-lately, whereas Callear had been with them from the start. He liked Callear, he was a good boss. Old Hackett said Kettle drank too much. He certainly didn’t look well but Flynn refrained from judging. They all drank too much, alcohol’s amnesia sheltering them from the storm.

  ‘Bugger, we’ve got flaming ages yet,’ Flynn muttered, glancing inconspicuously at his watch. It was a good watch with luminous hands, made in Switzerland. Closing his eyes, he could still feel the adrenalin buzz through his system at the memory of taking it, making him feel for a fleeting moment so alive, when most of the time he just felt empty; like a car running on fumes. He felt no remorse about killing its previous owner. Why should he? Besides, if he hadn’t cut the watch’s previous owner’s life then right now some German somewhere would have been playing with some trinket stolen from Flynn’s blood-soaked corpse.

  ‘I do hope that I’m not boring you, Sergeant … er … Flynn?’ asked Kettle.

  Flynn opened his eyes, his face flushing pink, exaggerating the paleness of the scar tugging at the corner of his eye, feeling suddenly conscious that all eyes were on him as nervous chuckles ricocheted around the dugout. They meant no harm, his discomfort merely a momentary reprieve from the shadow of the gallows hanging ominously over them all. He shifted awkwardly, then someone farted, raising a ragged cheer, more laughter and a feeble chorus of ‘Gas! Gas! Gas!’ as well as ribald comments about needing to be ‘pulled through’, before Clee’s disapproving gaze reduced them to reverent silence. ‘Er … hem … as I was saying,’ Kettle persisted. ‘We’ve had a hard few days, I’m sure you’ll agree, but we’ve got Jerry on the back foot at last—’

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ interrupted a young soldier who stamped rigidly to attention in the doorway. It was Kettle’s servant, Private Rob Bingham, whose relatively clean uniform and Belfast accent marked him out as an outsider. He looked terrified. He held a note. Devlin reached over, relieving him of it before handing it to Kettle.

  ‘Thank you, Bingham,’ said Kettle. The boy saluted again, then darted away, leaving Kettle to skim the note, frowning intently as he read.

  ‘Is something the matter, sir?’ asked Clee.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s bad news. Captain Good is dead,’ replied Kettle, his voice almost a whisper. Flynn couldn’t hear Clee’s reply; it was drowned by the thunder of shells. He was glad he was underground, safe from the bombardment. He remembered when they passed through Guillemont he’d come across a group of Guardsmen, tall and smart, sitting with their heads lolling as if asleep where they sat in a neat little row. But they were dead, torn from life by the blast of a shell without a scratch. He would never get used to the shells. Then he had a premonition, that Kettle wouldn’t make it through the day, but he sloughed it off. It didn’t do to dwell on such things.

  ‘The RSM says the CO will be back with us soon, sir,’ Clee informed them, puffing casually on his pipe, staying calm for appearances’ sake. Sergeant majors were supposed to be calm. Kettle nodded, understanding the game.

  ‘The RSM is absolutely right, Mr Clee. With luck the CO should be back with us in a few days so until then Captain Murphy has the ship, as they say in the navy,’ Flynn had no idea why he’d brought the navy into it; the sea was miles away, ‘and I’m sure you will be pleased to hear that Captain Callear is recovering nicely. They’re sending him back to Blighty so you are going have to put up with me as your OC for the foreseeable future.’ There was a ripple of gentle laughter, which Kettle indulged, awaiting its subsidence before pressing on. ‘Major Stirke and Lieutenants Purden, Kirk and Lee are also being sent home to recover from their injuries.’

  ‘Jammy beggars,’ came a voice from the fug, whipping up a second volley of laughs. Clee looked up from his notepad, clenching his pipestem in a thin-lipped frown as he cast his eye over the gathering in an overly theatrical show of disapproval. They expected nothing less.

  Let them laugh, Kettle thought. He felt like a charlatan, an outsider. His men had already been through so much together, so much without him. People called the Royal Dublin Fusiliers ‘the Old Toughs’, but he preferred their other nickname, ‘the Lambs’. It summed up their gentle stoicism, that soldierly fatalism glinting in their hollow, prematurely aged eyes. Something squirmed inside and he struggled to stay calm, terrified that he was out of his depth, leading his lambs to the slaughter. It was a shadow clouding his mind. Only last night he’d written a poem for his young daughter; it felt like a goodbye. The army had offered him a way out: a staff job or even sick
leave. He was too well known to be left to die in the trenches – it would look bad in the papers – but he’d refused. Such an expedient would have only made him feel even more of a fraud, even more undeserving of the lieutenant’s pips sewn to his cuffs.

  ‘We shall be supporting 7th Royal Irish Rifles on the left flank of the attack,’ he continued, slapping a map on the dugout wall with his blackthorn cane. ‘Once they have secured Ginchy it will be our job to pass through their positions and take the ground on the far side. Jerry has dug in deep but Intelligence thinks we may not have to face too stiff resistance.’ There was a ripple of forced laughter as men tried just a bit too hard to grasp at something funny. ‘A Company will naturally be on the right flank. We’ll be on their left with C Company on our left. We go in on a platoon frontage.’ NCOs scribbled copious notes. They were being given much more information than was usual but then they were painfully short of officers. ‘With luck the Gun Bunnies will keep Fritz’s head down until we are right on top of them,’ more laughter; they were infantrymen sharing an infantryman’s lack of regard for the artillery, ‘securing our objectives, here, here and here, by five-twenty-five pip-emma.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it have been better to hop the bags earlier this morning, sir?’ asked Devlin, using the soldier’s expression for going over the top. Kettle smiled. It was one of those professionally reassuring smiles of a barrister turned politician. Devlin didn’t like it. He wasn’t a subtle man.

  ‘That is exactly what Jerry would have been expecting. If we’d gone over at dawn we’d have had the sun in our eyes, and besides, the lads would’ve been tired and hungry after spending all night getting ready. This way we’re fresh and,’ a salvo of shells screamed low overhead, ‘it’s Jerry who’s been up half the night in a funk over what the hell’s going on.’ Devlin nodded, satisfied with the answer. ‘Now, I’m not going to patronize you chaps. Brigade seems to think we are up against Bavarians in Ginchy.’

  ‘Aren’t they the bastards who did for yer man Doyle?’ Devlin asked Flynn quietly. Flynn nodded, keeping his eyes on Kettle, who was still speaking.

  ‘They seem to think that they won’t put up too much of a fight, not like the Hun over in Guillemont … Prussians, I think. But you know as well as I do how much the enemy likes to counter-attack, so keep your wits about you. Now, I’ve no doubt you chaps will give the Boche a bloody nose and once we’re all snug for the night the CQMS will bring up some hot scoff.’

  Mahon made a scribbled note. It would be a bugger of a job getting enough Dixies of stew across no-man’s-land in the dark but he’d make it happen somehow. They all knew he would.

  ‘Oh, and make sure that the lads get a tot of rum before kick-off,’ added Kettle, prompting a flurry of crooked grins and muffled cheers. Flynn licked his lips, anticipating the fiery communion of army rum. ‘Of course, I will go over with the lead platoon,’ added Kettle, feeling a little vainglorious as he surreptitiously ran his hand over the contours of the flask full of Jameson’s in his tunic pocket.

  ‘Which platoon will go first?’ asked Clee.

  ‘I want Sergeant Devlin’s platoon to open the ball,’ replied Kettle.

  ‘Aye, sir,’ answered Devlin emotionlessly as he ruffled Spud’s greasy, black and tan fur.

  ‘Sergeant Flynn. I want your platoon to go next. Keep forty yards back.’ Flynn nodded. There was nothing else to say or do. What would be the point anyway?

  ‘Where do you want me, sir?’ asked Clee.

  ‘The CO needs a safe pair of hands in the forward trench so I want you there to feed in reinforcements and take care of casualties,’ answered Kettle, thrusting his hands deep into his tunic pockets, massaging the hip flask like some sort of sacred talisman. Clee harrumphed quietly, obviously unimpressed with his assignment. ‘Well, gentlemen, I think that that is about it, so I would like to wish you all good luck and God bless. This is it, what we’ve all been waiting for. Today we shall write yet another glorious chapter in our country’s history. Remember, today we fight for neither king nor empire but for Ireland and our regiment’s motto – Spectemur agendo – let us be judged by our actions! All Ireland’s eyes are on us as we speak; Ireland’s and England’s too! Believe me, chaps, after today no one will be able to doubt the justice of our cause or deny us Home Rule! After today we will be a nation once again!’

  ‘No pressure, then,’ Flynn whispered, loud enough for those around him to hear, raising a muffled chorus of sniggers. Kettle paused, glancing up momentarily before dismissing them.

  The cold light stung Flynn’s eyes as he blinked his way from the dugout into the relatively fresh air of the stinking, overcrowded trench. Pendulously swollen raindrops lashed down around them, a brief distraction from the chuntering shells.

  ‘Lacrimae mundi,’ muttered Flynn, turning up his collar.

  ‘I didn’t know you could speak Irish,’ said Devlin, giving his friend a curious look.

  ‘I don’t,’ replied Flynn.

  ‘It’s Latin,’ said a disembodied voice. It was Father Doyle, the kindly, middle-aged Jesuit attached to their battalion. ‘It means “the tears of the world”. I didn’t know you were a classical scholar, Sergeant … er … Flynn?’ It was uncanny how he knew their names.

  ‘Shouldn’t ye be back at Brigade? It’s far too dangerous for ye here, Father,’ said Devlin, ignoring the priest’s attempt at conversation.

  The Jesuit spared them a warm, mildly reproving smile.

  ‘And where else should I be at a time like this than with my flock?’ he asked quietly. Devlin nodded, feeling suddenly guilty for questioning the priest’s presence. It wasn’t as if Father Doyle was a stranger to the trenches. Unlike the Anglican padres, who’d been ordered to stay away from the front line by the chaplain-general, Father Doyle made it his business to share his parishioners’ ordeals. That’s why the boys liked him. Even the divisional commander, General Hickie, had a soft spot for the man. ‘Would either of you like me to hear your confession?’ he asked. It was Flynn’s turn to look uncomfortable, deliberately avoiding the Jesuit’s gaze. He wasn’t much of a Catholic.

  ‘Maybe later, Father. Me and Sergeant Flynn here, we’ve work to do,’ said Devlin, coming to the rescue. The priest made the sign of the cross, muttering a blessing. Instinctively Devlin genuflected. Flynn didn’t, but only just.

  ‘Yes, maybe later,’ replied the priest before sloshing away.

  ‘Yer man there’s gonna get himself killed one day,’ observed Devlin with what sounded like genuine concern. He had a soft spot for the padre which Flynn put down to the taciturn Ulsterman’s northern roots; as if he was somehow compensating for growing up in Ireland’s Protestant heartland.

  ‘I didn’t know you were religious,’ said Flynn.

  ‘I’m not, but where’s the harm in covering your arse, eh? Ye don’t find many atheists in the trenches unless ye count them Prods, of course!’ Devlin replied with a wink and a lopsided grin. Then the mask dropped, the smile gone. He looked old. He held out his hand. ‘Good luck, Kevin. See you on the other side.’

  Flynn took his friend’s hand, gripping it firmly in a wordless embrace, and as their eyes met he thought he could see the fear flicking in their depths. They knew they were gazing into the abyss. There was nothing to say; nothing.

  ‘Hey, fellas, what’s happening?’ asked Fitzpatrick, breaking the spell.

  ‘Haven’t ye got anything to be getting along with instead of standing there prattling, Corporal?’ rasped Devlin, snapping the mask back into place. ‘Now, will you leave Sergeant Flynn here in peace to do his job? There’s a lot to do.’

  Devlin was right: thankfully there was much to do, which made sure that Flynn, that all of them, had no time to dwell on what was to come; to divert their attention from the deafening drumfire mauling the German lines. Men cleaned weapons; some slept. Most just stared blankly into space, chain-smoking away the time. Here and there someone scribbled a last, brief note. Flynn had no one to write to; not now. He thought abou
t writing to Dempsey but to write what? ‘Dear Louise, Just a short note to say we’re about to pop over to the German lines. Wish you were here. Regards, Kevin.’ He thought better of it. Maybe later. He tried reading but the words became meaningless squiggles on the page. He gave up. Nearby, Carolan sat petting Spud, feeding him fragments of hard-tack biscuit smeared in Marmite. He offered Flynn a piece. He took it, chewing methodically as he smoked.

  ‘Them things’ll kill you, Sarge,’ joked Carolan, puffing on his own ‘coffin nail’. Flynn ignored him, his mind churning around other things. Making it to old age was the least of his worries.

  ‘Hey, Private Keegan, can you spare a grenade?’ he asked as a teenage bomber carrying two sandbags of grenades tried to squeeze past. The lad stopped, then rummaged through one of the sacks like a child rifling his stocking on Christmas morning, before plucking out one of his precious bombs.

  ‘There you are, Sarge.’ Keegan’s voice betrayed his humble, north-side origins as he handed Flynn a grenade. ‘You be careful now, Sarge, them’s tricky little bastards if you don’t know what you’re about.’ Flynn carefully placed the bomb in his tunic pocket. It might come in handy.

  Around three o’clock Mahon arrived to dish out tablespoons of rum from brown stone jars marked SRD. Someone once told him it stood for ‘Special Reserve Depot’ but given the jar’s contents most believed it meant ‘Seldom Reaches Destination’. He liked army rum. To be honest, right now he’d’ve liked anything with a kick to it and he savoured the thick, cheek-tingling distillation as he sluiced it around his mouth. Then he noticed a group of stretcher-bearers fussing over their equipment. They would follow the attack; clear up the mess. One of them, a corporal with the ribbon of the Distinguished Conduct Medal on his tunic, looked vaguely familiar.

  ‘Good God, is that you, Rory?’ asked Flynn.

  ‘Holy Mary mother of God, if it’s not Kevin Flynn!’ Rory beamed, looking up from the haversack he was rummaging through.