The Lambs

  ‘Private Joseph Carolan?’ asked the nurse as she flicked through a stack of paperwork. She looked old before her time, her blonde hair lank for need of a wash. ‘No, we don’t have a Private Carolan I’m afraid.’ She seemed more interested in the arriving ambulances than speaking to Flynn.

  ‘But he’s got to be. He would have been brought in a couple of days ago. Big fella; red hair. My sergeant major said he was here,’ replied Flynn, looking worried. They could hear guns in the distance, ominous evidence that the battle went on. There were more ambulances. She seemed eager to go. Then she placed her hand on Flynn’s, the first time a woman had touched him in ages. She met his eyes and held them, pale-grey wells of sorrow. ‘It’s all right, Sarah. I’ll take care of these gentlemen,’ said a slightly built nurse with short dark hair who had walked over to join them.

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying, you look kinda familiar, ma’am,’ said Fitzpatrick, trying desperately to place the face behind the crisp, Anglo-Irish accent.

  ‘I should fecking well think so, Séamus Fitzpatrick! Did we not go through training together?’ she replied, affecting the thickest of Dublin accents. Fitzpatrick furrowed his brow, scrutinizing the nurse’s face. Then the penny dropped along with his jaw. It was Louise Dempsey. She touched Flynn’s hand. ‘I’m glad you made it, Kevin. There’s so many didn’t. It looks like the division’s lost over two thousand—’

  ‘And for what?’ he interrupted.

  ‘To win the darned war, that’s what for,’ said Fitzpatrick, making Flynn smile at the American’s boundless optimism. He wished he shared it. He did once. Dempsey took some papers from Sarah and flicked through them, chewing the inside of her cheek. Flynn found it diverting.

  ‘Now, let’s go and see if we can find Joe, shall we?’ she said. Flynn noticed her limp, legacy of her wound, as she led them over to the main administration building, an old chateau. ‘Wait here,’ she instructed before stepping inside. She was gone for ten minutes, maybe more; it was hard to tell.

  ‘I shouldn’t have left him,’ said Flynn. ‘He begged me not to leave him.’

  ‘Hey, don’t say that,’ replied Fitzpatrick. ‘You had a job to do. Anyway, he’s here now. Surely that’s what matters.’

  ‘I guess you’re right,’ he said just as Dempsey stepped back out.

  ‘The chaps on reception say he should be over in B Ward so come on, keep up! Jildy!’ she said, leading them off towards a line of marquees in the chateau’s grounds. Someone was walking towards them and for a moment Flynn thought it was Carolan. The top of his head was swathed in a lumpy mass of crisp white bandages, exposing one eye, reminding Flynn of some mummy in a museum.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ It was Rory.

  ‘We’re trying to find one of our fellas called Joe Carolan. I don’t suppose you know him?’

  Rory shrugged.

  ‘Look, I’m glad I caught you, Kevin,’ he said. ‘This thing’s a proper blighty; they’re sending me home later today. I just wanted to say … I just wanted to say, do you mind me tagging along whilst you look for your mate?’ he asked, lapsing into awkward silence. For an awful moment Flynn had thought he was going to thank him for saving his life. He wasn’t sure how he’d cope if he did. He’d have done the same for any of them. He wished he’d been able to do so for Gallagher but it was no good wishing.

  ‘And who is this chap?’ asked Dempsey.

  ‘This is Terry’s brother Rory,’ said Fitzpatrick.

  ‘I knew your brother. He was a fine fellow,’ she replied, shaking Rory’s hand.

  ‘Who’s she?’ asked Rory as Dempsey skipped off purposefully towards the tents.

  ‘It’s a long story,’ said Flynn, watching her go, seeing her for the first time for what she was: a woman; an attractive woman, not the sliver of a rifleman he’d known in training. Ignoring the others, he ran after her, catching up and taking her hand. She squeezed it, sparing him a sidelong glance and the hint of a smile, then let his hand go for the sake of appearances. Carolan wasn’t in Ward B. In fact, no one had heard of him except a harassed-looking doctor who said if they wanted to find him they’d better go over the road. It didn’t make sense. There was nothing over the road, nothing that is except a cemetery – a field of churned earth and wooden crosses, row after row of them.

  ‘But he can’t be dead!’ spluttered Flynn. ‘They said he was here … you said he was here …’ His voice faded as something caught in his throat, stifling his words. She took his hand, regardless of appearances. ‘He’s not here, is he?’ he asked, looking at a long row of bootless bodies laid out under old blankets awaiting burial. ‘It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have left him,’ he muttered. ‘I shouldn’t have left him.’

  ‘Don’t talk rot,’ snapped Dempsey, her voice a slap in the face.

  He pulled himself together.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Fitzpatrick, pointing at something beyond a group of tired-looking pioneers digging fresh graves. It was small, a scruffy bundle of black and tan, curled up atop a newly piled mound of earth. They walked towards it. The bundle moved, watching their approach with large, sad brown eyes. Flynn’s feet felt like lead. It was Spud. Dempsey took his hand, its comforting warmth giving him the strength to move on. He had found Joe Carolan’s grave.

  By the time they got back to camp, Devlin had shown up.

  EPILOGUE

  Dublin, April 1919

  Flynn knocked back the glass, pouring the last tint of whiskey down his throat. As breakfasts went it wasn’t the best but it would help take the edge off the day, maybe even keep the memories at bay. Some hope; they waited in ambush on every street corner, ghosts of happier times. Every time he wandered past City Hall their faces flooded back. He couldn’t even go near St Stephen’s Green without remembering the day the battalion had formed. He still felt guilty about Carolan, even after all this time. He felt guilty about the others too; the men he’d been in charge of, the men he’d been responsible for. He could just about cope with that, thanks to Messrs Jameson and Bushmills, but no matter how hard he tried he still missed Gallagher, with his stupid grin and schoolboy antics. But Gallagher was gone now, never coming back, like so many others who were never coming back. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

  ‘It’s a real shame about young Gallagher, he was a good lad,’ Mr Byrne had said when Flynn had called around to see if he could get his old job back. After all, he needed a job. Everything looked the same, it just felt different. Gallagher’s chair was empty. What did he expect? Byrne had seemed surprised to see him, awkward even, as he puffed nervously on his pipe.

  ‘You said you’d hold our jobs for us,’ said Flynn.

  ‘Look, you’re a good fella, Kevin, but things have changed since you left and I’m afraid there isn’t a position for you here any more,’ he added with a weary, almost apologetic sigh.

  ‘So what am I supposed to do now?’ he snapped, face darkening as his fists balled. Byrne stepped back, afraid Flynn would lash out, almost dropping his pipe. Flynn didn’t move, just stood there scowling. Byrne started fussing over some papers, hoping that his ex-employee would get the message and go away. ‘Well, thanks for nothing, then,’ Flynn finally snarled before storming out, slamming the door. He didn’t understand. Byrne may have been a bit of an old woman but he thought they’d got on well enough. Obviously he was wrong.

  ‘What about you, Mr Flynn? Back from the war, is it?’

  ‘I am that,’ said Flynn, looking round at the man who had spoken, narrowing his eyes in thought. ‘Good God, John Riley, but haven’t you grown!’ he declared, recognizing the man. ‘Did you join up in the end?’ he asked.

  Riley raised an eyebrow, as if it were a stupid question.

  ‘Nah, by the time I was old enough the war was as good as over,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘Besides, I’m a junior clerk now,’ he said proudly.

  ‘It’s all right for some, John, but that old bugger Byrne won’t give me my job back!’

  ‘Have
you not heard?’ said Riley, smiling sympathetically. ‘It’s the Shinners. Ever since they set up shop in the Mansion House last January they’ve been throwing their weight around like they run the place. Don’t you know that the old fella would have you back for sure if it was up to him but it ain’t?’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Flynn.

  ‘It’s them Shinners. They told him, they did, told everyone hereabouts.’

  ‘Told him what?’

  ‘That those who went to fight for the English are traitors to Ireland and that anyone who gives them a job is a traitor too. Some fellas came by and told Mr Byrne so. They were Rah, I tell you, I’d put a tanner on it …’ He meant IRA, the organization that had risen like a phoenix from the ashes of the Irish Volunteers. ‘I hear them talking and this one fella tells Byrne that anyone who betrays Ireland best look out. The Shinners don’t like being disobeyed. They shot some peelers down in Tipperary last January and another in Limerick last week so a fat old knacker like Mr Byrne isn’t going to bother them.’ Things started to make sense. ‘Well, I best be going,’ said Riley, shaking Flynn’s hand. ‘I’m sorry there’s not more Mr Byrne could have done,’ he added before going inside.

  Poor old bugger, thought Flynn as he strolled away from the office along Eden Quay, feeling guilty for thinking bad of Byrne. It wasn’t his fault. Instead he felt anger at men who hid behind patriotism to intimidate an old man. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets. He could feel the hardness of the medal case against his hand; the Military Medal he’d won at Ginchy. He didn’t know why he’d brought it with him; he just had. It was like a talisman. There was graffiti on the wall: ‘English go home’ and ‘Up the Republic’. ‘Yeah, right, up the bloody Republic,’ he muttered, louder than intended, drawing reproving stares from a bunch of young men hanging around on the waterfront. ‘And what the hell do you think you’re looking at?’ he snapped angrily, taking a step towards them. Experience had taught him attack was the best form of defence, sheer aggression counting for much in a fight. The men shuffled anxiously. ‘I fought for my bloody country and I’m as Irish as any Fenian,’ he snapped. They looked away, anxious to avoid his gaze.

  By the time he’d reached the O’Connell Bridge he’d calmed down. Sackville Street was a mess, the GPO a burnt-out shell even though wreckage of the Rising had been swept away years ago. Nothing had been done to make good the damage, almost a metaphor for the state of the country. At least the river still stank. That much hadn’t changed, thought Flynn, as he crossed, heading for Grafton Street, watched by a constable who loitered at the southern edge of the bridge. His partner was peeling an army recruiting poster from the wall and Flynn stopped to watch. He’d seen the poster before. It was one of those ones with a couple of smiling squaddies drawn on it, having fun. ‘Join the Army and see the world,’ it announced. This one had been defaced by some Republican wag who’d written beneath: ‘Join the RIC and see the next one.’

  ‘Nothing to see here, son,’ said the policeman.

  ‘I was in the army,’ said Flynn. He didn’t really know why, it just seemed like something to say.

  ‘I’d be keeping that to myself these days,’ said the policeman. ‘This isn’t a good time for ex-soldiers.’ Not a good time for peelers either, thought Flynn, but he kept his thoughts to himself. The policeman gave him a quick once-over, then added, ‘Maybe you should think about re-enlisting.’

  ‘No, thanks,’ was all he could think of saying. He’d had enough of soldiering. Devlin had signed back on. You’d be mad not to, he’d said. Peacetime soldiering was a doddle compared to what they’d just been through. Maybe Flynn was mad. Last he’d heard, Devlin was somewhere in the Middle East with the Dubs 2nd Battalion. He wasn’t sure about the others. Someone had said that Docherty was back working as a chippy somewhere round Parnell Square. They’d never been close but maybe he’d look him up sometime. He’d left Fitzpatrick in a pub down by Liverpool docks looking for a ship to take him back to the States. For some reason he’d swung by Royal Barracks a couple of times just to take a look. Once he almost walked through the gates but he’d never quite made it. Instead he usually ended up in a pub nearby, killing time with the rest of the demobbed outcasts that the city pretended didn’t exist.

  ‘Can I fetch you another?’ asked a warm, comradely voice at the bar next to him, gesturing for more drinks without waiting for Flynn’s response. He didn’t recognize the man but assumed he was an old soldier, like almost everyone else in the smoky bar. ‘Would you be the Kevin Flynn who won a medal at Ginchy?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’ Flynn asked the stranger, his alcohol-clouded mind suddenly on guard. The stranger handed him a frothy pint of stout. He sipped it, eyeing the man cautiously.

  ‘The army could do with men like you, Mr Flynn,’ said the man. He didn’t look much like a recruiting sergeant to Flynn but then these were worrying times; it paid to be cautious. Then he laughed, shaking his head.

  ‘And which army would that be? Haven’t you noticed the fecking war is over?’ He was slurring slightly, barely bothering to hide his contempt for the IRA man.

  ‘Oh no, the war has only just begun to get the bastard English out of our country, out of Ireland for good.’ The man’s eyes were shining with fanatical zeal as he warmed to his theme. ‘Our army needs experienced soldiers like you, Sergeant Flynn.’

  ‘Do I know you? I don’t remember you at Ginchy, or anywhere else for that matter.’ He looked around the smoky bar as the murmur of conversation dropped away amongst the gathered ex-soldiers. ‘You’re not one of us, that’s for sure,’ he said, sweeping his arm around the room. ‘What do you and your so-called army know about war? What you’re doing isn’t a war, just eejits waving guns, playing at soldiers. War is squalid and dirty and if you had a fecking clue what war was like you wouldn’t be so keen to fill the streets of your own country, my country, with blood! Where were you when I needed a job, eh? I was a bloody traitor, we all were,’ he was angry now, feeling the killing rage welling up inside him, ‘but now I’m good enough for your bloody army. That’s a joke. You think I’d fight for you when all filth like you have done since I got home is treat me – us – like something you’ve trodden in! Now do yourself a favour and piss off before I kick the shit out of you, you pathetic shite!’

  ‘Leave it, Kev,’ said an ex-fusilier called McCurtain who’d been in Flynn’s platoon at Messines Ridge. ‘Let the bugger go,’ he added, before turning to the IRA man and saying, ‘Get away whilst you can. Can’t you see you’re not wanted here?’

  It was dark by the time he left the pub and his pockets were empty. It would be a long walk home. He didn’t hear the footsteps closing in from the shadows, nor did he get a chance to fight back as they put him on the ground, raining kicks on his head and back. He curled up into a ball, the alcohol thankfully killing the pain. Then as he lay battered and bleeding, a familiar voice hissed in his ear. ‘Kick the shite out of me, will you, soldier boy?’ Then there was white light followed by darkness.

  ‘Well, well, well.’ The voice was kindly, with a familiar, washed-out tint of Mayo. Flynn blinked and opened his eyes. He was still in the gutter. He’d been there all night, left for drunk or worse. There was something about the face hovering over him, then he worked out what it was – or who it was, to be precise. It was Mahon. ‘It’s heart-warming to see you’ve readjusted so well to civvy street, eh?’ he joked. Flynn struggled to sit. ‘I think we need to get a brew and a piece down you,’ added the ex-CQMS, reverting to type.

  They found a café. Flynn ate; Mahon paid.

  ‘So what are you up to these days?’ asked Flynn. He hadn’t seen Mahon for over a year; not since the 9th Battalion had been merged with the 8th back in October 1917.

  ‘I work up in Phoenix Park,’ he replied after taking a quick look around.

  ‘Doing what?’ asked Flynn, none the wiser. ‘Have you got a job tending the grounds, then?’

  ‘For a clever fella, you’re a wee bit dim someti
mes, Sergeant Flynn,’ he replied with a deep sigh. ‘I work at the depot.’ Flynn frowned, still not getting it. ‘I’m a peeler.’

  ‘But I thought you were Irish Guards,’ said Flynn.

  ‘Aye, I was, for twelve years, then RIC.’

  ‘You never said you were a peeler.’

  ‘You never asked,’ he replied jovially. ‘Anyway, when the war came I was asked if I’d help out when they formed the battalion. You know the rest. When I demobbed the constabulary took me back and even promoted me. I’m a sergeant now, which is more than I was when I left. The money’s good and there’s a pension too.’

  ‘Aye, if you live to draw it,’ quipped Flynn.

  ‘And by the look of you, Kevin, you’ll not be much longer for this world yourself.’ Flynn shifted uncomfortably. Mahon was right. His liver wouldn’t take much more. ‘Tell you what. Seeing as you seem to be at such a loose end, why don’t you get yourself cleaned up and meet me at the depot at three this afternoon?’

  ‘Why?’ asked Flynn.

  ‘Because I think the police would do you good. It’s a bit like the army but without the shite bits. They’re a fine bunch of lads, the best in the business, and the way things are going we’re going to need all the decent blokes we can get.’

  ‘Why not? replied Flynn. What’s the worst that could happen?’

  By the Same Author

  England’s Janissary

  EXTRACT FROM

  England’s Janissary

  CHAPTER 1

  Tuesday 6 January 1920, Drumlish, County Longford, Ireland

  ‘For God’s sake, woman, will you not keep your noise down? The lads will hear you!’ Sergeant James McLain barked in frustration.