Island Redoubt

by David Roy

  ‘Go’, said the German, thrusting the papers back into Sam’s hands. That was it. He was as close to freedom as he would ever be. He began walking towards the terminal, bombed by the Luftwaffe and still badly damaged and beyond that the two wrought iron gates that led to the road. One or two trucks rumbled past but apart from that there was no traffic to speak of and he made his way out of the city centre wishing that he felt more excited. Somehow his passion for life had been extinguished and he wondered if that was what defeat did to you. This wasn’t the homecoming he deserved but it was the only one he would get and with the familiarity of his surroundings came the feeling - much more defined than it had been in England - that he wasn’t really wanted. Not in his current state anyway. He would have to become something other than what he was - a former soldier from a defeated army. He couldn’t explain his feelings but with each step his certainty increased. He was out of fashion and not just because of the quaint cut of his suit.

  Barely had he knocked on the door when it was wrenched open and he was being smothered by his mother’s embrace. His dad stood in the background, having adopted a slightly awkward posture with one hand on the newel post and the other in his trouser pocket. He hoped that he looked relaxed and content when in truth he was as excited as his wife to see Sam again. It was his duty to play it cool…. or so he thought because he had never quite been in this position before. After the months when Sam had apparently disappeared and the next months when rumours abounded of mass deportations to so-called concentration camps in Europe, here he was at last. His own wee boy was home. Locked in the back room, the dog barked and whined, beside itself with excitement.

  ‘Hello, son. It’s great to see you’, he said as his wife continued to crush the very life out of Sam. Sam tried to reply but the air had been forced from his chest under the pressure of his mother’s bear hug. Finally, she released him and Sam shook hands with his dad and then, with a hint of embarrassment hugged him. Ulster Protestants didn’t go in for displays of emotion as a rule. ‘I’m so glad you’re back, Sammy’, he said. Mrs Beattie didn’t even wince at the use of that diminutive. ‘Sam or Samuel’, she would demand. She hated ‘Sammy’ - too common. But this time she didn’t say a thing.

  The house hadn’t changed - nothing did as a rule - and yet it didn’t quite feel like his family home any longer. Sam wondered if it would just take time to re-adjust. Was it his years in the Army that had done it? Was it the war, or more specifically the defeat? Was it the sense of foreboding that came with their new rulers? Things weren’t the same…. he could sense that from his parents and then he knew with startling clarity what the problem was. Fear. Things might be okay just as long as everyone did what they were told and no-one rocked the boat…. but how long could that last? And once someone did step out of line it was obvious that they - the Nazis - would have no compunction about punishing large groups of people in order to return their conquered territories to a state of blissful servitude.

  ‘So how have things been?’, asked Sam. He cut his steak with one of the ivory-handled steak knives that he knew were among his Mum’s most treasured possessions. They owned very little of any worth apart from these.

  ‘Fine’, said his father.

  ‘Fine? I mean what is it like having the Krauts running everything?’

  ‘You mustn’t say that, Sam’, said his Mother. There was a note of panic in her voice. She had stopped eating and was looking at him intently.

  ‘What? Krauts?’

  ‘Sam! You mustn’t. I mean it. Just get out of the habit of even thinking like that’, she implored.

  ‘She’s right, son. They’re here to stay. We’ve lost this war and we’ll never be rid of them. People are just plain scared. No-one dares even think the wrong thing. You say things like that and someday it’ll just come out without you even noticing.’

  ‘Aye, but….’

  ‘Aye, but nothin’. Don’t think it. Don’t say it. Yes, sir, no, sir, three bags full, sir; like you were in the Army. Say what they want to hear.’

  Sam shook his head. He couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing but his parents weren’t cowards or collaborators.

  ‘Bad things have happened, Sam’, continued his Mother. ‘People don’t talk about them. The secret police come along and take people and most of the time they’re never seen again. The police check people’s papers and if they’re not right they hand them over to the Germans. There are plenty of people working for the Germans. Plenty doin’ okay out of them as well. There are Ulster women goin’ out with German soldiers, factories making German uniforms, farms supplyin’ food to the German camps. All palsie-walsie. There’s plenty of collaboration and even those who aren’t collaboratin’ aren’t exactly up in arms against them.’

  ‘Cause there’s no point’, added his Father. ‘Like I say; they’re here to stay. You don’t have to be lickin’ their boots exactly, but tryin’ to defy them…. well, what’s the point?’ Sam shook his head again, sadly. It made perfect sense, of course. How else could it be? But it was a bit hard to take.

  ‘There’s even a tailor on the Cregagh Road….’ Sam’s father pronounced it Craigy Road like a true local, ‘who’s making uniforms for German Officers. Archie Temple’s his name.’

  ‘I thought he was a Jew’, said Sam.

  ‘Not any more, he’s not. And don’t you go sayin’ anythin’ either. That’s another thing that no-one talks about.’

  ‘Bastard!’, said Sam.

  ‘What do you expect him to do?’, said his Mum. Her voice was an angry whisper almost as if the parlour was full of Germans who might overhear. ‘If the Germans want him to make their uniforms do you think he’s got an option? Hundreds of people have just disappeared. Everyone’s terrified.’

  This was no ‘Brave New World.’

  Sam took off his ‘new suit’ and laid it on the bed as his Mum filled the bath. Theirs was one of the few houses on the street with a bathroom - because, as his Dad proudly stated, ‘he didn’t piss his money up against the wall and could afford it.’ He looked down at the suit and twisted his head, first to one side and then the other, trying to make sense of the crazy pattern made by the pinstripes that intersected at every seam. He had always thought that he would throw it away just as soon as he had something else to wear but a quick look inside his wardrobe made him think again. He had one pair of trousers and two shirts. He had a cloth cap - a duncher in local parlance - that he had never worn - a scarf and a donkey jacket that had belonged to his father. He took out the black shoes that completed his autumn, winter, spring and summer collection. He set both this pair and his new shoes - the ones the Germans had given him, that is - on the bed, by way of a comparison. The new one’s had better laces whereas the old ones had one snapped lace that was so short that the left shoe was almost impossible to fasten. He’d forgotten about that, so long was it since he’d worn them. He turned both pairs over and again the new ones had the edge. No holes, that was the key and yet the style of the older shoes was slightly better. Maybe he could get someone to cannibalise them so that he had one respectable pair of shoes. He set them on the floor, brushing invisible dirt off the blue counterpane and screwed up his eyes to picture how each pair would look at a quick glance.

  He was undecided about his footwear but he had two pounds of the new currency in his pocket and was going to go to the pub for a drink. That was certain. Maybe he would meet up with some of his old mates. Maybe he’d meet up with Nancy….

  He had only very rarely visited a Belfast pub. He’d been in the Army since before he’d been the legal age for drinking. He was quite excited by the thought. It was quieter than the last time he’d been there, less smokey, less…. well, the phrase was that it had less ‘atmosphere’ but what exactly did that mean? He thought that the hum of conversation just died down slightly and momentarily like the engine of a car as the clutch was let out but as soon as he’d thought that he dismissed it as a function of his imagination. Sam felt a bit conspi
cuous as if he was wearing outrageous clothes or had long hair like some arty type trying to soak up the atmosphere of a Belfast pub and be a man of the people….and failing, of course. The problem was that he had never gone to a pub on his own before. Gone was the protective circle of mates.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  Gone was the anonymity of his uniform.

  ‘Pint, please.’

  Gone was the confidence he felt.

  ‘We’ve got this new ‘lager’ in. That okay?’

  Gone was the respect that had been his due.

  ‘Oh. Aye, fine.’

  All gone.

  He handed over a note and received some change in coins which he examined. It still looked like £.s.d. but was called something else and even then it was only an interim measure until the new currency came in; the ‘Euro’ or something it was called. It was, thought Sam, a stupid name but it would bind the conquered territories together, further diminishing their separate identities. Every country in the German Empire would be using it apparently. Sam took his first sip and stood at the bar feeling less self-conscious. With his drink came a sense of belonging. He had a reason for being here - he was having a drink, just like everyone else. If he didn’t talk to anyone…. well, so what? He was here for drink and he was enjoying it! The beer tasted good.

  ‘Got a light?’

  Sam turned to see a man, early thirties, working clothes, stubbled chin, one lazy eye. He thought he recognised him.

  ‘Aye. Hold on’, he said taking his matches from his pocket. Both men watched intently as the flame burst brightly into life in his cupped hand and their eyes followed its progress to the white cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. The cigarette waggled as he drew on it and the tiny herbal bonfire glowed with orange intensity. Sam had given up smoking in the POW camp. Not voluntarily of course - the Germans just hadn’t given them any fags - but now he realised that smoking was part of the puzzle. Everyone smoked. It was a community exercise, a common bond, a thread that ran through their society like a right or a custom that no-one dared lose. He had a few cigarettes…. His dad had given him them to him along with the matches.

  ‘Want one?’, said the man.

  ‘Please’, said Sam and the little ceremony was repeated.

  ‘Gerry Dixon’, said the man.

  ‘Sam Beattie.’

  ‘Haven’t seen you in here before, have I?’

  ‘No. I’ve….’

  ‘Army?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Just got back?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘Yesterday? They kept you a long time.’

  ‘Suppose so’, said Sam taking another swig of his beer. He knew that it was his imagination but he could have sworn that the barman was looking at him with grave concern.

  ‘I couldn’t join the Army. Can’t see properly out of this eye’, said the man pointing at his lazy eye.

  ‘Well, it doesn’t really matter, does it? Not now.’

  ‘The beer’s good.’ The conversation suddenly veered off in a new direction.

  ‘Aye. Not bad.’

  ‘German stuff. Strong.’

  ‘Tastes okay. Goes down well.’

  ‘So, was it rough?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, you must have been in a POW camp. Was it bad?’

  ‘It was okay if you wanted to give up smoking’, said Sam, with a little smile at the recollection of those terrible cravings. Once the men had cleared their system of cigarette smoke their hunger was doubled. The man nodded. He seemed interested but surely Sam wasn’t the first person he’d met from a POW camp. There must be thousands of them. ‘And eating’, added Sam. The man laughed, sympathetically. ‘There wasn’t a lot of food.’

  Sam took another swig from his beer and again he thought - no, this time he was sure - the barman was warning him. Just a look - a look which was quickly replaced by another as something passed almost imperceptibly between the chatty stranger and the barman; a coded message, a warning, a signal. Something. Something was happening and he was caught in the middle of it.

  ‘Well, you must be glad to get home.’

  ‘Aye. It’s nice to see the family again.’

  ‘What do you make of it?’

  ‘Of what?’ DANGER. This was what the bar man meant. The hairs on the back of his neck tried to stand up. It was the prelude to an attack, the enemy around the corner…. His parent’s warnings came back to him. The subtle, coded warnings from the barman had not been his imagination.

  ‘Well, coming back to Ireland’…. (Ireland?) …. ‘Finding it full of Germans, that sort of thing. Bit of a shock, I suppose?’

  ‘No. Not really’, said Sam, diffident but matter-of-fact. ‘We lost the war. They won. Just got to accept it’

  ‘Aye, but it’s hard though’, persisted the man. His tone was reasonable, his face open, guileless and friendly. Sam didn’t trust him one bit. He shrugged. He knew that this man, Gerry Dixon, was trying to trip him up and catch him out but he didn’t know why. He casually studied the face as they spoke. He realised that he was talking to a Catholic for one thing. The high cheekbones, the sallow complexion and dark hair gave it away. The name was Catholic as well - Gerry, Gerald - but these things had stopped bothering him. A few years in the Army had seen to that. Men were more than their religions so long as they did their job. The Irish Fusiliers had had plenty of Catholics in their ranks - good men, good soldiers most of them. Their religion wasn’t really an issue that was discussed in anything other than mild jest. This fella Dixon, however, wasn’t a soldier. Ex-soldier, that is. And Sam realised that he shouldn’t even be in this Protestant heartland of Belfast. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t done. So, what was going on?

  ‘D’ye want another?’, said Gerry Dixon with a nod at Sam’s half-finished drink.

  ‘Nah, you’re alright, ta. I’ve still got this one. I’ve only nipped out said I’d get home.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Aye, sure. But thanks.’

  ‘Well, I’ll see ya round’, and with that he drifted off, pint in hand, as if he was administering succour to the poor unfortunates in the pub.

  Sam supped his drink and then downed it in preparation for leaving. He wiped the white froth from his top lip and noticed that he felt a bit sick and a bit drunk. He had reached that stage where his speech slurred involuntarily and the more he tried to prevent it the worse it would get. Another drink would cure that. Oddly, he heard these words; ‘have another.’

  It was the barman.

  ‘I know you, Sammy Beattie. A bit. I joined the Navy just after you joined the Army. We were at school together. Not mates, ner nothin’ like that.’

  ‘Oh aye?’

  ‘Marty Taylor. Doesn’t matter if you don’t remember me.’ Sam shrugged as Taylor handed him a pint he hadn’t ordered.

  ‘On the house.’

  ‘Ta.’

  ‘That man Dixon’s a bad’un. He’s a Fenian. A rebel if you ask me. But anyway, he works for the Germans. He tries to find stuff out and gets people in the shit. Reports back to the Gestapo. Do you know who they are?’ Sam nodded.

  ‘Well he’s paid by them. People like him are everywhere. So when someone asks you what you think of the occupation or the Germans…. it’s ‘fucking great’. Y’know what I mean? The Germans are the best thing ever. D’ye get me?’

  ‘I get you.’

  ‘Good Sammy’, said the barman with a satisfied nod. ‘Enjoy your drink.’ His attention was drawn for a second to the main door to the lounge bar which had just opened and shut. He looked back at Sam and spoke. ‘And by the way, someone’s just come in who wants to see you.’

  ‘Nancy!’

  ‘Wee Sam Beattie. How are ye?’ She looked fantastic. Older, of course - he hadn’t seen her for five years - a bit paler but still the head turner she’d always been. Her dark hair was drawn into a tight bun, which served to accentuate her high cheek bones and her green eyes still had that peculiarly intoxicating quali
ty. Her clothes, he noticed, were old, worn and oft-repaired but it was the same for everyone.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’, he offered. He felt like a school boy trying to act sophisticated so as to disguise his youth and, in the process, doing the opposite.

  ‘No’, she said simply. ‘I’ll get you one.’ And of course, the barman was over immediately. She wasn’t easily ignored and she knew it.

  ‘So how have you been?’, Sam asked, looking down at his drink.

  ‘Fine.’ Two more drinks arrived and Sam clinked his beer glass against the more delicate tumbler which held her lemonade.

  ‘Women in pubs, eh? Who’d have thought it?’

  ‘Aye, drinkin’ lemonade you’ll notice. Things have changed under the Germans.’

  ‘Not for the better, though.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Well you can hardly say that you really want them here’, said Sam a little too loudly.

  ‘Let’s change the subject’, said Nancy hastily. ‘We’ll just catch up on old times.’

  ‘Fair enough. So, what have you been up to?’

  ‘I worked at Mackeys during the war. Most of the men had gone off to fight so they employed hundreds off women. I was seeing this nice fella called Colin. He was a fighter pilot at Bishopscourt, trainin’ other pilots. He was a flight-sergeant.’ Sam looked at her hand for a wedding ring but there wasn’t one. ‘He was Scottish. We talked about getting’ engaged but he was killed.’

  ‘That must have been terrible, Nancy.’

  ‘Aye, but it was a long time ago. It was an accident. He was flying to England to join a new squadron and his plane crashed into the Irish Sea. They never found his body but the crew of a ship saw his plane going down.’ She paused, a sad smile on her face. ‘But like I said, it was long time ago.’

  ‘Well I’m sorry. Maybe you’d have been married now.’