A Long Long Way (30 page)

The referee was a Nigerian from the African Labour Corps who nevertheless had been a licensed referee in civil life. He was an elegant man in a beautiful set of referee’s clothing, quite American and impressive, and his features were set in an unsmiling and philosophical grimace. He slowly began his count on Miko Cuddy. The Southerners in the hall at first sat back in dismay and heard the murderous numerals climb to six, to seven. Then they got to their feet like an audience offering an ovation to some great musician and they bellowed and screamed at Miko Cuddy to rise again, and by the love of God and the grace of things in general, he did. He came up in his well-nigh stupor like a god rising from the ground of an old story, and he raised his fists again and simultaneously the hearts of his supporters. And William Beatty, though he shook his head, sending the blood through the strange air, rested on the flat of his boxing boots — strictly speaking, a better class of trench boot — and seemed to await illumination. Then the bell rang again, like a sea-bell rescuing a wandering ship, and Miko Cuddy gratefully sought his corner and lurched down onto his mercifully stoutly constructed stool.

Now there was a different pandemonium in the hall. Perhaps now there was an element of accusation, and over in the corner was a brief mêlée of soldiers, broken up quickly by some watchful NCOs. Pungent remarks were made. ‘Rebel cunts’ was one, and ’Ulster bollockses’ another. But generally it was only excitement, and a sort of horror-struck happiness.

The bell was struck again and Miko Cuddy lost no time this time in going over to the centre of the ring and swinging a punch at William Beatty. Perhaps he intended it to land somewhere on a welcoming jaw, perhaps he merely hoped to hit something, anything, on the Ulsterman to even up the account of pain. But he went back as he swung on a little pool of his own blood just as treacherous as grease and laid himself out on the floor. William Beatty leaned over and helped him up. An extraordinary shout went up in the hall; no one had ever seen such a weird and even foolish spectacle. William Beatty stood back for two seconds, then lunged forward, and received a blow to his own chin from Cuddy, which sent a thin umbrella of blood out into the air of the ringside, and it fell in a diaphanous curtain across the gathered staff officers, making them stir in their chairs. But they barely flinched all the same, for it wasn’t the blood of their own death as such, and to give them their due, they were as enthusiastic as the rest to pursue the fight with their eyes.

There were four more rounds then of traded blows and each man had the measure of the other. Admiration rose up in the watchers and no one could be entirely partisan now. It was a fight of equals, and these equals were drifting slowly into that haze of weariness and living intent, where ebbs of energy were being called on to throw heavy, costly punches, and make feints and darts on legs as tired as Irish histories themselves. Smoke, sweat, blood and dim lights mingled, and the faces of the gathered hundreds were open with shouting and desire, and the fists continued to find face and breast and shoulder. Blood gathered on the torsos of the boxers; it welled up under the skin in dark black patches like frostbite itself that the soldiers had seen for themselves out in the trenches. The blood fell out of noses, it dripped from broken ears, splashed down from small wounds and gashes and made a bib of blood on Miko Cuddy’s chest. And all the way through was that odd crunching noise, as if the very bones themselves were being mulched. A miracle that tomorrow, Willie thought, these men would surely be walking about with swollen and bruised faces, and one of them no doubt smiling and talking about the fight. Or would they be buried six feet under in the Flanders earth? By God, they might well be if this went on much longer.

Now they were trading blows like very reluctant traders. At what wattage their brains were working, Willie couldn’t guess. He was sitting now quite still in his seat, following the general urge of the crowd. No one was shouting now, an odd peace had descended. It was as if this spectacle of fighting had calmed those soldiers, put some introspective spell over them, as the two big Irishmen struggled to continue the fight. And when at last Miko Cuddy against all the odds caught poor William Beatty a glancing blow but nevertheless of a cudgel-like ferocity, on the left temple of his broken head, down went the giant foe, and yet up came the voices of the crowd, almost in a tuneful roar, like a choir, an awful, simple and beautiful note of deep-throated approbation, and Miko Cuddy of Crossmolina, County Mayo, was the hero of hundreds for a day.

Another night, the officers got up for the grateful men a performance of ‘The Rising of the Moon’, an Irish play for an Irish regiment. One of the line officers played the Policeman, and Major Stokes the Rebel — he was standing in more or less for poor Captain Sheridan. The major’s Irish accent was brutal. It was strange to see his florid face heaving through the lines. But, even though many were the King’s men — all of them were, to some degree, seeing as they were sitting there in his uniforms — still and all, everyone wanted the Rebel to go free, and felt duly relieved at the end when he did. Maybe true enough the play was set a hundred years ago. But still and all.

The entertainment the following month was a sort of dance, with music from fellas on a little stage, but only a sort of dance because there were no women to be dancing with, although they thought the nurses might be allowed to come in to them, that was their dream. But it turned out Major Stokes had said that he wasn’t going to let a lot of poor nurses in with a crowd of Irish lunatics. It was a night intended to delight the whole battalion anyhow, and although there were fewer men in the battalion despite new additions and recruits, and many of the new lads themselves were not Irish, there was just enough Irish lamb in the stew to make the old flavour hold true.

Still and all it was clear to those who had eyes to see that a great number of the men that had come into the 16th Division in ‘15 were no more. There were few enough like Willie Dunne, and it was strange for him looking about.

‘I think the old Somme has taken the most of us away,’ said Joe Kielty as he surveyed the mass of men. ‘I know few of these faces, Willie.’

There was a very lonesome note in Joe Kielty’s voice, like he was almost in fear of what he was saying. But there was little enough Willie could say in comfort. ,

Anyhow, the little band struck up, a piano player and a horn player and a drummer, and they got a good lick of music going, and then the lack of women was sorely felt. What were they supposed to do? They all stood in a great herd and watched the musicians, but it was very jaunty, good American music they were playing, and most of the men were young and wanted to dance a little and forget the war. So a few here and there jokingly waltzed with one another, and that seemed to catch on, and there was great laughter then, and fellas bowing down to each other like courtiers or good-mannered men, and other lads to roars of approval and mockery doing a curtsy and allowing themselves to be led in the dance like real ladies. And by heavens when the engines got going, the leaders truly danced the lead off their boots, and swung them round, and there was hooting and howling, and young, light lads were nearly bounced into the rafters. Willie Dunne was danced like a chicken, and it was O‘Hara dancing him, all six feet of O’Hara, and he heaved Willie along in such a manner that Willie retrospectively was quite glad he had not been born a woman and certainly not O‘Hara’s girlfriend, because he would have been killed by now by such dancing.

The air seemed all blue and green and yellow, and twisting around like a typhoon, it was the dizziness of it. Joe Kielty, that dapper Mayo man with flat feet, passed as fleet as a girl, smiling regally. He was swung into Willie’s path, and they nearly collided. And then colliding was all the rage, and there was a pleasant mayhem, lads steering other lads into danger.

Towards the end of the night, when everyone was nearly spent, the piano player, who unlike his fellow musicians, was from Galway, played a beautiful reel, and Joe Kielty, who it turned out was the champion of the combined districts of Charlestown and Foxford, got himself up on a table, and did a dance. He stood as still as a stone for a few moments, in his khaki uniform marked by damp, and let the music in the doors of his ears, arms strictly by his sides in the approved manner. Then suddenly like an electric charge the music went into his very boots, and away went his feet like amazing hammers, striking the table lightly and at great speed, but the whole upper body not stirring at all, and the head held highish, and the eyes set stern ahead. It was the most wonderful thing to see, thought Willie, especially in the surprising body of Joe Kielty, who betrayed in his person or his character normally nothing of this genius. It was a wonder the table itself withstood it, as it certainly was bolstered in no fashion against dances. The rest of the soldiers, in particular the Irish soldiers, but soon the Scots and the Welsh and the English also, raised up their hands in approbation, and Joe Kielty danced for them all. They raised their hands in approbation, and he thundered and danced.

Afterwards they were back in barracks and Willie Dunne couldn’t help slipping over to Joe.

‘That was great dancing, Joe,’ he said, gleaming.

‘Not so bad!’ said Joe Kielty, smiling bright as a meteor.

‘Jesus, Joe,’ said Willie, ‘that was something to see.’

‘ Ah, sure,‘ said Joe Kielty, embarrassed but delighted.

Then Willie Dunne swung there a little on the neighbouring bunk. He didn’t really know what to say further, he had shot his bolt.

‘What brought you into the army, Joe?’ said Willie.

‘Ah, the usual,’ said Joe. ‘I’ll tell you what it was, Willie. I was walking along by the river in Ballina minding my own business. My father had sent me in to see about the purchase of some bolts for the barn doors. And a girleen came along and in her hand like a bunch of flowers she had a fist of white feathers, and she crosses over the road to me smiling and hands me one. Now I didn’t know what that was, and my mother kept bees back in Cuillonachtan and I thought she was an itinerant selling feathers, because, you see, Willie, you use a goose-wing for the bees, to be brushing a rogue hive into the carrier box, and I know it wasn’t a full wing or the like, but. So I asked her, I said, ’Are you selling these or what?“ and she said, ”No.“ ”Is it something for the bees?“ I said. ”No,“ she said, ”something for the war. I’m to give you that feather so you will be feeling bad about not going and go on out with yourself to the war.“ And I said, ”Go way. I never heard the like of that.“ ”Oh yes,“ she said, ”what do you think, will you go?“ And do you know, she was so pretty and nice and all that, and I felt so awkward about it, I said, ”Yes, yes.“ And of course I mightn’t have gone out at all, but just bought the bolts and gone home to my mother and father, but you know, when you say you will do a thing to a person, you like to go and do it.‘

‘And that’s how you came to join up? I can hardly believe it,’ said Willie with the tone of a child.

‘That’s the gospel truth now, Willie, and didn’t my cousin Joe McNulty come in with me for the company,’ said Joe, and threw his head back in pleasing laughter, not ironical or anything like that, just amused himself by the daftness of it all, considering how he had found the war to be, and all that.