The Soldier's Song (21 page)

He found him outside, warming himself at a brazier with some of his mates. The others melted away as he approached, until only Kinsella was left, watching him carefully.

‘Corporal, did you have a brother in the Seventh Battalion?’

Kinsella looked into the fire for a few moments. Surprising how his downcast eyes looked just like a girl’s, even in that brutal face.

‘I did, sir,’ he said gruffly, but when he went on his voice was softer. ‘It was good of you to write that letter to his mother, and one of his mates said you got the bastard as shot him.’

If only you knew, Stephen thought now, looking down at him before he put his eye back to the scope. Best not tell him where
that
came from.

He was worried about the scope. Who knew what sort of knocks it had taken after all this time? Not to mention the fact that he’d never used one before. And the gun felt awkward too: a Ross rifle, longer and heavier than he was used to. They had a very bad reputation. They’d been issued to all the Canadian regiments, but they couldn’t get rid of them fast enough. Kinsella had looked appalled when he asked him to find one.

‘A Ross? What the ’ell do you want one of them for, sir?’

But he’d got it, and last night they’d stripped it, checked it and fitted the scope. He remembered the Canadian officer in Locre, complaining about them over his wine and
pommes frites.
They called them the worst rifle in the world. Bloody awful things. Jammed like buggery if they got dirty – and they were bloody dangerous to boot. Take your flaming eye out if they didn’t kill you. Stephen hadn’t believed the second part, but last night he’d seen for himself when he stripped the rifle. It really could be fired with the bolt not properly locked. The Canadian officer hadn’t been exaggerating after all: ‘So they carried off this poor bastard with the rifle bolt sticking out of his eye socket. We got Lee Enfields straight after that, I can tell you.’

He tried not to think about it.

The man in the basket had his binoculars up again. Stephen’s finger tightened on the trigger, feeling it give a little. What have you ever done to me? he asked silently. He thought of the man standing up there, free as the air, the countryside laid out below him like a map. What did all this look like from up there? He was well wrapped up anyway. Hat and gloves, and an airman’s coat. It must be cold up in the breeze.

There was an ear-splitting shriek overhead and he stiffened, easing his finger from the trigger. Christ Almighty. Here we go again. But the shells thundered over and fell a few hundred yards away. Even so, the thump of the detonations beat on his ears. Heavies. They were like a flaming earthquake when they landed. They’d been much closer yesterday. Two of them landed in the middle of a ration party and blew them to bits. Another caved in twenty yards of the main communication trench. The fourth got Hollis.

Poor bloody Hollis. He didn’t even see the one that got him. It was a shrapnel shell that burst twenty feet above his head. One of the balls put a great big dent in his helmet and another penetrated his shoulder and went into his lung. It was such a small hole they couldn’t even see it at first. When they found him he was thrashing around on the ground with pink blood bubbling out of his mouth. He was still alive when the bearers took him away, but then word came back that he was dead.

In his fury, Wilson ordered them to fire at the balloon. He knew damned well it was pointless, but he had to vent his rage. Every rifle they had lined up for ten rounds volley fire. Then another ten, and another. They couldn’t even see that heavy battery, but the insect man was their eyes. Tethered by a slender thread, so far away and so high up, he was wreaking havoc with his binoculars and a telephone.

But the volleys were merely frustration. Every time another salvo fell, the nearest rifles cracked back angrily at the balloon – though they might as well have been shooting at the moon. Stephen reckoned the range was twelve hundred yards. At that distance most of them could barely hit the balloon, never mind the man in the basket. And it was him they wanted. The balloon could be patched, but if they killed the insect man then the Germans would think twice about putting someone in his place.

Three-quarters of a mile, and the target moving in the breeze. No wonder Kinsella had declined the shot. Even his grandfather might have baulked at it, and he’d once shot for the Queen’s Cup at Wimbledon. An English mile over iron sights. Stephen remembered his pride and amazement when the old man showed him the photographs; whiskery young men with big rifles on their knees and a collection of silverware scattered through the grass at their feet. He’d picked out his grandfather immediately and realized he could easily have been looking at a picture of himself. Better yet was the actual rifle: a beautiful heavy Rigby, reverently slid from its leather case under the bed. And here he was, with the worst rifle in the world and a captured scope that had been rattled all the way around the Mediterranean.

He drew a deep breath and snugged the rifle butt into the hollow of his shoulder. As he started to squeeze the trigger again his mind was racing, calculating. Laying off for wind, allowing for trajectory, the rise and fall of the bullet. The trigger felt hard under his finger. He could sense the shell inside the breech, gleaming brass, waiting. In his head he saw the bolt biting forward, the firing pin piercing the shell, and the explosion of gases that drove the pointed bullet forward. Twisting down the barrel and bursting out into the chilly air. It would soar up, spinning, and climb into the watery blue sky, then arc down and down towards the man in the basket, piercing layers of leather and cloth, flesh and bone, burrowing into his chest. Was this what it had come to? Was this how he fought his war? Holding another man’s life by the tip of his finger?

‘A fiver says he misses,’ Devereux whispered from down in the trench.

Stephen let the breath gush out and turned his head to glare at him. He was standing with Gardner, and Wilson was perched above them on a ladder, quietly studying the balloon through binoculars of his own. Quite the bloody audience he had. Gardner wasn’t taking the bet.

‘A fiver? You must be joking. That’s too much. A pound. I bet you a pound he gets him!’

Devereux shook his head. Typical – set the stake so high nobody will bet against you. Stephen was tempted to take his bet. He could afford it, just about. But then he thought better of it. He wouldn’t do this for money.

‘Gentlemen, do you mind?’ Wilson said sharply.

Back to the scope. Another deep breath, letting half of it out. The rifle was light in his hands now. The worst rifle in the world – but not if you were careful, not if you looked after it. All he could see now was the little disc of sky inside the scope, the insect man hanging there. He started to squeeze the trigger again. It gave a little under his finger. First pressure.

‘All right, two guineas,’ whispered Devereux.

‘You’re on.’

The rifle cracked and thumped against his shoulder. At least the bolt stayed in. He saw the insect man stagger and drop his binoculars. He fell against the side of the basket and then folded over the edge, his arms hanging limply. The basket jerked and staggered and then started to descend. They were winding it down.

Wilson clapped him on the shoulder, grinning.

‘Good shot, Mr Ryan.’ And then, turning to the others, ‘Mr Devereux, pay up.’

* * *

Frongoch Camp,

22 December 1916

Dear Stephen,

Just a note to let you know they are letting us go. The whole camp is being cleared out and they have told us we will be back in Dublin by Christmas. Everybody is delighted and we’re all sitting here with our belongings wrapped up in brown paper, waiting for the word.

Nobody is sure why they decided to let us out, but most of us think it’s only a stunt to impress the Americans, who they are hoping will come into the war. I don’t care. This place was a miserable hole even in the summer, and I don’t think I could last the whole winter. I’ll be glad to see Dublin again.

I hope you keep safe and have a happy Christmas.

Best wishes,

Joe.

PS: A mate here has invited me to stay with him when we get back to Dublin. I don’t know how long it will take, but I’ll write to you when I get settled. For the time being you can send mail c/o the ITGWU, 31 Eden Quay.

25 December 1916

Christmas Day and we’re back in the front line. The weather is absolutely freezing but at least it’s quiet. No gun fire since last night – not even a rifle. Father O’Leary came up yesterday evening and said Mass in the big dugout. Wilson didn’t attend (he’s a Presbyterian, as far as I know) but he came in later when the men were singing carols and issued a rum tot before they turned in.

I was at the Mass but didn’t pay much attention as my mind kept turning towards home. I envy Joe being back there for Christmas. I’m not exactly short of companionship here, but it’s not the same at all.

I got a nice letter from Lillian as well – and a parcel with chocolate, sweets, socks and a bottle of brandy. God bless that girl! I don’t what I’d do without her. But I’d give it all back just to sit with her for an hour like we did that night in Dublin Castle. God, when I think how we talked and talked – it was as if we’d known one another all our lives. It’s frustrating when all I can do now is write letters. The next time I get leave I will see her. I must see her. I won’t leave it to fate like I did the last time. Life is too short.

This morning I did the rounds of the sentries – the frost is treacherous and I nearly fell on my backside twice – and when I got back I learned two interesting things. First, after my display of marksmanship with the artillery balloon the men have nicknamed me the ‘Assassin’! Very melodramatic, I’m sure. I believe the range and other details grow larger with every telling! Gardner told me about it over breakfast and it seems the distance has already increased to a mile.

The other thing is that Wilson has put my name forward to take command of the company when he goes on leave in January. This is a bit strange as he’s only going home for two weeks. I’m pleased that he trusts me, and it will stand to me when the next vacancy for promotion comes up, but I think he has an ulterior motive. Strictly speaking, Devereux is senior to me, and his nose will be severely out of joint. He hasn’t been told yet, but no doubt there will be fireworks when he finds out!

28 December 1916

Back to billets after Christmas at the front. It’s Doncaster huts this time, as we are moving along the line a little bit. The huts are draughty and cold, but they’re still better than the barns at Siege Farm, and they have real beds. I’m looking forward to using mine tonight.

As expected, Devereux has kicked up a fuss about my promotion. The moment we got back he was off like a shot to the infernal uncle. This was a mistake, since he should have gone to our battalion CO. The colonel was summoned to explain the situation to General Hickie himself, and needless to say he was bloody furious – not just because Devereux circumvented the chain of command, but also because he’s the one who got Wilson his commission; they go back a long way, and he would take one Wilson against ten Devereuxs any day.

Apparently, Devereux complained that he had greater length of service, but it turns out there is only a few days between us and I have more frontline experience. The truth is, Devereux has a bee in his bonnet because I’m only a temporary officer while he is a regular. This cuts no ice with the colonel, who never liked having Devereux inflicted on him in the first place. He and Wilson have now hatched a scheme to get rid of Devereux, who has been a thorn in their sides for long enough.

Wilson explained it to me after we had served dinner. It’s a tradition for the officers to serve the men their Christmas dinner, and although we were three days late and lacking plates and cutlery, it was appreciated all the same. We took ours out in the snow, away from the clashing of tins and the singing in the mess hut. The scheme is quite simple: when we go back to the front in the New Year Wilson will mount a raid to grab a few prisoners for intelligence. Devereux will officially be in command – although Wilson has already hand-picked the men to go with him, as well as the place. There is an isolated German sap near Arundel House that is often used as a listening post and they should be able to nab the occupants without much trouble. Wilson will write a glowing report about the operation and, with the CO’s endorsement, Devereux should warrant at least a mention in dispatches and then he can be safely sent on his way.

Short of dressing up a couple of our own men as Germans, it couldn’t be safer. All the same, Wilson doesn’t like it – he doesn’t like anything that involves Devereux bringing men in contact with the enemy – but he is willing to go along if it means getting rid of him. I’m inclined to agree. Regardless of his merits or otherwise as a soldier, Devereux’s conflict with Wilson is bound to lead to trouble sooner or later.

Dublin,

31 December 1916

Dear Stephen,

I hope this letter finds you well. You were very much in my thoughts over Christmas and I hope you are keeping safe (and warm!).

As I am sure you already know, your brother is back in Dublin. A huge crowd turned out to welcome home all the interned men just before Christmas. I haven’t seen him myself, but Sheila met him the other day.

To tell the truth, he gave her a bit of a turn. She was on nights all last week and it was the early hours before she got out of the castle. She got quite a shock to find him waiting outside (actually, ‘lurking’ was the word she used) and she was sure she was going to be attacked! The poor lad must have been there all night because he was half frozen, but he took off his cap, introduced himself, and thanked her very civilly for helping him when he was so badly wounded. He then very politely insisted on walking her all the way home.