The Soldier's Song (7 page)

‘That’s part of it, yes.’

But only part of it. Stephen’s eye followed the passing officers and he thrilled to think he might be one of them soon. They belonged to a world he hardly knew existed and the chance of seeing it, of trying it for himself, was what he had taken. He didn’t want to go to that nameless little office and grow old in it. He wanted to live, even if living brought danger and the threat of death. He’d had the first inkling when he offered to walk Lillian and her sister home from the ball. They declined at first; it was too much trouble, they wouldn’t put him so far out of his way, but then they’d relented and he found himself – he, who’d never had a girl on his arm before – walking the pair of them down Baggot Street, with them laughing and talking across him. And all the while one part of his mind was wondering what might have happened if he hadn’t taken that first reckless step. Half a dozen drinks with Billy, a good laugh and a few hellos to people they knew. But in the end he’d be letting himself into his house in the small hours, slightly tipsy but no further forward than he’d been when he set out. This was the other way.

‘It’s the only way,’ he added, after the two officers had rounded a bend and were lost to sight. ‘It’s the only way I’ll be able to see something of the world before I fall in step with everybody’s expectations.’

‘It’s the only way you’ll be able to get bloody killed.’

‘You think I haven’t thought of that, Billy? Trust me, I have. I’ve thought about little else since I made my mind up. But I still think it’s worth it. I’d say the war should last a year at the most, and when I go back before the fellows I’ll have done my bit. They won’t be able to argue with that. All it will cost me is a year, and who’s to say I won’t enjoy myself?’

Billy thought about this for a few moments.

‘There is a certain logic in what you say,’ he admitted. ‘But I still think you’re cracked. This is going to be a real fighting war. It might last a year or it might be all over by Christmas, as some people think. But I’ll tell you this: it’s been so long coming that they won’t pack it in until there’s been some proper bloodletting.’

‘It’s all the one, Billy. I could be run over by a tram tomorrow. But I’d prefer to live before I die.’

‘Well, my only hope is that you get the chance, my friend. But tell me, what does your family make of this sudden change of tack? What did your father say?’

‘Oh, he’s delighted. He was always a Home Ruler, even back as far as Parnell. He makes me read Redmond’s speeches out of the newspaper for him, and when I told him I was going to join up, he shook my hand and told me I was doing a great thing for my country.’

Stephen’s voice trailed off. While what he had said was true, it wasn’t the whole truth. He didn’t mention the other things he had to read from the newspaper: the accounts of the German invasion of Belgium, of Austria-Hungary’s attacks on Servia. His father had never had any interest in international politics, nor had he paid any attention to the long drawn-out series of events that had culminated in war. But the moment war was declared he had shown a sudden and childlike fascination with it. He couldn’t hear enough about it, and writhed in his bed when Stephen read out accounts of atrocities, or even shelling. In particular, he’d conceived a hatred of Kaiser Wilhelm, and made a face whenever his name was mentioned.

‘That fella’s the Divil!’ he often spat out, but when Stephen stopped reading and looked self-consciously at the floor, he would urge him on, ‘What else? Is there more? Read it again. Tell me about the fighting.’

It was distressing for Stephen, and he had taken to lying or skipping over large tracts of the newspaper articles. His father had always been mild-mannered and gentle to a fault. But had this viciousness, this spite, always been in him? Was this mere raving, or was it the real man he was seeing? He was afraid it wasn’t pride that made his father’s eyes light up when he told him he was joining the army, but vengeance: all the bitterness and bile he’d built up lying sick in his bed spewing out unchecked.

‘You’ll show them,’ the old man had whispered, his bloodshot eyes burning, and he held his son’s hand so tight that the veins stood out under the parchment-dry skin. ‘You’ll get them back for what they did to us!’

‘I’m sure he must be very proud,’ said Billy, giving him a sidelong look. ‘But what about your brother? What does he make of it?’

‘He’s disgusted,’ Stephen answered, and smiled to himself. His brother had laughed out loud when he saw his face the morning after the ball. And he’d dined out on it too, smirking to himself the whole week long – until Stephen came back from the barracks on Friday afternoon. That had put the smile on the other side of his face. ‘He nearly had a fit when he found out. “You’re fighting the bosses’ war for them,” says he. “You’re taking the King’s shilling. You’re spitting on the workers.” But I think it sticks in his throat more that I’ll be an officer.’

‘God love him,’ Billy chuckled, ‘he must be the only socialist in the country with a brother who’s a King’s officer.’ He stood up and pushed his boater back on his head, his face suddenly brightening as he pulled out his pocket watch. ‘Come on, the pubs are open. We’ll have to have a drink to celebrate – wet your commission or whatever it is.’

Stephen started to get up from the bench, but groaned and subsided again.

‘Help me up,’ he asked holding out his hand, ‘my ribs hurt like hell whenever I try to stand up.’

Billy hauled him upright and looked him up and down with some concern. ‘I know Kitchener’s said every man should do his bit, and I’m sure they’re probably taking all comers, but really – how did you get past the medical in that state? You look like you’ve already been in the wars. What did they say about all the damage?’

‘Oh, there’s nothing broken,’ Stephen said cheerfully, as they set off towards Parkgate Street. But he still remembered the shock on the doctor’s face when he pulled up his shirt. There were so many new recruits he’d been working flat out all week and he’d seen his share of rickets and TB and the mange. But he’d not seen anything to match the yellowish mottling that covered half of Stephen’s ribcage. ‘It’s just bruises. The MO said they should clear up in a week or so.’

‘But wasn’t he the least bit curious as to how you came by them? Didn’t he ask?’

‘Of course he asked. I told him I got them playing rugby.’

‘And he believed you?’ Billy laughed out loud, ‘You cheeky sod! You lied your way into the army!’

‘Well, whether he believed me or not is beside the point. He still passed me fit. Anyway, it’s half true. Most of them
were
on the rugby team.’

‘He must have thought you were a bloody awful rugby player.’

‘I’m sure he did. He said I should think about taking up cricket.’

‘Cricket?’ Billy laughed again. ‘For God’s sake, you’ll hardly have time for that. Doesn’t he know there’s a war on?’

The flat plain of the Curragh offered no shelter from the wind, and by the time Stephen got to the officers’ mess it was snowing again. He could feel the flakes matting in his eyelashes and he had to kick the slush from his sodden boots before he went in. He’d been out in the open all day and was numb with the cold. As the afternoon slowly turned into night he’d started dreaming about the warmth of the mess and now he could hardly wait. The fire had been burning in there, day and night, for the last week, and the moment he stepped inside he felt his ears begin to burn and his eyes water. The familiar reek of turf smoke brought a smile to his pinched face, but his heart sank when a figure turned to look at him from the ragged armchair near the fireplace. The good armchair.

‘Ah, there you are, Ryan. The CO is looking for you.’

He might have known Hamilton would already be there. He’d hoped to get a few minutes warming himself by the fire, but Hamilton had beaten him to it. Doctor’s orders. He had a blanket around his shoulders and his feet in a basin of water. Frostbite in three of his toes. Half the mess had already come by to see him – partly as an excuse to bask in the heat for a few minutes, partly out of morbid curiosity. Frostbite in Ireland? Who’d have believed it? But who would have believed the weather could be so appallingly bad, and for six weeks with no respite. Day after day the freezing north wind had brought more snow and ice. Trees were falling down under the weight of it. The drifts were thigh deep in places, and the latrines needed boiling water tipped down them to melt the ice.

But they couldn’t let the weather stop them, not when they were this close. They were at the tipping point: on the cusp of becoming soldiers. Spring was just around the corner, and then they would be going to war. So with only a two-day break for Christmas they’d stuck it out: standing guard through the frozen nights, drilling together, digging trenches in the iron earth. They learned to ambush and skirmish in the snowy heather. They went on route marches across the frozen plains, and they climbed into the Wicklow Mountains with the cold pinching their faces and the icy wind howling around their ears. Maybe it wasn’t so shocking that Hamilton had come down with frostbite. Perhaps the real surprise was that he was their only case.

On foot of Mr Hamilton’s condition – when he read out the order that morning, the adjutant had paused to let the joke sink in, then repeated it just to be sure – on foot of Mr Hamilton’s condition, feet were to be inspected at the end of every day. Consequently, Stephen had just made the rounds of his platoon – all twenty-five of them sitting on their haversacks with their socks off and their feet held up for him to peer at. Remarkably varied, he thought, as he moved from one pair to the next; one man’s feet were as different from another man’s as his face was. But even though the feet were all scarred to one degree or another – mostly pocked with the fleshy craters of old blisters long since hardened over – there was no blackness, no sign of frostbite. He was relieved and glad to get it over. No weather to be lying on your arse and waving your bare feet in the air. By the time he got to the end of the line his own feet were like blocks of ice and he craved warmth. He wanted heat and he wanted food, but Hamilton had beaten him to the good armchair, and the CO wouldn’t be kept waiting.

‘He was here not five minutes ago wanting to know if you were about,’ Hamilton added helpfully. ‘Said to send you over to his office if you showed up.’

‘Oh, right-oh. I’d best see what he wants.’ He turned towards the door but hesitated. To linger in the warmth for even a few seconds was a balm, ‘How are the feet?’

‘Much better, thanks. Hurt like buggery when the circulation came back, but I can wiggle my toes now.’ Hamilton lifted one foot out of the water and wiggled.

‘Good for you!’ Stephen fastened the neck of his greatcoat and turned the collar up around his ears. ‘Well, see you in a bit,’ he waved, and then plunged back out into the frigid air.

Colonel Downing’s office was on the far side of the barracks square, its window a warm yellow beacon in the dark. But getting there was no simple matter. The square had been shovelled clear of snow that morning, but it was already covered again – though so lightly that the treacherous undercoat of black ice still gleamed in the moonlight. He decided to go around by the wall, picking his way past windows rimed with frost and open arches hung with fangs of ice. Better to go the long way than to risk his neck on that flaming skating rink. As he worked his way around he started to examine his conscience. Was he in trouble? Back in the autumn a summons to the colonel’s office was like a death sentence for subalterns. Three had gone in there and got their marching orders before September was even out.

But that was months ago, and once the obvious no-hopers had been weeded out the sackings had stopped. Stephen had found army life to be more agreeable than he expected. Perhaps it was because, apart from the small cadre of regular soldiers drafted in to train them, the battalion was entirely composed of volunteers. There was a sense of common purpose about them, a camaraderie that he had not known in college, and for the first time he felt as if he belonged to the majority. It helped that he had proved himself to be a useful officer. He was competent, clever and popular with his men, but better than that, he could shoot – and the regulars prized this skill above all others. On his first day at the rifle range he emptied his ten-shot magazine into the bull’s-eye at two hundred yards. He didn’t even have to turn his head to know that most of his fellow lieutenants weren’t doing nearly as well. The angry bellowing coming from down the line told him that most of them were struggling to put even one shot in the paper. But when he heard the tread of the musketry sergeant behind him, there was only a surprised snort, and then:

‘Reload!’

Stephen deftly reloaded and snapped the bolt shut.

‘Fire!’

He brought the rifle up, steadied the sights, and squeezed the trigger. It was all easy and familiar to him; the butt thumping hard against his shoulder, the smooth flow of his right hand from bolt to trigger, the crack of each round and the tinkle of falling brass. With the last shot he lay still and smiled to himself. Even before the flag went up he knew he’d done it again. There was a stunned silence from Sergeant Townsend.

‘Where the fucking hell did you learn to do that, Mr Ryan?’

‘My grandfather taught me, sergeant.’

‘Was your grandfather an army man?’

‘No, sergeant, a gamekeeper.’

‘I dare say he would’ve made a fucking good poacher, Mr Ryan!’

This cold weather had brought his grandfather to mind again. He’d have it hard in his small cottage in Mayo, miles from the nearest village. The hardiest man he ever met, but so old that he had to worry about him. For the first few years of Stephen’s life he’d been so remote, so deep in the country that he had barely been aware of his existence. But when Stephen’s mother died the old man had made the long journey up to Dublin to see his daughter buried. Stephen had felt an affinity for him from the moment they met. Even though he had barely turned seven, he thought he felt the roots of himself in this tall man, with his neatly combed silver hair and his heavy tweed suit. He thought he could see himself grown old.