An Ocean Between Us

by Rachel Quinn

  ‘Tell me, why did you volunteer?’

  Niall drew breath. ‘Well, I know it sounds stupid, but sometimes—’

  At that moment they both heard a noise from outside – right outside the station door. It opened and four German soldiers strode in – two privates and two men who looked like generals or sergeants, maybe. The privates stood to attention while the other men talked, all the time looking Niall and Peter up and down. A fifth soldier entered carrying a tray of food and drink. Niall and Peter approached the cell door, but the privates stepped forward and took aim. One of them shouted something.

  ‘What?’ Peter said to him. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I think he wants us to step away to the back of the cell,’ Niall said, pulling on Peter’s arm.

  ‘Well, why doesn’t he bloody well say so?’ Peter shook his arm away from Niall’s grasp, not taking his eyes off the German who’d been shouting. Slowly he stepped back, and both prisoners stood with their backs against the brickwork while the fifth German unlocked the cell door and placed the tray inside. Only once the door was locked and the Germans had left did Niall and Peter step forward.

  The bread was stale, but edible. The cheese was like no cheese Niall had ever eaten before – soft and jelly-like. The water was lacking only in quantity.

  When they’d finished, Peter offered the tray of crumbs and smudges of cheese to Niall, who shook his head. ‘Well, I ain’t proud,’ Peter said, and licked the thing clean.

  The tray was turned and slid between the bars, the metal mugs just about fitting through. A few belches later, both men sat back into positions that had now – even after only a few hours – become customary, their shoulder blades scraping against the wall.

  Peter let out a satisfied sigh, then glanced at Niall, noticing the expression on his face. ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘Aren’t you worried?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve got a feeling we’ll both be all right.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  Peter drew a long breath. ‘The big boss is Feldwebel Brandt – that’s Sergeant Brandt to you and me. He said they’re gonna use us as bargaining tools, so he wants to keep us alive, which means keeping us fed and watered, and not thumping us about too much. They’re hoping they can swap us for German prisoners taken by the Allies. Fingers crossed we’ll be out of here within days.’

  ‘What? How do you . . . ?’ Niall thought for a moment. ‘You speak German?’

  Peter put a finger to his lips. ‘They don’t know that,’ he whispered. ‘And it’s gotta stay that way.’

  Niall couldn’t help but smile. ‘You crafty sod.’

  They laughed.

  For the rest of that day the men talked almost incessantly. They were only rarely disturbed, twice when water was brought to them, and on the few occasions that sounds of distant gunfire and shouts from outside halted their conversation.

  It was a day when each man told the other his life story.

  Peter had a wife and three children back in Dagenham. The youngest, Lily for short, but more often Lily with the long blonde hair and a missing front tooth, was too young to understand what her father was doing. The other two, Beryl and John, idolized their father. They both talked about joining the Forces when they grew up. John wanted to join the RAF as a pilot; his father hadn’t the heart to tell him his short-sightedness would make that difficult. Beryl wanted to be a Wren, although her mother was trying to guide her toward nursing.

  Peter’s wife, Cynthia, had the sharpest dimples he’d ever seen. Making her smile was so rewarding that he even listed it as one of his hobbies, alongside pigeon racing and cricket –supporting Essex and playing for his local team. It had come as no surprise to be told while training for the paratroopers that he had much better than average hand-to-eye coordination.

  To Niall he seemed a simple man at heart, pleased and proud to do his duty for king and country, but ultimately just as concerned that his children grew up happy and healthy, and that his wife didn’t go without the one or two luxuries that helped her stop worrying about him – if only for a short time. Niall remarked on the contrast between those two aims – fighting and caring for his family – but Peter insisted the objectives were one and the same: that if Hitler was allowed to succeed he feared for his children’s futures.

  Peter’s plans for after the war were just as modest. He wanted to find a good job with a good pension, race pigeons, start playing with the local cricket club again, and give the children the occasional week at the seaside that would leave them with fond memories for the rest of their lives.

  Looking further ahead, his big wish was not to work himself into the ground like his father had done, but to retire to the seaside. There were one or two likely spots along the Essex coast. In truth, that was Cynthia’s wish, but Peter wanted to make her happy, so that had become their plan.

  Niall and Peter both spoke of their schooldays, their families, and their war exploits so far, and by the end of the day Niall felt as though he knew Peter as well as he knew himself.

  The bucket got used more than once, something else that provided a little humour for both men.

  As the sun was setting outside, more food was provided. More stale bread, more soft cheese, and this time an apple each.

  ‘We must be in their good books,’ Peter remarked as the tray was laid down.

  An hour after nightfall Niall’s ears were ringing with Peter’s voice, and his throat was sore from talking. Both men fell silent, as if they had said all they needed to say.

  But Peter did say a little more. He said he was whacked out and was going to get some shut-eye. He pulled his boots off, arranged them on their sides, one on top of the other, then lay down on his side with his head resting on their muddy leather.

  ‘You never did finish telling me,’ he said as he closed his eyes, ‘why you volunteered to join the British Army when you coulda just as easily stayed at ’ome.’

  ‘Well,’ Niall said. He managed to get another sentence out before Peter’s snoring told him more words would be wasted. Niall lay down too and was soon asleep. Distant gunfire woke him up once or twice, but there was nothing he could do, nowhere he could run to. He would just have to trust in Peter’s theory of luck, so fell back to sleep quickly every time he was disturbed.

  The next morning, both men were woken up by the same group of officials as on the first day. Again, Sergeant Brandt and his colleague spoke while breakfast was passed to Niall and Peter, leaving shortly afterward.

  Niall started eating, but Peter didn’t seem to be hungry. Also he didn’t speak. Or smile.

  ‘What is it?’ Niall said. ‘What were they saying?’

  Peter struggled to speak. ‘They . . . they, erm . . .’

  ‘They what?’

  Peter gave a sceptical smile. ‘Brandt said the prisoner swap didn’t work. They wanted five German POWs for each of us.’

  ‘What?’ Niall screeched.

  ‘Exactly. The Allies refused, which is understandable.’

  ‘So . . . we just stay here?’

  Peter stared straight ahead for a moment.

  ‘What else did they say?’

  ‘I got the impression they’re planning to move on tonight.’

  ‘Move on?’

  ‘To retreat from the town. Don’t know whether you noticed, but the gunfire’s getting closer.’

  ‘I thought so. Didn’t like to say. But what about us? Did they say any more?’

  Now Peter’s face seemed to sag a little. ‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ he said. ‘Well, that is, as long as your guess is that they won’t take us with them.’

  Niall said nothing.

  For the rest of that day, with sounds of battle getting ever louder, the conversation between Niall and Peter didn’t come quite so easily. There was talk, but it was stilted, with neither man able to concentrate for more than a few minutes. As the sun started to descend and no food came to them, both men fell silent.

  As dark
ness came, Niall said, ‘We’re going to die, aren’t we?’

  Peter didn’t even look at Niall, let alone reply.

  The crackle of gunfire became louder, and just as the explosions threatened to shake the very building apart, the German soldiers returned.

  There was still no food, and the German faces were sullen, staring right through Niall and Peter as they opened the cell door, strode in, and shoved both men up against the wall. This time Niall was aware of the rough mortar grinding against his shoulder blades for only a split second – mere physical pain was neither here nor there.

  There were five of them: the two senior men, including Sergeant Brandt with his pistol at the ready, and three ordinary soldiers, rifles in hand. The senior men exchanged a few words. Niall heard Peter curse on hearing them. Sergeant Brandt stepped forward and held his left hand against Niall’s neck, pinning him to the wall. Niall saw the other hand come up, the one with the pistol. He could hardly put up a fight, not with two rifles also pointed at him.

  With the muzzle right between his eyes, he almost fainted, struggling to focus on the hand at the other end, its trigger finger twitching randomly.

  Chapter 19

  Leetown, County Wicklow, August 1944

  Aileen had been back home for a day. So far, it had been all smiles and questions on what Belfast was like. They asked about the house she’d stayed in, the factory she’d worked in, what films she’d seen, who she’d met, the cars she’d seen in the city and so on. There was no undercurrent – as far as she could tell – suggesting she’d done anything wrong by going there.

  It was the next morning before she and Briana managed to leave the cottage for a walk on the beach to talk. Speaking to the whole of her family had been just a little stilted, almost formal, and she’d been too busy answering questions to ask any. It would be different, just her and Briana on their own.

  ‘So, are you pleased to be back?’ Briana asked as they walked down to the shore. ‘I mean, really, genuinely happy?’

  ‘Ah, tis grand,’ Aileen replied. She knew how it sounded as soon as she’d said it.

  ‘You don’t sound certain?’

  ‘Tis mixed feelings, I suppose. You’d understand if you’d come with me.’

  ‘Ah, right.’

  ‘Ah, no, I didn’t mean it like that, Briana. You know that.’

  Pain etched itself on Briana’s forehead. ‘Aileen, you’ll never know how much I thought about joining you up there.’

  ‘Does that mean you regret not coming with me?’

  Briana glanced down at her feet, dragging in the wet sand. Then she stared at Aileen, squinting at the morning sun beyond.

  Aileen stopped walking. ‘Ah, bloody hell, Briana. Sure, why didn’t you come with me? I feel terrible now.’

  ‘Bloody hell?’ Briana echoed, narrowing her eyes at her sister.

  ‘Sorry. Tis something I picked up in Belfast.’

  ‘Be sure not to go saying that in front of Mammy or Daddy.’

  ‘Well, of course not. Being in Belfast hasn’t made me stupid, Briana.’

  ‘But it’s certainly changed you, all right. Everyone in the family has noticed, sure they have.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really. And I’m still trying to find out whether it’s for the better.’

  Aileen thought for a moment as they paddled along the shallow water toward Bevanstown. ‘Ah, definitely for the better. It’s hard to explain, but I’m seeing Leetown in a completely new light, almost as though I haven’t been here before.’

  ‘And your family? Do you see us in a new light?’

  ‘Mmm . . . you know, I think I do. I’d find it hard to leave this place for good – it’ll always be home. But Belfast certainly opened my eyes a bit, so it did.’

  ‘Grand,’ Briana said. ‘Grand.’

  ‘So . . . are you a little jealous?’

  ‘Stop it, Aileen. You know I am.’

  ‘So, twas horrible here without your little sister, was it?’

  ‘I’ll tell you one thing, it was certainly horrible sharing a bed with young Frank. He’s at that . . . y’know, that funny age boys go through.’

  Aileen held the palm of her hand up. ‘Ah, no. I’m not wanting to know about that.’

  ‘Sure, I didn’t want to know either. But never mind boys, what about men? Are you still writing to Niall?’

  ‘Of course I am.’ There was a little more vitriol in the words than Aileen intended.

  ‘I’m sorry. I was meaning, how is he?’

  ‘Well . . .’ Aileen walked on a few paces before continuing. ‘He was in the D-Day landings thing. I haven’t received a letter from him since then. I just hope . . .’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Aileen. Perhaps you don’t want to talk about Niall.’

  ‘Not really. I just want to wait and pray for him. I have absolutely no idea whether he’s alive or . . . whether he’s injured or captured or whatever.’ She looked straight ahead, not wanting Briana to see the fear in her eyes.

  Saint-Jean, near the France–Belgium border, August 1944

  In the jail cell, Niall’s eyes were wide with terror – still staring at the hand pressing the pistol to his head, its trigger finger twitching.

  ‘Stop it,’ he said. ‘Don’t do this, please.’ His arms shook uncontrollably, his head a little too. But the worst thing was his voice, straining and warbling as though he was eight or nine and being threatened in the playground. ‘Take us with you,’ he said. ‘Please. We’ll . . . we’ll do anything.’

  Brandt tutted, a look of disgust on his face. ‘Why can’t you take it like a man?’ he said in almost perfect English, and in a voice so gentle it magnified the menace. ‘My God, you are a coward, aren’t you?’ He pulled the pistol away and instead brought his head up to Niall’s so their noses were almost touching, their foreheads inches apart. ‘A typical cowardly Englishman.’

  Niall gulped. The man had a point. Perhaps he was going to die, but there was no reason to die a coward. From deep down in his guts, he somehow summoned up a little energy. ‘I’m not an Englishman,’ he said, his voice strengthening with every word.

  Brandt shrugged. ‘All right, a British man. You prefer that?’

  Niall reached a hand up and grabbed the man’s wrist, wrestling the hand away from his throat. ‘I’m not British either.’

  Brandt laughed. ‘What is this? Is it a . . . how would you say, a comedy joke?’

  ‘He’s Irish,’ Peter said. ‘Can’t you tell by the way he talks?’

  ‘You think I’m stupid? You think I know nothing of my enemy? I know about Ireland. American forces are stationed there.’

  ‘Only in the North. He’s from the South.’

  ‘The . . . Free . . .’ Brandt was confused for a moment.

  ‘The Irish Free State,’ Niall said. ‘The Republic, we prefer to say.’

  ‘Tell me the truth,’ Brandt said, still glaring at Niall. ‘Is that where you are from?’

  Niall nodded. ‘Aren’t I just after telling you? County Kildare, just south of Dublin.’

  Brandt paused, then took a step back. He exchanged a few words with his compatriot while Niall looked to Peter for some sort of guidance as to what they were saying.

  Before Peter could react, Brandt stepped back to Niall.

  ‘Why are you in the British Army?’ he said. ‘It does not make sense.’

  Niall hesitated. It was a hard question to answer in the circumstances. It was hard to think of any logical answer to anything when his words might well be the last ones he ever uttered.

  ‘For the money,’ he said. ‘That’s all. Just the pay. If you want the truth, I hate the British as much as you do.’

  Brandt’s brow creased up. He briefly glanced at Peter then said to Niall, ‘You really hate the British?’

  ‘Not half,’ Peter interjected. ‘We’ve almost come to blows in here, him and me. He told me the British killed his father, see. He was in the IRA. Good riddance to him too, I say. Blo
ody Paddies. And we hate them as much as they hate us.’

  Brandt turned to Niall. ‘Is this true about your father?’

  Niall nodded. ‘Tis. He, ah . . . he died fighting against the British for independence.’

  ‘And this man still knows people in the IRA,’ Peter added. ‘He’s no friend of mine, but he could be useful to you, I suppose.’

  Brandt opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again and glanced back at the other official. He stepped back to talk to him.

  Niall looked to his side. But Peter was looking straight ahead, his face expressionless.

  Brandt returned to Niall. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘We will see. We might have uses for you.’

  Then he turned to Peter and grasped him by the neck.

  ‘I could be useful to you too,’ Peter said. ‘Fluent German. I could translate.’

  Brandt brought his revolver to Peter’s forehead and said, ‘We don’t need translators.’

  He pulled the trigger, and in a split second all Peter’s dreams – of playing cricket on lazy Sunday afternoons, of racing pigeons, of watching his children grow up and have their own families, and of retiring with his wife to the seaside – vanished in a blast of cordite.

  Niall found himself staring at a blood-soaked crater in the wall.

  ‘Out!’ Brandt barked at him. ‘Now!’

  Niall didn’t move – couldn’t even breathe – could only stare to his side, at his friend. He didn’t know Cynthia, Beryl, John, or Lily with the long blonde hair and a missing front tooth. But for a moment he cried for them.

  The building shook as a bomb of some sort exploded nearby.

  Brandt held his pistol up to Niall’s head. ‘Last chance.’

  Niall gulped, then nodded. Taking shallow breaths, he managed to stagger out of the jailhouse and into the street, followed closely by the three German soldiers, their rifles inches from his back.

  He took deep, greedy gulps of the fresh air, and his body eventually stopped trembling. He looked up to see the night sky flashing orange and yellow with the reflected light of exploding shells and gunfire. To his left lay the road by which he’d been driven into the village only a day before. To his right was a steady stream of people and vehicles heading out of the town, fleeing the inevitable march of the British Army. Beyond all of that, flames from burning buildings licked the sky, children screamed for their lives, and people raced around like wild animals.