A Village Voice

by Brian Martin

  His precocious twelve-year-old cousin, Mary, shouted out, “Uncle Jim, you look great, you look like the number two man in the Mafia.” Silence… they were a noisy table in a restaurant full of other noisy families, but you could have heard the proverbial pin drop. His aunts who had been laughing now buried their heads in their menus. Uncle Jim, who at first seemed a bit taken aback, walked over to Mary and patted her on the head.

  “Jeez, Mary, I spent a lot on these clothes, I was hoping I would look like the number one man.”

  Nervous laughter from the aunts and cries of, “For Gods sakes, let’s order,” from Uncle Joe (the eldest brother), and “Yeah let’s order, it’s probably past Joe’s bedtime,” from his Uncle Gerry (second eldest). Genuine laughter from the table this time and the rest of the restaurant seemed to take its cue from them and got back to having a good time.

  The morning after that family dinner was a Saturday and his dad was at home. His dad was making tea and his mom was having what she called ‘a-lie-in.’ The young Brian went into the kitchen and reached for the cocoa puffs. His little brother was still asleep. His brother never wanted to go to bed but once his head hit the pillow, there was no waking him. He had poured the milk, but had a few minutes to kill before it became sufficiently chocolatey, so he asked his dad abruptly,

  “Why did everyone go quiet when Cousin Mary said Uncle Jim looked like he was in the Mafia?”

  “What?” his father replied. “What are you talking about? Eat your cereal, I’m going to make pancakes later.”

  “What are you talking about?” was a phrase that Brian’s dad used often. At the time, Brian had figured out that the phrase could have a number of meanings. It could mean, “that’s ridiculous,” or “you don’t know what you are talking about.” In this context, it might be used as a response to the claim that the Mets were a better baseball team than the Yankees. Although, in that case, the phrase would get the strong form version, “what the hell are you talking about?” The phrase could also be used as an appeal for the speaker to be reasonable. In the midst of a family squabble, you might hear, “Ah, what are you talking about, let’s all sit down now and have a cup of tea and we will work this out.” Sometimes it just meant simply, “I don’t understand what you are saying.” It took Brian many more years before he figured out that his dad also used the phrase like a politician uses, “I’m glad you asked me that question,” that he used to buy time while he tried to come up with a response. Brian figured that this time he had just not made himself clear, so he continued,

  “But Dad, why did everyone get quiet, the whole place…”

  His dad, who up until then had been highly absorbed in the relatively simple process of waiting for a kettle to boil, sighed and turned to face him.

  “Dear God, I suppose you are old enough now and that I should explain some things, a bit of a family history lesson may be in order. Get your jacket, we’ll go the bakery and pick up some Danish pastries to surprise your mom.”

  Chapter Two

  Ireland, 1919

  In the cold, gray, wet Irish dawn, two Irish Volunteers made their way across the fields toward an abandoned cottage near the shores of Lough Derg in County Tipperary. They walked in silence, single file and stayed close to the high hedgerows that created the patchwork quilt of small land holdings prevalent in that part of the country. What they wanted most of all was a cigarette but that was not allowed. “No presents to the British now, good volunteers are a precious commodity,” the words of their commander, Michael Kennedy, recalled to memory every time they were tempted to break cover and take a short cut or stop for a quick smoke. If they were going to defeat the armed forces of a mighty empire, then they would have to fight smart and fight with discipline. Discipline and a good pair of boots were a must they were told. “I don’t care if ye have to beg borrow or steal them, but make sure when ye show up for duty ye have a good pair of boots. Ye are no good to me, sick lads or hobbling lame, no good at all. Mobility is the key, strike and move, strike and move, boys. Everyone must keep up with the column or by God I will leave you behind with one round and a rosary, I swear to God, I will.” They believed him about the boots; it was good common sense as any man used to the outdoors in Ireland could tell you.

  As to being left behind, the Volunteers, Dan and Billy Flanagan, had seen this very commander march for hours with a wounded comrade on his back. When asked about it afterwards by his men, he replied that he had neither the round nor the rosary to spare at the time. The two men were brothers, farm laborers from a neighboring parish. They did not have any land themselves, but family history had it that their grandfather had a farm until the family was evicted. An English landlord kept raising the rent until they could no longer pay, then constables came and turned them out of the place. The grandfather died of drinking and a broken heart, the grandmother went to live with relatives, and the children were split up to live with other relations in order not to place too great a burden on any one family. Their father was a farm laborer, as they had grown up to be. They were strong, strapping, fine looking men. The local girls considered the younger brother, Billy, to be the handsomer of the two. This had less to do with physical features, as the brothers were really quite alike in looks, but more to do with the fact that Billy was almost always smiling and up for a bit of fun. Dan, on the other hand, seemed to wear a permanent frown.

  Year after year of hard physical labor in the damp cold Irish weather had taken its toll on their father. He was no longer able to earn enough to support the family of six (the boys had four younger sisters). Arthritis prevented the old man from being much use on a farm. However, he was a good judge of cattle and he did manage to earn a bit for expert advice during the local cattle marts. This, a few odd jobs and their mother’s genius at managing with very little, was still not enough. What the boys brought in made the difference between just getting by and not. Opportunity was what the brothers wanted, opportunity to own their own land, in their own country. They knew that opportunity was never likely to arise as long as the British landlords held their estates. Irish land is for Irishmen and let the British go home or go to hell. A sense of injustice, a desire for opportunity. The hope that a free Ireland would be grateful to the warriors who had helped to win that freedom. The hope that when the landlords were sent packing the land, would somehow be made available to those who had answered the call.

  The Proclamation made during the 1916 Rising, described the type of Ireland, the type of Republic that offered hope and offered a future to men such as themselves. They were also concerned that the British might introduce conscription in Ireland and they would be sent off to fight in Flanders. They had decided that they would rather die in Ireland and for Ireland. Two of their cousins on their mother’s side, Johnny and Paddy O’Connor, had volunteered to fight to save poor Catholic Belgium from the Hun armies and win Home Rule for Ireland. Johnny died during his first week at the front, hit by an artillery shell. He was, as the family was told by a local lad also in the same regiment, “Blown to smithereens, God help him.” Paddy had been gassed and was in hospital in France; he wasn’t expected to make it home. The Flanagans had sympathy for the poor people of Belgium but they didn’t want to die for them. The boys were not great scholars but they could not recall the Belgians ever coming to Ireland’s aide. To the best of their knowledge, no Belgian armies had arrived to help the Irish defend their towns against Cromwell, they had not heard of any fleets of Belgian ships arriving during the Great Famine, when hundreds of thousands of Irish people were left to starve to death, while the British authorities calmly exported wheat from the country.

  No, they wouldn’t die for the Belgians, but they wished them the best of luck. As for the promise of Home Rule for Ireland, they were amazed at the number of Irishmen who were willing to trust the British on that one. British politicians had suggested that if Ireland did her part for the war, Home Rule for Ireland would inevitably follow. They had hundreds of years of deceit and betrayal
to look back on, and yet there were many Irishmen who still believed in a promise from the British government and were willing to bet their lives on it. Wanting land of their own, wanting to be free men in their own country and not trusting a British promise, all these were concepts or ideas. Having ideas is one thing, but to be willing to kill someone, to take a life is something else. For the brothers, their mind was made up about the course they would follow, one very sunny Wednesday afternoon.

  They were up at the creamery, delivering milk from the farm where they worked. The creamery manager, Jimmy Hayes, was a popular man. Small and round, Jimmy seemed always to be in good form. He loved to laugh and joke, and his laughter was infectious. When he laughed, his whole body shook. In fact, when people of the neighborhood wanted to emphasize just how much they had appreciated a funny story they would say, “I laughed like Jimmy Hayes.” There was a good crowd at the creamery, as was usually the case, a dozen men dropping off, plus the four men who worked for Jimmy. They were in dairy country, and visitors (jealous, of course) would often remark that the parish had more cows than people. The brothers had secured the empty churns on the horse and trap and were about to head off when a lorry-load of soldiers pulled up at the gate and blocked the exit.

  A squad of British soldiers came off the lorry and spread out across the yard. A sergeant appeared to be about to address them. Dan noticed that there was no officer in sight. This didn’t feel right, a lorry with this many men and no officer. The squad of soldiers were pointing their weapons at the locals and yet no orders had been issued. Dan looked at Billy and they both looked around to see what cover might be available if the worst happened. The sergeant was that rare soldier who was actually disappointed at the end of the Great War. It was not that he particularly enjoyed life in the trenches, but the army, and especially the army at war gave him a license to indulge his great passion in life. That great passion was to inflict pain on others.

  At first, the sergeant was concerned that the Irish conflict would be a bit tame but after a few months, things had turned ugly and he began to enjoy himself. After this operation had been laid out for him by his officer, such was his excitement that he hardly slept at all. His great wish was that a good number of the Paddies would be provoked beyond endurance and rush toward his men. His instructions to the men had been to use the bayonet and where possible, to wound and not kill outright. With any luck at all, it would be up to him to make sure that the wounded received the proper attention, which he would provide, personally.

  “All right you lot, gather ’round over near that cart. I want you to gather ’round so that you can hear me loud and clear.”

  Jimmy Hayes had come out from his office and was approaching the sergeant.

  “Ah yes, I want you up here with me. Help me to gather this lot.” The sergeant grabbed Jimmy by the back of his neck and dragged him up onto the back of a large cart. A smiling corporal joined them.

  “Here, take a hold of this bastard, Corporal,” said the sergeant.

  “Yes sir,” replied the corporal and Jimmy was transferred from one to the other.

  The crowd, seeing Jimmy roughly handled, was beginning to murmur. The younger lads were looking at the soldiers and beginning to wonder if a quick rush would be worth the risk; they were looking at the soldiers and at each other. Before they could decide, the sergeant pulled a pistol, fired into the air and then held the pistol to Jimmy’s head.

  “I said, gather ’round, Paddies. I won’t repeat the order.”

  Everyone obeyed and gathered ’round. Dan figured that if they had come to shoot them, they would have opened fire by now. This was going to be a speech; a message was going to be sent.

  “That’s right, close enough. Now, I’m sure you lot have heard about some of the disturbances that have occurred in neighboring districts.”

  They all had heard that a man had gone berserk and killed two British soldiers with a hatchet in a pub on the Limerick road, but that was miles from here. There had been talk of shots fired on a patrol near the lake, but that had not been confirmed. Some of the locals claimed that it had actually been a backfire from one of their own lorries that had spooked the patrol. The sergeant continued,

  “Well, I just want you all to be clear about how things are going to work right here.”

  The sergeant had lowered his pistol and was no longer aiming at Jimmy. The corporal had let go of the back of Jimmy’s neck. Jimmy looked as if he were about to cry with fear. He slouched down and he looked like he was having trouble keeping his feet under him. The corporal spun him around and slapped him back handed across the mouth.

  “Stand up straight, Paddy, when the sergeant is addressing you.”

  The corporal had to help Jimmy stand up straight again, grabbing hold of the back of his neck. The sergeant resumed his speech.

  “How things will work are as follows. If a shot is fired on any soldier in this district, we are going to come back here and burn this place down around your fucking ears. If any of my men are injured here in this district by a bullet or a bomb or hatchet say, or any other fucking thing you treacherous bastards think of, for every one of my men injured, two of you bastards are going to be arrested. Being treacherous bastards, you are going to try and escape, and you are going to be shot while trying to escape. Are we absolutely clear as to how things will work here?”

  Hearing no response, the sergeant grabbed Jimmy by the throat and slapped him again backhanded across the mouth. Jimmy began to gush blood from a split lip. The sergeant leaned close to Jimmy and yelled in his ear,

  “I understand that you are a thick ignorant Irish bastard so I will explain just once that when I ask you if I have made myself clear, the correct response is ‘Yes, sir.’ I want to hear you say it nice and loud and then I will ask you lot again and I want to hear you all say it. If you don’t say it nice and loud I am going to lose my fucking patience.”

  The sergeant leaned forward and yelled in Jimmy’s ear,

  “Right then, are we clear?” Jimmy did his best to shout out a yes sir between bloody and broken teeth. The sergeant turned to the crowd of men.

  “… and you lot, are we clear?”

  Now, now is the time, the sergeant thought to himself. Now is the time to rush us, you spineless bastards.

  “Yes, sir,” came the reply just loud enough to be heard.

  “I don’t think I heard that!” The sergeant raised his hand to Jimmy, who had closed his eyes and seemed to be praying. In order to spare him further pain and humiliation, the crowd shouted louder this time.

  “Yes, sir!”

  This seemed to satisfy the sergeant, but yet he still seemed somehow disappointed with the response. Pleased to be obeyed, but disappointed that he wasn’t watching bayonet practice, the sergeant realized that he would have to make the best of what he had been given. He was comforted by the fact that the pain and humiliation were not quite over for Jimmy. The sergeant noticed that some of Jimmy’s blood was now on the sleeve of the corporal’s uniform.

  “Corporal, you have pig’s blood on your uniform.”

  The corporal called Jimmy a filthy Paddy bastard and threw him over the cart and into a pile of muck. Jimmy made an effort to raise himself and several of the crowd closest to him went to help.

  “No, everyone stay still, right where you are.” The sergeant raised his revolver and pointed at the crowd. “Hold on, your friend here seems to be in some discomfort. I can help with that.” The sergeant caught Jimmy by the hair of his head and then hit him full force across the side of the face with his pistol. Jimmy’s jaw was broken and he passed out from the blinding pain. “See now, that is better. We are going to be leaving now and you can all stand still and your friend can stay in the muck until we have left. Then you can all crawl back to your fucking pig sties. Remember today and remember what I have said. God help you fuckers if I ever have to come back here.”

  The sergeant and the corporal withdrew to the lorry, the engine started and the squad
withdrew. Before the soldiers had left the gate, the crowd had gathered around Jimmy and begun lifting him back to his office. It was a small act of defiance and a greater one came within the week, when eight of the twelve men present that day joined the Volunteers. Jimmy left the area and went to live with relatives in Mayo. The local doctor said that Jimmy’s nerves were gone completely and that he was as bad as some of those who had come home from the war. Jimmy left the parish; he was gone but not forgotten. Whenever Dan or Billy or any of the men present that day went into action and knew that they might have to take a life, they remembered Jimmy. They remembered the sergeant and the corporal, they remembered that if they had had a gun that day they would have used it. They remembered their anger, fear and frustration. They remembered Jimmy’s laugh and the blood pouring out of his mouth.

  Since joining up, Dan and Billy had been out a number of times with the Volunteers. It was always the same pattern. Assemble, arm, receive orders, execute those orders, stash weapons and disband. The farmer that the brothers worked for knew well what they were up to when they told him they had to go away for a bit. He knew that he would have to provide an alibi if any enquiries were made. The farmer was a Catholic and a Nationalist, he was sympathetic to the cause, but wasn’t a fighting man himself. His eldest son was able-bodied but was needed to inherit the farm so he couldn’t be off risking his life and the family’s future. He had two others boys, one studying to be a veterinarian, while his youngest was in the seminary. His eldest daughter had married into another strong farming family in the parish. His other girl was at home but was doing a line (going steady) with a young lawyer from a nearby town. He would have preferred if she would marry into land, but the girl had notions and had the cheek to announce that she didn’t care for life on the farm. She said that she looked forward to moving into town. He believed that her notions were the direct result of modern education. He had paid good money to the nuns in Limerick and someone had filled her head full of nonsense.