A Whispered Name

by William Brodrick

  The birds’ singing grew louder than the guns. The woods grew taller. The sliver of light lost its sharpness. On they marched. Panic lay crouching in the remaining darkness, but he was not frightened.

  Meg’s voice was weak now. If you leave the land, Seosamh, death will claim you. Sure, it had been a bad dream, that’s all. It was a gorgeous cove, where she lived: a beach of small stones and shells swung beneath the cliffs, and birds floated high, circling her cottage. She threw them scraps when they swooped low, their beaks open, their eyes bright. She lived off fish and bread baked beneath peat.

  At the entrance to the woods, the escort slowed. The guard on Flanagan’s left leaned into him, forcing a right turn towards a path. Small flowers, their colour indistinct, speckled the entrance. Branches hung low like rafters in the cottages back home. Muiris had used spars from boats wrecked upon the rocks. Sailors had cut names into the timber, along with dates. As a boy, Flanagan had stood on a chair and followed the scored letters with his finger, wondering who they all might be, and where they’d lived their days. They were all women.

  A hundred yards ahead was a clearing. The green of the leaves was brighter, the grass thick and trampled. All Flanagan’s senses seemed to flare with violent activity. All at once he suffered a kind of attack: from the scent of bruised ferns and nettles; the taste of the dew on the air; the crazed, hidden chattering of the birds; the colours bleeding into one another. He moaned and almost recoiled from this sudden, glorious opening out of the world. It was like a first and final disclosure: a showing of something that had always been there to be taken away within an instant.

  I’ll drink this one now, said Mr Drennan. The other I shall save for your homecoming, however bitter the grape might turn.

  Upon entering the trodden space, Flanagan saw to his right a section of men with their backs turned, lined up in two ranks of six. They faced the woods, heads down, hands by their sides. Laid on the ground behind them in a neat line were their rifles, breeches closed. An officer stood at attention, a swagger stick under his arm. His boots were shining. All at once Flanagan felt the presence of panic, but it kept still, rounded its shoulders like a cat watching its prey. Flanagan’s muscles tensed, his teeth bared and he began to wheeze. Hands grabbed each elbow and brought him stumbling to a chair before a pale wooden post. Straw had been laid on the ground.

  ‘Sit down, mate,’ said a Sergeant.

  Flanagan obeyed. Immediately Father Maguire blocked his view of the firing party. The priest placed a strong hand on Flanagan’s neck and drew him hard into his shoulder. Other hands gripped Flanagan’s wrists and forced them behind the chair. Rope burned his skin. A voice muttered something about the knot being loose.

  ‘This day you enter the kingdom prepared for the just,’ whispered the priest ferociously, as he was drawn away. His eyes were ablaze with passion and faith and rage.

  When Flanagan had reached the crowd at the slip, he’d turned to see Brendan … he’d come out of hiding to follow him. He’d come to handle the currach that would take Flanagan to the hooker at anchor. They’d hardly spoken as he pulled the oars. At the boat’s side, they’d shaken hands like men.

  ‘God, I never knew my own brother,’ moaned Flanagan, remembering those blue-green eyes, and the boy’s tears. He’d never made the field. He’d left no message with Father Maguire for Brendan … it was too late … the priest was out of reach …

  ‘Sit right up, lad,’ said the Sergeant. He had a thick moustache that covered his top lip. His rough hands pushed Flanagan’s head against the post. ‘There you are, now.’ Dangling off one arm was an old gas mask, the round eyepieces large and black. The rope tightened on Flanagan’s wrists and there was more whispering about the knot. The same hands tied his feet to the chair.

  The only soldier Flanagan recognised was the RMO, Mr Tindall. He was beside Father Maguire, his face twitching. Abruptly he marched to the officer with the swagger stick and began a hushed conversation. After a moment, the officer shook his head and patted his jacket pockets. He then strode among the ranks asking a question. Most shook their heads. One nodded and produced an envelope from his battledress. He handed it to the officer and promptly vomited. All the while, the sergeant stood close to the chair, one hand on Flanagan’s shoulder. The gas mask swung off his arm, the round black eyes staring at the hay.

  Had the grape turned bitter? Flanagan asked himself.

  The vomiting soldier leaned forward, one hand on a knee. He coughed and spat and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Panic crouched lower in Flanagan’s guts, ready to pounce. To one side, he glimpsed four men and a stretcher. They, too, had their faces turned away. The only person who looked at him was Father Maguire.

  I left the slip for this. Hysteria shook Flanagan’s limbs and his hair went stiff: everything he’d said to Mr Moore – the journey from the spring burials to this chair – was an islander’s tale. It was a mist over the shells on Meg’s cove.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Tracking down Harold Shaw proved a complicated affair for reasons Anselm could not have foreseen. An enquiry placed with the Royal British Legion brought him into contact with a Mrs Watson. A week later she rang Larkwood to say that Mr Shaw was indeed a member, and had been active in the Legion all his life. He was now in a retirement home and she proposed to visit him to canvass the possibility of an interview with Anselm. Four days later another call came through. It transpired that Mr Shaw had never spoken about ‘the incident’ to his family. He had no intention of doing so now, but would speak to a monk in private on the understanding that the discussion remained a secret.

  The incident. The phrase carried the heavy weight of understatement. It reminded Anselm of all those other English garden remarks, all neat and trimmed, a way of keeping an appearance for the greater good. With growing apprehension, Anselm drove through the crowded streets of Tooting Bec, South London, and parked in the forecourt of the Birches Nursing Home. At Mr Shaw’s insistence, the interview was to take place in his bedroom.

  The old soldier wore a suit and all his medals for the occasion. From his chair, he bowed with his head, as if Anselm were a dignitary, and then patted the seat beside him. The room was brightly coloured and all the furnishings were new. Photographs of children in silver frames crowded a model of the Mayflower on a dresser.

  ‘You have the envelope?’ he asked.

  Anselm nodded

  ‘May I see it?’

  His face was milk-white. All his hair had gone, save for a few strands tinged with copper. He held his head back as if he was trying to read a page held up to him. Large glasses magnified watery blue eyes. With a shaking hand he took the envelope from Anselm and stared at it.

  ‘This is between us, then, Father?’

  ‘It is,’ said Anselm.

  ‘You want to know what this means?’ He held up the envelope, his eyes vivid with emotion.

  ‘Yes, if I may.’ Anselm felt very much out of his depth, but that this was a conversation Mr Shaw had wanted all his life.

  The order came through late on the 14th September 1917, he explained. He was a private aged eighteen in The Lambeth Rifles. His Company Sergeant Major came into his billet and read out four names. Shaw’s was one of them. Special detail, he said. He didn’t look very happy, so everyone thought it must be a trip back to the front to carry ammunition. The four men joined eight others in the village square where a bus rolled up and took them a mile or so down the road to Oostbeke, right by the Division HQ. They were driven another mile out of the camp, past an abbey to some woods, and housed in a nearby barn. The animals had been put into a field and clean straw laid on the floor.

  ‘This staff officer turns up,’ said Mr Shaw. ‘And he says he’s very sorry but we’ve been picked for a nasty job. Orders is orders, for him and for us, he said. We were going to shoot a deserter at first light. Well, we almost fell over. I mean, we’d just come out of the line. Half our mates were dead. The last thing we felt like was a “special duty” … tha
t’s what the Brass Hats called anything that was especially unpleasant. Now let me tell you something, Father –’ the old man took Anselm’s wrist and squeezed it, but the strength had gone – ‘before that night, if you’d asked me would I pull the trigger, I’d have said, “Yes.” We was all volunteers, we had our pride, we wouldn’t stop the fight and we wouldn’t give in. And when I heard of these others who’d hopped it and got shot, well, frankly, I felt nothing. It was war. And there had to be discipline. But that night, when the officer told me I’d be in the front line of six … well, I wasn’t so sure any more.’

  The staff officer said the firing party needed a rehearsal. So young Shaw and his eleven comrades – six of them from the same tenman section – were lined up in two rows of six. ‘The rifles were left on the ground. We were told they’d be mixed up while our backs were turned and a blank inserted into one of ’em. Well, everyone knew that was a waste of time. You can tell a live round from the kick, you see. But it was a small comfort, I suppose. Anyway, nothing was to be said out loud. At a signal we’d all turn around, pick up a weapon and aim. The OC firing party – our captain, Mr Crane – would drop his handkerchief, and then … bang. But you know, Father, a handkerchief takes a long time to hit the ground. When are you meant to fire? When he lets go, or when it lands? I didn’t say anything, of course. I mean, I was just a kid, and these officers knew what they were doing, but in the dry run, there was a string of clicks … not one of us pulled the trigger at the same time.’

  The firing party spent the night in that barn. No one slept. They’d smoked, talking intermittently of the poor blighter who was writing his letters and, hopefully, getting well drunk. Someone had said, ‘Not likely’. He’d met the lad. Didn’t touch a drop. A teetotaller.

  ‘Did you know his name?’ asked Anselm. Dread had been settling upon him. And he’d remembered the censored page of a War Diary.

  ‘Joseph Flanagan.’

  Too soon, Mr Crane turned up. By the look of him, he hadn’t slept either. His cheeks were flushed and he spoke through the side of his mouth, as though to hide the smell of his breath. Outside, in the field, watched by some cows, they formed up in twos, ready for the short march to the other side of the woods.

  A light knock sounded at the door. Moments later, a nurse laid a tray of tea and biscuits on the table. Alone once more, Anselm poured from the pot and heaped the sugar for them both. Father Andrew’s great message to his monks was to know when to speak and when to be silent. Here, there was no need to discern.

  ‘It was still dark,’ said Mr Shaw. ‘I’ll never forget it … but the birds were singing. And I don’t mean tweet-tweet. It was one hell of a racket. We stood there, in this clearing, just listening to them. I looked ahead from my line of six, wondering if they’d ever stop. After a few minutes I peeped over my shoulder – it was getting light now – and I saw this empty chair, an ordinary common-or-garden chair, sitting among a heap of straw.’

  The rifles were laid on the ground. Mr Crane shuffled them. The breeches snapped into position. Then the escort arrived. Mr Shaw, facing the woods again, could see nothing of the prisoner; he could only hear the movement of feet as they took him to the chair.

  ‘My stomach was turning like I was on the boat home. And then I heard Mr Crane whispering, asking if anyone had a gun cloth or a letter. I found out afterwards the medic had forgotten to bring a marker for the heart … hadn’t known it was his job.’

  Mr Shaw sipped his tea as though it were too hot, though Anselm had been generous with the milk. He put the rattling saucer on the table and he turned away, his face towards the window. The grounds of the Birches were very pleasant. A brochure at reception said that they boasted a rich selection of mature trees and variegated shrubs. Anselm, however, looked at the arm raised in the air, and the hand holding an envelope.

  ‘That was the last time I held this thing in my hand.’

  Chapter Forty-Two

  A Handkerchief

  Herbert crossed a field and entered the woods, stepping carefully through the undergrowth towards the clearing. He avoided the track because he did not want to be seen. Reaching the trees’ perimeter, he knelt, hiding behind a large trunk gripped by ivy. In front he could see a soldier, hands on his knees, vomiting. Behind him and the firing party, only twenty steps or so away, he saw Flanagan tied to a chair. The light had gathered force. A sergeant placed a gas mask over Flanagan’s head, the glass eyes facing the opposite direction. Tindall hovered nearby while the strings were tied. Then he leaned forward and attached a white square of paper over the left breast. He fiddled for a while, making sure it was secure.

  Herbert closed his eyes. He had only prayed once in his life – and that was the day before – when he’d begged that this man’s life be spared. Could hope reach this far, into this clearing? He’d once heard of a man to be shot in the prison at Poperinghe. Apparently the squad was lined up and were ready to fire when a rider turned up with an order commuting the sentence. Someone had made representations to the Commander-in-Chief and the man was spared. Had General Osborne thought longer about Herbert’s plea? He strained his ears, willing the sound of a gallop on the road from Oostbeke. Prayers rushed into his mouth and he listened to his whispering like a man at the door of someone else’s heart.

  The OC firing party spoke quietly. ‘Turn.’

  The men obeyed and picked up rifles laid on the ground. The front six knelt; the back six remained standing.

  They aimed. All the barrels wavered like poles in the wind. Herbert stopped breathing. There was no sound in his mind or heart, or out there in the clearing open to the sky. Hope had fled. His prayers were over. A hush, so very like that of the sanctuary, entered the space surrounded by the trees. Herbert looked through the branches at one hand holding a pocket watch and the other a spotted handkerchief, held high for all to see.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  The Wine beneath the Slate

  Flanagan couldn’t breathe easily. The canvas of the mask was close to his mouth. It billowed like a diaphragm, in and out, matching the panic in his lungs. Any second now there’d be a crash. Terror pumped into his mind. For an instant, time dragged …

  For a staggeringly sharp and clear moment, he heard himself. It was a voice made up of all the good he’d ever known, however disguised its appearance: his mother by his bed, his father in the field, Mr Drennan on defiance, Meg’s wail for the land, High-Pockets on Expansionism … Father Maguire, Lieutenant Colonel Hammond, Lisette, and more. None of them could be identified because it was Flanagan’s voice now, and this voice spoke in a fantastic flash of speed and accuracy: the grape had not turned bitter; he’d taken a boy out of the war who would have been shot; he’d brought him to a woman who’d sent her son away, a woman who would not let herself love again, a woman who would have punished herself for ever had she not received the chance to make a gesture of reparation. He’d seen all this in the rain, listening to Doyle’s pathetic tale. Though it would not be Flanagan, this woman would love again; and the boy in Louis’ bed would grow to be a good man. All this was a blazing certainty. The wine he’d never tasted was sweet. This was Flanagan’s reward. The voice crashed upon his soul and in the shuddering aftermath time broke loose.

  Flanagan couldn’t breathe. The canvas had been sucked into his mouth. Something flared. At the same instant, a wall seemed to smash into his chest. It threw him upwards as lightly as a feather beaten from a pillow. Down he came in the air, sweeping left, sweeping right, slowly falling to the earth. His landing was so soft he hardly felt it.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  ‘When the body flopped forward, the medic walked over, you know, to check whether he was actually dead,’ said Mr Shaw. ‘He wasn’t a very decisive man because he stared down for a while as if he didn’t know what to do. Then the OC took out his pistol … I turned away, but I heard that shot. I’ve heard it many times since, down these long years. You don’t forget anything. Nothing. Not a sound, not a smell. We were
marched off, back to the barn, where the medic gave us some rum. He wasn’t very happy, I can tell you. No one could speak. Everyone looked at the ground. It was covered in hay – this is where they’d got it from, for putting round the chair. We stood on it, drinking rum, hardly able to move. Lots of the lads said afterwards – long afterwards – that they’d felt the weaker kick, that they were lucky ones who’d got the blank. I said so too. I even began to believe it after a while.’

  Mr Shaw’s face was concealed behind his hand as he leaned towards Anselm. He shook his head continuously as he spoke.

  ‘I don’t know whether I hit him, Father. The gun was uncommonly heavy and I could hardly hold it straight. Neither could anyone else. I didn’t even look. I pulled the trigger and … well, you’ve seen the envelope: no one hit the mark.’

  The ordinary motion between Anselm’s heart and mind, the manoeuvring of emotion and thinking, came to a standstill. He was like a winded man who no longer cared to breathe. For Mr Shaw, the moment was alive once more, with the awful freshness of a new calamity. He was crying with the tears of the young man who’d had to turn away.

  Anselm reached over and held his hand.

  ‘Mr Shaw, I know nothing of wars and what it does to men, and what men have to do,’ said Anselm, very quietly. ‘But when the world turns upside down, and you have to do things you’d never do when it’s the right way up … well, there’s no blame. You must not accuse yourself any more.’

  The old soldier gently shook his head. ‘For the rest of the war, you know, I tried to get shot. I walked upright into no-man’s-land. I ran at the bunkers, I went straight for the machine guns … and I got these –’ he pointed to his chest and the array of medals – ‘I wanted to die for my part in the killing. But I kept surviving. And as for the execution … well, it served no purpose. We didn’t need that kind of encouragement. And what of the lad? From what I heard he’d been with his regiment since ’fifteen. He’d seen the Somme. And yet we shot him. I’m told he polished the regiment’s silver before he was strapped to that chair. He was a volunteer, you know.’