‘By the good fuck,’ said Christy Moran, ‘this is some war.’
Then something miraculous occurred. The lice in Willie’s clothes began to stir again, and one morning the music of the cold, with its piercing little notes, seemed to pass away. The greens and browns seeped back into the world. The fogs were blown away by little breezes and he saw the tower of Ypres crisp and clear in the distance. Men seemed more chummy again and it seemed to everyone that they had come through something impossible because it had been so simple and unvarying. That something was winter. The new something was just spring. But if he had been the first man in the first spring he could not have worshipped its coming more.
Then they all had to uproot themselves again and Private Weekes packed his bundle of books and they hauled themselves away through the ruckus and the din of the roads.
They were shown with great amplitude what was expected of them now. They were brought to an enclosure of some acres and in those acres was a vast model of the landscape they were to attack over and it was an astonishing thing that human hands had done. It was not exactly the place they had lurked in all winter in miniature, but another similar terrain, all the country under a little village called Wytschaete, which meant, said Father Buckley, the White Village. Which was a beautiful name in that formerly white country, with formerly a white sky and a white earth. The Hun, said Biggs, had held it now for three years, and it would be the privilege of the 16th and the 36th to win it back for the poor Belgians. As Willie Dunne gazed over it and heard his instructions delivered in a serious monotone by Second-Lieutenant Biggs, he wished heartily that they had placed authentic models of them all, in their hooded and whitened misery, in the tiny trenches, just for the sake of decoration, like a kind of Nativity scene. But he knew it was a foolish thought.
It was a strange sight too to see the brigade drummers, banging the shining drums, all marching forward in a furious line - bang bang bang bang, kaboom kaboom - and the hands whirling and the shining boots going forward, all meant to be a picture of the intended barrages that would creep along the real earth, with real men following. Those drumming men representing the bursting shells.
General Plumer sat up on his beautiful grey horse. It wasn’t often a man saw a general.
Biggs thought the general was a good and clever man. When he said that, he blushed.
‘He’s not the fucking worst of them,’ muttered Christy Moran.
Then two letters arrived tied together but with different dates on them, as welcome as boxes of gold.
dear Willi come home soon I love you best of all. do not forget the choclat I love you school is funny. love Dolly xoxoxoxoxo
The other was a postcard from Annie. It showed the beach at Strandhill in Sligo. It was a summer scene, of course, in the photograph they had used for the postcard. Willie peered and peered at the men on the beach in their trousers and shirts and straw hats, and at the ladies in their nice dresses, and the children holding their hands, and all of them looking out over the waves, and one resplendent motorcar on the esplanade, and a jaunting car also. A soldier could cry looking at such things, he thought, only because they were so ordinary and living. He must remember to show it to Pete O‘Hara, when he had hoarded it to himself for a while, and got the good off of it.
Dear Willy, [wrote Annie in her schoolroom blue-ink writing] Heres where we had the holiday in October, we were nearly blown away by the storms. But it was lovely and Papa was in great form and we had big teas at the hotel, and Dolly loved everything especially the train (just like you years ago). Your loving sister, Annie.
And that was all. But he read them both over and over again.
They had all gone down there on holiday without him. But what else could they do?
Still nothing from Gretta in all those weeks.
They knew they would be moving again shortly, so Father Buckley set up his canvas hut as was his wont on those occasions, and all the men of the battalion that wanted to queued in a long line for the confessions. And Father Buckley sat in one side on a little stool with a cushion that had a picture embroidered on it of a woman in a cornfield, not that that was important in any way, and he put a jug of water at his feet because he said sins were thirsty work. He didn’t mean it particularly as a jest, but it was the sort of agreeable and encouraging thing he would say, so the men would feel freer about bringing their sins to him.
The spring had taken the countryside well in charge and small blue birds seemed to be everywhere, gathering wisps of grass and scraps of things for their nests. In that part of the camp there was a corner full of snowdrops. There were so many men waiting patiently that Willie thought it looked more like the whole brigade rather than just their own battalion, especially as he supposed these were just the Catholics. Even so, at the very far limit of the line everyone could hear the muttering from the canvas hut, although they couldn’t make out the words, thankfully. But every so often they heard Father Buckley’s voice rise a little, even shout just a tad, which was amusing to the waiting soldiers, and they nodded to each other, as if to say, Oh yes, we thought so, we know what he’s been up to. Of course, it had to be what a person might call a field confession, short and sweet, and how could Father Buckley give out a penance beyond saying so many Our Fathers and Hail Marys, given they were stuck in the middle of Flanders?
Nevertheless, Willie, and maybe many others, felt oppressed by the task. He wanted to tell the priest about the poor fallen lassie he had slept with - if he had actually slept with her; he thought he must have, for a few minutes - back in Amiens. He felt if he could say it out loud, and it was by no means the first time he had gone to confession since it happened, Father Buckley might see it in his heart to forgive him, or in God’s heart, and he could put it behind him. Because he thought it was a deeply wrong thing to do, not only for his own sake, but for Gretta’s. And it troubled him; it troubled him time and again.
When his turn came he let the other man out and climbed into the little space. There was a canvas-bottomed stool there and a strange green light seeping through the thin partitions. A leery slit was where he was supposed to speak, and he knew Father Buckley was in there because he could see the features of the priest dimly floating, but not looking in at him at all.
He confessed then to a few sins, pulling his wick a few times when he had got a chance alone, which wasn’t very often. And often he didn’t feel like it. But nevertheless, there were the few times.
‘I don’t think we’ll make much fuss about that,’ said Father Buckley.
Then Willie mentioned the girl at Amiens and how it troubled him when he put it against the thought of his girlfriend at home.
‘Is that you, Willie?’ said Father Buckley.
‘It is, Father.’
‘I wouldn’t make much of a fuss about that, either, Willie. Just try to keep away from the girls next time, Willie. And I hope the old hosepipe isn’t stinging?’
‘No, Father.’
‘You were lucky so, Willie.’
‘I know, Father. Thank you, Father.’
‘Is there anything else, Willie?’
‘No, Father.’
But he supposed there was something in his tone that Father Buckley was used to noticing in the tones of soldiers.
‘What, Willie?’
‘Well, there’s an awful long line back, Father, waiting.’
‘Never mind those lads, Willie. They won’t mind waiting a few secs. What’s on your mind?’
‘Well, anyway, it isn’t a sin as such, Father. Well, maybe it is. I’m worried about my father, Father.’
‘Who is your father, Willie? Is he the chief superintendent, yes?’
‘He is. I wrote him a letter a while back and my sister wrote to me and said my father was angry with me about the letter, the letter I sent him, you know?’
‘What was in the letter?’
‘I don’t know. I was upset about that time coming through Dublin with Jesse Kirwan, Father, you know? And I just
described all that, how it seemed to me, but I must’ve said something that, you know, not annoyed him, but.’
‘Upset him?’
‘Yes.’
‘What, Willie, though?’
‘ About the thing there. I saw this young lad in a doorway, Father, just like myself. One of the rebels. I looked at him and he looked at me. He was killed then. That’s all. It’s very fucking confusing, Father. Excuse me.‘
‘Yes, it is.’
‘So for a while there I didn’t know what was what. And when Jesse Kirwan was shot, Father. What can a fella say about that? And the reason he gave me. I still don’t know what he meant. I don’t know anything at all these days. So I just eat my grub and do what I’m told, but, Father, what for, what for, I don’t know.’
‘Did you ever hear of a man called Willie Redmond, Willie?’
‘Yes, Father. He’s the brother of your man.’
‘That’s it. Well, now, Willie, I’ll try to explain it. He said we were fighting for Ireland, through another. You see? Fighting for Ireland, through another.’
‘What does it mean, Father?’
‘That all this terrible war you’ve seen with your own eyes is for Ireland, that by fighting for all the poor people of Belgium in the army of the King, you are fighting at end of day for Ireland, to bring Home Rule and all the rest, to gather the ravelled ends of Ireland together, the Northerners and the Southerners, the 36th and the 16th, and that it is all a good and precious thing. That’s what Willie Redmond said in the House of Commons. He’s an MP, Willie, and he’s out here with us fighting for what he believes is a wonderful cause. For Ireland, Willie.’
‘I don’t think my father would like the sound of that, either, Father.’
‘What about you, Willie?’
‘It nearly makes me cry to tell you the truth, Father. And a man shouldn’t be crying out here.’
‘You can know your own mind and your father can know his.’
‘But my father and me always had the one mind on things. That’s the trouble, I think - I don’t even know. I’m confused, Father.’
‘Well, God bless your confusion, Willie. There’s many a man out here only to be sending the few shillings home, and that’s no crime neither.’
‘No, Father. Well, thank you, Father.’
‘Say ten Hail Marys for that girl, Willie. Are you due any leave at all, Willie?’
‘I don’t think so, Father.’
‘Well, God bless you, Willie. Send in the next man. Good luck tomorrow.’
Chapter Seventeen
Biggs was a bit of a mystery to them, with his face the colour of pastry. They could not tell how the coming battle affected him, but they certainly each and all of them peered in at that face to try to decipher the measure of his confidence.
Christy Moran was in a high good mood and regaled them with stories of his drinking days. As always when the sergeant-major was at his ease - if that was what it was - he wandered quickly from topic to topic, and didn’t seem to know himself whither his thoughts might blow him.
At any rate, they were led into trenches at about midnight. A gentle rain had fallen and done the little duty of fixing the summer dust. It was early June of the year and even under starlight the heat was like a ridiculous coat. The thoughtful general had had water laid in everywhere, and the sappers told them that new roads had been put in as far up as the forward trenches, so that after the battle everything could be ferried up quickly. That was unusual.
The guns had been firing for three weeks on the trot. The pilots of the airplanes thought a lot of good work had been done. Wytschaete was up on the Messines ridge so they didn’t fly as far as that, because the Germans were like fowlers up there. Nevertheless, it was reported that all the ground in front was utterly bombed. The huge howitzers had been labouring at the great fields of barbed wire. Despite the ambiguous Second-Lieutenant Biggs, Willie Dunne was impressed. He was terrified but impressed.
They were given two water bottles that night and the second they found was full of tea. That was an Irish touch all right. Their boys at the kettles and the big pots far behind at the field kitchens hadn’t let them down. A big stew came up after them and a double ration of rum. It wasn’t the war they knew.
The guns had stopped a good few hours and the land about had returned to itself. It was like a new country, a fresh place. The summer rain had loosed the smells of everything, the new grass that was boldly coming up everywhere like a crazy green beard, the briefly drenched woods all about. There were even nightingales in the woods that any man could hear for himself and wonder at.
‘What’s that bird going on?’ said Willie Dunne.
‘Fucking nightingale,’ said Christy Moran.
They were warmly bidden to show no lights, so no one could have a smoke. They sat there or lounged there in the silent, murky conduits. They talked in low voices. All the equipment was up and Joe Kielty and Timmy Weekes were now the machine-gun operators, so they had four men to carry the huge ammunition boxes. They had to shoulder the Lewis gun themselves, but, compared to the bullet belts, that was a doddle really. It stood to reason that carrying the boxes would be like fetching lead along the way.
They were only waiting there like that when all of a sudden the guns opened up behind them. There had been a whole week spent digging them in and putting the camouflage tarpaulins over them. There were said to be about two thousand guns all told and what was more all fit to fire. The artillery liked to fire two-thirds of them at a time and let the other third cool off. So in the darkness there was a roof of shells above them. For once in their lives, Willie thought, they seemed to have the range, and he could see the shells exploding in the distance along the lower part of the ridge. It was like bright red blood and yellow sweets, the colours. The noise gathered all together and made into one noise was like a terrific wailing of all the damned that had ever been stuffed down into hell. If you stopped a sound like that, you would still hear it for about three minutes after.
The ladders were already in place. Everything was bizarrely in place. They had enough iron rations about them to meet emergencies. Even their uniforms were clean because they had been told to brush them down religiously as if they were new recruits, as some of them were. They had used the special smelly stuff to rub off stains. All this had been done. It was as if the world had been made anew. The fact was, said Christy Moran, there was a real fucking general in charge. A fella that had fought battles before. They should make him a field marshal, he said.
Even Biggs started to look like a good thing. He had all his maps and order papers in order. He did look even more like a pull of pastry, but his voice stayed calm and the men were grateful for small mercies. Christy Moran in particular didn’t have to tell him what to do.
‘You know why I came into the army?’ said Christy Moran.
‘Why, Sarge?’ said Joe Kielty genuinely interested, considering his own entry had been quite accidental.
‘Well, why would you think? King and country? Bad debts? To escape a murder charge? Did it for a wager? Lost my fucking way and found myself in barracks? No, none of those things. None of the fucking reasons that brought you bastards in,’ he added affectionately.
‘Why then, Sarge?’ said Joe Kielty.
‘Because the missus burned her hand off.’
There was a silence then.
‘She what?’ said Pete O‘Hara, feeling a little uneasy.
‘We were the both of us drinking one night. Both of us half-seas-over when we went to bed. The missus likes to smoke this little pipe for herself. So we wake up in the small hours and the bed is blazing away on her side. And she’s too drunk to stir. So I pull her away. Hasn’t the fucking pipe set the bed alight, and she out to the dickens and didn’t even feel it. It was her right hand. So there went her work right there. Seamstress at the Kingstown Asylum. Gone. So I had to do something. So I joined up, seeing as they were looking for men. And she’s glad of the separation allowance, let me te
ll you. There you are now.’
‘That’s a fucking desperate story, Sarge,’ said O‘Hara, who felt quite green now.
‘There you are now,’ said Christy Moran, very satisfied with the response. There had been no laughter anyhow. Laughter would have killed him. Christy Moran, R.I.P., died of laughter. ‘That’s what got me in.’
‘Your poor missus and her hand?’ said Joe Kielty. ‘Jesus, the poor woman.’
‘Poor woman is right,’ said Pete O‘Hara.
What a strange flood of relief washed over Christy Moran’s thinking head. He didn’t know why hardly. It was ridiculous to feel relief with such a ruckus around them.
‘You think so?’ he said.
‘Well, certainly, Sarge,’ said Joe.
A person might have thought that Christy Moran would then have proceeded to tell the men how he felt about them, since that maybe had been the point of the story. But such was his sense of victory, it overwhelmed him, he said no more, he forgot to say what had long hidden in his mind. But it hardly mattered, in essence, they knew well his mind. They knew it well, without him having to say a word.
The guns went on wailing and caterwauling. There were ferocious blows and bangs and thumps. The sergeant-major, for reasons of his own, was whistling ‘The Minstrel Boy’ now low under his breath, which was a curious fact, since he never whistled. Willie could see in his mind’s eye the gunners work their guns, the way they were so used to it, and knew all the movements, like in a Saturday dance. Like they were waltzing or something with those metal guns. Then, after three hot, fierce hours, they fell away again, and their noise rang in everyone’s ears, and then a wilder, rarer thing happened.
‘Wild and rare’, Christy Moran called it later.
But for the moment Biggs looked at his watch and told them all to kneel or lie on the ground. They had been told that the sappers were going to try to blow some mines underneath the ridge. But they had been digging since 1915 and it was 1917 now and no one really knew what would happen when an attempt was made to blow them. It was funny, they had been told all that but no one could imagine what that would look like, so they had presumed in the main that there would be some little fiddly explosions in the distance, which might or might not help them in their enterprise.
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