A roll call became a reminder of who had gone and that it made no difference whether a man was clever, brave, strong, fast, funny or kind. A machine gun was not discerning. Shrapnel was not choosy. A life could be snuffed out in a second. But that was not the end. No. There was the rotting, the slow decomposition of a body, helped along by flies and rats. The rodents gorged on the eyes first, then the liver, then the rest. It was no surprise to Daniel that men went doolally. He had witnessed it himself, a young Private wandering about aimless and babbling, his body contorted. Daniel wondered if it was a relief to give up the fight for sanity, to just let the mind slip away from the hell that they had been plunged into.
On a regular basis, the Turks sent over ‘cricket balls’, (as they called the grenades), to remind them that they were still there. The chief concern, though, was water. It occupied their every thought. Daniel had seen good men steal for it, lie for it, die for it. He had seen tongues go black for the want of it. The journey from the beach was so long and treacherous and the heat so intense that there was never enough. They rolled pebbles around in their mouths to generate saliva, blackening their teeth from the earth. There were wells up here but the Turks guarded them with snipers. Those that they had abandoned, they filled with dead bodies. The British Army had underestimated its enemy entirely.
Perhaps the best military weapon that the Turks had, though, was the purple and green Gallipoli fly, the hardiest in the world, persistent, determined, everywhere – like the Turks themselves. Great swarms lived off corpses, latrines and wounds then descended onto food like a black cloud before it could be eaten. The result was dysentery.
When stretcher-bearers could get up, they carried the men off – those that were willing to go. Most stayed until they could no longer shoot. Then, lying prostrate, they were labelled like parcels and stretchered off, pith helmets covering faces against the sun. The ship that had brought them from England had been refitted as a hospital ship, Daniel had heard, accommodating up to two thousand men. The stretcher-bearers risked death on their trips to and from the beach. Sometimes, Daniel would watch them and imagine that that was what he should have been doing. Then he’d remember the friends he had lost and the white-hot hatred he had for the enemy. He wanted to kill.
‘I thought that a man had to die before going to hell, not the other way around,’ Michael said, on his return from the latrine.
Daniel could only smile. If Gallipoli was hell, and it most certainly was, the latrine was the point where the hell fires burned hottest. You used it breathing through your mouth for the smell but with that mouth only open a slit because of the flies. And all the time you feared that a sniper would finish you off while you sat in the most undignified of positions. You dreaded and delayed nature’s call. When you finally gave in, you joked that you were going to Brooklyn. Michael had started that one. MacDonald had been born there.
In amongst all of this, they had to eat.
‘What I wouldn’t give for a spud,’ Lecane said.
‘With a great dollop of axle-grease.’ MacDonald loved his butter.
Daniel ground a rock-hard biscuit between two stones.
Michael dunked his in his tea. ‘Wilkin, you owe me an orange.’
‘Once we get out of here, I’ll buy you a crate of them,’ Wilkin promised, swatting at the flies.
‘I’ll hold you to it.’
Dreaming of roast lamb, Daniel’s mouth watered. He would never underestimate Cook’s food again.
Daniel tore up the letter he had been writing to Maggie. It had somehow become a list of all that Gallipoli had taught him about war – that the smallest of things (like lice) made a man feel small, that silence can be more terrifying than shelling and that Maggie was right – one person makes no difference to a war. Of course, he couldn’t tell her any of this. How, he worried, would he ever be able to talk to her again, hold a conversation about the unimportant? But then, Maggie was never one for the unimportant.
He tried to imagine what she might be doing now. She’d be on holidays from school. He hoped that she was not out with Na Fianna, though in all likelihood she was. What was he doing all the way over here, stuck in a trench, baking alive? He wasn’t helping her. He wasn’t helping his country. He was fading fast, blending in with the dry, sandy soil. It was only a matter of time before he became it.
No. He must not let his spirits flag. He was there for a reason, the best reason in the world, a reason to live and die for.
A shot rang out.
‘Good,’ Walkey said. ‘One less bullet for us.’
‘Ever the optimist,’ Michael remarked.
Daniel made another stab at the letter.
Michael, oiling his rifle, looked over. ‘Maggie?’
Daniel nodded.
Michael looked about. ‘What could you possibly be telling her?’
‘Lies.’
He smiled. ‘I’d like to hear them.’
‘Well, I haven’t written them yet but I’ll be focusing on the scenery, the sunshine and the marvellous smell of thyme.’
Michael raised an eyebrow. ‘You don’t think she’ll smell a rat instead?’
Daniel considered. ‘I’ll tell her that the flies are bothersome.’
He laughed. ‘Bothersome.’
Thereafter, it became Michael’s favourite word. He used it to describe everything. The darkness of Gallipoli brought out the light in him, always on hand with a quip or an imagined game of rugby featuring Walkey, MacDonald, Lecane and Wilkin. MacDonald regularly dropped the ball. Daniel counted fifty-nine different jokes on flies alone, all of them amusing. And learned that if you could laugh at something it lessened the power of it. By popular demand, Michael’s diary was passed around as a form of entertainment. Sometimes, he even read it aloud, as if on stage at the Abbey.
0700: A quarter pint of neat rum, rationed out by the sergeant is for medicinal purposes, for surely it would kill anything that might be lurking in the intestines.
0730: Breakfast, the source of our best arguments. And biscuits that could break a man’s teeth.
0830: Rifle inspection, an excuse for our beloved sergeant to make rude remarks about the state of man’s best friend.
0900: Ah, the life of the sniper’s assistant. With my trench periscope, I observe enemy movement enabling Healy to get a single well-aimed shot. At least, it gets us out of digging trenches. Keep up the good work, Healy.
1130: This would be the time to write to your girl – if you had a girl.
1300: Fly invasion caused by sumptuous dinner of rice, tea, biscuits and jam.
1430: The Gallipoli orchestra: Chip, chip, chip – the sound of picks and shovels taking our trenches closer to Johnny Turk.
1457: Dong, dong, dong, dong – four beats of a lead pipe warn us to take cover. Mmmmm – enemy plane overhead. Boom – explosion. Dong, dong – two beats of the lead pipe. Danger past. For now.
1730: Magic show – making a meal from biscuits, fried beef, desiccated potato – and an onion if you’re very lucky.
1930: My favourite words – Stand to arms! Sentries are doubled. No more than three hours sleep for a man. Sure, this is the life.
0330: Stand to arms! Instantly awake and shooting. The night explodes in fire. And dies as quickly. Unfix bayonets and back to sleep standing up.
Join the British Army! Travel the world!
Daniel had never loved or needed his friend more. The officers treated them as a pair, selecting them together for fatigues. Whether it was latrine duty, burying the dead or keeping watch, it had become either a habit or an accepted fact that they worked as a pair. It helped Daniel stay sane.
thirty
Maggie
August 1915
Maggie looked in the mirror then closed her eyes. Despite starving herself, her body had insisted on maturing. She’d have to strap herself down. Perhaps she could get some bandages at the first aid lesson. Hearing someone on the stairs, she buttoned up her shirt.
Lily burst in
. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Getting on my uniform.’
Lily looked at her breeches admiringly. ‘Could I join, one day?’
Maggie looked at her little sister. For the first time, she saw Na Fianna as her mother did – as a threat to the person she loved. She reminded herself that it would all be over long before Lily was old enough to do anything. She rubbed the top of her head and smiled.
‘We’ll see,’ she said.
‘We could fight together.’
Maggie squatted down. ‘How about a quick story before I go?’
Lily jumped up on the bed in immediate readiness.
Maggie laughed and sat opposite. She took a deep breath then widened her eyes.
‘You’re a good storyteller, Maggie.’
‘I am?’
She nodded enthusiastically.
‘All good storytellers start with air.’
She sucked in a huge exaggerated breath and Lily laughed.
‘Once upon a time, there was a salmon who ate nine hazelnuts that fell from nine trees that grew in a circle around a pond on the River Boyne. In doing so, he gained the wisdom of the world.’
Lily stared as though she could see actual words tumble from Maggie’s mouth.
‘The poet, Finnegas, sought out the salmon and its wisdom. It took him seven years and one almighty struggle before he finally caught that fish. Then, the old poet was tired and needed a rest. So he asked Fionn Mac Cuamhaill – the boy he was teaching about the world – to cook the fish but not, under any circumstances, to eat it.’ Maggie stopped for effect.
‘Go on,’ Lily urged.
‘Well, Fionn Mac Cuamhaill turned the fish over and over on the spit while the old man slept. At long last, it was cooked.’
‘The blister,’ Lily reminded her.
Maggie pointed at her. ‘Good girl, the blister. There was a blister on the skin of the salmon. Fionn, who wanted the fish to be perfect for his master, burst the blister with his thumb. But the oil in the blister was roasting hot.’ She opened her eyes wide, ‘...and burned poor Fionn Mac Cuamhaill. He put his thumb into his mouth to cool it down.’ Maggie sucked her thumb to demonstrate. ‘In an instant, Fionn gained the salmon’s wisdom. Finnegas, when he awoke, saw the wisdom shining in Fionn’s eyes. He was furious and asked Fionn if had he eaten the fish. Fionn explained what had happened. Finnegas’s anger left him and he gave Fionn the rest of the fish so that he would gain the knowledge of the entire world. Throughout his life, whenever he needed guidance, Fionn MacCuamhaill could call on all this knowledge by sucking his thumb.’
‘That’s not the end.’
‘It’s not?’
‘No. You left out the bit about Fionn MacCuamhaill growing up to become the leader of Na Fianna, the greatest warriors in the land of Ireland.’
‘Someday, you’ll taste salmon, Lily,’ she said, secretly meaning Irish freedom.
‘Today?’
‘Probably not today. But soon.’
Lily clapped. Maggie gazed on her with such affection. Whenever she began to doubt her own actions with Na Fianna, all she had to do was look at her sister.
An hour later, Maggie and Patrick were combing the back alleys around Sackville Street, committing them to memory. If the revolution was to be fought in the city, they had to know every inch of it, where to attack, hide, escape. They needed to know Dublin better than themselves.
‘God. I remember a fight we had down here,’ Patrick said, smiling.
Maggie looked at him.
‘We had to steal a Lee Enfield rifle from a Tommy so we started throwing punches at each other – real punches mind. He was glued to us. Next thing he knew, his precious weapon was gone. As were we. We got a lot of rifles that way.’
‘The Lee Enfields are a hundred times better than the Mausers. Wish we had more.’
‘Ah, they’re impossible to get now. The feckers are on to us.’
Maggie marvelled at how at ease he was with her now, speaking so freely – for Patrick. The higher up he got in Na Fianna the more he seemed to take her under his wing. It was as if he believed that he was responsible for her, with Danny gone. What really baffled her, though, was that she had time for him. The first time she’d fired a gun, she had wanted to rip off her hat and shout at him, ‘Can you believe it, a girl that can shoot?’ But here they were now, so comfortable in each other’s company. War did strange things to people. Sometimes it united them.
Maggie watched children play with hoops and skipping ropes.
‘Sometimes I find it hard to imagine that there’ll ever be a revolution,’ she said.
‘Well, you’d better start imagining it. If we don’t rise soon, the war’ll be over and we’ll never get a chance like this again.’
She nodded. It was what he and Con Colbert continually said: England’s misfortune would be Ireland’s opportunity. But Maggie thought of Danny and her stomach turned. ‘If your father was still out there, would you feel like you were betraying him by rising here?’
He stared at her. ‘It is the exact opposite. What did I tell you about the Brits putting the Paddies at the front-line?’
‘I wish you wouldn’t say that,’ she said quietly.
‘I’m sorry, Ruairí, but I won’t lie to you. It makes no difference to Danny what you do.’
She fought tears of bitterness and distress. Daniel’s life was a trifle to them, to be tossed aside like a worn-out toy. How long could he last at the front?
Maggie could not sleep without writing to him.
My dearest Daniel,
You speak of war like it’s grand. You forget that I see the men who return. I see their ruined bodies. I see their haunted eyes. It is not grand so stop pretending. We should be honest with each other, Danny. Share the war with me so that I can find words of comfort – if such things exist. Be safe, my darling, and come home to me.
All my love, Maggie
thirty-one
Daniel
August 15th, 1915
For two days, other divisions fought fiercely to take a ridge that dominated most of the surrounding plain. They had succeeded in part but with heavy losses. Now the Pals were being ordered up to try to take the remainder of the ridge. Victory was vital. As they readied themselves, Daniel remembered Maggie’s words. ‘Two pairs of eyes are better than one. Two pairs of arms, legs. Two spirits.’ Daniel looked at Michael. ‘Whatever happens, we stay together.’
‘I’ve a bad feeling about this one, Danny. I don’t know why.’ He took a swig of Dido, accustomed to its bite by now. ‘If I don’t make it, can you give this to my father?’
‘Together, we’ll be all right,’ Daniel assured him but he took Michael’s letter. ‘And if I go, will you look after Maggie for me?’
He nodded. Then joked, ‘And if we both go?’
‘Then, we’re well and truly fucked.’
They laughed.
‘Good luck, lads.’ MacDonald’s voice lacked its usual confidence.
‘See you on the other side,’ Daniel said cheerfully.
‘You can count on it.’ MacDonald smiled.
‘Sorry for all the slagging, MacDonald,’ Michael said.
‘Did my fair share,’ he replied. ‘And Hegarty?’
‘MacDonald?’
He winked. ‘It wouldn’t have been the same without you.’
‘Likewise, you old bastard.’
The three of them embraced, patting each other’s backs with force.
They all faced forward, waiting for the whistle.
Missus Daniel Healy, Daniel willed the words out into the universe so that, one day, they might come true. He thumbed the lock of hair that she had given him, searching for its softness, her softness. He put it to his nose but it had lost her scent a long time ago.
The shrill blast of a whistle and they were up, scrambling like rats from a hovel. But it was a relief to be out, moving, stretching and feeling that they were doing something at last. It was also terrifying.
&
nbsp; They marched in the dark over treacherous terrain towards a silent, hidden enemy. All about them, stretcher-bearers worked feverishly to get the wounded down. Groans filled the night air. It went against every instinct to walk by the wounded. But orders were to press on.
When, at last, they reached the crest of the ridge, they were instructed to take up positions along it until light returned. There were no trenches, no proper cover and the ground was too rocky to dig in. The best that they could do was pile a few rocks in front of them and stay awake.
At 2200, Daniel was distracting himself from the cold by imagining how Niall might have grown, when the Turks piled over the ridge like a great swarm of Gallipoli flies.
‘Holy Mother of Jesus!’ Michael said fumbling with his gun.
The alarm was sounded. Then gunfire erupted like thunder, illuminating the enemy.
Daniel took aim, fired; took aim, fired. But he needn’t have aimed at all there were so many of them, a great and endless wall of roaring shadow. Bullets pinged the ground around them, rising dust into their faces. Every second felt like Daniel’s last. Sweat poured into his eyes and as he tried to clear it, his helmet fell off. He scrambled for it and fumbled it back into place. And all the time, he prayed for his comrades, wanting each and every one to stay alive. Curses, wails and screams confirmed the impossibility of his request.
‘Fuck off back to your hovels, you fuckers,’ Michael was roaring.
Daniel wondered which was more powerful, his stream of prayer or Michael’s profanities.
Finally, unbelievably, the enemy retreated. The firing slowed then stopped altogether. Darkness returned.
Daniel and Michael lay flat on the stony ground, shattered.
‘Fucking Turks,’ Michael said quietly.
Through The Barricades: Winner of the SCBWI SPARK Award 2017 Page 17
