Irish Chain

by Barbara Haworth-Attard

  “Flee!” The voice yelled so close to me that I jumped.

  A soldier roughly shoved my back, and I staggered into Winnie.

  “Run!” he cried. “The magazine in Wellington Barracks might go up at any moment. Get to high, open ground!”

  People screamed and swarmed frantically by us on all sides. Children yelled for their parents. Patrick was thrown to the ground and trampled underfoot. I crouched over Winnie to protect her. A nightmare, I assured myself. I will wake up. In horror, I watched a woman crawl by, one leg dragged behind, useless.

  All of a sudden Martha gave a cry and threw herself into the arms of a man. “Papa, Papa.”

  Mr. Schultz scooped her up and continued to run up the steep hill with her in his arms. I stood to get their attention, but Martha didn’t look back once.

  “Well, I, for one, am glad that German is gone,” Catherine announced.

  “Shut up. Just shut up.” I lashed out at Catherine, though I wasn’t really mad at her. I was mad at Martha. Once again, she had deserted me. Mr. Schultz was the only familiar adult I’d seen today, and Martha hadn’t even bothered to tell him about us.

  Patrick scrambled over the ground on all fours. “My cap,” he said. “Where’s my cap?”

  “Never mind,” I said. “We have to go.”

  “But my mother told me I should wear my hat at all times. She’ll be mad if I lose it.”

  I hauled him to his feet. We stumbled along with the hysterical crowd, away from home. Suddenly, I grabbed Patrick’s arm and pulled him and Winnie to squat behind a tumbled-down wall. Catherine followed. Did I know whose home this was?

  “I’m going back to find Mam and Da,” I said. “If we don’t go now, they’ll keep us away forever. No one would notice us, not in all this confusion.”

  “But what if there’s another explosion?” Patrick protested.

  “We’ll just have to chance it. Don’t you want to go home?” I asked him.

  Patrick looked doubtful but didn’t object further.

  “The soldier said we were to go to open ground,” Catherine reminded me primly.

  “So, go,” I urged her. “Maybe your grandmother is there.”

  Catherine hugged her doll. “I want to stay with you,” she muttered.

  From beneath a shattered bureau, I pulled out a man’s boot. “Would this fit you, Patrick?” I asked. He needed something to protect him. There was so much glass on the ground, his foot would soon be cut to shreds.

  He slipped the boot on. “It’s a bit big, but it’ll do grand,” he said.

  “We’ll have to stay hidden as much as possible and avoid the soldiers,” I said.

  “How?” Patrick asked. “Everything’s flattened. There’s nothing to hide behind.”

  “Just do your best, but follow me. I know where I’m going.”

  “How do you know—” Patrick began.

  “You can follow me and find your house, or go your own way and wander around,” I said angrily. It was my bad dream, after all. I could do what I wanted. “I don’t care, but I remember the way home.” I glared at him and Catherine.

  Neither made any move to head out on their own.

  I pulled on Winnie’s hand, but she wouldn’t get up. “Come on, Winnie.” I tugged harder. “We’ll be home soon.” She merely whimpered. Her eyes rolled back in her head.

  “We’ll have to carry her,” I said to Patrick. “And wrap your coat around her. She’s shivering.”

  “I’ll get cold,” he whined.

  “If you want to come with me, you’ll give Winnie your coat.”

  Reluctantly, Patrick stripped off his jacket and wrapped it around Winnie.

  “Your arm’s bleeding,” Patrick said.

  “I know,” I replied impatiently. Blood from the cut made my hand slippery, but I still didn’t feel any pain.

  Patrick and I locked our hands together and awkwardly carried Winnie between us. We stumbled over the littered ground. It was hard walking forward with my body bent sideways and I was soon out of breath. Sweat ran down Patrick’s face. He wasn’t cold anymore, I thought. Or perhaps it was from the searing heat of the numerous fires that raged on each side of us. I tried to speed up my feet and almost went down.

  “What are you doing? You nearly dropped Winnie,” Patrick yelled.

  “The fires,” I gasped. “The stoves have overturned in the houses. We have to hurry. Everything will be on fire soon.”

  Patrick glanced around and increased his speed. He whispered beneath his breath.

  “What?” I asked him.

  He didn’t reply, but continued to whisper. I caught the words.

  “Hail Mary, full of grace,” he repeated over and over.

  I tried hard, but no prayers would come to my lips.

  “Not much farther,” I gasped. And it wasn’t. I knew where I was. Patrick’s house was one way; ours, the other. Selfishly, I didn’t tell him. I needed his help with Winnie. Another block and I saw the remains of a second white picket fence, blackened now and broken, only the gate intact, flat on the ground. Behind sat what remained of our house—a heap of wood and plaster. Patrick and I stared open-mouthed. I had seen other houses destroyed, but somehow had thought ours would be standing. If you owned your house, wouldn’t it still stand? I gulped back a sob. A nightmare, not real, I told myself, but I struggled to believe.

  I set Winnie down on the flattened front gate, then ran to the pile of wood. Smoke and fire poured from the kitchen area. “Mam!” I screamed. “Mam!”

  “Rose.” A thin moan sounded above the crackle of flames.

  “Ernest?” I called.

  “Rose.”

  The voice came from beneath my feet. I began to throw aside boards, and wrestled a twisted bed frame—one I recognized as my own—away from the pile. I came to a thick beam and tugged on it, but it wouldn’t move.

  “Patrick. Help me,” I yelled.

  He hung back. “It’s on fire.” His eyes were wide with terror.

  “I can’t lift this and Ernest is underneath.”

  Patrick didn’t move.

  “Help me!” I screamed at him. “Ernest is your friend.”

  Slowly, he climbed over the shattered house. Together we strained to lift the beam. Flames licked around my boots as the fire took firm hold.

  “It’s no good,” Patrick gasped. “It’s too heavy.”

  “We have to get him out. Try again.”

  Suddenly a hand pushed me aside and a rope snaked around the beam. “Back up! Back, you old nag!”

  The rope stretched from the beam to the back of Duncan’s wagon. “Rose,” he said, “grab the reins and pull her forward.”

  I ran to the horse’s head. Its eyes rolled wildly. Digging in my heels, I leaned all my weight on the horse’s head—and it took a step forward.

  “Again,” Duncan yelled.

  “Move!” I screamed. The horse took a second step, then a third.

  “That’s it! No further or the floor will collapse.”

  I watched as he stretched full-length and reached into a hole. A moment later, he hauled Ernest up by the back of his shirt.

  I ran over to him. “Ernest. Where’s Mam and Bertie?”

  “I can’t see!” Ernest screamed. “I can’t see.”

  “Get him away from here before this all falls in,” Duncan ordered. He leaned back over the hole and called down. There was no answer.

  Patrick dragged Ernest to lay next to Winnie on the gate.

  “I can’t see. My face hurts so much.” Ernest’s hands clawed at his eyes.

  Duncan took a rag from the wagon and carefully wiped dirt from Ernest’s face. “He’s got glass in his eyes. That’s why he can’t see,” Duncan said softly. He took off his shirt and wrapped it around Ernest’s head, covering his eyes. “He needs a doctor immediately.”

  “Ernest, do you know where Mam is? And Bertie?”

  “She went out back to see if she could hang the wash. She didn’t want to get ash from t
he fire on it,” Ernest said. His chest heaved for air.

  I noticed that he held his binoculars in one hand.

  “Bertie was in the kitchen beside the stove.”

  “We have to find them.” I got to my feet, but Duncan held me back.

  “It’s no use, Rose. No one could survive those flames,” he said gently.

  I jerked away from him. Mam had been outside, Ernest said, not in the house. I ran to the backyard. Mam lay on the ground by the kitchen garden. One arm was flung outward, fingers open, beckoning me. I knelt down beside her.

  “Mam.” I took her hand. It was cold. I’d have to warm her. A cup of tea, perhaps. Mam always said a cup of tea was just the thing.

  “Mam. Wake up. I’m having a bad dream, Mam.” Why did she lie so still?

  “Rose.” Duncan’s hand came down on my shoulder. He knelt and held Mam’s wrist for a moment, then let it drop. “She’s gone, Rose.”

  “No, Duncan,” I insisted. “This is all a bad dream. Mam will wake up and make it go away. You’ll see.”

  I shook Mam’s arm.

  Duncan swung me around to face him and placed both his hands on my shoulders, giving me a little shake.

  “It’s not a bad dream, Rose. It’s real.” Tears filled his eyes. “It’s horrible, but it’s real. It’s real.”

  Of course it was real. Even before he’d told me, I’d known it was real, but hadn’t wanted to believe it. Now that the words had been spoken, I could no longer pretend it was a bad dream. I kicked his shin, then pummeled him with my fists.

  “You shouldn’t have told me,” I screamed at him. Suddenly, my body went limp and I slumped to the ground. “My arm hurts, Mam,” I sobbed.

  Chapter 12

  Duncan gently pulled me to my feet, away from Mam. Numb, I followed him back to the street where Winnie and Ernest lay on the gate. Patrick stood motionless, face frightened, as he stared at the destruction all around. Only Catherine seemed oblivious as she hummed and rocked her doll.

  “What about Bertie?” I asked Duncan.

  “Ernest said he was near the stove last time he saw him. If so”—he gestured helplessly at the burning debris—“he couldn’t be alive in that, Rose.”

  I knew what Duncan said made sense, but a part of me remained stubborn. “We should check,” I insisted.

  “Rose . . .” Duncan began. He ran a hand through his hair, making it stand on end. Da did that, too, when pushed too far. “It’d be foolhardy to waste time trying to find him. Winnie and Ernest are hurt bad. They need a doctor right away—”

  “What about my mama and dad?” Patrick interrupted.

  “The entire street is on fire,” Duncan said. “The whole north end!” He took a deep breath, then continued more patiently. “They’ll be at the hospital. I’m sure you’ll find them there. Same with your granny and grandpa.”

  I could tell by the way he wouldn’t meet our eyes that he didn’t believe his own words. Patrick wasn’t fooled, either, but he nodded and didn’t protest. Seeing him give in so easy took all the fight out of me. I sank down beside Winnie. My arm hurt terribly now. Duncan took my arm and inspected it.

  “This is a bad gash. You need a doctor, too.”

  Suddenly, Patrick grabbed the blanket from around Catherine’s doll.

  “Hey! That’s mine,” Catherine shouted.

  “Rose needs this more than your dumb doll,” Patrick said. He wrapped the blanket around my elbow and tied it tightly. “That should help a bit until we get to the doctor. I cut my arm once and Dad put a cloth around it like this to stop the bleeding.”

  I’d never seen Patrick help anyone before, but I was glad he’d bandaged my arm. The sight of the flap of skin and the white bone beneath had begun to make my head spin.

  Duncan looked up and down what remained of the street. “There’s others here hurt. So many—” His voice cracked, overwhelmed with the enormity of it all. “Well, I got the wagon, so we’ll take the ones we can find to hospital. I’ll need your help, Patrick.”

  Patrick nodded. A bit of the bewilderment went out of his eyes now that he had something to do. He and Duncan picked up Ernest and put him in the back of the wagon, then laid Winnie in beside him.

  “I couldn’t see any hurts on her,” I told Duncan. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “I think she’s injured inside,” Duncan said. He hoisted me up next to Winnie. With some effort, Patrick heaved his bulk in after us.

  “What about Mam?” I said. “Shouldn’t she go with us?”

  “I can only take the wounded this time around,” Duncan said. “I’ll come back for your mother. I promise.”

  I stared at him, aghast. I couldn’t leave Mam to lay alone in the yard. Part of me wanted to scream my outrage, but I was too tired. I could barely hold up my head, I felt so weary now.

  Duncan led the horse a little way along the road, and helped Mr. Neeson into the wagon. He bled from a deep cut in his head.

  “She’s gone, Rose,” Mr. Neeson said. He held his broken fiddle in much the same manner that Catherine cradled her doll.

  “Mrs. Neeson?” I asked.

  “Aye. An awful thing. An awful thing. What could have caused it?” Mr. Neeson mumbled. He closed his eyes.

  What could have caused it? Had it been German airships? Had it been the two ships that collided? Or had something else altogether caused the explosion? Something closer to me. A nudge at my mind. A secret. Deep inside. Let me out! No. I pushed it back down.

  It was a slow, grisly journey. Duncan stopped frequently to clear the way of debris and bodies. The dead he left on the side of the road. The injured he placed in the delivery wagon. As the number of people in the wagon grew, the wooden floor became slippery with blood. The sharp metallic smell of it made me gag, so I tried to breathe through my mouth, only to have the dust and smoke that clogged the air choke me. I held Winnie’s head in my lap. Her eyes were closed now, though occasionally her lips parted to let a moan escape. Patrick sat beside Ernest. He’d tried to take the binoculars, but Ernest clutched them to his chest with one hand. The other he used to tear at the makeshift bandage on his eyes, until Patrick grasped his fingers and held them inside his own.

  Yellow flames spurted up on all sides of us. People probed and called and dug through the ruins of their homes with bare hands, desperate to rescue their families before fire claimed them. We wove our way past the orphanage, its walls demolished, and I remembered Bertie stopping to watch the boys toss a ball. Had it really been only yesterday? Where was Aunt Ida now? And Bertie? My mind pictured the kitchen stove toppling on him. I tried to stop the images but found I had no control over them.

  A woman beside me called weakly for the priest. It suddenly dawned on me that Mam had had no priest to ease her passage into Heaven. And she was in Heaven, I told myself resolutely, extreme unction or not. We were the ones in Hell. I tried to block the woman’s tormented cries from my ears, and closed my eyes, but even here there was no escape. Visions of fire and broken buildings haunted me.

  We finally pulled up at Camp Hill Hospital. Chaos greeted us. Wagons, ambulances, motor cars, even wheelbarrows carried the injured. Nurses ran from one conveyance to another. One came to our wagon, a couple of soldiers accompanying her. She briefly held the wrist, then closed the eyes of the woman who had now stopped asking for the priest. She rolled Winnie’s eyelids back, and raised Duncan’s shirt from Ernest’s head.

  “These two in right away. Surgery,” she ordered the soldiers. Winnie and Ernest disappeared into the hospital on stretchers.

  “What hurts?” she asked me briskly.

  “My arm’s cut,” I told her.

  “And you, little girl?” she asked Catherine.

  Catherine ignored the nurse, so after a moment I answered for her. “I think she got a bang on the head, but she’s not said anything else hurts.”

  The nurse briefly parted Catherine’s hair but didn’t seem unduly alarmed. She turned to Patrick. “You?”

  �
��My head hurts. Right by my ear,” he said.

  She ran her fingers over the side of his head. “You have glass in here, but nothing too serious. You three go in and wait in the hall. Someone will attend to you in time.”

  “What about Winnie and Ernest?” I asked. “They’re my sister and brother.”

  “You’ll see them later. Now go.” She turned and went to a motor car.

  Duncan came up. “I have to go back and get some more of the injured,” he said. “They need anything that can move to transport people.”

  I clung to his arm. “No,” I whispered. I knew no one else here but Patrick and Catherine, and I was scared.

  He gently pried my fingers open. “I have to go, Rose. I’ll come back and find you as soon as I can.” He started away, then turned back. “Rose, was Mary at work today?”

  I nodded. “She caught the morning car as usual.”

  “Good. I hope that means she was out of this.”

  I watched him climb into the wagon and leave, then followed Patrick and Catherine into the hospital.

  We stopped inside the door, shocked at the number of people packed into the hallway. Some sat with their backs against the walls, others stretched full-length on the floor. Many were covered in the black rain like Patrick, and all had blood-soaked rags wrapped around various parts of their bodies. I recognized no one. A strange silence, broken by an occasional sob or moan, filled the corridor louder than any noise could. I wanted to turn and run away.

  “Where do we go?” Catherine whispered. She gripped my cut arm, and I yelped.

  “Out of the way.” Two soldiers pushed past with a woman on a stretcher.

  As I jumped aside, my knees buckled and I sank to the floor. Patrick and Catherine sat beside me, legs pulled up to their chins.

  “We should have looked for my mama and granny and grandpa,” Patrick said. He blinked rapidly several times and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. His left hand opened and shut convulsively, and I wondered if it was missing the bag of candy that was usually there.