by Martin Hand
‘Sarge, what’s with all the cloak and daggers?’ Jake asked.
‘Well, let’s see now, we’re in a Jordanian naval vessel. We’re landing in a foreign country. We must make our way to a rendezvous in Bethlehem. What could possibly go wrong?’
‘I know you’re being smart, Sarge, but we’re guests of the Palestinians, yeah?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t quite say guests, more invitees. You see the problem, my young friend, is that when you set foot in the West Bank, it’s bloody hard to be sure what country you’re in, Palestine or Israel.’
‘Why, is there a problem with their satnavs?’ Taylor asked.
The sergeant wondered if he was being annoying or just annoyingly stupid. ‘It’s not that. It’s that these Jewish settlements tend to grow up out of the blue,’ Sergeant Doyle continued. ‘Remember, lads, as well, tensions have been running high ever since the US moved its embassy into Jerusalem. That’s why we’re on the mission, to assess how badly that move has further irked the Palestinians.’
‘Do you know, Sarge, what Trumpy was playing at with that move?’ asked Fionn.
‘No, Private, but I have the feeling we’re about to get a profound explanation. But seriously, I’d say Jewish money, power and influence has always been a big thing in the US political system. That’s my simple guess; no doubt yours, Fionn, is more complicated.’
‘He is getting them ready for the second coming,’ Fionn said.
‘Yeah, he’s big into sex and women, that fella,’ said Taylor. He couldn’t help himself.
‘I mean the second coming of the risen Christ.’
Sergeant Doyle knew he had to intervene here, if only to get the lads refocused. ‘Now, Private, I’ve been pleased with your input into our little chat so far, so you’re not going to spoil that, are you?’
‘Look, I’m not sure that Mr Trump believes in anything much, but he sure does know how to play to an audience.’
‘So you’re saying, Fionn, that the president of the United States is getting the Jewish people ready for another Jesus?’ asked the sergeant.
‘No, it’s more like the fundamentalist Christian lobby he is getting ready, you know the Bible Belt guys. There’s way more of them in the US that there are Jews.’
Private Mark had had enough of what he would call ‘shite talk’. ‘That’s the maddest thing I’ve ever heard,’ he said. ‘That fellow would wreck your head, Seamus. What d’you think?’ Mark was thick and trying to enlist Seamus’s support. He’d decided four weeks earlier that none of these kids, and certainly not Fionn, was going to show him up. The tension and cold, now that they were on the water, wasn’t helping his mood. Maybe he resented Fionn, thinking he was laying claim to those elusive corporal stripes.
To use one his mother’s favourite phrases, Fionn had about as much interest in stripes as the Man on the Moon. He carried on, oblivious to the negative energy: ‘I guess we won’t get to see it, but there’s a huge necropolis just outside one of Jerusalem’s walls.’
‘What’s a necropolis when it’s at home?’ Seamus asked calmly, showing he had no intention of joining in on Mark’s attack.
‘It’s a giant cemetery, but the point is that the Jewish people believe it’s the first place where the dead will rise again on Judgement Day. Trumpy wants to be seen to promote recognition of the place.’
‘Pure shite talk,’ said Mark. He had put in his twelve years and he wasn’t going to be told anything by anyone junior to him. Maybe it was a chip-on-the-shoulder kind of thing. Certainly, it was skewed thinking, like how could anything these kids had to say have any value? Mark didn’t get Taylor’s jovial nature. He thought Jake’s quietness was a clear sign of homosexuality. He didn’t like the bond between Joe and Fionn. But top of his hit list was Fionn’s character. Whether it was the fact that Fionn was action-oriented, that he got on and did things, or just that he had demonstrated sound judgement, there was a lot to dislike if your motivation was warped. He felt even the sergeant had to be with him on this one. He surely couldn’t let that Fionn guy away with this level of rubbish talk.
Before the tetchiness could escalate further, the cover of darkness was suddenly broken by three massive searchlights. An amplified voice boomed, ‘Israeli Army. Cut your engines immediately and prepare to be boarded.’
There was silence on the boat. It took a while for the pilot to realise that all the searchlights were trained on the other boat. He had not been spotted. The address had been aimed at Sergeant O’Brien’s vessel. How could this be? The searchlights had strobed them, but the pilot, paralysed by the approaching threat of an Israeli gunboat, had not cut his engine. The boat was now three hundred metres away, receding into the darkness.
Doyle stealthily approached and had a quick, whispered conversation with the pilot. He returned to his men and gave them an update.
‘Orders are to keep going if one vessel is detained. I have no control over this, lads. Feck, where’s Fionn?’
The soldiers quickly looked around but Fionn was gone.
‘He must have slipped into the water, Sarge.’
‘We can hardly conduct a search with a gunboat bearing down on all of us, can we?’ whispered Mark.
Sergeant Doyle hurried back to the pilot to report the new urgent development. As he knew it would, the plan remained the same. This Jordanian was a man for following orders, particularly if it meant avoiding a beating and probably a prolonged stay in a sweltering Israeli military jail. Onward they went. It wasn’t down to Pete this time; now it was Sergeant Doyle’s turn to wonder how he would explain losing a man on an observer mission.
Chapter Seven
Bethlehem
Sergeant Doyle and his rattled troop approached the shore just as a brightness was appearing in the eastern sky. The original plan had been to land an hour before dawn. Doyle’s head was spinning. He knew damn well the unfolding events would define him as a man and as a soldier. How does it get to be so? A whole life soldiering, highs and lows, the comradery, and it all seemed to be unravelling in an instant. It was very likely that Private Fionn O’Toole had drowned in the Dead Sea. Isn’t that what that goddamn sea was famous for? Doesn’t everything float in it, but nothing survives in it?
Doyle had to keep his hopes up; otherwise he would be no good to his men. But how could he? The sergeant was remembering the clarity of the Jordanian captain’s briefings: ‘If you try a front crawl in the Dead Sea, the extreme salinity will burn the eyes out of your head. But don’t worry, your lungs will have collapsed long before then.’
An inflatable dinghy with a quiet on-board motor pulled alongside their vessel, about one hundred metres from shore. The Irish troop disembarked. The pilot saluted and was away, conscious he should have been using the cover of darkness to return to Jordan. But time had been lost drifting quietly away from the pillars of light from the Israeli frigate’s searchlights. Still, none of them knew how they had evaded detection. The pilot had shared with Sergeant Doyle his fear that they would be tracked, cat and mouse, all the way to shore. It seemed not.
A contingent of three, including a short, barrel-chested man complete with impressive moustache, met the Irish soldiers on the beach.
‘I am Ibrahim, Mayor of Bethlehem. Ahlan wa sahlan. On behalf of the elected administration of the occupied territory of Palestine, I welcome you. It is imperative that we leave quickly, as soon as the second vessel arrives.’
What Ibrahim said next was so bizarre that it shook an already shaken Sergeant Doyle.
‘Where is the Holy Man, Flonn? He is with the other boat, yes?’
‘Mayor, I regret to inform you that Private Fionn O’Toole was lost overboard during our contact with an Israeli gunboat. Our second vessel was detained.’
‘That is a great loss. Allah will mourn such a loss. Flonn has been making a great stir of news. Inshallah, I will explain all, but we will proc
eed with haste to the sacred place of Bethlehem, as planned, albeit with half our honoured peacekeeping force.’
The two bodyguard types accompanying Ibrahim quickly encouraged the party into an anonymous-looking twenty-seater white van.
On the drive to Bethlehem the men could see the breaking dawn through the vehicle’s skylights; the side windows were blacked out. Joe more than any of them was in a state of shock. He was looking up at something they had all seen that night in the Jordanian Desert: the International Space Station. Its beacon-like sharp spot of light overtook them directly overhead. Could his best buddy be dead in the toxic cold water of a Dead Sea? The thought of Fionn’s mother being left all alone, the only light of her life gone and gone for ever, was killing him.
Everyone was mostly silent for the forty-minute journey. Even the Palestinian delegation were quiet. Sergeant Doyle didn’t know if this was out of respect for their loss or because of anxiety about the territory they were journeying through. There were signs, surprisingly in English: you are using this road at your own risk.
The majesty of arriving into Bethlehem was lost on the silent group. The drive had taken less than an hour on a surprisingly good road. Chosen, no doubt, to avoid any Israeli intervention. The final two kilometres were a descent from the hills into a mist-covered town. It was early Friday morning and the place showed no signs of coming to life. It struck Sergeant Doyle that the mist was affording the town a kindness by disguising a decay in the low-rise dwellings that he could glimpse through the windscreen.
Step one, just the same as it was in Jordan and just the same as it was in all military operations, the debriefing while everything was still fresh in your head. Sergeant Doyle composed himself. They had pulled into the courtyard of a compound of two-storey buildings. The structures were new but trying to look old world, classic sandstone architecture of the Middle East. The render finish was the pale-yellow of the surrounding terrain, the buildings and the desert.
Unlike in Jordan, this debriefing was to be conducted by men in suits, of which there were three. Mayor Ibrahim introduced them to what seemed to Doyle to be a very up-beat Palestinian group. The mayor, having been seated, stood up and placed himself behind the two other seated officials. He addressed the standing Sergeant Doyle and his five soldiers.
‘As-salaam alaikum. You are most welcome guests of the Palestinian people and we recognise your official United Nations mandate.’
Sergeant Doyle saluted in return, and his troops, all standing, saluted in unison.
‘We regret the unfortunate circumstances of your loss, but perhaps all will be for the best, Inshallah.’
‘I’m not sure the Irish Army will view the loss of a young soldier as the best situation, Mayor.’ The sergeant was understandably tetchy in his response but still used the word loss and not death.
‘Of course, of course,’ returned the mayor, aware that he had given offence. ‘But perhaps you are unaware of certain developments. There are stories in the print media coming from Dublin. The Herald has interview with Mrs Kathleen O’Dowded.’
‘Who is she when she’s at home?’ asked Doyle, a bit too smartly, perhaps, but adrenalin and shock were kicking out and in and making unhappy bedfellows, even for a hardened sergeant.
‘Mrs Kathleen O’Dowded claims to be the mother of one of your soldiers, a Private Martha O’Dowded.’
The mayor’s English was good, but the Irish names were killing him. The penny dropped for Doyle and for the rest of his boys. They were all fully alert now.
‘Apologies, Mayor, please update us as to your intelligence.’ The sergeant’s tone was more conciliatory.
‘In her interview she tells of receiving a letter from the Irish Army to say that her daughter has been dispatched to the Golan Heights in Syria and not the Lebanon as she had been previously informed. This seems to have caused Mrs O’Dowded concern enough to contact the Herald with a strange story.’
‘When did all this occur?’ asked the sergeant.
‘Allow me to show you the headline.’ The mayor signalled to one of his subordinates at the table, who duly opened out a standard A3 sheet, which contained a scan of the newspaper’s front page. The man oriented the page so that Sergeant Doyle and the rest of his men could draw round and see it for themselves: mother claims soldier daughter put in further danger after being blown up.
‘Quite a headline, you think, yes?’
‘Mayor, when you picked us up, you knew one of my soldiers by name – Fionn,’ Doyle said.
‘Yes, indeed, Flonn the holy,’ replied the mayor. ‘Perhaps I can summarise. Mrs Kathleen O’Dowded is saying her daughter was blown up by a bomb during her training. She says her nerves could not take the strain of the letter from the Irish Army. It stated her daughter was not gone to the relative safety of the Lebanon but was in fact dispatched to the Golan Heights. This you know to be in Syria. Quite a geography lesson. One where perhaps your military were trying to be too clever in not revealing the true location of your mission. For obvious reasons. Better still, she goes on to say her daughter was killed and was brought back to life by her friend Flonn.’
Sergeant Doyle turned his head to look at Private Joe.
No one said a word.
On the Friday afternoon the five Irish privates were forced out on an orientation tour of Bethlehem. The show apparently had to go on. To them it was a surprisingly neglected place that could have done with a bit of upkeep.
Given the situation, they were glad to be welcomed into the Church of the Nativity for a private, arranged visit. The priest blessed them and offered prayers for Fionn. That was consoling. Even so, Joe started crying. The Arab priest took him aside into a private anteroom.
When he gathered himself, Joe asked, ‘Would you send a text message to an Irish mobile for me?’
‘If it is permitted, I will hand you my phone.’
‘Thank you, Father, but my fingers are trembling.’
Dermot and Mary had immediately gone to Fionn’s mam’s place. Poor Margaret was dazed, unable to take in what was being said.
‘My only son, my only son,’ she repeated to a crying Mary, who was already embracing her.
‘We can’t give up all hope,’ said Dermot. ‘You know the army haven’t said anything.
‘Dermot,’ said his wife, ‘don’t you think that speaks volumes?’
The Irish boys were celebrities the people of Bethlehem had been expecting, it seemed. The ordinary beleaguered people couldn’t be accused of any wrongdoing. They appreciated the young men who were prepared to risk themselves for, as they saw themselves, a downtrodden race. Even contrary Mark enjoyed the bit of stardom. They were heroes, the first United Nations observer mission or intervention since 1967. It was a mission they undertook at considerable risk to themselves, a mission that, it was reported, had already lost these boys a friend and comrade.
The Saint Gabrielle Hotel was the new green base, and the soldiers were afforded their meals for free. No one had an appetite, though. The hotel was an ordinary, clean place for pilgrims, really. The atmosphere was lifted a little by the Advent decorations that had been recently added.
So much for a clandestine observer mission, more like a set-up with me as the fall guy, Sergeant Doyle thought as he observed the choreography around him. He knew the Israelis could do nothing rash to thwart the media attention that the Palestinians would now revel in.
Doyle himself was feeling low. He had to clutch on to something positive, but there was nothing positive about his ‘holy soldier’ being presumed dead.
Chapter Eight
Mrs O’Dowd made her television debut in time for the lunch-time news on Friday. This was a follow-up to her earlier interview with a nice man from the Evening Herald. She was prepared to stand on her doorstep while an RTÉ microphone was thrust in the direction of her gob. There was competition for space: the print journal
ists had been hanging around for pretty much twenty-four hours, by that stage. The path to her front door had an iron railing on one side and a privet hedge on the other, so there was limited space. On the terraced near neighbours’ side, the other side of the iron rail, was the Murtaghs’ house. The media had encroached on the portly and somewhat irate Harry Murtagh’s pathway. ‘Get the bloody hell out of me garden or I’ll set the dog on ye,’ he told the gathered media.
In fairness, the Murtagh family had been virtual prisoners in their own home for the best part of a day. Harry didn’t want himself or his clan tackled or photographed by the media. The family had resorted to sending the grandson on missions over their back wall to go to the local shop for bread, milk, cigarettes and the like.
Mr Murtagh was at least hopeful that the media attention would soon dry up. He based this on the fact that his neighbour and friend Mrs O’Dowd was turning out to be a one-trick pony. Like a good court witness, she didn’t vary her story.
‘All I’m telling ye is her soldier friend Fionn did a miracle on her after she was blown up.’
Full stop.
The media had taken to breaking the siege every two hours or so. They would take turns knocking at the door to draw our further details of the ‘miracle’ story. The ever-courteous Mrs O’Dowd would offer very little extra, but she did add a bit of intrigue, because she kept changing the name of the hero. He was, variously, Fintan, Finn or Fionn, depending on her mood.
When she answered her door for the first time in the darkness of the December Friday evening, the intrigue intensified. Firstly because of the glare of the media lights in the darkness, and secondly because the number of microphones had grown significantly. A female reporter with an American accent asked her about reports that her daughter had been captured by the Israeli Army. If that wasn’t enough of a cage-rattler, the reporter followed up immediately by asking for a comment on the statement that one of the Irish soldiers was missing, presumed dead. Mrs O’Dowd turned visibly pale and looked for a moment like she might fall backwards as she joined up the concepts of dead and captured.
