The Soldier's Song (9 page)

There was a rumble of discontent. Then a deep Scottish voice spoke up strongly: ‘The whole concept of colonies is founded on inequality. No man should have to live under the colonial boot.’

‘Yes, yes, that’s all very well in theory – but a lot of people don’t see it that way, do they? And let’s not forget that Ireland isn’t a colony as far as the Unionists are concerned. They might regard themselves as British, but since they were born in Ireland and they live in Ireland, they have as much right as you or I to say what becomes of it. As it was, they nearly went to war over Home Rule. That’s why the King didn’t sign the Bill. He knew there’d be bloody murder if he did. So imagine what it would be like if you tried for full independence: pandemonium! Which is another reason why it can’t be countenanced right now. Britain is already up to her neck in a war with Germany – the last thing she needs is a civil war in her own back yard! But that’s not to say that the Unionists are completely intractable. They fear change, of course, but they can be brought around. As long as it’s done the right way, as long as it’s introduced gradually . . .’

Stephen smiled to himself as he listened. Trust Billy to get into an argument at a funeral. But he had to admit he could hold an audience. When Stephen looked across he saw a group of men sitting on hard chairs near the fireplace. Most of them were young, and he recognized a few as friends of Joe’s. Billy stood in their midst like a preacher, watched like a hawk by one of the older men, who sat bolt upright in his chair with his near-empty glass held firmly on his knee. That was Connolly. Stephen had never met him, but he had seen photographs. There was no mistaking him: in the flesh he was a dark, intelligent-looking man who appeared to relish an argument, and he was undoubtedly the leader of the group. As Billy spoke the others shook their heads or murmured their disagreement, but when it came to speaking against him, Connolly was the one who made the argument.

At length, their debate garnered more and more laughter. Billy was playing the clown and was certainly slightly drunk. It was of no matter. Connolly and his men had taken a liking to him, and by the time Stephen finally made his way across, he was sitting among them, his face flushed and pink from laughing.

‘Stephen!’ he called out. ‘Come and meet these fine gentlemen. They’ve been trying to bring me around to the right way of thinking. Not with much success, I’ll admit, but it was a game attempt . . .’

Despite the gaiety in Billy’s voice, Stephen was aware of the chill that settled over the group as he came closer. He’d caught a few guarded glances at his uniform in the church, and he knew it didn’t sit well with these men. Seeing a cloud pass over Joe’s face, he had the feeling that the truce that had kept them civil these last few days might be drawing to an end. The chatter dried up and they all looked at him uncomfortably, but then Connolly stood up and offered him his hand.

‘You’ll be Joseph’s big brother, then,’ he said, and Stephen bowed as they shook hands.

‘I am. Stephen Ryan, sir. At your service.’

Connolly’s eyes narrowed as he peered at the bronze bomb on the lapel of Stephen’s tunic. ‘A Dublin Fusilier, is that right?’

Out of the corner of his eye, Stephen thought he saw Joe’s expression change. It was a hostile look, as if Joe resented all this attention being lavished on his brother, but was there something else to it?

‘That’s right. Seventh Battalion.’

‘He’s an officer,’ Joe blurted out suddenly, and Stephen knew from the slur in his voice that he was drunk. It amused his friends.

‘Yeah, and you’re only a sergeant, Joe,’ one of them whispered, and the sniggering caused him to blush.

‘I was in the army myself, for a while,’ Connolly said amicably, trying to ignore the obvious ill feeling. ‘From what I hear, you must have nearly finished your training.’

‘I hope so. We’ll be ready to fight come the spring, they say.’

‘Aye, I bet you will.’ Connolly’s eyes twinkled as he sat down again, ‘And tell me, did you see our little banner outside?’

Stephen smiled. Of course he’d seen it. It stretched across half the width of the building and proclaimed: We serve neither King nor Kaiser, but Ireland.

Billy had looked up at it after they stepped down from their cab. On the way across town they’d been talking about the Italians; whether or not they might come into the war, and whose side they were likely to take.

‘Well, at least we know where
they
stand,’ he had observed, with a grin.

‘I saw it,’ Stephen said.

‘And who do you serve, lieutenant? Who will you be fighting for? For your King?’

‘For my country.’

Connolly’s eyes narrowed again, and he gave a little smile as he nodded. ‘And what country is that?’

‘Ireland.’

‘Bollocks he’s fighting for Ireland,’ Joe exploded, leaping out of his seat. ‘He’s fighting for the King. It’s the King’s commission he has, the King’s uniform he’s wearing.’

‘You sit down, sergeant!’ Connolly snapped, and Stephen was impressed at the calm authority in his voice. They all fell silent as he drained his glass and wiped his moustache with the back of his hand.

‘I must be away now,’ he said softly, the Scottish burr plain in his voice. Then he shook Stephen’s hand for the second time, ‘My condolences, again, son. Your father was a good man. I’m sure he’d be proud of you.’ A significant look in Joe’s direction, ‘I’m sure he’d be proud of both of you.’

Springtime, and the air was warm and clear. A thousand men were formed up in the barrack square, but they stood in such complete silence that he could hear the pigeons cooing high up under the eaves. The men were holding their breath, waiting for the order. Stephen turned his head a fraction so he could look down along the line of his platoon. They had just passed a general’s inspection and they were perfect: buttons and buckles gleaming, rifles exactly sloped, faces stony. Soldiers at last – even Kinsella, of whom they’d all despaired. Kinsella of the two left feet, they’d called him. And probably just as well, because he didn’t know left from right. A bloody miracle in some respects: after his first week of training he’d been marked out as an obvious no-hoper. He couldn’t march, he couldn’t hold a rifle, and he certainly couldn’t shoot. The NCOs had latched onto him with ferocious glee, and he’d endured more punishments than Stephen could remember, but, somehow, he’d survived. He’d taken it all with a sullen determination, and he’d learned. Slowly, painfully, he’d turned himself into a soldier, like his brother in the Second Battalion. Stephen had overheard him saying, with an unmistakable note of pride, that his brother was already killing Germans, and that’s what he was going to do too. Now here he was, chest out, back straight, ready to go over to France. Only that wasn’t where he was going. At least, not according to the rumours.

The closer they’d come to actually going to war the more rumours had appeared. If it wasn’t German spies putting arsenic in the water, it was the King and the Kaiser meeting on a battleship to agree an armistice. But the one about the Mediterranean had lasted a bit longer than most and it had the mundane ring of truth. There was a new front just opened there: a bold attempt to take the Dardanelles and put Turkey out of the war. The First Battalion had already gone ashore with the Twenty-Ninth Division, but there was heavy fighting and the Turks were keeping them hemmed in on the beaches. Another division would surely do the trick, and here was the Tenth Division, freshly trained, and ready for anything. There wasn’t a single scrap of evidence to support it, nothing in their orders, training or equipment, but about half the men were convinced that they were going to the Mediterranean. The others still thought it would be France, and since the division had moved up to Dublin – a sure sign that they would soon be shipping out – the debate had raged hotly.

I bet they know, Stephen thought, as he watched General Mahon and Colonel Downing return to their starting point near the gate. Mahon looked pleased, but not half as chuffed as Downing, who was beaming with undisguised pride. At a nod from the colonel, the regimental sergeant major marched forward and spun around on his heel.

‘Atten . . . shun!’ he shrieked at the top of his voice, and hundreds of hobnailed boots crashed down as one.

Stephen didn’t mind where they went as much as some. He had never been abroad before, but he thought the Mediterranean might be a bit more exotic than plain old France. At least it would be warmer, and after the arctic winter they’d just endured, a bit of heat wouldn’t do them any harm. But he was in the minority among the officers.

‘The Med means fighting the bloody Turks,’ one of the older ones had complained at breakfast that morning, ‘filthy beggars!’

Most of the others didn’t put it in quite those terms, but they believed that the Mediterranean was only a sideshow. They didn’t think taking the Dardanelles would make a blind bit of difference to the war because the Turks were bloody useless anyway. France was where the real action was because France was where the Germans were. Many men had lost brothers or fathers or uncles over there – and the bayonet drills had rung with screams to ‘Stick it in that fucking German! Kill ’im! Kill ’im!’

‘Fiiiiix bayonets!’

This command was anticipated and, while it was still an echo, bayonets flashed out and onto rifles in a series of well-practised movements. Click, click, click – like a machine. Nobody dropped either rifle or bayonet, and Stephen drew his sword, relishing the menacing grate of the blade in the scabbard. As he held it up, the April sunlight reflected from the polished steel and dappled his face.

Another order, and a thousand rifles were shouldered with a single crash. A forest of glittering needles pointed to the sky as the band struck up the first rolling beats of a march. Then came the crunch of boots as the men wheeled around the square and marched solemnly out of the barracks. It was pure clockwork. Hundreds of miles they’d marched together, and now the rhythm came to them as easily as breathing. Out of the gate and onto the quays with the band striking into ‘The Girl I Left Behind Me’, and the tugs and barrel barges of Guinness’s brewery piercing the music with their steam whistles. The quays were lined with cheering crowds as the soldiers marched past the Four Courts and on into the heart of the city. They crossed the Liffey and marched up Parliament Street, the crowds growing thicker, and here they were joined by swarms of small boys running barefoot alongside, trying to keep in step as they sang:

Left, right, left, right, here’s the way we go,

Marching with fixed bayonets, the terror of every foe,

A credit to the nation, a thousand buccaneers,

A terror to creation, are the Dublin Fusiliers.

‘You fuck off, you little bastard,’ Fusilier Kinsella snapped, as one of them tried to grab his rifle. Stephen turned sharply, ready to reprimand, but Kinsella hadn’t broken step and was once more marching in perfect time like a toy soldier.

They turned down Dame Street and the familiar West Front of Trinity College grew closer, closer. Stephen felt the bite of nerves all of a sudden. This might be the last time he would see these streets. They were marching down to the docks to sail for England, and after that, who knew? It could be France or it could be the Med. Either way, it was certain that some of these soldiers wouldn’t be coming back. And he might be one of them. He regretted not writing that letter to his brother. He’d been trying to for days, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. It seemed that the connection was finally broken now. They hadn’t spoken since the day of their father’s funeral. No goodbyes, no regrets. He’d just got up the next morning to find the house empty and the kettle still warm on the kitchen stove. He packed his things and went back down to the Curragh to continue training with his men. They were his family now, and he didn’t expect anybody else would be coming to see him off.

But Lillian Bryce had come to see him off. She stood at the bottom of Dame Street, outside the gates of Trinity College, in the midst of a throng of cheering students. She watched the parade approaching and hoped her sister wouldn’t see her. But if Sheila were watching, she would be further up the street, outside Dublin Castle. She’d been working in the army hospital there these last three months, which was where she’d learned about the parade.

‘We’re all going out to cheer them off,’ she said excitedly, over dinner the night before. ‘What about you, Lillie? Are you going to give them a cheer? They’ll be marching right past the college.’

‘I have to study, Sheila. My exams are coming up.’

‘Oh, but it’ll only take you ten minutes, Lillie. Will you not come out to see your friend off?’

‘Friend?’ their mother stopped her fork halfway to her lips and looked from one daughter to the other, ‘What friend is this?’

‘A lad who used to be in my class,’ Lillian admitted coyly, looking down at her plate.

‘It’s that boy who walked us home from the party, Mam,’ Sheila gushed. ‘He joined the army and he’s going away to the war tomorrow.’

‘Really? You never said, Lillian.’

‘Lillie’s sweet on him.’

‘I am not!’ she said indignantly, feeling her cheeks flush bright red. ‘I hardly said two words to him all the way home.’

‘But I saw the way you were looking at him, Lillie,’ Sheila shot back, with a broad grin. ‘You’re sweet on him, and I bet you’ll go out to see him tomorrow.’

Suddenly, she was looking at him again. As the parade wheeled around College Green, the throng of wives and sweethearts and children finally overwhelmed it. The marching men came to an untidy halt and civilians ran freely between the soldiers, hugging, kissing and crying. As she scanned the ranks, she saw him laughing as he sheathed his sword and then looking startled as a young woman dragged his head down and planted a kiss on his cheek. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Billy Standing waving his hat.