The Lambs

by Peter James Cottrell Narrated by Gerry O'Brien

Overview

Gincy, autumn 1916. The 9th Battalion, The Royal Dublin Fusiliers, known rather ominously as “The Lambs”, go over the top. In 1914, Kevin Flynn had hardly given the war a thought; everyone said it would be over by Christmas. Instead, desperate to impress a girl called Mary, Flynn and his friends begin a journey that leads inexorably to the shattered ruins of Ginchy and suffering beyond imagination. Confronted by the vagaries of army life, the harsh realities of war and rising hostility at home, Flynn finds his courage, loyalty and love tested to the limit, making him question whether it was worth becoming a lamb to the slaughter.

Product Details

BN ID:	2940173975379
Publisher:	Soundings, Limited
Publication date:	10/01/2014
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

The Lambs

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By Peter James Cottrell

Robert Hale Limited

Copyright © 2014 Peter James Cottrell
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7198-1471-6

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CHAPTER 1

September 1914, Dublin, Ireland

Kevin Flynn hated his job. In all his nineteen years he couldn't remember being so bored, his mind listless behind his intelligent grey eyes. He kept thinking about the Sherlock Holmes story left half-read on his bedside cabinet. It was much more interesting than the papers stacked neatly on his desk. He wasn't a very good shipping clerk. He could have gone to university – he had the brains, and besides, his parents were good for the fees. Instead he'd wasted his schooldays letting his laziness get the better of his intellect. His father had got him the job. It had prospects, he told him. It was the sort of job he could be proud of. The problem was he hated it. It was dull. Shifting uncomfortably in his chair, he listened to the martial music booming by, rattling the windows to strains of 'Rule Britannia' and 'It's A Long Way To Tipperary'.

The clerk opposite, Terry Gallagher, looked equally bored. He seemed oddly out of place in the office, thickset like a navvy with dark-brown eyes and a mop of unruly brown hair, barely contained by liberal applications of pomade. He came from Bridgefoot Street, down by the Liffey, and sat awkwardly scratching entries into a weighty ledger. He seemed a simple soul, always playing the fool, but behind the buffoonery lay a quick wit and a dry sense of humour. Flynn liked him. He liked Gallagher's sister Mary even more! Gallagher put down his pen, glancing at their ageing senior clerk, Mr Byrne, who sat perched behind his desk billowing pipe-smoke like an idling steam engine in a siding. Gallagher rolled his eyes theatrically, cracking a toothy grin in Flynn's direction.

'Mr Byrne,' said Gallagher, 'they say this war'll be done by Christmas.'

Byrne harrumphed from behind his smokescreen. 'Do you not have enough work to be getting on with, Mr Gallagher, to stop you wasting the firm's time with your gossip?' he asked, before deigning to peer over the rims of his half-moon glasses. There was still a hint of Kerry in his voice despite twenty or so years living in Dublin.

'That I have, Mr Byrne,' replied Gallagher, beaming angelically. Byrne eyed him suspiciously, reminding Flynn of a sour old school-ma'am. 'I've a brother in the Irish Guards,' Gallagher added. 'He's in France banjaxing the Hun. He says they'll all be home soon.'

'Does he now?' said Byrne from behind his spectacles.

'It's terrible what the Germans are doing in Belgium, Mr Byrne; says so in the papers. Even Mr Redmond says we must do something. If we don't it'll be Ireland next.' Byrne didn't look convinced. 'Will you be joining up, Mr Byrne?'

Byrne frowned. He was obviously too old for the army. 'Did he now? Mr Redmond may have got Home Rule through parliament for us but the old fool stopped talking sense the moment he started backing the war. People should know better than to encourage young eejits like you to go running off playing soldiers. Besides, I wouldn't go believing everything you read in the papers,' grumbled Byrne sourly.

'But the world is passing us by whilst we pore over manifests and drink tea!' persisted Gallagher.

Byrne put down his pen, tugging at his walrus moustache. He sat back, suddenly feeling every minute of his fifty years. He needed a drink but resisted the temptation of the brandy flask in his top drawer. He could almost feel the fiery liquid pooling in his gut. The noise of the band grew louder.

Gallagher raced to the window as it passed below belting out 'A Nation Once Again'. 'That'll be more lads off over the water whilst we're stuck here!' he cried.

Byrne ignored him, his eyes resting on Flynn. 'And would the firm be paying you to daydream, Mr Flynn?' he asked. Flynn blushed. Gallagher grinned. Byrne harrumphed again.

'I was thinking ...' Gallagher said.

'Lord help us!' snorted Byrne. Gallagher was just about to speak when the door flew open, crashing into the wall, sending papers flying. It was John Riley, their skinny fourteen-year-old office boy.

'In the name of God, Master Riley!' spluttered Byrne.

'I'm sorry, Mr Byrne, but will you not be coming to see the band?' he gabbled, hopping from one foot to the other like a desperate man in a toilet queue. 'There are soldiers and everything!'

'Ach, isn't it all brass bands and soldiers these days!' snapped Byrne. They were looking at him, like puppies. He had little time for soldiers, unlike his brother Martin, but he was long gone, buried beneath South Africa's red dirt; killed at Colenso. 'Black Week' they'd called it. The telegram had come just before Christmas. It had broken his mother's heart and he hated the army for it. 'Away with you then if you must,' he sighed. 'I'll be expecting you back by three or I'll be docking your wages!' he called after them but they'd already vanished. Byrne reached into his desk for his flask, unscrewing the cap slowly. Outside, the autumn sun shone down on the crowded street packed with enthusiastic well-wishers cheering the soldiers on their way. 'Eejits,' he muttered before taking a long pull on the flask's contents.

Flynn smoothed his wavy dark hair and cocked his straw boater at what he thought a rakish angle before striding off after Gallagher, who had a fearsome pace for a short fella. Thankfully, his own loping gait closed the gap in a few steps.

'Some of us are thinking of joining up,' said Gallagher, meaning the members of the Gaelic football team he played in. Flynn didn't play football – of any sort; he preferred reading. 'Will you be coming with us?' The band struck up another chorus of 'It's A Long Way To Tipperary'. People sang; girls darted from the pavement to plant kisses on unsuspecting soldiers' cheeks who swaggered towards the docks. Only months before, rioters had been gunned down by soldiers on the same streets, the country sliding into civil war, yet now everything seemed forgotten, subsumed beneath the carnival façade of bands and billowing bunting. 'C'mon, Kev, do you want to be the one who misses it?'

'It's all right for you, Terry, your family's full of soldiers. My parents gave my cousin enough stick when he joined the Volunteers. God knows what they'd do if they saw me in a red coat!' replied Flynn, unconvinced.

'Are your folks Fenians then, Kev?' asked Gallagher.

'It's not that, it's just that, well, soldiering isn't respectable, that's all,' said Flynn awkwardly.

'Jaysus, Kev, have you never wanted to shake the world? This is different. It's not like we'd be regulars like our Mickey or me Uncle John, it'd only be for the duration! Let's face it, you're as bored as I am, it's all over your face. Besides, it'll be a laugh. Think of it as one of those adventures you keep reading about. Do you really want to end up like Byrne, eh? Done nothing, seen nothing, been nowhere? Christ, it'll be over by Christmas – if we don't join up now we'll miss everything!'

'You're bloody serious?' spluttered Flynn.

'Look.' Gallagher pulled a leaflet from his pocket. 'It says here that if you join up with your pals the army will keep you together. We'd be together and, besides, the colleens love a fella in uniform! Isn't that why half them fellas joined the Volunteers in the first place? They won't get a look-in now. Who knows, even our Mary might give you a kiss too! Everyone knows you're soft on her.'

Flynn flushed pink, his ears glowing as the band faded into the distance as they headed over the Liffey into town.

'You're late!' snapped Rory Gallagher suddenly from the shade of King William III's imposing equestrian statue on College Green. Gallagher grunted something as his younger brother fell in beside him. They were like chalk and cheese. Rory was Gallagher's exact opposite: tall, fair, lanky and thin-faced. 'Will you be coming with us, Kev?' asked Rory.

'Terry seems to think so,' replied Flynn. In truth, he didn't know what he would do when they reached the recruiting office.

'I'm up for it!' squeaked Riley, the young office boy.

'They'll never take you, you're a kid!' said Flynn but Riley puffed up his sallow chest indignantly.

'I'm tall for my age and I'll tell 'em I'm nineteen, so I will. You'll back me up, won't you, fellas?' Riley implored, looking at Gallagher for support.

'Does the wee fella here not put you to shame, Kev?' laughed Gallagher.

'My old man'll kill me if I join up,' said Flynn.

'Well, you'll be the only fella left if you don't cos they was queuing round the block up at City Hall when I left so we best get a spurt on!' declared Rory, leading the way.

'There's thousands of the beggars,' gasped Flynn as they rounded the corner revealing City Hall in all its neoclassical glory. The queue of recruits was massive. It was as if every man in the British Empire's second city was there: rich and poor. Here and there National Volunteers in green uniforms helped the police marshal the babbling crowd. The city had already raised two battalions for the Royal Dublin Fusiliers, the Dubs, and now it looked like she would easily raise a few more.

'You, lad, will you answer your king and country's call?' barked a nicotine-stained voice with the merest tint of Mayo in it. Flynn could see a white-whiskered Irish Guards sergeant, a recalled reservist, brandishing a cane like a sideshow barker at a group of what looked like Trinity College students. A scarlet sash added a splash of colour to the man's immaculate khaki uniform. 'Will you let them Boches get away with attacking poor little Belgium?'

'No!' chorused hundreds of cheering voices.

'Over there!' shouted Rory, pointing out a tall man who Flynn recognized as Gallagher's next-door neighbour, Joe Carolan. He was tall, sparsely built with sensitive green eyes, with a shock of bright red hair that contrasted starkly with his pale skin, making him look a bit like a lit match.

'I've kept you a place!' shouted Carolan, beckoning them over with one of his shovel hands. He was grinning, like the rest, and as they drew nearer Flynn recognized the other members of Gallagher's Gaelic football team. They really were all joining up together. 'You coming too, Kev?'

'Couldn't keep him away!' joked Terry, slapping Flynn hard enough on the back to nudge him into the milling crowd. Riley slipstreamed in behind him.

'What the hell! It'll all be over by Christmas anyway,' said Flynn. The players cheered as myriad hands slapped him on the back. Gallagher smiled and Flynn nodded, their friendship somehow made stronger by that one simple act. For the first time Flynn felt part of something, something bigger than himself. Gallagher noticed a stocky Royal Dublin Fusiliers lance corporal ushering the recruits in through the door as they reached the top of the steps.

'Uncle John?' he gasped.

'Recalled me, didn't they? Your Auntie Joy is furious. She says I'm too old for these shenanigans,' replied the soldier who bore more than a passing resemblance to Gallagher. 'I'm to be with the new 8th Battalion,' he added, puffing up his chest proudly. 'Do your parents know you are here?' Gallagher shifted awkwardly, avoiding his uncle's gaze. The soldier nodded. A dark-haired sergeant with an abrasive Derry accent and clipped moustache shouted to keep them moving. 'Aye, Sar'nt,' replied Uncle John before glancing back at his nephew. 'Whatever happens don't you go telling your dad you saw me. He'd kill me for not stopping you,' he added, letting Terry and his friends past with a wink. 'Oh, and don't go letting them put you in anything but the 8 Dubs, d'you hear? That way I can keep an eye on you.'

'Is there anyone in your family who isn't in the blasted army?' Flynn asked as they shuffled into the atrium.

'Well, it's a bit of a family thing. My dad's the only one who didn't join up. Uncle John was in South Africa with the Dubs, fought at Colenso with that old woman Byrne's brother. I think that's why Byrne gave me the job in the first place, cos Uncle John was with his brother when he was shot.' Flynn gave Gallagher a puzzled look. 'Did you not know Mr Byrne's younger brother was killed in South Africa?'

'I guess that'd explain why he's not keen on the bands, then,' Flynn replied.

'Hold it right there!' barked the Derry sergeant, barring the way with a glossy cane. He was looking at Riley. 'How old are ye, sonny?'

Riley hesitated.

'I'm nineteen, sir,' he declared, puffing up his sallow chest as best he could.

'Are ye now, son?' replied the sergeant. 'When were ye born?'

'July thirteenth,' replied Riley.

The sergeant stepped back, dropping his cane. He beckoned Riley forward with a curt flick of his head. Riley stepped forward. 'Oh, just one more thing.' Riley paused. 'What year?'

'Er ... nineteen ... er ... no, eighteen ninety ... er ... six!' he gabbled, flustered.

'That's what I was thinking. I'm sorry, sonny. I'd be coming back when ye're older, eh?' he said gently, ignoring Riley's protests.

'Is there a problem there, Sergeant Devlin?' asked a flat Staffordshire accent. Devlin swung round to confront the moustachioed Englishman at the foot of the main stairs. His uniform was immaculate, the man composed, quintessentially professional from his obsidian boots to the slashed peak of his Service Dress cap.

'Who's he?' Terry asked his uncle.

'Him? Sar'nt Major Clee. He's some old donkey walloper.' Terry looked puzzled. 'A cavalryman, 12th Lancers – till last week, that is. Now he's slumming it in the poor bloody infantry.' Sergeant Devlin shot Uncle John a sharp, narrow-eyed look.

'And what age are ye, then?' Flynn heard the Derryman growl. He paused then he realized the sergeant was talking to the man next to him – a willowy, soft-featured lad dressed in a well-made pinstripe suit.

The boy looked at Devlin with large, crystal-blue eyes, like a hare caught in the beam of a poacher's lamp. 'Er ... I'm nineteen ... er ... Sergeant.' Devlin looked sceptical. 'I've my birth certificate and a letter from my parish priest,' said the boy in a reedy voice. He thrust a wad of folded papers at Devlin, who unfolded the sheets, reading to himself, his lips childishly tracing the words.

'So it would seem ... er ... Mister Patrick Cronin. Best ye get a move on and stop blocking the door, then.' Cronin stuffed the papers back into his pocket, following Flynn towards a bank of tables manned by overworked clerks.

'Sign here,' drawled one of them wearily.

'It says here three years or the duration,' Flynn said, his pen hovering above the freshly filled-in enlistment form.

'And your point is? Look, either sign or piss off,' the clerk snapped. Someone muttered impatiently behind him. He signed. It was done. 'Over there. Next!'

'Coats off; roll up your sleeves and answer the doctor's questions when he asks you,' barked a medical orderly. He snatched Flynn's paperwork. Up ahead, Gallagher, Rory and Carolan were chatting as they shuffled towards a thin white line of doctors. Cronin stood quietly behind him. The man in front turned slightly, flashing Flynn a toothy, bright white smile and thrust out his hand. He was about Flynn's height and fashionably dressed, dapper even, with his boater cocked at a jaunty angle and a large carnation ostentatiously thrust through the buttonhole of his lapel.

'Hi, I'm Séamus, Séamus Fitzpatrick,' the man said in a distinctly un-Irish accent. Flynn looked puzzled. 'I'm from Boston, Boston Massachusetts in the US of A! I'm an American!'

'American? I didn't think America was in this war,' Flynn said.

'It sure ain't,' Fitzpatrick replied. 'Hell, if it was this thing'd be over by now! Why, Uncle Sam ain't lost a war yet!'

'Really?' Flynn replied, unsure what the man's Uncle Sam had to do with it, before hesitantly taking Fitzpatrick's hand and introducing himself.

'Well, I'm sure pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Flynn. Say, you got any folks in the States?' asked Fitzpatrick. Flynn shook his head. 'Heck, I thought everyone here had folks in the States.'

'Not me. I've people in Tasmania, though.' Fitzpatrick didn't look too impressed. 'So what brings you here?' Flynn asked.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from The Lambs by Peter James Cottrell. Copyright © 2014 Peter James Cottrell. Excerpted by permission of Robert Hale Limited.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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