A Long Long Way (32 page)

Then they all had to uproot themselves again and Private Weekes packed his bundle of books and they hauled themselves away through the ruckus and the din of the roads.

They were shown with great amplitude what was expected of them now. They were brought to an enclosure of some acres and in those acres was a vast model of the landscape they were to attack over and it was an astonishing thing that human hands had done. It was not exactly the place they had lurked in all winter in miniature, but another similar terrain, all the country under a little village called Wytschaete, which meant, said Father Buckley, the White Village. Which was a beautiful name in that formerly white country, with formerly a white sky and a white earth. The Hun, said Biggs, had held it now for three years, and it would be the privilege of the 16th and the 36th to win it back for the poor Belgians. As Willie Dunne gazed over it and heard his instructions delivered in a serious monotone by Second-Lieutenant Biggs, he wished heartily that they had placed authentic models of them all, in their hooded and whitened misery, in the tiny trenches, just for the sake of decoration, like a kind of Nativity scene. But he knew it was a foolish thought.

It was a strange sight too to see the brigade drummers, banging the shining drums, all marching forward in a furious line - bang bang bang bang, kaboom kaboom - and the hands whirling and the shining boots going forward, all meant to be a picture of the intended barrages that would creep along the real earth, with real men following. Those drumming men representing the bursting shells.

General Plumer sat up on his beautiful grey horse. It wasn’t often a man saw a general.

Biggs thought the general was a good and clever man. When he said that, he blushed.

‘He’s not the fucking worst of them,’ muttered Christy Moran.

Then two letters arrived tied together but with different dates on them, as welcome as boxes of gold.

dear Willi come home soon I love you best of all. do not forget the choclat I love you school is funny. love Dolly xoxoxoxoxo

The other was a postcard from Annie. It showed the beach at Strandhill in Sligo. It was a summer scene, of course, in the photograph they had used for the postcard. Willie peered and peered at the men on the beach in their trousers and shirts and straw hats, and at the ladies in their nice dresses, and the children holding their hands, and all of them looking out over the waves, and one resplendent motorcar on the esplanade, and a jaunting car also. A soldier could cry looking at such things, he thought, only because they were so ordinary and living. He must remember to show it to Pete O‘Hara, when he had hoarded it to himself for a while, and got the good off of it.

Dear Willy,
[wrote Annie in her schoolroom blue-ink writing]
Heres where we had the holiday in October, we were nearly blown away by the storms. But it was lovely and Papa was in great form and we had big teas at the hotel, and Dolly loved everything especially the train (just like you years ago). Your loving sister, Annie.

And that was all. But he read them both over and over again.

They had all gone down there on holiday without him. But what else could they do?

Still nothing from Gretta in all those weeks.

They knew they would be moving again shortly, so Father Buckley set up his canvas hut as was his wont on those occasions, and all the men of the battalion that wanted to queued in a long line for the confessions. And Father Buckley sat in one side on a little stool with a cushion that had a picture embroidered on it of a woman in a cornfield, not that that was important in any way, and he put a jug of water at his feet because he said sins were thirsty work. He didn’t mean it particularly as a jest, but it was the sort of agreeable and encouraging thing he would say, so the men would feel freer about bringing their sins to him.

The spring had taken the countryside well in charge and small blue birds seemed to be everywhere, gathering wisps of grass and scraps of things for their nests. In that part of the camp there was a corner full of snowdrops. There were so many men waiting patiently that Willie thought it looked more like the whole brigade rather than just their own battalion, especially as he supposed these were just the Catholics. Even so, at the very far limit of the line everyone could hear the muttering from the canvas hut, although they couldn’t make out the words, thankfully. But every so often they heard Father Buckley’s voice rise a little, even shout just a tad, which was amusing to the waiting soldiers, and they nodded to each other, as if to say, Oh yes, we thought so, we know what he’s been up to. Of course, it had to be what a person might call a field confession, short and sweet, and how could Father Buckley give out a penance beyond saying so many Our Fathers and Hail Marys, given they were stuck in the middle of Flanders?

Nevertheless, Willie, and maybe many others, felt oppressed by the task. He wanted to tell the priest about the poor fallen lassie he had slept with - if he had actually slept with her; he thought he must have, for a few minutes - back in Amiens. He felt if he could say it out loud, and it was by no means the first time he had gone to confession since it happened, Father Buckley might see it in his heart to forgive him, or in God’s heart, and he could put it behind him. Because he thought it was a deeply wrong thing to do, not only for his own sake, but for Gretta’s. And it troubled him; it troubled him time and again.

When his turn came he let the other man out and climbed into the little space. There was a canvas-bottomed stool there and a strange green light seeping through the thin partitions. A leery slit was where he was supposed to speak, and he knew Father Buckley was in there because he could see the features of the priest dimly floating, but not looking in at him at all.

He confessed then to a few sins, pulling his wick a few times when he had got a chance alone, which wasn’t very often. And often he didn’t feel like it. But nevertheless, there were the few times.

‘I don’t think we’ll make much fuss about that,’ said Father Buckley.

Then Willie mentioned the girl at Amiens and how it troubled him when he put it against the thought of his girlfriend at home.

‘Is that you, Willie?’ said Father Buckley.

‘It is, Father.’

‘I wouldn’t make much of a fuss about that, either, Willie. Just try to keep away from the girls next time, Willie. And I hope the old hosepipe isn’t stinging?’

‘No, Father.’

‘You were lucky so, Willie.’

‘I know, Father. Thank you, Father.’

‘Is there anything else, Willie?’

‘No, Father.’

But he supposed there was something in his tone that Father Buckley was used to noticing in the tones of soldiers.

‘What, Willie?’

‘Well, there’s an awful long line back, Father, waiting.’

‘Never mind those lads, Willie. They won’t mind waiting a few secs. What’s on your mind?’

‘Well, anyway, it isn’t a sin as such, Father. Well, maybe it is. I’m worried about my father, Father.’

‘Who is your father, Willie? Is he the chief superintendent, yes?’

‘He is. I wrote him a letter a while back and my sister wrote to me and said my father was angry with me about the letter, the letter I sent him, you know?’

‘What was in the letter?’

‘I don’t know. I was upset about that time coming through Dublin with Jesse Kirwan, Father, you know? And I just described all that, how it seemed to me, but I must’ve said something that, you know, not annoyed him, but.’

‘Upset him?’

‘Yes.’

‘What, Willie, though?’

‘ About the thing there. I saw this young lad in a doorway, Father, just like myself. One of the rebels. I looked at him and he looked at me. He was killed then. That’s all. It’s very fucking confusing, Father. Excuse me.‘

‘Yes, it is.’

‘So for a while there I didn’t know what was what. And when Jesse Kirwan was shot, Father. What can a fella say about that? And the reason he gave me. I still don’t know what he meant. I don’t know anything at all these days. So I just eat my grub and do what I’m told, but, Father, what for, what for, I don’t know.’

‘Did you ever hear of a man called Willie Redmond, Willie?’

‘Yes, Father. He’s the brother of your man.’

‘That’s it. Well, now, Willie, I’ll try to explain it. He said we were fighting for Ireland, through another. You see? Fighting for Ireland, through another.’

‘What does it mean, Father?’

‘That all this terrible war you’ve seen with your own eyes is for Ireland, that by fighting for all the poor people of Belgium in the army of the King, you are fighting at end of day for Ireland, to bring Home Rule and all the rest, to gather the ravelled ends of Ireland together, the Northerners and the Southerners, the 36th and the 16th, and that it is all a good and precious thing. That’s what Willie Redmond said in the House of Commons. He’s an MP, Willie, and he’s out here with us fighting for what he believes is a wonderful cause. For Ireland, Willie.’

‘I don’t think my father would like the sound of that, either, Father.’

‘What about you, Willie?’

‘It nearly makes me cry to tell you the truth, Father. And a man shouldn’t be crying out here.’

‘You can know your own mind and your father can know his.’

‘But my father and me always had the one mind on things. That’s the trouble, I think - I don’t even know. I’m confused, Father.’

‘Well, God bless your confusion, Willie. There’s many a man out here only to be sending the few shillings home, and that’s no crime neither.’

‘No, Father. Well, thank you, Father.’

‘Say ten Hail Marys for that girl, Willie. Are you due any leave at all, Willie?’

‘I don’t think so, Father.’

‘Well, God bless you, Willie. Send in the next man. Good luck tomorrow.’

Chapter Seventeen

Biggs was a bit of a mystery to them, with his face the colour of pastry. They could not tell how the coming battle affected him, but they certainly each and all of them peered in at that face to try to decipher the measure of his confidence.

Christy Moran was in a high good mood and regaled them with stories of his drinking days. As always when the sergeant-major was at his ease - if that was what it was - he wandered quickly from topic to topic, and didn’t seem to know himself whither his thoughts might blow him.

At any rate, they were led into trenches at about midnight. A gentle rain had fallen and done the little duty of fixing the summer dust. It was early June of the year and even under starlight the heat was like a ridiculous coat. The thoughtful general had had water laid in everywhere, and the sappers told them that new roads had been put in as far up as the forward trenches, so that after the battle everything could be ferried up quickly. That was unusual.

The guns had been firing for three weeks on the trot. The pilots of the airplanes thought a lot of good work had been done. Wytschaete was up on the Messines ridge so they didn’t fly as far as that, because the Germans were like fowlers up there. Nevertheless, it was reported that all the ground in front was utterly bombed. The huge howitzers had been labouring at the great fields of barbed wire. Despite the ambiguous Second-Lieutenant Biggs, Willie Dunne was impressed. He was terrified but impressed.