The Garden of the Badhbh

Giles Watson
Illustrated by Buffarches

Chapter 1
Early Morning, Casualty Clearing Station near
Baillieul
1st June 1917
When the Casualty Clearing Station took a direct hit, Siobhan
OFlaherty reacted in the only way she knew. She grabbed a
lantern, held the handle in her teeth, slapped sense into a widemouthed, blood-spattered Staff Nurse fresh from Oxfordshire,
standing in a mess of legs and entrails, yanked her by the arm,
and clenched her hands around the pole-ends of the stretcher.
Help me carry him out, or youll be sorry, she yelled above
the screech and thunder of the bombardment, kicking aside
something wet and heavy, slinging a satchel of dressings over
her shoulder. The girl blenched a little, gritted her teeth and
lifted, and they were out of the tent and into the shrieking
night, stumbling into a mudscape lit eerily by tracers. Fire shot
up behind them; Siobhan hooked the poles beneath her arms
and began to run down the duckboards before her companion
had chance to turn her head, keeping her own eyes down until
they were well clear.
They set down the stretcher on the mud, some distance from
the tent. Here, hold the lantern up, she snapped, hurling the
satchel at the Staff Nurse with her other hand, and be ready
with a bandage.

The girl fumbled with the buckles and reached in for a package,
but it slipped through her fingers and scrolled out, mudsoaked. Sorry, Sister she began.
Dont go Sistering me, spat Siobhan. Get another. Hes going
to need a tourniquet. She already had her scissors working at
the fabric of the soldiers trousers, and as she stripped it, a flare
lit up his haemorrhage. The fountain of blood gleamed white
in the sudden blaze of light, then stuttered. Siobhan worked
silently, deftly, decisively, pursing her lips as she tightened and
the flow began to slow. Hes bleeding from there, too, just
below the ribs. Get dressing. No, more of it. Fill up the wound.
Good. Now, pressure. Dont be so English. Fucking well apply
pressure. The Staff Nurse was weeping, but she obeyed, her
knees awash in mud, and it began to rain. A shudder ran
through the mans body, and he lifted his head.
Siobhan looked up and laughed. Sure, if it isnt Johnny, she
said. You cant be denying that war has its sense of humour.
The mans hand reached out to her, and she let him clutch her
own, but the strength of his grip was failing.
Siobhan is it? he tried to smile. I havent seen you since
school
True, but I let you see quite enough then enough for a
lifetime, she hissed at his ear, so the girl could not hear it, and
riven as he was, he too began to laugh, until the blood curdled
up on his tongue and she held him to her breast.
Sing to me, he spluttered, like you always and she began
to rock on her knees, lullabying, cradling his head.

A stick in me hand and a drop in me eye

A doleful damsel I heard cry,
Johnny I hardly knew ye.
She let him slump. The girl glanced across at her, on her knees
as if in prayer, mud-girt, rain-draggled, blood-clots on her
cheeks. Siobhan stood up and held out her hand. Youll be
forgiving me, but Ive forgotten your name.
Mary, the girl replied. Mary Newman.
What, Catholic, are you?
No, Sis No Im Church of England. She fingered the plain
silver cross on her breast.
Well, Mary Newman, you did well, its certain, said Siobhan
briskly. Sure theres plenty of girls would have fainted or
panicked. She spat on her fingers, drew Mary close to her
across the stretcher, smeared the gore from her face, stiffened
again.
"I didn't do well enough to save him." There was a choke in
Mary's voice.
"Don't let that be concerning you. We save the ones we can,
and risk ourselves doing it. Now leave me. I shall be coming
along shortly. See if you can find any of the others, and dont
be looking inside the tent, if theres anything left of it. Find
another Sister, or a surgeon to do that.
The bombardment died down with a last shrieking of spent
shells. Far off to her right, Boche artillerymen must be making
for their dugouts. Siobhan sat beside the stretcher until the
sun began to rise over low hills and fields beyond the Clearing

Station. She gained her bearings; she was facing north, the
sunrise to her left. In the growing light, a scribble of smoke
marked the place where the tent had been, and the ground was
pockmarked with the shadows of craters. There was a swathe
of grime and wreckage: shredded remnants of canvas,
splintered wood, a mess of mangled corrugations, and
everywhere, a scatter of muddied dressings, a kidney dish
pierced with shrapnel, tangled surgical tools. A bloodspattered nurses bonnet blew towards her on the breeze, and
sticking out obliquely from the ground was a human forearm
and hand.
Had anybody the inclination to observe, the dawn would also
have revealed a black silhouette, its craw haloed with rosy
light, perched gnarl-footed beside where Siobhan OFlaherty
was kneeling: a gaunt raven, huddled in posture. She barely
acknowledged the bird, but as if by an unspoken
understanding, she turned her head to gaze where it was
staring: off right towards where the grey, wire-scrawled
eminence of Messines Ridge marked the Front ten miles away,
her own nose aquiline, her cloak like folded crows wings.
Presently, the bird flapped into a blasted tree and waited. It
watched as Mary Newman returned with men in uniform who
carried off the stretcher. Siobhan glanced once up at the tree,
paused, then followed, and the raven flapped back to ground,
ragged as ashes.

The nictitating membranes in its eyes closed and slowly reopened, a veined white film through which the pupils stared
dilated. Its throat-feathers flared and ruffled. It curved its
spine, opened its beak and cronked, warm steam escaping
from the pink spike of its tongue. Then it stepped forward,
lowered its head of ebony to the pool of congealing blood,
blinked again, plucked out a clot, swallowed, and began at last
to drink.

Chapter 2
Morning, 88 feet underground, beneath
Spanbroekmolen, Messines Ridge
1st June 1917
It would help, thought Sapper John McCreesh as he was kicking
clay, if we could tell each other stories. He arched his back
against the plank for the hundredth time, and the spade-blade
of the grafter, its shoulders nestled against his boot-soles, sunk
silently into the wall of the tunnel. Levering with his arms, he
dislodged a wet wedge of clay, slowly enough that there was
no sound of suction, and dropped it into the sandbag proffered
by the man crouched beside him. Then again, again, again, and
the full bag was passed backwards down the shaft, replaced by
another. The man with the stethoscope held up his hand, and
McCreesh froze, his eye staring ahead, scarcely breathing. His
companions also crouched like sculptures, listening intently.
Minutes passed, and slowly the hand was dropped. McCreesh
resumed his work, back blistering against the incline of the
plank, and the grafter did its job, like a knife gouging into
butter.
Yes, it would help if we could tell stories, as Mother did in South
Armagh, before we said our prayers. He always had the place
closest to her on the bed, on account of being so small and
being half-blind. He pressed his head against her softness the

bare smoothness of her upper arm she breathed in and

began.
So all the wizards of Ireland were summoned and men of
medicine, charioteers, blacksmiths, lawyers, farmers and their
meeting was a great secret. Nuada Airgetlm, king of the
Tuatha D Danann, fixed his eye on the cupbearer, and said,
What power will you wield against the oppression of the
Fomorians in the coming battle?
I will hide the twelve lochs and the twelve rivers of Ireland, so
that the Fomorians, parched with thirst, shall not find water, not
one drop, until their lips split for dryness and their kidneys
shrivel.
A good answer, said Nuada. And what power will you, Druid
Figol, wield against the oppression of the Fomorians in the
coming battle?
I will rain fire upon their host. Their raised faces will blister,
and the flames will evaporate two-thirds of their valour. I will
bind the urine in their bodies til they swell and fester.
A good answer, said Nuada.
McCreesh felt a firm hand on his shoulder, and turned to read
the faces of his fellows: two hours gone already time to
change. He climbed down from the plank. As if in mime, he
passed the handle of the grafter to the man at his feet, and
picked up a sandbag. He watched, expectant, and the spadeblade sunk once more into the blue-clay, slicing neatly. He held
out the bag as it fell, and his partner worked into a rhythm:

nestle, strain, sink, lever, drop, nestle, strain, sink, lever, drop.
Sandbag passed backwards; replaced. Nestle, strain.
A good answer, said Nuada. And what power will you,
Mathgen the sorcerer, wield against the oppression of the
Fomorians in the coming battle?
Mathgen combed his grey beard with his ringed fingers and
replied, I will cause a great upheaval of the twelve mountains of
Ireland, so that not one stone will remain in its place, but all will
be hurled into the air and cast down on the Fomorians, and the
bedrock will become the summit, and the summit the bedrock.
Skulls will be crushed, ribcages shattered, and men will lie
smothered with stones, not to be unearthed for a thousand
years.
McCreesh laid another full sandbag on the trolley, and it was
conveyed away on well-oiled wheels.
A good answer, said Nuada. And what power will you, Dagda
of the Good Hand, wield
All of these powers and more, replied the Dagda, clutching his
harp. I will enter the cave where three women dwell, veiled in
darkness. I will speak with them and entreat their aid, and she
of the raven-feather will give fair answer. She and her host will
look down on the Fomorians in their battle-array, and see
nothing but moving carrion. One sister will drink hot blood. One
sister will plant severed heads and tend them well.

10

Sure Mother, its a bloodthirsty tale, laughed little John

McCreesh, nestling deeper into her warmth. But who were
the three women?
Ah, John McCreesh, but many have asked the same question,
and now it is time for your prayers, and to snuff the candle.
That will be all of you, children, or youll not be waking in the
morning, and that would never do.
A firm hand on his shoulder, and the sandbag passed over.
McCreesh made his way to the end of the trolley run, and when
it reached him, heavy laden, he bent over it and began to
unload.
Back down in the tunnel where he had begun his shift, the man
with the stethoscope raised his hand. John McCreesh froze,
back bent, sandbag half-lifted.
And what power will you, little half-blind John McCreesh, wield
against the Boche in the coming battle?

11

Chapter 3
Mid-Morning, Spanbroek, in view of Messines Ridge
1st June 1917
The five-nine caught Private Ferris with his back turned,
passed straight through his chest and exploded. LanceCorporal Corry Burnett, of the 8th Battalion, Royal Irish Rifles,
turned a corner in the trench in time to see it happen, hit the
duckboards and covered his helmet with his hands. Then came
the rain of cloying warmth and wetness, and Burnett lay still
for a long time. When he pulled himself upright, his hands
were trailed with Ferriss blood, and there was an
unidentifiable spray of tissue splattered straight up to the
parapet. It was not the first time; he knew what to do in these
circumstances.
He dug the scarf from under his jacket and wrapped it around
the lower half of his face so that only his eyes were showing,
found a sandbag and began picking up the larger pieces.
Opportunist rats were already on the scene, scrounging.
Burnett imagined himself back into the butchers shop at
Abbeydug, apprenticed to his father, sorting through offal.
Just pieces of meat nothing more, he told himself
repeatedly, but the breath had been in these pieces only
moments ago; the warmth was still in them, and he shook
himself to stop his head from spinning.

12

An enormous crow was it only a crow? He could not be sure

alighted yards in front of him, paid him no heed, and began
to eat. He waved his arms, shouted. The bird shot him a look
which might have been insolence, craw already sagging, and let
out its hoarse voice, a blood-bridge spanning its upper and
lower mandibles. He hooked up the sack on a projecting beam,
and began to walk forwards.
The raven was quite unafraid. The man had dropped his rifle,
and she knew him to be powerless. The chambers of her heart
filled with exultation, and with a calm arrogance that only a
carrion bird can muster, she turned her back on him and
resumed her meal. There was a thud and a clatter: a body
falling against wooden slats. She glanced over her shoulder:
the man was down, but still breathing, the sack hanging
temptingly, a dark puddle gathering beneath it.
*
John McCreesh emerged from the Spanbroekmolen tunnel into
the searing light of morning and shielded his eye with his hand.
It had been this way since the 3rd of March, when the Boche had
exploded a camouflet directly underneath the original tunnel:
three months of silent desperation, digging the by-pass, and
today, just at the end of his shift, the man with the grafter had
broken through. The explosion had obliterated the detonator
leads, too that would be this evenings work but deep inside,
at the old mines extremity, a massive charge was intact and
waiting: 91, 000 pounds of ammonal, enough to lift the hillside

13

as high into the air as the mine was deep, turn it over and set it
down again. They had all crept forward, stifling the instinct to
shout with triumph, the white mice scuttling in their cages, and
there it lay where it had been buried since the 28th of June,
1916. He had been there then, too, when the officers had
brought down four bottles of champagne, and shared a glass
with the twelve men on his shift and the Corporal in charge.
But that was lifetimes ago: five of them were dead now, and
there were six days to go.
Under other circumstances, he would have thought it a
pleasant summers morning, but exhaustion made him stagger,
and everywhere, there were signs of the nights bombardment.
Up ahead of him, there was a thin plume of smoke. He turned
a corner in the trench, and stopped short: a man down, his
helmet off, gun toppled, a mop of black hair ruffled by the
breeze, and around him, the length of the trench splashed and
draped with another mans insides. Duckboards were in
splinters, and a twisted mess of metal was all that remained of
a corrugated shelter.
The fallen man was breathing. McCreesh squatted beside him
and shook his shoulder: a much younger man than himself,
perhaps twenty years old, and on his lapel, the harp-winged
siren badge of the Royal Irish Rifles quis separabit. Who shall
separate us? The mans eyelids fluttered, and McCreesh
watched him spiral into consciousness, face etched with
confusion, and then with a dawning, terrible remembrance.

14

Can you hear me, man? said McCreesh, helping him into a
sitting position.
Sure yes, the man replied, his voice betraying the boy
within. I think Im all right. I only fainted. Its its
embarrassing.
Aye, well, youre bleeding, McCreesh replied, widening the
rip in the young mans sleeve to reveal a thin sliver of steel
sticking out of the muscle of his upper arm.
I I hadnt noticed. Ferris Ferris he was just here, with his
back turned, and then he wasnt. I saw. It went straight
through him, and
Well, its to the Dressing Station with you, lad. No point in
waiting for the Field Ambulance to arrive, if you can manage
without a stretcher. Here, put your arm around my shoulder.
McCreesh struggled under his weight; he was far heavier than
his own 135 pounds a puniness which, in combination with
age and that single eye, had kept him out of the Durham Light
Infantry but he had borne heavier loads in his time. Together,
they trailed their way through the dead mans remnants, and
onward, stumbling over fallen sandbags, turning corners,
negotiating the maze. Here, an unexploded shell was lodged in
the trench wall at eye level. There: another obvious scene of
death, hastily cleansed.
Looking for the Dressing Station? said a wiry, rat-eyed
soldier through a cloud of Woodbine-smoke. Down there
first right, second left. Its quite a long way out of the trenches
and into the fields, if you can call em that. Theres a dugout.
You cant be missing it.

15

McCreesh nodded his thanks, too tired to speak, and was about
to turn away when the smoking soldier spoke again. Yer might
have a long wait, though. Theres a queue. They say the
Casualty Clearing Station was hit in last nights bombardment.
Two or three nurses killed outright, and one of the surgeons
and some of the patients. Now, theres irony for yer: men who
thought they had caught a Blighty, and still werent safe.
At these words, it seemed an involuntary shudder ran through
the injured man, and a whispered name issued from his lips,
scarcely audible. Sean, perhaps. The word carried a touch of
anguish, thought McCreesh but perhaps it was only the shock
and pain speaking. He laboured off down the duckboards. The
young man was sagging, groggy on his shoulder, but he
dragged him on. Stay awake, he said. Tell me about yourself.
There was a long pause, and McCreeshs companion shook his
head groggily, as if shaking off some other thought. Corry
Burnett, he replied at last, his accent growing thicker in his
drowsiness, Lance Corporal, out of County Longford.
Apprentice butcher before before this. Protestant. The
voice was automatic, increasingly detached.
John McCreesh, Sapper, out of South Armagh. Occupation:
Durham miner. Father of three. Catholic, though it hardly
matters here. Id give my right hand for a glimpse of Ireland
now. Puts the rising into perspective.
Burnett swooned, staggered, shook his head, gritted his teeth.
Are we nearly there yet? he slurred.

16

Aye lad, whispered McCreesh, lying kindly, very nearly

there.
Suddenly, Burnett shouted as if in delirium, his head slumped,
a trail of saliva falling to the muddy path. This time, the name
was unmistakeable: not Sean, but Siobhan, an agonised
howl that reverberated down the trench and out into the mudcaked field beyond.
*
The raven hopped back down from the parapet and eyed the
sack, now soggy at its bottom. Three beats of ragged wings,
and she was perched on the beam, head cocked on one side,
looking down into the hempen opening. She poked her head
inside, but the morsels were beyond reach. She perched,
thinking for a space. Then, the head lowered once more, and
she took the hessian in her beak, dragged it upward, and
clamped a fold of it under her talon, looked well satisfied, and
did it again. Again, until one whole side of the sack was rucked
under her. She stropped her bill against it, cronked once, and
resumed her feast.

17

Chapter 4
Afternoon, German trenches, Spanbroekmolen,
Messines Ridge
1st June 1917
Lakritz kept his head down, his ears flat against his skull, and
his tail between his legs. The ground had begun to erupt
around him, and sometimes he slumped to the duckboards and
crawled forward, senses attuned. The tart stench of explosives
almost masked the accustomed foetid odours, and somewhere
ahead of him drifted the rich, warm, ferrous smell of fresh
blood. Screams emanated from the same direction: paroxysms
of pain and terror so intense that Lakritz hunched and steeled
himself before he carried on. Close by, three soldiers lay
hollow-jawed and akimbo, the waxen pallor of rigor-mortis
already upon them; the source of the sound was somewhere
beyond. Lakritz skirted around two of them, but the third was
spreadeagled across the trench, so he clambered over the dead
mans ribcage, felt for a moment the cold barrel of a rifle
against his belly, and, sensing a lull in the shelling, ran to where
the trench took a sharp turn to the left.
Just beyond the parapet, the ground shuddered once again,
clods of mud and stone showering down on him. The mans
screaming, closer now, blended with the wails and howls of
falling shells, and for long minutes, Lakritz crouched, ears
pinned back, biding his time. Then he was off again, faster now,

18

zigzagging past obstacles, beginning to slaver. He turned

another corner to find that a portion of the trench had been
obliterated, and lying exposed in the middle of a morass of mud
and wire was the screaming man, slumped against the remains
of another, holding in his guts with his bloodied hands. Lakritz
did not hesitate, covering the distance in three bounds, a
vicious fizz of bullets singeing his tail. He took his cover behind
the stricken soldier, whined, and licked the mans face until the
screaming abated, and one hand came up to touch his ear,
leaving behind hot, sticky smears that reeked of haemoglobin.
Lakritz shifted his long, black body until the whole of his flank
was in contact with the man, who shivered uncontrollably. The
ground beside him boiled.
They lay until the trembling abated. The man tried to sit up,
flinching, and reached out his arm. Lakritz turned to see him
pointing, a drip of redness congealing on his fingertip. His rifle
was lodged in the mud, stock first, just out of reach, and
Lakritzs training kicked in. He crawled across, grasped the
muzzle in his teeth, and pulled it out of the sucking blackness.
The weight of it was cold and heavy in his mouth as he dragged
it backward, and the mans hand reached out for it, before the
ground took another pummelling, and beyond, for as far as
Laritz could hear, the air thrilled with an incessant shrieking.
Cradling his rifle like a baby, the man attempted a smile and a
nod, and Lakritz took his cue, shooting out across the expanse
of naked mud, the air afire around him. He reached cover and
paused, glancing back over his shoulder. Behind the wailing

19

symphony of the shells, he heard the gunshot, saw the mans

head loll to the shoulder, and was on his way.
There were more men in this part of the trench, some huddled
beneath the parapet, some carrying wooden crates of
ammunition, all of them stinking of ancient sweat, helmets
pulled down over their eyes, cheeks sunken. Lakritz sidled
between legs, dodged squatting men loading rifles, took his
turns through the labyrinth, until once more he came to a
stretch where the trench had been obliterated.
He paused to pant beside an upturned boulder, its surface
chipped and pitted. He could see the rise where Wilhelms
dugout was hunkered, a hundred metres ahead of him, and
between them, the ground heaved like a living thing, writhing
under the onslaught of British steel.
Lakritz shook himself, the harness chafing. He crouched,
waiting for his moment, and then he was out in the open again,
abandoning his own instinct for self-preservation, revelling in
his reflexes, until the wind of his own velocity buffeted his ears.
Uprooted trees loomed in front of him; he leapt them. He
bounded across an upturned pillbox, claws scrabbling on
concrete. A portion of earth exploded in front of him, and he
was blown backwards, landing clear, but picked himself up and
surged forward, straight across the crater. He began to feel
himself climbing, let his tongue loll, arched his back and
careered upward, flinging earth out behind him.

20

The trench walls closed in around him once more, and ahead,
the dark opening of the dugout. He slowed to a trot, sniffed at
the doorway, permitted himself a moments luxury, lifting his
leg, and then he was in, scrabbling down the rough-hewn flags,
throwing himself bodily into the arms of the man who awaited
him, greeting him with his long tongue and his steaming
breath, as eager fingers unbuckled the harness, and Lakritz
breathed in the smell of Wilhelm, tail slapping against the
earthen floor. Food was distributed, men falling hungrily to
their rations, and Wilhelms hands were in Lakritzs coat, the
hollow space alive with laughter. Lakritz looked up, licked
again, tasted salt, and smelt before he saw that Wilhelms eyes
were filled with tears.
*
A rat ran for its life, the ravens bill clacking shut just short of
its tail as it reached the burrow. Unruffled, the raven turned,
heedless of the shells, perched a moment on the fallen rifle,
and hopped to where the dead mans forehead lay, yawning at
the sky.

21

Chapter 5
Afternoon, Spanbroek, in view of Messines Ridge
1st June 1917
Find work that needs doing.
The Dressing Station was overflowing. Lionel Penrose shifted
the ambulance into neutral and pulled on the handbrake, the
engine prattling on three cylinders. Men at the end of the
queue turned towards him with questioning eyes, and he
cleared his throat.
Ive room for five men with light wounds others will come
for stretchers he said, acutely aware of the boyishness of his
own voice, and one in the front, if you can sit up. There had
been no one left to accompany him that morning; one more
space for a stricken man, and he had done the journey there
and back five times since the bombardment: five extra men
away from the Front.
He started attending to the wounded, staunching the more
urgent blood-flows, tipping acriflavine over a burn, marvelling,
as always, that no one jostled, each man waiting his turn. One,
somehow still standing, his fractured wristbones gleaming
through a jagged wound, stared half-comprehending at the
bronze badge on the lapel of Penroses uniform: the letters FAU
intertwined, then fell heavily against him. Another man, short,
moustached, in a Sappers uniform, helped his injured fellow to

22

the ground, and came to Penroses assistance, taking half of the

mans sagging weight. Someone came out of the Dressing
Station with a hypodermic brimming with morphines swirling
mercies.
Gradually, the ambulance filled, and as Penrose worked on, the
British bombardment began. Wounded men glanced up
towards Messines Ridge, and there were murmurs, but
Penrose in his concentration heard only one word, repeated
now and again: Boche Boche Boche At last, the back of
the ambulance was filled, the doors slammed closed.
Penrose turned to the Sapper beside him. Your friend is
sitting up for himself. Ill take him in the front. The
moustached man gave a fleeting smile, his face breaking into
friendly wrinkles around the eyes. One had a divergent pupil:
a false eye, Penrose realised, and then was on with the work.
The Sapper helped his friend to stand: a Corporal, much taller,
with a shock of black hair, clutching at an injured arm. They
helped him up into the passenger seat, his eyes groggy, but as
Penrose climbed in beside him, switched on the heating, and
shifted the ambulance into reverse, the Corporal shook himself
into full consciousness, and shouted out the window:
McCreesh! Sure I would be grateful if youd take word to my
C.O. Lieutenant Witherow. 36th Ulster Division. Tell him this
is no Blighty, or whatever were supposed to be calling it. Tell
him I want to be here for for the 4th.

23

In his rear vision mirror, Penrose saw McCreesh nodding and

lifting a hand in acknowledgement, and beside him, the
Corporal began to look once more as though he would lose
consciousness and again, he rallied, willpower etched in his
expression.
Burnett. Corry Burnett.
Lionel Penrose.
They lapsed into silence, and churned out onto a rutted road.
It curved through a woodland of blasted trees, leafless,
branchless, their boles blackened, the undergrowth razed from
under them, and then out across the valley. Green fields
opened out; a skylark sang. Burnett was revived by the
freshness of the air, lapping in summer warmth through the
window.
You dont look eighteen. Quaker, are you?
Penrose nodded, waited.
Conscientious objector?
Penrose braced himself. It was not the first time he had been
asked the question. Once again, he nodded.
Helping us, though, arent you I mean, to win the war? Men
like me end up back here again because of you.
Yes, said Penrose, and the way he sighed the word expressed
the dilemma. There was no more to say, and Burnett did not
seem to have noticed the response. His eyes were closed, head
beginning to drop.

24

A lone cow crossed the road in front of the ambulance, and

Penrose shifted down the gears. Sure youre not supposed to
be doing this job by yourself, came the slurred voice.
Penrose wondered whether to answer. My my colleague
was required. Too much to do at the Clearing Station. We were
shelled in the night, you know. I I took the ambulance on my
own, without permission.
Burnett was instantly bolt upright in his seat. And who was
killed?
Three nurses a surgeon two patients, I think. I have been
driving all day and half the night. I Im not sure.
The rest of the way to the Clearing Station, Burnett sat tense
beside him, all trace of shock erased, the fingers of his good
hand drumming against the window. His lips moved
ceaselessly, silently, and Penrose, well-versed in it, observed
the silence also.
*
The signs of the shelling had been almost erased, as though the
Clearing Station had some hidden capacity to heal its own
wounds. Only the one tent was missing, and the place was full
of bustle: nurses wheeling stretchers between the huts and
tents, other ambulances unloading, convalescents smoking
Woodbines in the sun. Penrose parked the ambulance and
made his way around to the back, opening the doors. A small
flock of Staff Nurses and Orderlies descended, and amongst
them, taller than the rest, gaunt in her black cloak, Sister

25

OFlaherty, already giving orders. Penrose stood beside her,

helping men to crutches, administering smelling-salts, taking
their weight on his shoulders until the vehicle was empty. The
Sister turned to him and almost seemed to smile. Not a
stickler for regulations, then, Mr Penrose, driving on your
own? And only one abdominal wound among those men. By
rights, they should have waited at the Dressing Station.
Penrose shuffled, looked down at his feet.
Well, good for you. If all of us were bent on observing English
regulations, where would these men be then? The words
came curtly, and she turned on her heels, about to depart.
Er Sister Siobhan - he corrected himself, theres one
more patient in the front seat. A shrapnel wound minor, I
think, but hes in shock.
Siobhan darted a look at him, that whisper of a smile curling
her lip once more, and she made for the passenger side door,
opened it.
Right, she began, now what do we have in then silence.
Penrose could only see obliquely through the side window of
the ambulance: Burnetts good arm flung around her
shoulders, and his voice, hoarse and cracking, Thank Christ!
Thank Christ you werent one of them! and then the Corporal
had fainted, and before Penrose could assist her, Siobhan had
pulled him out of the front seat and laid him on the ground in
a foetal curl, his good arm folded under him.

26

He watched her gathering herself, like a bird preening. Well,

what in Gods name are you waiting for, Penrose? Go and fetch
a stretcher.
Penrose darted into the nearest tent, grabbed an Orderly by
the wrist, and together they hauled one out. When he returned,
Sister OFlaherty was bent over her patient, the sides of her
cloak mantling him. The Orderly rushed over to her.
Penrose fumbled in his pocket for the ignition keys. Before
climbing back in, he looked once at the sky, remembered his
directive.
Find work that needs doing. Regularise it later, if possible.

27

Chapter 6
Evening to Midnight, 88 feet underground, beneath
Spanbroekmolen, Messines Ridge
1st June 1917
91, 000 pounds of ammonal, sealed in rubberised bags, packed
in 50-pound tins, waterproofed with pitch. It lay in front of
him, gleaming in the lamplight, and McCreesh wiped tears of
fatigue from his eye. It was never a good thing for a Sapper to
curtail his sleep, but already he could feel fear dissipating the
exhaustion. Ammonal has a high absorbency level. If the water
content rises over 4%, it explodes. How much faith is it safe to
invest in pitch and rubber? The drip of cold condensation
running down his neck begged the question.
Number 13 detonators, inserted in 15-ounce guncotton
primers, were also sealed in rubber bags. A man stooped
beside him, shuffling backwards down the tunnel, coiling out
insulated electrical wire beside them, the man with the
stethoscope, ever intent. The dumb-show lasted hours: wires
unwound to the tunnels end conveyed up a shaft constructed
partly out of timber, partly of steel tubbing out to the surface,
connections made, and then as insurance against electrical
failures, McCreesh laid out cordeau fuse, connected to Number
8 detonators. Later, the spaces would be packed with
dynamite. There could be no failure. Spanbroekmolen must
explode.

28

And somehow, the shift was over. McCreeshs head was

swimming, but he no longer felt fatigue. He climbed the ladder
up the shaft, staring at the boots of the man above him, and felt
the air becoming fresher. As they neared the surface, the
miming ended; men began to whisper there was a stifled
chuckle and everyone in the team took the habitual turn to
the left, stooped under a lintel, and entered a low,
subterranean room.
Old ammunition cases had been
upturned, and served as chairs and a drinking-table. One had
been made into a makeshift couch, covered with army-issue
blankets. Sacks were draped from the walls, and in one corner,
a shelf was filled with tins. Grimy jackets hung from the ceiling,
and someone had taken the trouble to fill a tin basin with water
for washing. Men stripped to their shirts and braces, rolled up
their sleeves, queued up to clean their hands and faces. The air
was filled with a heady sense of relief.
McCreesh took his turn to wash, sat down, and undid the laces
of his boots. He felt a friendly hand ruffle his hair, and the old
saviour was pushed in front of him: a half-full bottle of rum. He
drank deeply without troubling to wipe the rim, and
shuddered as the warmth began to fill him. Other men
crowded in beside him, and the bottle went from hand to hand.
Another was opened and drained. Voices swam in and out of
his consciousness; his eye saw gap-toothed grins, dirt-grained
faces, old scars, fingers scissoring Woodbines, mouths
exhaling. He had no sense of time.

29

Tell us one of your tales, John McCreesh. The Geordie accent

was slurred and convivial.
Sure, that I will, he replied, if youll let me wrap my
moustache around another bottle.
There was laughter, and a bottle was provided. He filled his
mouth, let the liquid burn his tongue, breathed the vapour out
through his nostrils, swallowed, drank again. The room had
become silent.
So the Dagda, harpist to the Tuatha de Danann, took it in his
mind to visit the Morrign and her sisters, to seek her aid in the
coming battle. He found the terror-mother at the roaring river,
Unius of Connacht, where it runs shallow over stones, with her
left foot to the south of the water, and her right foot to the north
of the water, bending over, washing her long black skirt. And out
of the skirt there issued a great runnel of blood, so that the whole
of the Unius downstream of her flushed crimson. She turned her
black eyes to look at him, and loosened nine black tresses from
her hair. Out of the woods beyond the river stepped her two
gaunt sisters: Macha, instigator of battle, shaker of the tree that
bears the severed heads of men, and, her face skull-like yet
entrancing, the Badhbh, who sows the slaughtered in the soil and
tends them for a garden. The three of them stood swaying on
their heels, staring the Dagda out.
And what would you be wanting of me, Dagda the harpist? said
the Morrign, her voice coal-black and rasping.
Your advice, replied the Dagda. Where should we seek battle
against the Fomorians?

30

The Morrign stepped out of the ford, and draped her long white
arms about the Dagdas neck. She brushed his mouth with hers.
They will land at Mag Scetne. Seek battle at Mag Tured, and
there will be a great letting of blood amongst the Fomorians,
until the field is red as sunset.
At these words, Macha stepped forward, licking her lips, and the
Badhbh let out a laugh that echoed down the valley. The Dagda
tried to smile.
And what payment do you seek for this advice you offer? said
the Dagda.
The Morrigns slender white fingers slid down to his crotch,
undid the hooks and eyes, reached inside for his swelling
member. I drive a hard bargain this you know already. Give
me Indech, king of the Fomorians, still alive, and this hand will
tear apart his ribs, pluck forth his heart, and squeeze out his
lifeblood.
And as the Morrign straddled the Dagda on the stony banks of
the ford, she added, And I shall have the blood of his kidneys to
the last drop, and out of the hearts and lungs and kidneys of his
every officer. My sisters will lay claim to all the rest of the blood
spilt at Mag Tured, when the hills heave themselves into the air.
Then the Dagda knew that all power was in the Morrign, and
could hold back no longer. She bent over him until he was
mantled by her black cloak. But all the blood of battle shall be
ours: that of the Fomorians, yes, but not of Fomorians only.

31

The Dagda sat bolt upright, and flailed to push her from him, but
where she had been a moment before, a great raven was
perched, staring hungrily into his eyes. He leapt up, and the bird
took to flight. From either side of him, raven voices offered
hoarse mockery, and the Dagda stood, britches at his ankles, as
three black birds swept into the sky above the bloodied river.
Down in darkness with the watchful eyes of silent men and a
single lantern, lurked 91, 000 pounds of ammonal, sealed in
rubberised bags, packed in 50-pound tins, waterproofed with
pitch, the tunnel ceiling gently dripping.

32

Chapter 7
Early Morning, Casualty Clearing Station near
Baillieul
2nd June 1917
Swab. The surgeons voice was thick with fatigue, but the
command was unnecessary; Sister OFlaherty was already
soaking up the fresh blood with a wad of cotton gauze. There
should have been an anaesthetist, but not today. The scalpel
and forceps continued their work, cutting away shreds of flesh
which would die and rot if left unattended, excising deep into
the tissue where the tangle of shrapnel had dragged in a
noisome smear of mud. There was a gleam of bone before the
wound filled up again, and Siobhan swabbed once more. A
capillary fountained for a moment, then stuttered.
Sure its good to see the fresh blood, said Siobhan, and the
doctor nodded. She reached for a thin rubber hose and
irrigated the wound.
Suture, he said, and again, she was ready with it, but as she
held out the hooked needle, strung with cat-gut, she felt the
doctors weight leaning against her. Her other arm went up
around his shoulder as he fell, shuddering with exhaustion.
She got him onto the floor without banging his head. Staff
nurse! she shouted, and when Mary Newman appeared at the
door of the tent, she stood up and turned back to the patient.
Its nothing hes tired out. Get help get him out of here. Ill
be finishing this. Mary knew not to hesitate; she turned and

33

shouted for assistance, and Siobhan set to work, ignoring the

bustle behind her, drawing the edges of the excised muscle
together, stitching neatly. Something bled, and she ligatured,
the clamp crunching tight. She hooked a rubber drain on a
probe, inserted it in the wound, secured it with a loop of gut.
Now the skin: horizontal mattress sutures, perfectly spaced, as
in a textbook, the rubber drain protruding slightly from the
bottom of the wound. Tools down. Swab. Powder. Staff
nurse!
Siobhan washed and walked out. A blackbird sang through a
thin mist of rain, but she took the long way around, past the
building where the patients with abdominal injuries were
treated, through a village of makeshift wards, most of them
tents, to a section devoted to the treatment of lighter injuries.
Patients stood and sat, some of them sporting incongruous
white bandages, khaki-clad and smoking. Another group, still
untreated, straggled in something like a queue. It took her a
while to find him, and when she did, it was immediately clear
that he was the subject of an argument. He sat on the edge of a
table, looking faintly embarrassed. She suppressed a smile at
the incongruity between his apparent poise, and the
powerlessness of his situation. Only Corry Burnett could wear
a gauze bandage, already decorated with a spreading spot of
blood, with the same panache civilian men reserved for lazy
days in cravats. She caught his eye and listened.

34

Im sorry, Lieutenant, but its quite impossible. The medical

officer sounded adamant, but he looked to Siobhan like a man
who experienced occasional difficulties in standing his ground.
I thought you said the wound was superficial. It was a curt
reply interrogative. The man turned slightly, acknowledging
her presence: tall, with a slight stoop. There was something
kindly in the wrinkles about the eyes, the way the mouth
tended naturally into a smile, but there was a fixed
determination, too.
Yes quite right a mere splinter, but the effects of shock
Under the circumstances, you cannot be expected to
understand, and unfortunately, I am not in a position to
enlighten you, said Witherow. Suffice to say that this man is
my best Corporal, and for reasons I am not at liberty to explain,
his return to the front is not only desirable, but essential. I
require him to lead a raiding party before dawn on the 4th of
June, and he will need a day to prepare his men. On the 7th of
June, there is something else.
Im sorry, Lieutenant, but that simply isnt
Corry was standing. Sure but the Lieutenant is right. Ill rest
here today if that will please you, but I am minded to return
tomorrow. He glanced at Siobhan, read her eyes. She
returned his gaze fixedly, and nodded.
Now, smiled Witherow, I would appreciate it if you would
show us to a room where I may brief my man in private.
*

35

I meant what I said out there, Burnett. Witherow was relaxed

now. The jocular eyes twinkled.
Burnett returned the smile. His fingers touched the red spot
gingerly, then dropped. Thank you, Sir. How are my men?
Are they all
Yes they all survived the bombardment. Our artillery are
returning the favour as we speak, and will be doing so until the
morning of the 7th.
The 7th, Sir?
Im afraid I cannot tell you much about that. But I need you to
lead a raiding party on the morning of the 4th, early. Theres a
Boche pillbox on the Ridge. Air reconnaissance has told us that
it is now completely isolated; our shells have flattened the
supply trenches.
Sure, if it is that much out on a limb, it would be simpler to
blow it
Quite right, Burnett. But we need a prisoner. We suspect
theyre not regular soldiers. There are engineers amongst
them, and we need to know what they know about about us.
And that, if Im guessing correctly, would be something
connected with our activities on the 7th?
Youre my best Corporal, Burnett, but you always did ask a lot
of questions.
Cant blame me for being curious, Sir.
Witherow laughed, and then the smile faded. Youll need to
watch McBride. Hes
A little flighty, Sir? Yes, I know. With all respect Sir, hes the
one who needs to go on leave. You cant expect a man to wear
the guts of his best friend and

36

Look after him, Burnett. Thats the best I can do. He paused,
cocked his head on one side, smiled, then said more loudly, I
suspect youd like to be getting back to that nurse of yours. I
believe youll find her eavesdropping just outside the door.
Burnett smiled and saluted. Sure, that I would, Sir. See you
tomorrow.
After Burnett had gone, Witherow sat in the room for a long
time. There were racks of instruments, shelves filled with jars,
piles of surgical linen and swabs. He closed his eyes. There
was something uncanny here; something entirely alien to his
world, yet strangely familiar. It took him a while to realise
what it was, and a while longer to admit to himself how he
missed it.
Silence.
*
Corry opened his mouth to speak, but she silenced it with her
finger. There was nothing to be said. His lips parted and she
touched his tongue, then brought her mouth to his. Their
embrace drew closer, until the line of his femur met with hers,
his iliac crest nestled against her hips. She surrendered herself
to the delicious swirls of sensation, drank him in. She wanted
even the rasp of his unshaved whiskers, the smell of his sweat,
that faintly tangible whiff of blood. He hardened against her,
and she shoved him against the table, bit his lips, dug her
fingernails into the palms of his hands. The hunger consumed

37

her. She mantled him with her cloak, ran her tongue along her
teeth, and bent down to devour.

Chapter 8
Late Morning, Above Messines Ridge
2nd June 1917
High above the bombardment, the raven played in air. One
wing caught an updraft, and she let herself roll, twisting in the
wind, revelling. She rushed onward into a rising, invisible wall,
raised her bill skyward, and ascended, spired, levelled out,
plummeted, drifted out to where the Ridge dropped away
beneath her, spiralled, returned. Far beneath, an isolated
concrete pillbox seemed to teeter on the brink, surrounded by
acres of cratered soil; here and there, the remnants of an
amputated trench. Her eyes detected movement: a man
crouched beside his long black dog, fixing something to its
collar.
The bombardment had intensified. Plumes of soil stood up in
the air like trees, and then disintegrated. Shell-shrieks seared
the atmosphere. The raven banked, beat her wings, quested
higher. Way out on the horizon: lines of living trees. She could
be over there in moments, but she had chosen here.
A thrill ran through her. She opened her bill, and out of it
dropped a fingerbone. She watched it fall a moment, then
plunged, swept under it, snatched it up dropped it, caught it,
dropped it, caught it. Then she tired of it, tossed it upward, and

38

it looped ahead of her, seemed to hang suspended for a

moment, then fell spinning, heavier end downwards. She
circled, watching it for as long as she could, until it
disappeared, consumed in the endless brown morass. The
voice cronked out of her nine times.
The black dog had set off. An idle curiosity made her spill the
air from her wings, and she descended to observe. Here, it
crouched, there it deflected as a shell burst, and now it shot
straight forward. She watched the rhythm of its long spine,
hunching, flexing, extending, the back legs dashing out behind
it, then tucking under. From this distance, it seemed so small
she might swoop down, break its neck with her long-stropped
bill and lift it aloft. An explosion ripped out a piece of hillside
yards in front of it; three men were thrown outwards and
landed in red pieces. The dog baulked, skidded, leapt out
sideways, skirted the newly opened crater, made the trench
and disappeared from sight.
She shifted her attention to the man. Five more had emerged
from the pillbox beside him; he and three others were
gasmasked. From here, the raven could watch it safely: a greygreen cloud that eddied and spread, drifting out across the
expanse of obliteration, swirling in hollows, filling up craters,
creeping onward. One of the masked men grabbed the arm of
his bare-faced companion, began to gesticulate. For a moment,
the cloud obscured them, and then the wind changed. Two of
them were down, writhing, and three of the others were
dragging them back inside. The first man turned, strode out in

39

the opposite direction from that taken by the dog. The raven
banked again to watch him, and as she did so, he disappeared
into the ground. Dimly, through the misty film, she perceived
the entrance to a shaft, its camouflage all blown away, like a
missing tooth in a muddy mouth. She spired again, tumbled,
righted herself, looked down. Two more men followed the
first, insignificant as ants.
And now, everywhere she looked, men were insects, some
scurrying, some stamped into the mud, a few writhing
dismembered. She let herself drift out westward, not troubling
to flap her wings, but gliding over thermals. In the valley, the
opposing trenches wormed, thronged with other insect-men,
in different helmets. Lines of great guns spewed out fire and
noise. She watched the arc of shells, heard their descending
shrieks, saw them pummelling into the Ridge, and beneath
their trajectories, the bullet-zinging expanse of no-mans land,
stuttering with rifle-fire, bristling with wire. Out of all the
noise, she picked one persistent, seemingly insignificant
sound: a low wailing and sobbing, choked here and there with
a bubbling of blood-filled breath.
Down she dropped, and perched upon a blasted thorn tree just
above him, her scaled feet splayed around its spines. Wire was
tangled about one arm; a barb pierced the trembling throat. A
precise line of entry-holes spanned the abdomen, and the
hands twitched spasmodically. Out of the mouth, the warm
stuff spat and boiled.

40

She could taste it on the spike of her tongue, smell it through

her bristled nostrils, hot and ferrous. She yawned, ruffled her
feathers, picked a parasite from beneath one wing, and settled
down to wait. The hunger grew inside her.

41

Chapter 9
Morning to Afternoon, beneath Spanbroekmolen,
Messines Ridge
2nd June 1917
He had learned long ago how to rest through the distant, stonemuffled roar of heavy guns. It would be an exaggeration to call
it sleep: this drifting in and out of consciousness, his waking
thoughts wefting seamlessly with dreams. McCreesh pulled
the blanket up around his ears, its woollen chafing a rough
comfort, half his body warmed by that of the man who lay
beside him, the other half touched by the cavernous cold. The
air was filled with snores and stale sweat, and an irregular
dripping of water.
And there was little John McCreesh, his eye wide open, the
blind side of his face under her arm, cheek warm against the
woollen stole and the rise of his mothers breast, lost in her
voice. And what story would you be wanting tonight, my little
John?
Tell me more about the bird-lady, Mother. Say again how she
came to King Conaire at the hostel of Da Derga.
Oh, but sure Ive told you that tale ten thousand times and still
youre not tiring of it.
No, Mother, and I never will. Make her even scarier this time,
when you come to her.

42

And the stone around him vibrated; the tin dish rattled, the
water inside it slopping. The man beside him stirred, turned,
sighed, resumed his snoring.
Well, then, you must be remembering before we begin that King
Conaire was running out of gaesa, for his own father was a bird
who left his feather-skin on the floor for the making of his love to
Etain, and Conaires coming into this world came with certain
strictures.
Sure, said little John McCreesh in a rush, His reign would be
long and full of peace and joy, only he must not go
righthandwise around Tara and then lefthandwise around Mag
Breg. Nor must he hunt the longtoothed beasts of Cerna, or go
every ninth night from Tara, nor sleep in a house where the
firelight flickered at the windows, nor be preceded by three
Reds when entering his place of rest, nor settle the quarrel of
his subjects, nor allow rapine to be wrought in his reign.
Yes, and all of these gaesa, Conaire had broken, and only one
taboo remained.
Never after sunset shall Conaire let a lone woman under the
threshold of his lodging, cried little John McCreesh.
So whos telling this story me or you? Well, on that last night
of his reign, King Conaire had taken his shelter at the hostel of
Da Derga, with all its magical rooms filled with wondrous guests,
and he and his hundred and fifty men, each with a thorn club

43

banded with iron, and long hair, and cloaks that hung about
their buttocks, sat in the hallway drinking ale, stretching their
long limbs by the fire. And Conaire was not in the best of moods,
knowing as he must have known that time was short, and he was
gazing out of the window at the setting sun. And at the last ray
of sunlight, there came a rapping at the door, as of thin bony
knuckles wrapped in translucent skin.
Dont open it, said Conaire, but someone had opened it, and
standing at the threshold was a lone woman, stoop-bodied, her
shawl obscuring her face, croaking, Let me in, Conaire. Let me
in, Da Derga. Let me in.
Go elsewhere, said Conaire, seizing a poker.
And what kind of hospitality would you be calling that? replied
the woman, casting off her cowl. Oh, and her shins were longer
than a weavers beam, stag-beetle black, and great tresses of
knotted black hair hung to her knees with holed stones strung
through them, and when she raised her face, her lips were both
on one side of it, so that she spoke from just below her left ear.
Oh, and but there was no nose that was ever as long or hooked
as hers, or eyes so brown and piercing, and her eyebrows
sprouted out of her lean skull like black feathers. And there she
leant her bare bony shoulder on the doorpost, turned her head
sideways and fixed Conaire with the evil eye.
What kind of woman are you a fortune-teller? said Conaire,
keeping his composure. Then cast your weird for me this night,
and Ill give you treasure, but step not over the threshold on pain
of death.

44

And the woman ruffled out the edges of her shawl so that they
drooped like wings, and she swayed on her feet, but her head and
her eye stayed still, fixed on Conaire like a compass-blade. Then
slowly her mouth opens there are no teeth inside it and she
slurs, Sure, I see for you clearly. Neither your flesh nor your
bones nor the hair on your head shall make their way hence from
Da Dergas hostel, unless birds carry them in their claws.
Conaires knuckles whitened on the poker, but his voice was
steady. And what, lady, might be your name?
And then didnt she go through the whole of the alphabet
chanting her names, and she got as far down it as the letter S,
intoning without teeth, remember Samon, Sinand, Seisclend,
Sodb and Conaire let go of the poker so that it clattered on the
stone flags, crying, Not one of those is your real name.
So then the woman steps out with one of her great legs, and
Conaire sees that it thins to the width of a spindle, and her scaly
foot has three toes to the front and one sticking out from her heel,
and she holds it poised, threatening to make her first tread into
Da Dergas hostel.
Conaire turns to Da Derga and says, She can have a fat ox and a
suckling pig if shell but choose to stay under some other roof this
night.
Could it be, croaked the woman, one long, hooked toenail
rapping on the stone, that the virtue of hospitality is no longer
held in esteem by the great and illustrious Conaire?

45

Oh, savage answer, thundered Conaire. Then come in, though

it may doom me to death.
That it will, she laughed, and as her body passed under the
lintel and her foot struck the floor, her face began to straighten,
the knots fell out of her hair until it cascaded beautiful and
lustrous about her bare shoulders, and before them stood a
woman of such rare allure that the eyes of every warrior were
drawn to her, and lingered there.
Oh, and Conaire was filled with a great loathing, but his tongue
was held, and outside through the window, he saw torchlights of
an army approaching, and knew that each and every spear
would have its share in impaling him. He feigned nonchalance,
bent to pick up the poker, and stirred the fire, but there came
another rapping, this time at the window, and he turned to see a
great crow perched on the outside sill, and behind it, a whole
murder of others flying.
What is your name? repeats Conaire, conjuring it out of her
with the pokers red-hot tip.
And when the womans rowan-berry lips come open, out there
issues the laughter of crows.
Badhbh, she rasps. My name is Badhbh, and you shall never
hear another, as the first spear pierces the window and
Conaires breast and heart.

46

Chapter 10
Afternoon, German tunnel, Spanbroekmolen, Messines
Ridge
2nd June 1917
The man with the mattock was bent as a tree-root, leaning into
his work, his sweat gleaming in the lamp-light as its blade sunk
into the wall of the tunnel. Long curls of clay were caught in
another mans spade before they hit the floor of the tunnel.
The process was far from noiseless; each time the mattock
struck, there was the fear it might betray their presence.
Everything about the mattock-man exuded a wise furtiveness:
his eyes flickering sideways, the breath held within him, the
blows restrained. He worked for another minute, then held the
tool poised, still as a man of black alabaster, head turned over
his shoulder.
Wilhelm crouched, and held the diaphragm of the stethoscope
against the wall. His breathing also stilled, and he let himself
grow accustomed to the sound of his own heartbeat, listening
beyond its rhythm out into the clay and stone. He cleared his
mind of the noise of thoughts, became a man of earth, waited.
Nothing. Slowly, he straightened, moved across the tunnel,
followed the same ritual of listening. Seconds minutes
nothing. He knelt, applied it to the floor.

47

Seconds minutes something. A stifled cough, perhaps. He

glanced up at his companions. No, it wasnt one of them. He
summoned the calm within himself, bent to listen again, but
imagination wrestled with sense; the questions came flooding.
Was he mistaken? Yes, he was probably mistaken. Would he
be blamed for raising false alarms? Yes, he would be blamed.
Was it possible for the ground itself to sound so hollow?
His legs were aching; time was aching. Still, he listened. He
opened his eyes for a moment, saw that every mans stare was
trained intently upon him. He fought down the sense of
foolishness. Would he be blamed for failing to raise alarms?
No, he would not be blamed. There would be no one left to
blame him. He closed down, retreated back into himself.
There it was again, just on the edge of hearing: the sound old
miners make after years of breathing coal-dust, but closemouthed, stifled. His eyes flashed open. The man lowered his
mattock. All strained to listen. Seconds minutes nothing.
The man took up his mattock again, but Wilhelm shook his
head. One by one, they sat on the cold floor of the tunnel, and
Wilhelm delved with his hearing, going deeper, probing.
They stayed that way for hours. There was nothing more.
Shaking the cramp out of his legs, Wilhelm emerged into
screaming brightness and the wail of shells. All of them

48

skulked in the mouth of the tunnel, and as if by common

consent, shuffled back the way they had come, hunched down,
staring out at clouds and sun and there, silhouetted, was the
long black dog, bounding into his masters arms.
Eager hands unbuckled the harness, passed around the
provisions, but Wilhelm crouched to one side, a pen and paper
in his hand, writing. He folded the message, slipped it inside
the bag, replaced it around the shaggy neck, breathing wetness
from the lolling tongue.
He held the dog to him, felt his pulse and panting. Gute
Lakritz, he whispered. Run!

49

50

Chapter 11
Afternoon, Front-line trench held by the Royal Irish
Rifles, and No Mans Land, Spanbroek
2nd June 1917
The voice drifted weakly in from No Mans Land, punctuated
by bubbling sputters the same phrase repeated at irregular
intervals, Christ, just some water. Then it, and all other
sounds, were obliterated by a barrage of British artillery.
Rifleman Padraig McBride did his best to master the trembling
in his hands, and fumbled for his canteen. He cringed at the
screech of a shell, involuntarily covering his helmet with his
free hand. Eddie Rooney looked across at him and seemed to
smile. McBride followed his gaze, flickering from the canteen
to out beyond the parapet, and then Rooney shook his head.
He could not hear a word, but he could read Rooneys lips, No,
its impossible.
Ive g. Ive g-g-g-got. The stutters always came when McBride
most needed his voice. Ive got to go. If Burnett was here, he
would go. Its Tate out there on the wire. Hes thirsty.
And how absurd it was that now, McBrides Sunday School
lessons in the vestry of that little parish church on the outskirts
of Belfast came flooding back to him: colouring and cutting out
pictures of Christ on the Cross, and those armoured Roman
soldiers proffering a vinegar-soaked sponge on a spear. Why
vinegar? Why was everything in life such a sour taunt and

51

travesty? He had wondered it then, his parents both dead on

account of being born into the wrong religion. Now, he
accepted it. Better a sour taunt, he thought, than that
crucifixion on wire, without even a half-kindly executioner in
attendance.
McBride scrambled up the parapet, and of course, Rooney tried
to stop him, clutching at his boot. He let out a kick and was
free, tumbling down the other side into a shell-hole half full of
water. Beyond it, the mud sprouted barbed wire like
hopelessly tangled briars. A German shell fell somewhere
nearby, and he succumbed to long minutes of uncontrollable
shaking. Gradually, his reason regained mastery, and he
crawled upwards on his belly. A dead man stared at him with
empty eyes, and he averted his gaze, coughing up bile. He
breathed deeply, looked down at his hand. The trembling had
stopped.
It must have taken half an hour for him to find the gap in the
wire, but suddenly he was under it. A hiss of bullets spattered
into the mud at his side, and he rolled behind some obstacle:
the remains of a tree-stump perhaps. It was hard to be sure.
Christ, just some
McBride crawled towards the voice, but he saw the thorn tree
first: gnarled, entirely leafless, half ripped out of the soil, and
at its crown, a great black bird staring down. McBride followed
its gaze, and there was Tate, five neat bullet holes running

52

obliquely across chest and abdomen. One arm was hopelessly

entangled in wire, a loop of which extended upwards towards
his throat, so that whenever Tates head began to slump, a barb
drove into the whiskered skin.
More bullets: a random strafing, like a wind-squall, but
somehow, McBride was at Tates side, his hand twisting away
the loop of wire as the head lolled against it. A barb went into
his own finger, and a bead of blood oozed out from it.
Christ, whispered Tate, and McBride raised the canteen to
the cracked and scabby lips. Tate drank deeply, and moments
later, blood and water began to ooze from the bullet holes. He
drank again, and it came in a gush, until McBride too was
soaked with it. Top. Top pocket.
McBride reached over and felt about in the pocket, retrieving a
small leather wallet. He opened it to reveal a photograph: a
woman smiling, her face framed in ringlets, and in her arms a
child in a white bonnet, holding up a wooden toy a doll. He
raised it for Tate to see it, and watched his eyes. They welled
with tears, and the pupils seemed to dilate. Then the stare
grew vacant, the jaw dropping. McBride closed the eyes with
muddy fingers.
From the thorn tree, the raven began to call. McBride turned
to face it, and found himself staring down the long arch of the
bill, bristled at the base, his gaze met by two insolent brown
eyes. His hand dropped the canteen, and felt instinctively for

53

the grenade at his belt then hesitated as the bird cocked its
head, raised a claw and scratched itself behind the ear. He
glared at it, but the bird would not avert its gaze, and slowly,
hand still hooked around the grenade, he retreated, got back
down on his hands and knees, turned and crawled away.
Now, the shakes returned. He made it to the shell hole, and
crouched knee-deep in water, teeth chattering, head twitching
involuntarily. Something fell into the water beside him and he
let out a shout, covered his face with his hands and then
somehow, he was out, the bombardment now so loud that the
bullets striking the ground on all sides of him seemed to make
no sound. He fell back into the trench, helmet clattering on the
duckboards, and Rooney was kneeling over him, helping him
up. It was barely necessary to read the Riflemans lips: Sure
to Christ, McBride, but youre fucking crazy.
*
The raven hopped down from the thorn tree, barely opening
her wings, and walked up onto the body of the hanging man.
She climbed to the top of his head, where the helmet hung
sideways over a scrag of hair. Her talons spanned the skull as
she bent forward, and leant in towards the eyes.

54

Chapter 12
Evening to midnight, 88 feet underground, beneath
Spanbroekmolen, Messines Ridge
2nd June 1917
The afternoon shift had ended. McCreesh stooped at the top of
the shaft, grasping the hands of the sappers as they emerged,
breathing their sweat, helping them to their feet. The last man
to emerge broke into a long-suppressed fit of coughing:
decades worth of old coal dust churning within his lungs.
McCreesh slapped his back, tried a smile, did his best to hold
him up a moment. Men began to murmur, shuffling towards
their rest, and McCreesh turned, stepped into the shaft, nestled
his boot against a rung, and began to climb down. The silence
descended again; the air became cooler, and as he stepped
down, rung by rung, the man above him stilled his breathing.
Soon, the men were assembled in the tunnel, and wordlessly,
they made their way down it. Some crouched, checking
connections. McCreesh and several others lifted full sandbags
from a trolley, and began to build a wall, a few yards down the
tunnel from where the ammonal lurked in its lair of tin and
pitch. A good, solid wall would prevent the explosion from
rolling down the tunnel, and would force it to burst upwards,
lifting Spanbroekmolen into the sky.

55

Once again, it was repetitive work, and every muscle had to be

strained to keep it silent. Hands chafed with the rough of
hessian; breath was held in lifting, expended with a desperate
restraint at the setting-down. Legs ached, shoulders seized;
one man paused, biting his tongue, rubbing the spasmed
muscle in his own neck. McCreesh surrendered himself to the
rhythm, entering the waking dream, working like an oiled
machine, his eye staring into the near blackness, and it was as
though his other, empty orbit saw the other world, and the
dark spaces echoed with the voice of his mother.
Cu Chulainn awoke with a start, sitting bolt upright beside his
sleeping wife. The shriek came again, so loud it made the lintels
tremble, and on the table beside the bed, the milk curdled inside
its pitcher. The night air seemed to clump up as the shriek
repeated for a third time: blood-gargled, crowlike, but with
enough of woman in the voice to send him running towards it.
He dashed out, bollock-naked, buttocks flashing white in the
moonlight, and his wife rushed after him, snatching at his
garments, his armour, his battle axe, struggling under the weight
of the chainmail slung across her shoulder and slapping against
her breast.
She rounded the corner to see her husband standing by a moonlit
ford, and moving towards him, a rattling chariot, harnessed with
a blood-red horse, tramping on a single leg, the chariot-pole
rammed through the meat of its body, pegged to its bleeding
head. The creature gave a whinny that would make angels
writhe, and Cu Chulainns wife looked up to behold the chariots

56

occupant: a woman the colour of fresh gore, draped in a cloak

dipped in the dregs of battle, which trailed in the mud on each
side of the chariot. Her lips were black; her glance glowed like
embers.
Beside the chariot walked an enormous man, gore-tinged as the
woman, carrying a forked staff of hazelwood, driving a heifer
before him.
I am Cu Chulainn, cattle master, and you a cow stealer; submit,
or feel my sword.
She is not yours, croaked the woman. I brought her out of the
hollow hill.
Then, what is this mans name?
Uar-gaeth-sceo Luachar-sceo, she replied, her voice gargling.
A mouthful, to be sure, laughed Cu Chulainn, and what is your
own name.
The great man opened his mouth, and behold, his teeth were as
red as his tongue. She to whom you speak is called Faebor begbeoil cuimdiuir folt scenb-gairit sceo uath.
The man with the stethoscope held his hand in the air.
McCreesh stood poised, the sand-bag in his arms, and made
himself a man of hardened clay. Minutes ticked. The listener
shook his head, and McCreesh brought the bag down on the
wall, turned, shuffled back to the trolley, grasped and lifted.
Faebor beg-beoil cuimdiuir folt scenb-gairit sceo uath? said Cu
Chulainn. What sort of a name are you calling that? You would
make a fool of me! And with that, he seized the battle-axe from

57

his wifes hand, leapt upon the chariot, and aimed its blade for
the parting in the womans hair.
The axe-head embedded itself in the wood of the chariot, but the
woman was gone, and on his shoulder stood a raven, whittling
its bloodstained bill against his bare skin.
If I had only known that it was you, sighed Cu Chulainn. You
cannot harm me.
Sure, but I can, the bird rasped into his ear. I am the black
guardian of your deathbed. I watch it faithfully, and will see your
bones interred within it. As for your flesh, that shall be a gift -
she tweezered his earlobe with her beak for my feathered
sisters.
And a great hole opened up in the hill beside the ford, the horse,
chariot, man and heifer plodding into it. The raven took flight,
leaving eight talon-wounds in the shoulder of Cu Chulainn,
swooped into the entrance, and the hillside closed about her.
Cu Chulainn fell heavily against the drystone wall, his wife
dumping the armour at his feet, as their skins began to cascade
with runnels of rain.
McCreesh paused, wiped the sweat from his face, and felt a
wave of dizziness welling up within him. He leant against the
wall, feeling the cold wetness of the clay-filled sandbags on the
skin of his cheek. The tunnel seemed to whirl with the

58

blackness of fatigue. The man with the stethoscope held up his

hand.

59

Chapter 13
Midnight, Messines Ridge and beyond.
3rd June 1917
McBride hunkered into a corrugated corner, ruffling the
blanket up around his ears. From behind him, the British guns
were unleashing their apocalypse. This afternoon had seemed
like a disgorging of everything hellish, but now McBride
realised this had only been a prelude.
Out towards Messines Ridge, which was mercifully out of sight
behind the parapet, the sky flickered as with endless lightning,
and above him, flares burst, lighting everything a sickly,
gleaming green. In front of him, a wiring-party of five men left
the trench; there was a fizz and zing, and one of them fell back
into it, twitched a moment, and began to scream. McBride was
up, holding him, wrapping him in his blanket, as other men
rushed in. The stricken mans teeth began to chatter, and
moments later, others were there with a stretcher. There was
a desperate staunching, a babble of voices, and then the
casualty was whisked away.
Only afterwards, McBride realised that the blanket had gone
with him. He quaked back down into his corner, buried his face
in his hands, and began to whimper but something rose
within him to staunch the rising panic. Once, he remembered,
he had been brave, until that second time on a wiring-party.

60

Burnett at that time still had the wide-eyed fervour of

inexperience, and something about his manner had cajoled
McBride and the others into a trusting fearlessness. They had
slipped over the parapet unnoticed with their great creels of
wound-up wire lugged on poles, trailing it in vicious loops
where the last German bombardment had cut through earlier
defences. A flare shot up, and they all froze one tell-tale
movement would draw the eye of a sniper or a machine gunner
and then the night darkened up again, and they worked like
midnight rats filling a larder.
Burnett motioned them onwards, and as the wire tangled itself
like bine-stems behind them, McBride saw in his expression, at
another flare, a kind of exultation which changed, in the next
moment, to something like rage. McBride turned to follow his
gaze. There was another soldier trudging behind him, also
winding out wire, the domed helmet bevelled outwards
around the base: a German. He stared at this man his foe,
wasnt it? unable to comprehend, and the other stared back,
frozen like a rabbit in lights: a long moment of recognition.
He heard Burnetts movement behind him, felt a rush of air
past his cheek, and the mud erupted underneath the German,
lifting his body into the night, and moments later, parts of it
started to dump around him. He turned to see Burnett spitting
out the pin of the hand-grenade, reaching back for his bayonet,
thrusting it up under the ribcage of a second man. Something
instinctive in McBride made him clench his fingers into the
knuckle-duster inside his pocket, and as he brought his hand

61

out, he stumbled into a third man, recoiled, closed his eyes,

punched, and felt the wet crunch of lips and teeth caving in.
Before the man had dropped, Burnett had shot him, and all
around him, knives gleamed, a truncheon rang out against a
helmet, a flare burst, and they froze. As it dimmed, McBride
looked down to see his fingers webbed with blood, the mud
beyond strewn with butchers-shop horrors: bits of the blown
up man half a face staring up at him from a clod.
It was ridiculous to think of it: Burnett had come up to him with
a handkerchief, toiling in vain to wipe him down, there in the
middle of No Mans Land at a convergence of British and
German wire. And then they had turned and simply walked
back to the trench, oblivious to hissing bullets, shouted out a
password and leapt back in, and only realised then that two of
them were missing.
The shakes and stutters had started the next day. Now, they
were almost welcome: signs that McBride still had a
conscience for who could live through this, retain composure,
and call himself sane?
McBride tried to disappear into his corner, clenched his fists,
and cried.

62

McCreesh emerged from the tunnel into the moonlight,

instantly deafened by the guns. He could see some of them,
lighting up the horizon in flickers, the air beyond them hot with
metal. The trenches gleamed under flares; he saw men
moving, and at his side, the blackness of the Ridge reared up.
Further off there, something was in flames. He plugged his
ears, turned, and staggered back into the hill, craving the old,
familiar silence.
*
Corry Burnett stood on the edge of the compound, beside a
wood where tawny owls called and responded. He felt her
hands about his waist, her breath at his neck, and leant back
into her embrace.
Sure, it has started now, she said. What came before was
only a prelude.
The horizon lit up and darkened again. The roar of distant guns
might be the edge of a great ocean.
That it has, he replied, turning in her arms and tasting her
lips, and you can be assured that Witherow knows more than
he is telling.
What did he tell you? Siobhan stepped back from his
embrace, and fixed him with both eyes.
Im to lead a raiding party but you know that; you were
listening, laughed Burnett. But theres something more that
I dont quite know something on the 7th. That man McCreesh
he knew, but he wasnt telling.

63

Siobhan took up his hand, not deflecting her gaze. You will
die, she said. You know that you will die if not then, later?
Aye, sure, said Burnett, and smiled. She turned to the side,
and for a moment he saw that aquiline ridge of nose, and the
horizon glimmering red and dying again behind it.
They walked on around the perimeter. Im going to come to
you, she said, before you go.
Thats impossible.
Not for me, it isnt. Watch out for me. She draped her arm out
around his shoulder, her cloak following it. Ah, sure if were
not the only night-owls, she laughed, pointing ahead to the
thin, diffident figure of Lionel Penrose, breathing out steam,
taking the air.
*
Lakritz lay with his front paws and head in the lap of his
master, gazing upwards. The humans hand was under his ear,
the fingernails caressing his fur and skin, as provisions were
handed around. Men communicated in mime, for nothing
could be heard. The very concrete of the pillbox vibrated, the
air outside a solid, unending wall of banshee shrieks and
explosions.
Lakritz luxuriated, rubbed his muzzle against his masters
thigh, breathed in the stench and stale tobacco. This was the
moment. Tonight: no more running.

64

Chapter 14
Dawn through morning, above Messines Ridge,
between the villages of Wytschaete and Messines.
3rd June 1917
The raven cavorted in air as the village of Wytschaete was
demolished. The civilians had long since gone; houses had
been converted to machine-gun posts, and the ground bristled
with trench mortars. Fields and streams had been battered
into mires; a cart lay wheels-upward, wedged half-way under
a bridge. Directly below, where cows once had grazed, a
German skeleton sagged inside its uniform, one arm halfraised as if about to salute. Months before, the raven had taken
its eyes.
Gradually, systematically, British shells flattened the garrison.
Men lay spreadeagled, their screams drowned out by louder
shrieks. A machine gun hung like a broken arm, those who had
manned it shrapnel-riddled.
The village bakery had
disappeared. In the churchyard, graves were exhumed by
explosions, the long-dead and the newly-dead united in
strange dances. A munitions dump was hit; men were torn in
two by their own explosives; some died in an instant, others
lingered.
Messines Ridge was one long eruption. The raven wheeled to
the south, where Messines itself was quaking. Houses shot up
like fountains, their bricks and rafters hailing down, clouds of

65

dust hanging in their places. The church roof caved in, a tangle
of lead gutters, stone pillars and mediaeval wooden struts and
bosses. Shells smashed through stained glass windows and
then exploded. A crucifix was impaled. Pews sailed into the
air, and landed mangled in the branches of blasted yew trees.
The stones themselves began to crumble. Columns of men
disappeared into holes. An estaminet exploded, the chairs and
tables splintered.
She let herself drift northeastward on the wind, tasting the
tartness of spent explosives.
Spanbroekmolen was a
maelstrom of airborne mud, bricks, human flesh and bones.
Out on its promontory, the concrete pillbox lifted into the air
and landed overturned, its inmates mangled. The raven spilled
the air between her primaries, descended. There they were:
the man and his long black dog, about twenty yards from
where the lookout post had been the man half crawling, the
dog running forward a few bounds, pausing, turning, barking.
The man fell on his face, and the dog was beside him, licking,
prodding with its gleaming nose, and then he was up again, and
the dog was leading. Fifty yards beyond them, the mineshaft
gaped at the sky. The raven smelt flesh, and wondered
whether to ignore them and seek it out, but something kept
her, scaling a thermal, staring down. Banshee shells rained, but
always missed them. The man collapsed again; the dog
bounded back and dragged him by the arm. He rallied and
made the last yards on his knees, until the tunnel opening
concealed them.

66

Out of the sunlight it came: a black, ragged shadow, whirling,

turning in air, swooping. The raven glanced over her shoulder
and saw it descending, silhouetted, smut-coloured. She spilled
one wing, turned and flew forward, met it in mid-air with a
momentary touch of talons as the form coalesced into a bird.
Together, they whirled off, back towards Messines, then
westward over the British lines. She arched her neck, and
cronked into the wind, her eyes alive with lustre.
Where hast thou been, sister?

67

Chapter 15
Morning, Spanbroek, in view of Messines Ridge
3rd June 1917
Corry Burnett did not know quite how he should be feeling, in
the front seat of a field ambulance, sandwiched between two
Quakers. Mercifully, one of them, after smiling a greeting,
stared abstractedly out of the window for most of the journey.
The other the driver was Lionel Penrose. Burnett fingered
the stitches on the side of his throat, and then thought better
of it.
An early discharge, was it? said Penrose, his face and voice
impassive.
Im needed.
Penrose took him in at a glance, and then his eyes flicked to the
wing-mirror and back towards the road. Every soldier is
needed, but for what thats the question. There seem to be
only two real answers.
Sure, and Im bound to be doing both of them. There was a
wryness in Burnetts answer which made Penroses face
soften.
I couldnt blame you for thinking us self-righteous, said
Penrose, motioning toward the evidences of devastation

68

outside the windscreen, resisting all this whilst you put

yourselves in front of bullets and shells. Youre not here to do
that though, really, are you?
Burnett glanced at the ruined church that whisked past the
window, its graves half open, and then, involuntarily, down at
the service-revolver in his holster. No, were not. They
lapsed into silence. Burnett began to see why these men
esteemed it so highly.
Around a bend, the Dressing Station appeared. Penrose pulled
the handbrake, and his companion got out and held the door
for Burnett. He looked at them both and smiled his thanks,
turned his back and began to walk. By the time he stopped to
look back, Penrose was already helping a blinded man, the eye
sockets marked in blood through the bandage, into the back of
the ambulance. You serve your conscience by disobeying
orders I, by following them, he called, then shrugged.
Penrose, his hands now free, caught his eye for a moment,
nodded, and then turned back to his work. Burnett walked on
toward his own, as the sound of the bombardment and the
smell of decay forced themselves on his awareness.

The message had come by field telephone: Lance Corporal

Burnett was returning in fifteen minutes, and all of the
Riflemen in his Section were to assemble in the dugout.

69

Padraig McBride sat amongst them, summoning his willpower

to gain mastery over the trembling in his hands. Propped
casually at the entrance was Eddie Rooney, out of Kileel in
County Down, smiling through his Woodbine smoke, pinching
a wisp of stray tobacco from his lip. Tom Brians, the Geordie
with the impenetrable accent, sat beside him on an upturned
ammunition-box, a burly ex-miner who had once foiled a
German raiding-party by bashing its corporals brains out with
an entrenching tool but he had nursed a broken-winged
sparrow for three days, offering it seeds with his coalengrained hands, before it died. David Currie, married,
handsome, from Glasgow, sat hammering an intricate design
into a polished brass shell-casing, whistling. Stanley Porter,
blond, fresh from Cambridge University, leaned against the
corrugated wall, dreaming of spires, and Isaac West, of dubious
allegiance, from Belfast, stared through thick spectacles,
laboriously spelling out a letter to his mother. William Swain,
who must assuredly have lied about his age when he enlisted,
and Fergus Collins, fellow countrymen, were cleaning guns.
Kevin Boyle was scraping noisome mud from the soles of his
boots, catching it in newspaper. McBrides eyes lingered too
long on it; there was blood in the scrapings. In one corner was
Liam OReilly, practical joker, who once filled Tom Brians
mess-tin with live weevils, and acquired his first war-wound
as a consequence but now he was suppressing tears, for news
had come that his brother was missing in action, somewhere
near Ypres, presumed dead.

70

And then, of course, there was Padraig McBride, who used to

play a cello, but who found, on his last leave, that he could no
longer hold the bow quite steady, and that, when the screech
and thudding of shells were not omnipresent, a hand-clap
would make him wince, and a car backfiring would send him
diving to cower behind a milk-churn. Padraig McBride, whose
one consistent longing was for beech trees and silence.
Padraig McBride, who could gladly die any day, but who always
twitched his rifle away to the right before he fired. Padraig
McBride who felt too much. Padraig McBride the shudderer.
Padraig McBride, who always stayed awake, because his
dreams were a welter of human flensings.
He looked up, and Burnett was framed in the entrance, halfsilhouetted by pale, reflected sunlight. He found himself
standing, saluting, as though he and the other men were one
organism with a limb that still obeyed despite its numbness.
There was a perfunctory inspection. Burnett paused, looked
him in the eye, and smiled. His hand was on his shoulder. Ive
been told what you did for Tate. Sure, I dont know what you
were thinking. Good man, and he had turned to OReilly,
murmuring inaudible commiserations.
McBride felt an involuntary stiffening, a sudden unconscious
rigidity entering his spine: Lieutenant Witherow had entered
behind Burnett. Each of them stood with undeflecting eyes as
the C.O. scrutinised them. At ease. You may sit. LanceCorporal Burnett, explain the situation, if you will.

71

Burnetts voice was restrained, almost a whisper as one

might speak in a cathedral. I have orders from Lieutenant
Witherow to lead a raiding-party tomorrow morning at 3 a.m.
There will be a break in our artillery to minimise the risks
posed by friendly fire. Witherow had spread a map on the
table as Burnett spoke, and beside it, three aerial
reconnaissance photographs: quagmires in black and white.
This photograph was taken three days ago: observe this
pillbox, and the signs of intense enemy activity in its vicinity.
Our artillery has given this whole region a real hammering, and
to the best of our knowledge, the lines of communication have
been cut. This Burnett pointed to a long contour
pockmarked with shell-holes was once their
communicating trench. Yet the Boche do not cut their losses
and retreat. Why? This photograph was taken this morning.
You will observe that the pillbox has been overturned by our
artillery. Look closely here. Do you see that shadow? We have
reason to believe that it is the entrance to a tunnel, the
camouflage blown away. Here it is in the earlier photograph,
enlarged. You can just make it out. Our orders are
straightforward: enter this tunnel, investigate, and, if there are
any surviving Boche, take one prisoner only. I do not need to
tell you what we must do with the others. It will then be
essential to the success of our mission that we bring the
prisoner back alive. Is this understood?
McBride found himself nodding in unison with the other men.
Good. Remember that as soon as you enter the tunnel, you

72

must resort to bayonets, pistols, truncheons and knuckledusters. Be prepared to fight hand-to-hand in near-darkness.
Go for your enemies guts and eyes. We will split into two
parties in order to maximise our chances of reaching the
tunnel. Porter, you will lead West, Swain, Collins, Boyle, taking
Route A, as marked on the map. Your route is shorter than the
other, but more exposed. You will need to move quickly. You
will take a rifle, bayonet and fifty rounds of ammunition.
West, youre bomb-thrower. You will carry one haversack full
of Mills grenades, and nothing else. Swain, you will support
West, replacing his stock of grenades as he requires it. Collins,
Boyle, you too will take rifles, bandoliers and 50 rounds.
Porter, here are the handcuffs.
Porter stepped forward and took them. Practise locking and
unlocking them. They tend to be sticky. I will lead the second
party, taking Route B, which is considerably longer. That copse
is nothing more than a tangle of stulps now, but it will afford
us some cover on our way up. Rooney, McBride and I will carry
rifles. Brians and Currie: grenades. Liam OReilly, you are on
leave, effective immediately. No questions. Do you all
understand?
McBride sensed the nodding all around him once again, and
found that he had followed suit. He looked down at his hands
and perceived that his trembling had subsided. There were
salutes, then a bustle among the men as they addressed their
various tasks. OReilly melted into tears, and Burnett and
Witherow took him out. McBride was relieved when he was

73

sent out of the dugout with Rooney to fetch ammunition. Both

of them squinted, eyes adjusting to the daylight. McBride held
his hands to his ears in a vain attempt to muffle the roar of the
bombardment. On the parapet were two ravens, huddled
together, one preening the other, quite the picture of
contentedness.

74

Chapter 16
Morning through afternoon, 88 feet underground,
beneath Spanbroekmolen, Messines Ridge
3rd June 1917
The wall of sandbags was completed, but if anything, it was
harder now that the work was over and the charge lurked,
inaccessible, inscrutable at the end of the mine. The
compulsion to check and re-check the connections was
unbearable, and the silence resounding, now that there was
little left to do but guard and wait. McCreesh kept his eyes
fixed on the man with the stethoscope. There were imaginings
too awful to be borne: that any moment, his hand would be
raised, and this time, it would not be lowered; that the wall
beside him would cave in at the blow of a pick, and the Boche
would be upon them; that miner would fight hand-to-hand
with miner, a foetid, bestial, murderous struggle 88 feet
beneath the hillside, with men whose hopes, fears and
memories were little different from his own.
If only they could blow it now but it was no use holding ones
breath for the order. Any fool could guess it. There were mines
like Spanbroekmolen all along Messines Ridge; this was to be
a coordinated attack. But no one ever said it; there was, after
all, little opportunity for talk inside the mine, and outside it, the
whole purpose of talking was to forget. In the meantime, if the

75

Boche stumbled across them on his shift, there was nothing to

do but kill or die.
Kill or die you must make him do one or the other, laughed
Medb.
I dont think Im liking Medb very much, said little John
McCreesh, nestling closer.
Sure, that is strange, laughed his mother, for she never was
short of young men who liked her, and she liked to keep seven
of them on a string. But she never was known to be too kind to
C Chulainn either, that is certain, even though at that time he
was only seventeen.
Not likely, said Loch Mor, son of Mofemis. Get someone else to
do your dirty work. C Chulainns chin is smooth as an appleskin. It would scarce be honourable to slice him off with so much
juice still in him. But Ill ask my brother, Long MacEmonis, and
if you offer him goodly gifts, and Finnabair for a wife, and an
endless supply of wine, sure hell do the job for you.
Well, Long MacEmonis accepted the offer, of course, mainly on
account of the wine, but as soon as he approached C Chulainn
with his battle-axe raised, the young man whipped out his sword
and lopped the big mans head off, beard or no beard.
Medb was a little taken-aback, but she called all her most
alluring young maidens to her, and sent them off with a false
beard, charging them to persuade him to put it on. In the small
matter of remaining stalwart in the face of womanly persuasion,
C Chulainn was not invincible, so that soon he took to the field

76

sporting the most luxuriant beard you have ever seen, covering
all of his jowls and chin.
Loch Mor spotted the beard in an instant, crying, Sure, that is
C Chulainn with a beard!
Goodness so it is, said Medb, looking coyly away.
Right, said Loch. In that case, I shall attack him forthwith.
And so he did, but as he was doing so, the Morrign took it upon
herself to make an appearance not in her own form, mind, but
in the form of a white heifer with no horns and red ears, causing
C Chulainn no end of distraction. Sure it was difficult enough
fighting Loch, without a cow to contend with, so out comes C
Chulainns sling, and his shot whips out one of her eyes, and there
it lies on the ground, looking up at him doing battle with Loch.
What? said little John McCreesh. Can the Morrign be hurt?
Can the Morrign be killed?
Sure, but only for a moment. Now listen.
Now the Morrign was truly angry, and before C Chulainn knew
what had happened, she transformed into an eel, slithered down
the stream and wrapped her slimy coils around the boys feet, so
that Loch, seeing his advantage, wounded him in the breast.
Well, that made C Chulainn a trifle vexed, so he stamped on the
eel, squashing out half its brains and crushing its ribcage.

77

So the Morrign returned as a wolf, worrying his arm, but C

Chulainn skewered her other eye with his javelin, and Loch
wounded the boy in his unmentionables.
Now, up until then, C Chulainn had been thinking the whole
thing was just a game, but he changed his mind with that second
blow, reached for his biggest halberd, and pinned Lochs heart
against a wall, about six feet off the ground.
Oh, C Chulainn, groaned Loch, his voice bubbling up through
all the blood, Ill be asking you just one favour.
What favour would that be?
When I die, make sure that I fall on my back and not my front.
Gods forbid that ever anyone should say that Loch son of
Mofemis died with his back turned to his foe. And C Chulainn
did that much for his enemy.
Water dripped on McCreeshs bare neck. The man with the
stethoscope had his eyes closed whether listening or asleep,
McCreesh could not be certain.
So that was when the Morrign came back a fourth time, only
now she was truer to her real self, for she took the form of a blind
and withered old witch with a long, hooked nose with bristles at
its base, and with her head and chest all caved in, milking a cow
with three teats, and C Chulainn suddenly realised how thirsty
he had become after all of that fighting. Milk one of those teats
and let me drink and heal myself, he said, and as she proffered
him the milk, his chest-wound healed and an eyeball popped into
the old womans sockets. And when he pleaded with her, she

78

milked the second teat and let him drink, and his arm became
whole again as a second eye bulged out of the old ladys skull,
where previously, there had been a gaping hole.
I can guess the rest, laughed little John McCreesh, rubbing his
one good eye sleepily. She let him drink from the third teat,
and her brains came back, and so did his willy.
And there was half-blind Sapper John McCreesh, wiping dirty
water from under his collar, rubbing the pins and needles from
his legs and suppressing laughter.

79

Chapter 17
Evening, German tunnel, Spanbroekmolen, Messines
Ridge
3rd June 1917
Lakritz lay at Wilhelms feet in the entrance to the tunnel, head
on paws, watching the preparations, his nose gleaming and
twitching. Still, the howl of the bombardment rent the air, but
its intensity had shifted further along the Ridge, like the
shifting epicentre of a storm. Men were moving about in two
of the shell holes, just visible in the fading light: some of them
digging, making the outer walls perpendicular; others laying
out boards, shoring up the mud with sand-bags. Lakritz raised
his muzzle, tasting the air: the familiar greasy smell of gun oil,
and out of the gloom came two teams of men carrying heavy
machine-guns, and others labouring under wooden boxes full
of ammunition. Cigarette smoke, the odour of metal, the smell
of stale human sweat, the tart whiff of high explosive: all of
these mingled as Lakritzs tongue lolled, his master
unconsciously fondling one ear.
Darkness came, and some time after it, the moon rose,
revealing a wiring party, the edges of their uniforms gleaming
white, unwinding an enormous spool of barbed wire across the
acreage of shell-churned soil. They froze until the moon
disappeared behind a cloud, then continued. Lakritz could

80

sense three other such groups, quietly unspooling in the

darkness. Closer to him, two sentries stood outside the
wooden entrance to the tunnel, and the trench wall that once
concealed it had been partially reconstructed. Wilhelm was
speaking to one of them. The deep tones in his voice reminded
Lakritz of the roughness of his whiskers: a strange comfort was
derived from that whenever he nuzzled up.
There was a screech of shells a different pitch from that of
high explosives followed by the ominous puff of their landing,
and Wilhelm was standing, his satchel already open.
Immediately, Lakritz could smell it: the green, creeping,
membrane-dissolving noxiousness. Wilhelm was now in front
of him, gasmasked, reaching toward him, and Lakritz breathed
leather and rubber and French chalk, his masters hands
behind his ears, buckling. The filter was heavy on Lakritzs
nose, and he let his head loll forward, gazing out of the glass
window, his vision distorted. Out in one of the shell holes,
three men were writhing in the mud like poisoned insects.
Now and then, a hog-nosed profile was silhouetted by the reemerging moon. More shells landed, emitting clouds of smoke,
which caught in the thin wind and smeared itself across the
ridge, thickening. The sentries stumbled into the tunnelmouth, both in their masks, but one of them was wheezing, his
chest heaving, the glass visor flecked with foam. Moments
later, he was down, shuddering. Wilhelm moved towards the
stricken man, held him upright, embracing him as he
underwent a paroxysm of coughing which farted out between
the rubber seals and his cheekbones.

81

Now the high-explosives started. The ground juddered; rocks

fell from the roof of the mine. Lakritz looked out to see one of
the machine guns rise into the air and land upside down, its
tripod mangled. A man was airborne too, his gun and helmet
separating from his body in flight. He landed like detritus: a
clumped sediment of human wastage. A second shell,
screeching, landed in precisely the same spot, and man and
machine-gun intermingled, the sand-bags scattered. Across in
the second shell hole, men crouched trembling. One of the
wiring parties was nowhere to be seen: in their place a crater.
The moon hid itself once more.
Lakritz shuffled forward and dropped his head in the dying
mans lap. One hand touched his head, seeking the comfort of
warmth and fur. The breath was stertorous, broiling. Lakritz
rubbed his muzzle against the mans thigh, and he heard a
bubbling sigh vibrating through the bone and muscle. The
hand slumped; the body relaxed.
Lakritz and his master curled up together on the floor of the
shaft and waited. Outside was a maelstrom of mud and heat
and noise.
Lakritz. Gute Lakritz, mein hund.

82

Chapter 18
Small hours of the morning, No Mans Land
4th June 1917
The sky was now entirely overcast, but the moonlight filtering
through the cloud was bright enough to make every movement
a dangerous venture. Face and hands blackened with burnt
cork, Burnett eased his body over the parapet, crawled through
a gap in the coiling wire, hunched in a shell-hole and waited.
Rooney tumbled in after him, caught his eye and nodded, the
wrinkles at the corners of his own eyes shadowy with a darker
layer of charcoal. Currie came next, labouring under the
weight of grenades then McBride, the whites of his eyes
flickering, the great bulk of Brians behind him, coaxing him
forward. Burnett looked involuntarily at McBrides trembling
hands, and his eyes wandered to the Riflemans bandolier,
rising and falling with the fitful breathing. He reached out a
steadying hand, held the wide pupils a moment in his gaze, and
then looked to his other men one by one, caringly, as though
his eyebeam could warm them. In a way, it seemed that it did.
He looked out over Brianss shoulder in time to see the second
party departing from the trench, veering to the left of them,
disappearing behind a mound of earth, all safe so far, and then
be beckoned his men with an upraised hand, and they were out
into the wide morass, stumbling over rubble, sheltering a
moment behind an upturned cart, easing themselves through

83

the snags and brambles of barbed wire, wading through a

slime-glazed pool, dimly phosphorescent, picking their way
along the stubbled remnants of a hedgerow. Soon, Burnett felt
the ground inclining upwards beneath them, and saw dimly
ahead the remnants of the blasted copse: great upturned roots
of ancient hazels, their stulps ten feet across. He motioned the
men straight towards it, and one by one they melted into its
gnarled and foggy depths. Burnett took out his compass,
hastily realigned, pushed forward, clambered over the
monstrous bole of an ancient oak, slid down into a crater, held
his hand out to help the man behind him.
There was a stutter of gunfire, threaded expertly through a
loophole in the mist. Burnett heard the zing of bullets past his
ear. The slipstream of one of them seemed to whizz through
the space between his collar and his throat. Behind him, Brians
teetered on the lip of the crater and fell forward. His great bulk
lay foetal, mud-spattered, stomach-clutching. McBride
dropped into the hole behind him, let out a stifled cry, reached
down to the wound, and his hands came up blood-drenched
and quavering. The others were in now too, heads down,
hunkering. Burnett touched McBride on the shoulder,
motioning him to give him room. The Rifleman backed away,
pale-faced, sweating.
Burnett opened his lantern: three holes in the front of Brianss
uniform, the blood welling, spreading. He took out his knife
and sliced through the fabric, exposing the whiteness of

84

Brianss belly and side. Brians shuddered and sneezed blood.

His hand grasped Burnetts shirt-front and drew him close.
Its in my guts. Im sure my back is broken. Leave me. Go on.
Burnett nodded, and tore his eyes away from Brians. There
was no morphine. Nothing additional to requirements was
ever carried on trench raids. He swallowed, turned to his men.
We keep going.
He led the way out of the crater. Rooney followed him
instantly; Currie hesitated, then came along. Burnett paused,
peered into the darkness, turned back. McBride was still in the
crater, crouching, his back bent over Brians, a canteen of water
in his hand.
McBride, theres no time.
McBride underwent a paroxysm of trembling, steadied himself,
and held the canteen to Brianss lips.
McBride, you must leave him. Sure, thats an order.
N n n - no, S S - Sir.
He said so himself. McBride, you must, on pain of
No, Sir. The words came clearly this time. Burnett hesitated,
opened his mouth to speak, checked himself, and moments
later, he and his men were gone.

85

*
Porter paused to wipe the sweat from his eyes, the rest of his
party crouching, catching their breath. The Ridge loomed in
front of them, a dark mass of wire and mud. Stagnant water
gleamed in a shell-hole to his right. To his left, a blasted farm
building was black against the sky, the guttering creaking, half
ripped from the eaves. He stood, and beckoned them forward,
and the air was sliced with a single strafe from somewhere
high up on the ridge. Fergus Collins rifle clattered against a
stone, and his body followed it, rolling back down the hill. It
stopped, arms spreadeagled, a neat hole in the temple, the back
of the skull blown out. There was no need for Porter to give
the order. Without a word, he and his men dissolved into the
black shelter of the ruin.

Burnetts eyes were drawn by the second burst of gunfire: a

ragged dagger of flame which appeared and disappeared in an
instant, right at the crest of the Ridge. His mind recalled the
featureless waste of the reconnaissance photograph no
machine gun post there.
This one had been hastily
constructed, right in the centre of the nights bombardment.
There could be no doubt about it now: there was something up
there that was worth protecting.

86

He made for a hummock on the horizon, ten degrees to the

right of the flash of fire, the men close behind him. The trees
were thinning, and a thrill of anxiety filled him as he looked up
at the sky: the clouds beginning to part, a pale halo of
moonlight intensifying. He broke into a run, rifle in hand, other
arm beckoning. The gradient steepened. There was another
stab of fire to his left, but it was directed away from him, back
down the Ridge. He traced its probable path with his eye, and
dimly made out a darker shape a third of the way down the hill:
a ruin of some kind. Then he was onward again a glance at
the sky a thin sliver of moon, and the pale outline of the
remainder of its disc behind cloud and he broke into a sprint.
Ahead of him, a mound of earth. He made a dive for it. He
counted them in behind him: one, two. As Currie hit the ground
beside him, another strafe snaked across the path they had just
taken. A bullet ricocheted, singing. Laboriously, he climbed to
the side of the mound, ducked his head around the corner of it,
and pulled it back again. Five men and a machine gun right
ahead almost in throwing-distance. He crawled back and
grabbed Currie by the arm, motioning towards his satchel of
grenades. Currie held it open; Burnett reached in and grabbed
two of them. He held Curries eye for a moment, and both were
on their hands and knees then on their stomachs, worming
out beyond the mound, separating, heading instinctively for
different vantage-points. Burnett found another shell hole and
sank into it, up to his waist in water. The smell made him retch;
he looked behind him. A bloated corpse was floating, half
submerged. He shook off the nausea, and clambered half-way
out of the hole. Ten feet from the machine-gun post, a portion

87

of the ground erupted: one of Curries grenades a miss.

Burnett watched the machine-gunner swivel at his seat, and a
moment later, the gun spat destruction meticulously,
systematically. The split-ring was in Burnetts mouth. He
pulled, aimed, threw. He could hear the clatter of it on
duckboards, and a second afterwards, the concussion, and
agonised screams. Three men down; two still standing one
of them back at the machine gun, swearing, trying to make it
swivel. Burnett raised the second grenade, but at that moment,
the man at the gun became shreds, and his partner staggered
backwards, howling. He found himself laughing: Currie was
still alive immaculate throw it was, too.
He turned to see Rooney emerging he too seemed to be
laughing, and soon they were running side by side, straining
their ankles in the sucking mud, hurtling onwards regardless,
but Currie was at the machine-gun first. As they drew close, he
gave out an exultant cry it was still undamaged enough to use
and began to fire, the duckboards ringing with a shower of
cartridges. Burnett reached Curries side in time to see a group
of German infantrymen cut down, not fifteen feet away, and
Currie kept firing into them until every cartridge was
expended. They lay as though electrocuted, steaming, one or
two of them groaning. Burnett activated his second grenade,
dropped it directly under the machine gun, and the three of
them ran on, not turning to survey the destruction that burst
behind them.
Up ahead was the remnant of a trench, partly reconstructed.

88

Burnett tumbled into it, knife between his teeth, fist crunching
into the knuckle duster in his pocket. He aimed for the sentrys
teeth and stomach instantaneously, and the man buckled
forward into him, his face cracking and squelching. Here a
dark hole, the lantern opened. He launched himself into it.
Lanterns against the walls: more light too much light. A
Boche beside him, hand-gun raised; his own knife whisking
down, severing the wrist. A holler of dismay, and Curries
entrenching tool finishing him off. Down deeper. Spilling
another mans guts; Rooney doing the work of mercy.
Trampling, lashing, bludgeoning, dropping the knife, reaching
for his revolver and then he was falling under a welter of
teeth and claws and fur, the wind knocked out of him, choking.
He looked up into the snarling maw of an enormous black
hound, and beyond it, Rooney fumbling for his revolver. The
dog paused, his jaws around Burnetts throat, not biting, as
though waiting for an order.
Warten, Lakritz! Nicht zu tten, and then, in perfect English,
No, dont shoot him. I surrender. Theres no one else left to
kill.

89

Chapter 19
Small hours of the morning, No Mans Land
4th June 1917
Tom Brians would not die, and Padraig McBride was too small
to carry him. The contents of his canteen were running low,
and most of the time, Brians appeared to be in too much pain
to speak. One arm was pinned under his body at an awkward
angle; McBride attempted to shift it for him, but Brians let out
a scream which he had to stifle with his other hand, clenched
into a fist. At last, he realised: all that Brians wanted was
human contact, and his head lifting from the mud, so he sat
down beside him, the sludge oozing into his uniform, and
nestled his head in his lap. There was a rattle of gunfire in the
distance, high up on the ridge and another and the moon
emerged through a crack in the clouds, illuminating the
coppice in blenching light. Long shadows emanated from the
roots of trees, and gnarls became knees and elbows. Blasted
branches seemed to move.
McBride heard more gunfire, the burst of a grenade, and
distant screaming agonised. Moments later, another
grenade, and the machine gun stuttered again. He lost count of
the explosions, tried to remember, and all was silent again for
a long time. The moon was now fully exposed, like a luminous
coin of bone in the deep flesh of the night sky. A rat paused on
the rim of the crater, and began a meticulous toilette, licking its
front paws and tidying its ears and whiskers. Presently, it was

90

joined by another, and to McBrides astonishment, a white owl

swept down, took the first one, and disappeared in utter
silence. He had heard songbirds singing over No-Mans Land,
uncanny in their incongruity, and of course, there was that pair
of ravens, but he had not imagined that night-birds could
persist in this place. Perhaps they flew in every night from
behind the lines perhaps the risks were worth it, given that
the food supply was so plentiful. Three more rats passed by
along the rim. The last one paused, turned towards them, and
stared at Brianss inert form with an expression which McBride
instantly read as undisguised hunger and impatience.
Only the movement of the moon gave McBride any notion of
the passage of time. It was close to the horizon now, red and
swollen as a tumour, the clouds swept away. The shadows
elongated even further, and he noticed for the first time his
own reflection, and that of Brians, in the green glaze of water
at the bottom of the crater. How sculptural they seemed how
utterly still like creatures who had emerged from beneath the
earth, creatures whose time-scale was that of the roots of trees,
the emergence of rocks and stones. It was uncanny, too, how
his own trembling had ceased. Softly, he began to hum: little
strains of Bachs first cello suite, as well as he could manage
them. Brianss breathing grew shallower. The eastern horizon,
imperceptibly at first, began to brighten.
Brianss lips, cracked and blood-crusted, opened. Padraig, he
said.
Yes, he replied. Im here.

91

Padraig, kill me.

Slowly, Padraig McBride began to weep. He did not blubber;
the tears were soundless. He picked up his rifle, cracked it
open, and inserted a single bullet. The breech snapped closed,
and he cocked it. He knelt beside Brians, slipped his finger
round the trigger, and brought the coolness of the muzzle in
contact with his temple.
Thank you, gargled Brians. McBride looked into his eyes, and
pulled the trigger. Then he took a grenade from Brianss
satchel, pulled the pin, dropped it, and walked slowly away into
No-Mans Land.

92

Chapter 20
Small hours of the morning, German mine and No
Mans Land
4th June 1917
Sure if he doesnt speak perfect English, spluttered Burnett,
his own accent suddenly thick as treacle.
University of Oxford, on a scholarship, said Wilhelm,
stepping out of the shadows, holding nothing but a
stethoscope. Im a physics graduate, so they put me in a mine,
listening in on you Irish, doing the work of Englishmen. He put
the stethoscope on a protruding ledge of stone, and held out
his hands to receive the handcuffs. Burnett nodded to Rooney,
who stepped forward, and cuffed Wilhelms wrist to his own.
Lakritz slunk quietly around his masters legs, but his eyes
were on Burnett.
Burnett wondered how much to say, but then he remembered
the wide acreage of No-Mans Land they had still to traverse,
and made up his mind. And what work do you think that is?
Mining, said Wilhelm simply. One of your men has a regular
coalminers emphysema.
And are your superior officers aware of this?
At the word superior, a thinly veiled sneer touched Wilhelms
lips. Yes, they are aware. That is why you had to use an

93

English phrase a spot of bother getting in here. But they

didnt give it much credence. They have their minds on more
grandiose schemes, so they only sacrificed a handful of men.
I am afraid you will have to come with us, said Burnett.
Wilhelm bowed in assent. And Lakritz?
The dog looked up at Burnett, the malice faded from his pupils.
Ridiculous: Corry Burnett, butchers son from Abbeydug, deep
underground in enemy territory, Boche blood spattered all
over his face, negotiating with an Oxford-educated German
about the rights of a dog that had nearly ripped his throat out
a few seconds earlier. Bring him, he smirked. He might
prove useful. I know a few people I wouldnt mind unleashing
him on, and none of them are named Fritz.
It was only as they climbed up out of the mine that Burnett
realised how far they had travelled down it. They had to half
crawl to get past the bodies of the dead, and when Rooney
slipped in a pool of blood, it was Wilhelm who held him
upright. Lakritz followed like a shadow, loping over the
corpses, close behind his masters heels.
Up ahead, around a curve in the tunnel, there was a whisper:
Burnett? Rooney? Burnett dashed forward, pistol raised,
then halted. It was Porter, with West and Swain behind him.
Collins and Boyle?
Dead, Sir. Porter shuddered involuntarily. That machine
gun Burnett took his arm, and they walked back out of the
tunnel. At its entrance, Burnett paused. Currie, your hand-

94

grenades. He took the satchel, and emptied it of all but one, in

a pile five feet in from the lintel. Get away, he shouted, and
as soon as they were gone, he pulled the pin, pitched the last
grenade amongst the others, and ran. At a safe distance, he
turned and watched. Rock dust hurled itself from the entrance
of the mine, rising like smoke, the heavier particles raining
down a few moments later. He turned again and joined the
others.
The scene outside was sickly in the moonlight: the sentrys
blood gleaming blackly, and further on, the mangled machinegun, its blasted metal intermingled with human tissue. Burnett
kicked a helmet with a fist-deep dent in one side. It clattered
loudly against a stone.
Porter, well take your route. Lead the way. They skulked
from crater to crater, slid downhill on their backsides, crawled
and tumbled. The ruined farmhouse loomed ahead of them.
Just as Burnett was breaking into a run, the shell burst
somewhere behind him. Uncertain whether it was British or
German artillery, he whirled about to see Rooney tugged to the
ground, dragged by the handcuff, and Wilhelm split open like
an over-ripe fruit, falling. Lakritz was standing over his master
in an instant, and Rooney fumbling for the keys to release
himself.
The house, shouted Burnett, get him to the house! and
between them, Porter, Rooney and West dragged the
screaming German into the darkness. Swain stood dazed in the
moonlight, paralysed with horror, and Burnett threw himself
against him, knocking him to the ground as the earth

95

thundered and erupted all around them. German shells, there

was no doubt: a feeble reprisal, falling woefully short, to be
sure, but try telling that to a man who has had his lungs ripped
out.
Wilhelms abdomen had been skinned by shrapnel, and he bore
it in silence, apparently for the sake of the dog, who was
whimpering at his side. Burnett had witnessed most things,
but the sound of the dog crying was like a lead weight tied to
his soul. He reached out his hand and touched the animals ear,
and a long sigh travelled from the muzzle to the tip of the tail.
Rooney propped up Wilhelms head, and the dog grovelled
forward, licking his masters cheek.
Wilhelm let out a moan, his viscera glistening. Gute Lakritz.
Lassen Sie mich. Ihm folgen. With a last, desperate effort, he
raised his finger and pointed at Corry Burnett, his eyes turning
to glaze. The dog looked at him and whined. Burnett buried his
head in the black, shaggy pelt, and bit off the temptation to
weep. From the darkness of the ruined barn, Lakritz howled.

Hours later, as dawn was breaking, six men, bearing the

insignia of the Royal Irish Rifles on their lapels, tumbled over
the parapet: the remains of Corry Burnetts section. Behind
them, like a spectre, loped a long, black dog.

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Chapter 21
Dawn, No Mans Land
4th June 1917
McBride was thirsty. He had given all of his water to Brians.
He skulked in a hollow, waiting for the moon to set. Out of the
ground in front of him reared the remains of an abandoned
plough, the ploughshares riddled with holes. He crawled
forward, nose an inch above the mud, fingers clawing the slime.
In the last remaining moonlight, he perceived it: a body, head
tilted forward, arms akimbo, propped in a sitting position
against the beam of the plough, and on its tilted helmet, an
enormous black bird, its head tucked under its wing. Then he
noticed a second raven, perching on the coulter, evidently also
asleep.
He inched towards them, increasingly aware of the stench.
Propped against a ploughshare was a rifle, already beginning
to rust. One hand rested against it, half-skeletal. In the other
hand as he had hoped a canteen. He crawled up to it, his
nose and throat filling with the noisome smell, and when he
was just close enough, reached out.
The hand came away with the canteen, and he could not
suppress a rueful shout. He shook it as though the hand were
a spider, and it fell to the ground. The ravens snapped into
wakefulness, and the one on the helmet instantly flew at him,
raking his shoulder with its talons, before both of them

97

disappeared towards the lightening east, cronking and

wheeling in the air as though mocking him but the canteen
was at least three-quarters full. He glanced hurriedly in the
direction of the sunrise, stood up and ran. The lip of a shellhole rose in front of him; he threw himself over it, landing in
water. He knelt, opened the canteen, and drank; the water
tasted rusty. Only then did he realise that he was not alone in
the crater. Across the other side cowered a soldier in a grey
uniform, Stahlhelm on his head. In the same instant, both of
them raised their hands.
The German soldiers voice was parched. Wasser zu trinken?
He held out his hands imploringly, and cast his eyes down at
the puddle in the bottom of the crater. Ich habe versucht,
trinken. Nicht so gut.
McBride sloshed across to him, crouched beside him and
offered his canteen. Slowly, ceremoniously, they shared it
between them, as though they were drinking whisky. When it
was half full, the German put his hand over his mouth, and
McBride replaced the stopper. They lay together, watching the
stars disappear.
Gerhard, said the German. Gerhard Scholl.
Padraig. Padraig McBride. The stars are beautiful.
Die Sterne? Wunderschn.
They gazed as the Milky Way faded, and at last the larger stars
and planets could no longer be seen. A faint blush touched the

98

eastern sky. The ravens came, perched on the lip of the crater,
and waited.

99

Chapter 22
Afternoon, Spanbroek, in view of Messines Ridge
4th June 1917
After his interview with Witherow, Burnett slept and dreamed.
*
He opened the door of the estaminet in Baillieul, and let her out
into the daylight. The sunshine dissolved the edges of her
uniform. She turned her head to look down the street, her face
in profile, and the longing welled up in him. She held out her
arm and he took it, the gratefulness for this little gesture like a
tide of sweetness within him. The street was cobbled, but she
walked with measured footsteps, and he kept pace with her,
painstakingly, the whole of his being bent on pleasing her.
They passed a wrought-iron fence and turned into the park.
Sunlight lit the veins of sycamore leaves. There was a pool in
the centre of the park, with a white, humpbacked bridge, and
an arbour of three weeping willows beyond it. They stopped
under the third one and turned to face each other, as though
each movement had been choreographed. She kissed him, and
his senses swam, his perceptions turning liquid.
I love you. The words overflowed involuntarily.
Sure, you fucking well say the strangest things sometimes,
Corry Burnett, she snorted. Leave loving for those who have

100

the leisure to pursue it. I like you well enough, and she kissed
him again, her mouth open, her tongue probing his, her teeth
against his lips. The pulse of wildness in her aroused in him a
deeper ardour. They broke off, walked on. Children were
playing: little sunlit sailing boats at the edge of the water; a
fishing-net; a jar full of tadpoles; water-glistens.
Im sorry, she said. The world I see is hardly dear to me. I
want nothing of the things it openly holds sacred and secretly
defiles. Never ask me to marry you. I spit on the word. Live
for me now. Speak to me with your limbs and your eyes.
Marriage is for tomorrow. We have no tomorrow. Leave
tomorrow for your generals and your bankers and your
politicians. Give me something real.
She pushed him hard against the bole of a spreading oak and
kissed him again. Her hands shoved his shoulders downwards,
and he sat down on the grass among the fallen acorns. She
mantled him with her cloak; he hardened against her thigh.
Now she was astride him, gloating, her cloak bristling into
quills, fanning into feathers, her eyes broadening, her red lips
beginning to chant:
In spring, the young calves totter,
the milk gone from the udder.
In summer, blossoms wither
blighted by foul weather.
In autumn, harvests fail,
beech-mast will not fall,
and no geese will fly.

101

In winter: oceans die.

Old men are lechers;
young men are liars;
all men are reavers;
women turn deceivers.
World without order;
war without valour;
love without lover;
an acreage of murder.
One man for the killer;
one man under snow;
one man choked with choler;
one man for the crow.
Her face had elongated, her mouth and nose hardened and
lengthened into a bill. She clutched him in her claws, and they
left the earth, rising over the town, swooping across fields.
Trenches gouged into the landscape beneath them as she
whirled out over No Mans Land. The mud heaved, whitened,
transformed into a sea of disarticulated skeletons, lapping at
the shores of the British and German lines, overflowing. She
tumbled in air, righted herself, soared and let him go.
*
Corry Burnett sat bolt upright in bed, gasping. Lakritz leapt up
beside him, his shaggy flank pressed against the mans, as

102

though he was well accustomed to offering such heartfelt

consolation.

103

Chapter 23
Evening, No-Mans Land
4th June 1917
The ravens had given up by midday. Now, the sun had gone,
and the stars had reappeared. Scholl drew a compass out of his
satchel. He patted McBride on the chest, and pointed, first in
one direction, then in the opposite. Ihr Weg ist dort, und mir
ist es. It was stark and simple, but Padraig needed to know,
for he had long since lost all sense of direction.
There was an inch of water left in the canteen. They began to
share it, sipping out half of the contents each time, until the
quantities grew infinitesimal, then non-existent.
Viel Glck, said Scholl hoarsely, shaking McBride by the hand
with a formality that took him by surprise. Goodbye, he said,
misunderstanding.
They clambered to opposite ends of the shell hole. McBride
looked back over his shoulder. And take care. Scholl nodded,
and was gone.
McBride tried to fix a landmark in his mind that might
correspond to the direction of Scholls pointing finger, but the
darkness was more intense tonight the cloud-cover heavy
and there was neither the time nor inclination to reason out a
way. He, too, had owned a compass when he set out, but it was
nowhere on his person now; he had searched again and again

104

throughout that day. He lurched forward, half running, half

crawling. At the last moment, he hurled himself on the ground
as a vicious coil of wire reared up in front of him. He struggled
underneath, only to find himself in a forest of it, like crawling
under a blackberry bush. Snaking forward, he snagged himself
three times, and a barb slit open his tunic, biting into his chest.
Then he was out again, the last of his equipment straggled out
behind him. He reflected that he had left his gun and bandolier
behind long ago, but could not remember where.
A flare went up, searing the night sky, and he froze, far out in
the open, but so much of him was mud now that only
movement could betray him. It died out, and he was running,
wading, floundering, propelling himself forward by whatever
means came to him. Sometimes he counted his footsteps, then
lost count or jumbled the numbers, and started again at one.
Three times he counted to a hundred, but whether in ones or
tens or twenties, or all out of order, he was uncertain.
The mud in front of him spattered upwards in a thin line: that
nightmarish mosquito-hissing sound. He dropped and held his
breath, but the panting overtook him. Another fizz of bullets,
barely missing.
Im a fucking Irishman, he shouted, his breath spraying
muddy water. Can you hear me? Padraig McBride, 8th
Batallion, Royal Frigging Irish Rifles. Commanding Officers:
Lance-Corporal Burnett and Lieutenant Witherow.
There was silence for a moment, then: Jesus Christ, its a
bloody Paddy! Hold your fire, Jones! Its nobbut a mackerel-

105

slappin leprechaun! Jones, hold yer bleedin fire. Fuck me,

weve got a Taff at one end, and a bog-jumpin Ibernian at
tother!
McBride chanced it and ran for it. Twice, he fell. His hand went
through something that was once human, and he scrabbled out
of it, his boot caving in the ribcage. He was up again, then
under the wire, heedless of the gouges down his back,
throwing himself over the parapet. Arms reached up for him,
grappled, dragged him down, helped him sit. The cool rim of a
hip-flask touched his lips, and a draught of spirits scorched his
tongue and oesophagus. He spluttered, wheezed, coughed,
spat, stuttered. Th th th thank you.
He summoned his last resources, mastered himself, and spoke
clearly for the last time in his life. Water, please. Water, not
whiskey. And find a Commanding Officer who can arrest me
for cowardice. If they ask me to kill a German, I refuse.

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Chapter 24
Morning, Lieutenant Witherows quarters
5th June 1917
At ease, Burnett. Could you please repeat what you told me
yesterday about the circumstances in which you lost Brians
and McBride?
Burnett swallowed. Yes, Sir. Brians was hit by machine-gun
fire at the edge of a shell-crater in the copse. My impression
was that the wound was mortal. After some discussion, it was
decided that McBride should remain with him, and that the rest
of us should proceed as planned. There wasnt much time for
deliberations, Sir. Sure, I may have erred in my judgement.
I see. McBride tells the story somewhat differently.
McBride, Sir? But
McBride returned alone last night. He was picked up by the
Cheshires in the small hours, in a fairly terrible state
mentally, I mean. He only has a few scratches. Anyway, I wont
beat about the bush. He says that he was insubordinate: that
you told him to proceed with you and leave Brians, but he
refused and you were compelled to leave him behind. Is this
true?
Burnett ran his finger between his collar and his throat. Yes,
Sir, its true. I wanted to

107

Protect his honour? Yes, I do understand. Look, sit down.

This neednt go any further. McBride has no wish to cause you
trouble.
Sure, I had to leave him, Sir, didnt I? I was
Yes, Burnett, I would have done the same thing. And on
reflection, I probably would have told the same lie.
I assumed he would be
killed.
Yes, Sir.
Look, have a whisky. Its Scotch, not Irish, Im afraid.
Witherow handed him a bottle, half-full. Burnett removed the
cork, gratefully took a swig, and handed it back.
No, keep it. It will be good for me. I get through one of those
a day now, you know. Burnett, you are by far the most able
soldier I have ever met. Your promotion is long overdue. Im
not questioning your judgement. I only need to know the facts
so that I can protect you and McBride, if that is possible,
although I sincerely doubt it.
Sir?
Hes refusing to cooperate. Oh, hes compliant enough when I
question him, but he says he will never touch a gun again, that
if he is asked to kill, he will refuse, that if he is given any order
which may lead to the deaths or injury of others, he will walk
away. It took me an hour to get this out of him. His stutter is

108

now profound, to say the least. God knows what happened to

him while he was out there.
Hes shell-shocked, Sir. Weve known it for months. Thats
why I left him it was impossible
We know that, yes. Getting the chain of command to admit it
may be more difficult, given the position he is taking now. Hes
determined to be a Conscientious Objector. He used the words
himself wrote them down, actually, and held them up to me.
Can I see him, Sir?
Theoretically, Burnett, he should be under arrest. He has
asked to be arrested, but I refused. Yes, you can see him. In
fact, I would like you to do more than that.
Sir, anything I
Im glad you said anything. Please understand that I would
be doing this myself, but I havent the time in the current
circumstances. You may be aware that the Casualty Clearing
Station is being extended as we speak. A significant
detachment of additional personnel is arriving, in order to
cope with the casualties which are bound to escalate in coming
days. The specialist unit dealing with bone injuries will
continue as before, but the hospital will be adapted for the
short term, in order to meet requirements.
Yes, Sir, I was aware. How is this relevant to McBride, Sir?
I believe you have a connection with Sister OFlaherty?
Burnett shuffled in his seat and nodded.

109

I believe you are also acquainted with the Field Ambulance

driver, Penrose. He will be arriving shortly. I have requested
him to make the trip especially. Hes doing it in his own time.
You will have the whole vehicle to yourselves. You will take
McBride to Sister OFlaherty, and ask her to find a specialist in
mental cases. There is bound to be one amongst the new
detachment. You will insist on McBrides being given an
immediate assessment. I will give you this letter. It argues that
he should be sent on indefinite leave.
Is that an order, Sir?
Officially speaking, no. It is a personal request. Im risking my
own neck, too. Will you do it?
Sure, of course, Sir. But Im not holding out much hope.
Neither am I. You must be back here by early evening. Our
own reinforcements will be arriving. Your Section will be
replenished. I want you to meet your new men. Go through
the drill with them, certainly, but then take them somewhere
get to know them, set them at ease.
To be sure, Sir. I know just the place. Burnett stood and
saluted. Witherow reached across the table and shook his
hand. Sir, said Burnett, to be truthful, Im not much of a
whisky-drinker.
Witherow smiled for the first time that morning, and took back
the bottle. Do you know, Burnett, I was half hoping you would
say that.

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Chapter 25
Morning, Field Ambulance, Friends Ambulance Unit,
between Spanbroek and the Casualty Clearing Station
5th June 1917
I k k k killed, him, S S Sir. McBride picked at the quick
of his fingernail, underwent a spasm of shaking, and looked
away out of the window. Penrose kept his eye on the road,
expressionless. Burnett put his hand over McBrides, and held
it until the paroxysms subsided.
What do you mean, McBride? Who did you kill?
B B Brians. I sh sh sh sh The quivering overcame
him again.
He was shot in the guts, McBride. He was dying.
H he wouldnt die f f f fast enough. H h he asked me
to k k k k
Fucking hell. Did you tell this to Witherow?
McBride shook his head, although the movement was barely
perceptible amid the twitching. Only y y you.
Penrose, you are not hearing this. Do you understand?
Penrose nodded and shifted gear. The ruined church appeared
outside the windscreen again, a pair of silhouetted birds
perched on the shell-pocked belfry. A herd of stray sheep

111

wandered among the toppled gravestones, grazing the new

growth.
You will say nothing of this to the medical officer who attends
you, McBride. Do I make myself clear? Its not my job to
condemn you, and it isnt his either. Things are different on
the battlefield. You reconcile it with your conscience, and you
keep quiet about it. Do you hear?
Y yes, Sir. The trembling ebbed away. He stared out at the
greening fields, snot and tears running down the window glass.
Stop the vehicle for a while, will you, Penrose? Sure, we all
need a breath of fresh air.
Burnett got out of the drivers side after Penrose, and together,
they walked around and helped McBride out of the door. A
footpath wended through a field of barley; in the hedgerow,
most of the blossoms had fallen, and the haws were new and
green. The bombardment was audible from here, but so was
the voice of a skylark, somewhere overhead. Burnett walked
out onto the footpath, and the others followed him. The barley
was interspersed with corncockles and poppies, the footpath
almost knee-deep in forget-me-nots and chamomile: the smell
of the bruised flowers drifted upwards from his boots.
Th there it is! said McBride, sky-gazing, pointing.
Burnett strained to locate the skylark, but could see only cloud,
and a chink of blue sky. Damn, youve got good eyes,
McBride! Then he spotted it, drifting downwards with

112

occasional wing-beats, its song winding down with it, landing

somewhere distant among the green stalks and blowing petals.
He wanted to die, said McBride, his voice quite steady. He
asked me. I put his gun against his head and fired, and then I
discharged a grenade, just to be sure. I wont speak about it
again. I wont tell them anything that compromises you, either,
Sir.
They walked on. A bright green beetle had landed on Penroses
hand. He stood for a moment examining it, then followed them.
B but this trip is a w waste of time apart from what were
doing now. They will arrest me for c cowardice. Im sorry if
this brings you sh shame. But I c c c c cant
The sun appeared in the chink of blue sky. The awns of the new
barley, covered with dew, lit up with blue fire. The skylark
reascended its airy steps into the firmament. A peacock
butterfly hovered, spoilt for choice, over the corncockles, until
a second butterfly appeared, and the two of them danced in
flight, up and over the rise.
Penrose held up his hand. The beetle climbed to the tip of his
finger, opened its emerald and iridescent elytra, and flew.
There was a lull in the noise of the bombardment. His voice
was scarcely a whisper: I told them I lived in the virtue of that
life and power that took away the occasion of all wars I told
them I was come into the covenant of peace which was before
wars and strife were. The beetle circled them three times, and
hid itself in the rippling sea of green.

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Chapter 26
Morning, skies above Spanbroek and the Casualty
Clearing Station
5th June 1917
The raven watched the three men returning from the footpath
and climbing back into the ambulance, like ants crawling under
a beetle. Her sister joined her, their wing-tips touching for a
moment, then banked away beneath her, tumbling and
cronking. The ambulance began to wend its way down the
single-track lane. Hedgerows had been torn out in places, and
gravel laid down to accommodate heavier traffic, but here, the
work had not been completed. She wheeled outward,
following the road until the Clearing Station was beneath her:
a huddle of makeshift huts, a farmhouse and barns converted,
red crosses painted on the roofs, and further out into the fields,
tents, some billowing in the wind, in the process of being
erected. Other ambulances converged on other roads. Beyond
the Clearing Station: a field of graves in serried ranks, the older
ones marked with whitewashed crosses. At the bottom end of
this hill, she observed more men working, digging graves: a
long row of them left open, empty.
Together, they caught a thermal and rose higher, letting the
wind sweep them out over Bailleul, and across open country.
The Western Front was visible in the distance: a thick, brown
scar in the patchwork of light green fields and darker

114

woodlands, the trenches like the exposed burrows of worms.

From this distance, Messines Ridge, insurmountable to
thousands of men, seemed scarcely a significant contour on the
landscape. Other, larger roads approached the Front, and on
them, there was a bustle of human activity: trucks and
transports, field artillery, men marching in platoons long
centipedes of mechanised equipment mingled with living flesh.
The raven called to her sister. As they completed their circle,
they descended. The ambulance had arrived, and the three
men were getting out of it. One of them stumbled, and another
supported him. A woman in a white uniform emerged from
under a tent-awning, and there was a barely perceptible
quickening in one mans pace, but the sight of her had driven
the ravens into a frenzy. They linked talons, whirling,
plummeting, calling tore apart, rose, and linked again. When
they looked down once more, the man and the woman were
embracing.

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Chapter 27
Mid-Morning, Casualty Clearing Station near Baillieul
5th June 1917
To be sure, we have a doctor who deals with the mental cases,
but I can tell you now, hes a right bastard. You dont stand a
chance. Now sit still. Siobhan finished the last stitch in
McBrides arm, cut the suture, and let the scissors clatter into
the kidney-dish. She began to attend to his other abrasions
with a cotton swab and a bottle of spirit.
Its t t too bad, said McBride. Ill b be s seeing him
anyway.
Well, hold on just a moment, and Ill take you to him, but not
before Ive removed this splinter. She selected a pair of
forceps, parted his hair, and pulled a thin spike of wood, an
inch and a half long, from his scalp. Christ, Corry, who knows
how that got in there? Dont you tell your men to wear their
helmets? A thin trickle of blood ran down McBrides forehead,
but she caught it with another swab of gauze, let it absorb, and
held the dressing to his forehead with her thumb, the flesh
beneath her fingernail reddening.
They lapsed into silence, until the ticking of the watch at
Siobhans breast was clearly audible. McBride fidgeted;
Burnett stared at the floor and frowned; Penrose lingered.
Siobhans lips formed a thin line: the unconscious habit of a
person bent, in that moment, wholly on efficiency. At her side,

116

Mary Newman sat meekly, clearly accustomed to making

herself seem invisible until the moment she was required.
Come on, she said, suddenly standing. This way, and, as an
afterthought: Nurse, take over here until I return. She led
them out of the tent and downhill, where new facilities were
still being erected. They passed casualties, lying on the grass
in stretchers, groups of other men sharing Woodbines and
flasks, nurses rushing from one end of the Clearing Station to
the other. The tent was empty except for a table and two
chairs, an immaculately dressed medical officer sitting on one
of them, filling in forms. The insignia on his collar was that of
the Royal Army Medical Corps: laurels, a snake, a crown, In
Arduis Fidelis.
Captain Emerson, some men to see you. The patients name is
McBride, Sir, Padraig McBride. Siobhan shot a look at Penrose
as she departed, bidding him to follow, but he stood his ground,
averting his eyes.
Indeed, said Emerson, scrutinising them over his spectacles,
eyeing Burnett contemptuously, already categorising him as a
boorish Paddy on account of his badge, passing over Penrose
with a sneer, and resting inexorably on McBride. And what
seems to be wrong with our patient?
McBride attempted to speak, but could not.
Sir, I am Lance-Corporal Corry Burnett, and Rifleman McBride
is in my Section. He has been under considerable nervous
strain for months, Sir, and in my opinion, it has become too
much for him. Hes as clear a case of neurasthenia as any

117

In your opinion, I see. And which university was it, LanceCorporal Burnett, which awarded you your degree in
psychiatry?
With all due respect, Sir, I have seen
Dont give me your lies about respect, Hibernian. Shut up and
let the man talk. Padraig McBride, speak up, man!
I I I r r ref refuse
Come on, spit it out. Damn your eyes, do you think I have all
day? Here, bloody well write it down, if you know how.
A wave of trembling washed over McBride and subsided,
succeeded by a tide of anger. He snatched the pen from
Emersons fingers, and wrote furiously, in block capitals, the
nib scoring through the paper, and snapping at the last full
stop, leaking a flood of ink:
I REFUSE TO FIGHT YOUR HIDEOUS WAR.
GO AND DO IT YOURSELF.
Burnett lunged at the paper, screwing it up in his fist, but
Emerson, standing up from his toppling chair, struck him
across the cheek with the back of his hand and snatched it
away from him. You stay here, all of you, on pain of death, he
hissed, and he marched out of the tent.
Burnett picked himself up, radiant with fury, Penrose
steadying him. By Christ, Ill kill he spluttered, but his voice
faded with one glance at McBrides eyes: glittering,
triumphant.

118

I refuse to fight, he whispered, exulting, transfigured, and

Emerson had returned, two Privates and a Major at his side.
The latter stepped forward. Rifleman Padraig Penrose, I am
arresting you on suspicion of misbehaving before the enemy in
such a manner as to show cowardice, and disobeying in such a
manner as to show a wilful defiance of authority, a lawful
command given personally by a superior officer. Anything you
say
The handcuffs appeared, and McBride held out both his wrists,
unfettered in his joy.

119

Chapter 28
Afternoon through evening, Spanbroek, in view of
Messines Ridge
5th June 1917
Lakritz sat curled on a pile of hessian, his stomach full of
rations, his heart full of bewilderment. Burnetts men had
doted on him. Eddie Rooney had spent a full hour playing fetch
with him, hurling an old cricket ball down an empty trench; a
satisfying thing, because the leather made a wonderfully
invigorating noise when it hit corrugated iron, and also smelt
and tasted agreeable. Isaac West had fed him a surfeit of bully
beef the most he had eaten in weeks and Stanley Porter had
sat with the dogs head on his lap for the waning half of the
afternoon, talking to David Currie in tones strangely different
from the others. Even William Swain, who smelt of fear, had
crouched awhile to rub his ears and gaze into the wide, brown
lozenges of his eyes.
When Burnett stepped down into the dugout, Lakritz was up,
tail wagging, nuzzling. Burnett crouched down to greet him,
but he was clearly preoccupied. Lakritz returned to his
hessian, circled three times, and rested again, watching,
sniffing, listening. The men were standing to attention, and a
word from Burnett set them at ease. There were four new
arrivals, all of them wearing Swains odour of emotion; there
were nervous handshakes, formal gestures, empty laughter.

120

Then Burnett was suggesting something, and there was a

general assent, a touch of something more convivial.
Come, Lakritz, said Burnett, and Lakritz shot up the stairs
ahead of them, out into the afternoon sun, and the smell of
burning fat: a little huddle of men cooking on an upturned oilbarrel. Lakritz led the way, pausing at junctions in the
trenches, reading Burnetts intentions, taking the turns when
he was certain. Negotiating a final corner, Lakritz could sense
a deeper dampness and coolness emanating from a wooden
entrance: a smell he knew well subterranean. They passed it
by and entered a large dugout to one side.
*
Burnett sat beside McCreesh, taking the opportunity afforded
by gaps in the conversation to observe his new men. All of
them, he knew, were in a state of barely suppressed terror.
James Bruce, Jamie Gilliland and Tyrone Millar were all from
Belfast; he sat them next to Isaac West for that reason, but then
began to doubt the wisdom of his decision. They occupied one
corner of the room as though submerged in a little puddle of
despondency: Bruce, newly married, fingering his ring; Millar
biting his fingernails and chewing the skin around them;
Gilliland, also married, constantly taking a letter from his
pocket, half-opening it, and replacing it; and West showing the
first telltale signs of neurasthenia: a little twitch under the
right eyelid, dark rings betokening sleeplessness, an
exaggerated jumpiness when a piece of crockery was dropped.
Robert Dempster, from County Down, was another matter:
lithe, experienced no doubt, with a scar spanning his forehead,

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orbit and cheekbone that could only have been acquired

fighting hand-to-hand. He sat him on McCreeshs sighted side,
and they hit the whisky hard. Burnett reached down to feel the
velvet of Lakritzs muzzle, watched and listened.
Another group of miners came in, grubby from their shift, but
carrying an air of celebration with them. Their work here was
evidently almost over, and some were expecting leave. They
instantly launched into a round of serious toasting and
drinking: they toasted ammonal, tin drums, pitch and fuses;
they toasted the grafter and the wheelbarrow, canaries, the
inventor of the stethoscope. Somebody, feeling homesick,
toasted Durham Cathedral, and another sapper grunted, Aye,
but dont ask me ter toast them mines at Chester-le-Street. I
aint goin back there fer nothin. There was a wryly raucous
laughter, and then someone was up on the table, catching John
McCreeshs glinting eye. An eres to im who stopped us goin
stark starin bonkers all these months. Ahm raisin me glass to
little John McCreesh. Wholl join me?
There was a furious cheering and pounding on the table, and
some of the men toasted him three times. John McCreesh!
John McCreesh! Tell us a story! It became a chant, and much
liquor was spilt at the table-beating. Make it gory! someone
added, to general applause. One man reached across the table,
took off McCreeshs hat and ruffled his hair.
McCreesh stood, a very little man in a room of giants, and there
was instant silence. One man, clearly a newcomer, started to
whisper, and was nudged in the ribs.

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First of all, youve got to understand that the Morrign never

wanted Cu Chulainn to die. If she had wanted that, shed could
have had his entrails served up on a silver platter any time she
chose. Sure, she gave him his gaesa: he must never approach a
hearth, and he must never, on any account eat a hound and one
way or another, those things would prove unavoidable. And
sure, being one in three, she could be contrary. As Nemain, she
brought the battle-frenzy, making enemies of sworn friends. As
Macha, she shook the trees of battle for the mast of mens heads,
and as the Badhbh, she made the battlefield her garden, tending
bodies until they sprouted green growth. And sure, she loved hot
blood. But Cu Chulainn had poured out plenty of that himself in
his time. The Morrign was war itself, given flesh and bone and
breasts and hair and voice and brain, but war is never a single
thing. It is hatred, but it is pity also. Its great enmity breeds
friendship. The enemies it makes, thrown together into the same
fox-hole, would die to save each other.
So the day came when the Morrign knew that Cu Chulainn must
die. She did her best to warn him, and sure he heeded the
warning too, but there was nothing to be done about it in any
case. See it for a moment from the Morrigns point of view.
First, she transforms herself into a little girl, kneeling in a
stream. The pebbles are hard on the knobbles of her knees, but
she doesnt notice: shes busy washing again, when Cu Chulainn
rides by in his chariot. She draws the garment out of the water:
a surcoat identical to Cu Chulainns all oozing with blood, and at
her side, waiting also to be washed, chain-mail and plate, just
like his, spattered with clots. She looks up at him through her

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raven ringlets, sighing, and wrings out the surcoat and plunges
it in water again, but the blood squelches up between her fingers
until the whole stream is sullied by it, and when she reaches to
scratch her nose, her face is blotched with it. And she hears Cu
Chulainns companion-at-arms, pleading with him to turn back,
but he says, No, for I have caused other men to shed blood
enough to fill this stream three times over, and if it is now my
turn to bleed, then let it be so, for death will meet me in any case.
And they ride on.
Next, she shows something of her real self, becoming three old
hags, each one blind in the left eye and standing on one leg over
a hearth, roasting meat on rowan twigs. And she says, Come
and stand near the fire with us, Cu Chulainn, but he says, No, I
thank you. And she says, Sure, if we were young and
voluptuous, you would stand with us then, and so honour
compels Cu Chulainn to step up to the hearth.
And she says, Come, eat with us, Cu Chulainn, but he says, No,
I thank you. And she says, Ah, but if we were offering a haunch
of the best venison, then you would eat with us, eh? and so
honour compels Cu Chulainn to take the joint of meat she
proffers him, and sink his teeth into it. And sure if it isnt a meat
he has never tasted before, a little like chicken, so they say, but
not chicken exactly, and Cu Chulainn looks around and sees a
dog-skin hanging from a stick. No point waggling your fingers
down your throat now, Cu Chulainn, says the Morrign. All you
needed to do was eat it; I never said anything about keeping it
down.

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So he goes down the road to Meadhon-Luachair, lamenting his

lot, and she makes herself into a raven and watches him from a
tree. She sees his enemies build a fence of shields against him,
but he drives his chariot into it, wielding his sword like a flail,
and their heads fly like sand or stars, and lie with the profusion
of buttercups in the field. And others come against him even
Druids but his spear goes straight through the head of each one
of them, and skewers nine others each time as it pokes out the
other side.
Oh, but then the Morrign sees Erc throw his spear at Cu
Chulainn, but he misses, and it flies instead into the heros
beautiful horse, the Grey of Macha, who takes sorrowful leave of
his master and goes to submerge himself in Glas-linn, the Grey
Pool, and never is a horse of his like to be seen again. Then
Lugaid throws a spear, and this one catches Cu Chulainn fair in
the belly, so that his intestines spill out over the cushion of his
chariot. This leaves him with an all-consuming desire to drink,
so he gathers up his guts in his arms and staggers down to Glaslinn, swigging down great drafts of its waters, while his enemies
wait for him on the plain.
After he has drunk and washed, Cu Chulainn returns. Now, in the
middle of that plain, there is an old, lichened standing stone, all
marked with mazes and hollows and ancient inscriptions, and
not being of the inclination to die lying down, Cu Chulainn takes
his own entrails and ties himself to it, so that his enemies cannot
quite be certain of the moment of his death. And some folks say
that at that a halo of hero-light was upon Cu Chulainn then, and
that the Grey of Macha dragged himself back out of the lake to

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defend his dying master, and trampled thirty men with each one
of his hooves.
And still those who survive cannot tell for sure whether Cu
Chulainn is dead. But the Morrign knows. She sees Deaths cool
shadow drifting down, taking his soul into her arms, leaving his
body empty, and on the husk that was Cu Chulainn, the Morrign
perches, cronking on his shoulder, glorying and lamenting all at
once.
No, the Morrign never wanted Cu Chulainn to die. Truth be told,
she never wanted any man to die, any woman to become a
widow, any child to be an orphan. But men will find their ways
of dying and widowing and orphaning, and since they seem
determined to do so, she finds her ways of relishing it. What
better way than to become a raven to fly so high that men are
as insects to develop a taste for rotting flesh, to bear in her own
body the brunt of mens hatred, to make her pact with Death and
love it?
And sometimes still, they say, the Morrign walks amongst us,
dealing love and Death. For what love is there without Death;
what life is there without something that has died before it? And
they cut off the head of Cu Chulainn, but that, too, was not the
end.

The glasses were all empty. They staggered back to their own
dugouts, and sleep came to them like the cool, loving touch of
Death.

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Chapter 29
Late evening, Estaminet in Baillieul
5th June 1917
Belgian Private Victor Maes downed another glass of wine. His
head was beginning to swim, but the woman beside him,
whose dcolletage he admired, had whispered something in
his ear which caused him to shift his hand from her knee
where it had been resting for ten tantalising minutes up her
thigh, seeking the soft flesh above her stockings. This
inebriated him more; he had not been deprived of alcohol in
the trenches, but he had certainly missed the other. Not that
he had ever had much of the other before he volunteered. It
was amazing how much a uniform could alter things.
Across the table from him, other women were laughing. One
was pouring water over a lump of sugar into a glass of absinthe.
What, Private Maes? Sent on leave two nights before the
attack? Are you lucky, or untrustworthy?
Hes most untrustworthy, I can tell you right now, said the
woman beside him was it necessary, he wondered, to ask her
name? but Im sure hes good at making explosions. There
was a crescendo of laughter.
Attack? What attack? said Private Maes, astonished. The
women exchanged conspiratorial glances.

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Why, dont you know? But everybody knows. The attack on

Messines Ridge on Thursday morning. Where have they been
keeping you? Down one of them mines?
Private Maes shrugged, laughed, drunk again, and through the
haze, considered launching a daring offensive of his own.

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Chapter 30
Dawn, Casualty Clearing Station near Baillieul
6th June 1917
Captain Emerson was still asleep when Siobhan OFlaherty
pounded on the door of his cabin. She did not pause to be
invited inside.
He sat bolt upright in bed, astonished. What is the meaning of
this, woman? Is there some emergency?
Her voice was low, almost a whisper. Not exactly an
emergency, I wouldnt be saying. Just a man far better than you
who faces death because of you.
What, you mean that stuttering pipsqueak yesterday? He got
what he deserved what he wanted, it seemed to me. Get out,
you
Id like you to tell me, Doctor, precisely how many men in his
condition you have sent to their deaths. She stared down her
nose at him, her pupils locked with his, absolutely steady, yet
her body was swaying ever so slightly. Emerson wondered
why he was resisting the urge to squirm and look away.
Something about her held him fixed, like a bird of prey sizing
up a mouse.
And why could you possibly want such information? There
are more cowards

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Cowards is it? I see. That was an act of cowardice yesterday,

was it deliberately giving himself up to be arrested by men
who intend to kill him? Tell me, what spectacularly
courageous moral stand have you taken lately? Or was
yesterdays performance your best attempt? Hell be courtmartialled, I presume?
Of course. Hell get a fair trial, although the evidence is
naturally quite damning.
Hell be having an expert counsel for the defence, then?
Someone who understands the psychology of neurasthenics?
Oh, I doubt if there will be time for that. Theres a war on, in
case you hadnt noticed. Superior officers will be involved. Its
waste enough of their time as it is. No, hell have to represent
himself.
I see. Represent himself, with his stutter and all. And you
think you are going to stand as witness for the prosecution?
Well, of course, I intend to offer whatever expert assistance is
required.
Expertise, are you calling it? This is a hospital, Sir. Here, the
rest of us save lives. Only you seem bent on sacrificing them.
Now look, woman. You are clearly seeking to be dismissed
from your position. That will be arranged. I suggest you leave
this room before I also have you up on charges.

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Ah, and youd do this to a senior Nursing Sister, the day before
the commencement of a major military offensive a time when
scores of men may rely on her for their lives?
I think, woman, that you are suffering from an exaggerated
sense of self-importance.
She sneered and took two steps toward him, never breaking
for a moment that predatorial stare. Thank you, Doctor
Emerson. You have said quite enough for me to know precisely
how to load set the scales of retribution.
He leapt out of bed and hit her across the face as hard as he
could, but she stood there unruffled, glaring. Are you
threatening me, bitch? Get out of here, you Cat-licking Mickfucker. Youre quite clearly deranged, like all of your
countrymen. Go back to Ireland and subsist on rotten potatoes.
Its what you deserve.
She walked to the door, turned in the entrance, stood on one
leg, and fixed him once again with the pinpoints of her pupils.
You will be stricken, she said, devoid of expression. She
closed the door quietly and walked away. Outside one of the
tents, there was a pile of laundered soldiers uniforms. She
knew what these were: the less mangled parts of the uniforms
of the dead, waiting to be sent home to relatives, or given to
some new recruit. They took more trouble over such matters
here than they did at some Clearing Stations. As she walked
past, she picked up a privates uniform, tucked it under her
arm, and snatched a helmet. It was dangling from her fingers
as she walked in on Mary Newman laying out the instruments.

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Mary Newman, she said brusquely. Sure, you have coped

admirably over the past few days. I am certain you will make
a very fine Nursing Sister. Have you seen Penrose?
Thank you, replied Mary Newman, taken aback. But She
thought better of it. Yes, Penrose is out the front now. Hes
just loading the ambulance with supplies.
Siobhan stepped forward and shook her hand firmly. Sure, it
has been a pleasure. She marched out of the tent into the
sunlight, and as Mary had predicted, Penrose was loading the
back of the ambulance with boxes of bandages. Before she
hailed him, she stood for a moment in the sun, clicked her
fingers, and laughed.
*
Inside his cabin, Captain Emerson sat suddenly on the edge of
his bed, clutching his stomach. Ten minutes later, something
inside him haemorrhaged, and he died.

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Chapter 31
Morning, Spanbroek, in view of Messines Ridge
6th June 1917
The sky was full of aeroplanes, their drones persistent as
bumblebees or blowflies, thought Burnett, standing at
attention. The whole platoon was assembled. Lakritz, who
seemed to understand the drill, took a place beside the ranks,
standing. Burnett had kept the new men near to him. The way
a man behaved in the hours before an attack was by no means
a perfect guide to how he would act in No-Mans Land, but it
was all the evidence that was available. The funk in Isaac West
was now quite evident, and it had infected the two married
men. Tyrone Millar, by contrast, was silent, taciturn, much as
Burnett knew he was himself at such moments. Dempster had,
if anything, too much swagger. If he survived, he might become
a handful for an over-indulgent Lance-Corporal.
Witherow stood before them, flanked by superior officers. It
was he who did the talking.
Those of you who have been here for the past few weeks will
be well aware that our Royal Engineers have been preparing
something special for the enemy. Those of you who have
recently arrived will have been told that a major offensive is
planned. Your orders are very simple. At precisely 15 seconds
after 0310 tomorrow morning, you will leave your trenches
and do everything in your power to overrun all enemy

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positions on Messines Ridge. The precise objective for this

platoon will be to take and hold all fortifications at
Spanbroekmolen and beyond. Should we achieve this
objective, we are further ordered to pursue the retreating
forces, seizing whatever territorial advantages present
themselves. These matters will be my responsibility, and in the
event of my death, of your own Lance-Corporal in the field. It
is absolutely imperative that you go over the parapet at the
correct moment, no matter what events precede the attack.
Suffice to say that you can expect enormous explosions from
underneath the ground ahead of you. These may well assist
our cause enormously, but should the charges fail to detonate
at 0310, you are to proceed as ordered in any case as I said,
fifteen seconds after that time. I do not intend to say any more
to you at this moment I shall speak to you individually but
I am ordering you to devote any time that is not spent in
preparations or on watch to the one thing you will need most.
Retire to your quarters and get as much sleep as you can. It
may be your last chance to rest for many hours. General
Plumer, who has planned this attack, has asked all
Commanding Officers to communicate to you that he has
absolute faith in your skills and valour in an action which may
serve to end this War. Nothing will please him more, I know,
than the conduct of the Royal Irish Rifles in the small hours of
tomorrow morning.
The men began to disperse, but Burnett stood and watched
them go. Witherow approached him, nudged in the knee by
Lakritz. About McBride, he said, Im damn sorry, Burnett.

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Yes, Sir. A long pause, filled with impossibilities. Sir. These

mines. I know for certain that my friend McCreesh has been
working on one such mine, under Spanbroekmolen. How
many others are there?
Witherow looked him in the eye, and held his gaze. Burnett,
there are eighteen others.
Sir. Eighteen. Eighteen, did you say, sir? The two black birds
circling high in the corner of his eye could not distract him.
Thats right, Burnett. Should we fail tomorrow, we shall at
least have succeeded in making the loudest noise the human
race has ever heard.

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Chapter 32
Morning, Road from the Casualty Clearing Station to
Spanbroek
6th June 1917
Regularise it later, thought Penrose, as Sister OFlaherty
climbed into the ambulance beside him. He had found what
needed doing many times, and he had broken many rules in
order to do it, but they werent the kind of rules set out in the
Quaker Advices and Queries; nor were they the kind of rules he
found in his reading of the Gospels. He had no idea what the
Sister was scheming and yes, scheming was certainly the
right word for that hooded expression she was wearing now
but he had all the reason in the world to respect her. He had
seen the cool precision with which she ligatured a
haemorrhaging artery when a surgeon was nowhere to be
found, the patient detachment with which she supported a
limb about to be amputated, the calming influence she had on
men whose mobility, independence and virility had been
ripped away forever by shrapnel wounds. He had seen too, the
way the Staff Nurses and VADs responded instantly to their
orders but there was something else: something intangible,
and somehow ancient.
Your shift ends at sundown, does it? she asked, her finger
tracing the rim of the helmet on her lap.

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Were short-staffed again. I doubt if it will end then, replied

Penrose, craning his neck as the road narrowed to a single
track.
Youre without a companion again?
Yes.
Siobhan looked across, through the drivers side window: a
barley field on a rise, poppies and cornflowers, a footpath
passing through it, covered with forget-me-nots and
chamomile. Drop me off here, she said decisively, examining
her watch. Ill be waiting on the side of the road at sundown.
Oh, and would you look after these? She laid out the uniform
and helmet on the seat between them as he pulled the handbrake.
Youll want to go back to the Clearing Station this evening?
No. She pursed her lips and climbed out. Pick me up on an
outward journey. Ill be waiting here until youre ready.
Regularise it later, thought Lionel Penrose, waving and driving
away.
*
The smell of bruised chamomile filled her nostrils. The
footpath ascended the hill, and then veered to the left towards
a hedgerow. She followed it, the air spangled with butterflies.
An electric blue damselfly fizzled above the barley. There was
a ditch in the hedgerow, and the path passed over a rickety
wooden bridge, with a stile at the end of it. She climbed over

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it, into another field, this one filled with broad bean plants,
their white flowers attracting a bass chorus of bumblebees. At
the far end of the field was a ruined church, surrounded by a
stone wall which had been breached in several places by shells.
The belfry was riddled with holes, the whole exterior pockmarked, the roof burnt away, the lead guttering melted.
Siobhan made her way towards it, the ground breaking up
under her feet. She climbed through a hole in the wall, a flat
stone clattering behind her.
The churchyard was filled with yawning craters. Gravestones
lay shattered; a stone angel smashed against a granite tomb,
one wing completely detached, the praying hands sheared off
at the fingers. Beside it, a human skull, real bone, lay upside
down, the opening for the spinal cord gaping. A spider scuttled
out of it. Swallows were nesting inside the church. A squirrel
scampered and scolded from a half-burnt rafter as she entered.
Where the rood-screen had been, hung a crucifix, its chest
blasted out, the legs amputated at the knees. The nave was
waist deep in cow-parsley and nettles. Wood pigeons
clattered.
The altar-end of the church had collapsed outward, but the
altar itself was still standing. Siobhan climbed up on it,
brushing the soot from the skirt of her uniform, readjusting her
cloak. She closed her eyes and held out her hands.
And they came. She could hear their approach, cronking in the
wind that had begun to stir as she entered the churchyard. One
of them had settled on the ruined wall beside her: she could
hear her wings closing. The other flew straight to her, and she

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felt her talons on her wrist, gripping gently. Then the other
swooped in, and landed on her shoulder.
Siobhan OFlaherty opened her eyes. They were dark as the
eyes of ravens.

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Chapter 33
Afternoon, 88 feet underground, beneath
Spanbroekmolen, Messines Ridge
6th June 1917
Were certainly well insured against failure, thought McCreesh,
checking connections. In addition to the electrical fuse, the
detonating charge of 500 pounds of ammonal and 500 pounds
of dynamite was connected to conventional exploders.
Nothing had been left to chance.
Yes, the connections were all secure. There was little to do for
the rest of his shift but wait and listen: the man beside him
breathing, his own heartbeat, the drip of condensation.
*
So, how did it all end? asked little John McCreesh. His
brothers and sisters were fast asleep; the candle burning fat
among the trails of wax, but he was wide awake, pulling the
curly fleece up closer under his chin. His mother ran her long
fingers through his hair.
Sure, you would think it was the Fomorians who won the battle,
for they had a secret weapon. Balor was among their host, a
monster of a man, his skull all misshapen. One orbit bulged out
wider than that window, and it housed a most grisly and hideous
eye. The eye was so heavy that Balor required a wooden crutch,
whittled out of a full-grown ash tree, just to keep his head

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upright. The vision of that eye was so powerful that it could see
through Balors eyelid, and through stone walls and some said,
through mountains. Oh, and the eye was so disgusting to behold,
with those big blue throbbing veins that spanned its white, and
the horrible cloudy colour of its vitreous humour, like clotted
milk in water, and the invisible poison of its glare, that whole
armies had been known to come under its baleful influence and
die, the flesh shrinking on their bones.
The lid of this eye was heavier than a barn door, but that was no
matter normally, for it was only ever raised when the eye was
required as a weapon of war. The eyelid had a polished handle,
attached to it with bronze rivets, and two ropes were tied to it at
either corner. Twenty men it took to raise that eyelid, and raise
it they did, that day at Mag Tured, when the Fomorians met the
Tuatha De Danaan on the field of battle.
Oh! Sooner stick your hand in an adders nest than face the eye
of Balor! Sooner roast your head in an open fire. Only half the
pupil was visible, and the herbs and grass on the battlefield
withered. Mens muscles began to atrophy from the ankles up,
bringing them down to their knees, the moisture all evaporated
out of them, like salt beef. There was a great groaning on the
field among the Tuatha De Danaan, as the ropes strained and the
handle was tilted, and the eye of Balor creaked open, ever open.
All seemed lost, when the shadow of the Morrign swept across
the field, darkening everything except the eye of Balor, and by its
gleam, Lug could see well enough to load a stone into his sling.
He closed his eyes, whirled it about his head, and let fly, and as
chance would have it, the stone hit Balor square in the middle of

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the pupil, and carried the whole eye straight out the back of his
head in a great splurge of brains, and on its exit from Balors
skull, the eye cut a swathe through the Fomorians, who toppled
like ninepins, until it lodged on the branch of an ancient broken
oak, and ruptured, drowning a hundred or so in the gush of fluid.
Then was the battle on a more even footing, and the Morrign
became three. As Nemain she came, stalking behind the Tuatha
De Danaan, beating a bodhran and chanting, driving them into
a frenzy, and the sound of her voice alone worked havoc among
the Fomorians, until they cut each others throats in their
confusion. Her black hair streamed behind her and she screamed
like a banshee, crouching and swooping into the air in the form
of a bird, and out of all the forests of Ireland, the crows and rooks
and ravens came, until the sky was black as the firmament on the
night of the dark moon.
As Macha she came, girded for battle, right at the front of the
host, holed stones in her hair, her front teeth filed to points, her
face blackened with the charcoal of burnt mens bones, her cloak
streaming out behind her like a pair of ragged wings. The spear
of the foremost of the Fomorians went straight through her, and
she died, but Macha never stays dead for more than a moment,
so she rose, gripped the spear with both hands and pulled it out
of herself, then reversed it and threw it at the warriors heart.
And as Nemain looked down from the sky, she saw the path of
that spear travel more than a mile as it split mens bodies and
they were felled. And Macha looked up, all bleeding and vicious,
and waved her fist to her sister high in the heavens, and the

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Tuatha De Danaan behind her gave a mighty roar, as the roar of

the ocean in the grips of a gale.
That was when it came to be as they had predicted: the twelve
lochs dried up, fire was rained upon the host of the Fomorians,
and the mountains of Ireland heaved and overturned upon them.
Those of their host who remained, the Tuatha De Danaan drove
into the sea, and though we have other foes enough, their kind
have never blighted Ireland again to this day.
But mother, sure you are not very good at counting, for you
say the Morrign made herself three, and Nemain and Macha
are only two.
Sure, thats what happens when little ones who ought to know
better keep on interrupting.
As the Badhbh she came, half-woman, half hooded crow, stalking
among the steaming remnants of the dead, pruning, planting,
gardening, gloating over her harvest of severed limbs and heads,
and she gathered those into a dripping, crow-attended cairn and
stood upon it, exulting. Long days and nights she stood there,
conducting all the carrion-eaters with her arms, and the crows
stripped the flesh from above, and the worms ate it from beneath,
and the foxes crept in the darkness and gnawed, and the rats
began to channer until she was left standing on nothing but a
pile of empty skulls: Fomorians and Tuatha De Danaan jumbled
together. The Tuatha De Danaan looked upon her, and all as one,
they shuddered to see the chalky-white legacy of their valiant
deeds collapsing into dust beneath her feet, so that when she

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walked away from them, her footprints were like bird-lime on

the dark and fertile soil.
88 feet underground, Sapper John McCreesh shuddered, and
checked the connections.
What will be the legacy of your valiant deeds, little John
McCreesh, upon the field of battle?

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Chapter 34
Dusk, Single-track road, and Spanbroek, in view of
Messines Ridge
6th June 1917
Siobhan OFlaherty stood on the single-track road, her black
hair cut to within an inch of her scalp. Lionel Penrose pulled
the ambulance to a halt, left the engine running and got out of
the drivers seat.
Have you heard he blurted, but she cut him off.
Wheres that uniform? I need it now. Thank you. Turn away.
Siobhan got undressed in the middle of the road and put on the
uniform, stuffing her nurses clothes into the satchel. Devil
take me for a fool, Lionel Penrose, I forgot to steal some boots.
Youll have to give me yours!
Hold on theres a pair in the back, replied Penrose, opening
the doors and rummaging. She crouched to put them on.
Sure, theyre like boats, but theyll do, she laughed. How do
I look?
Penrose stared at her. She had adopted the posture and
swagger of a regular Tommy, hunched under her backpack,
lighting a Woodbine. In the half-light, she was utterly
convincing. Im not going to ask what

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No, I wouldnt, said Siobhan gruffly, making for the

passengers-side door, and Im grateful.
They passed the ruined church, its shadows long in the sunset.
Have you heard what happened to Emerson?
Now, where would I be hearing about that idiot in the middle
of a barley field, Lionel Penrose?
Hes dead, said Penrose. They found him in his quarters
when he didnt appear for his morning consultations.
Apoplexy, they say.
Good riddance, snorted Siobhan. I thought for a moment
you had news of McBride.
Well, there are rumours. He has already been courtmartialled, they say, and found guilty.
Never was there a truer rumour, I dont doubt, muttered
Siobhan, and the conversation lapsed.
By the time they reached the First Aid Post, Penrose had lit the
headlights. Can you be waiting here half an hour? asked
Siobhan. I might have a present for you.
*
There was nothing to do now but wait, and the waiting was
harder than hurling oneself over a parapet. Burnetts men had
all gone to bed.
The front-line trench was full, the
reinforcements huddled up under blankets, some of them
snoring, most of them wakeful, staring at nothing with
apprehensive eyes. He picked his way amongst them towards

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the dugout, Lakritz steam-breathed at his heels, then changed

his mind, drawn by a desire to stretch his legs. He turned into
a less populated trench, and another, and at last into one that
was almost deserted, apart from a Private, hunched under his
pack at the far end of it, walking towards him.
The two passed each other, and Lakritz sniffed and paused, but
the Private failed to salute. Burnett stopped , his boots scuffing
on the duckboards, and wondered whether he could be
bothered to reprove this little display of insolence. The other
stopped too, and he caught a glimpse of his profile:
whiskerless, aquiline.
Out taking the dog for a walk, are we, Corry Burnett? said
Siobhan, and Burnett staggered in astonishment against the
wall of the trench. She rounded on him, catching his lips in
hers, grasping his buttock with her hand, pulling him to her,
guiding his hand toward her breast. He looked around
apprehensively, then drew her into an alcove. Lakritz whined.
Burnett leant his hand against the trench wall and winced.
What, did you cut yourself? whispered Siobhan. Sure,
theres a nail sticking out. He took a handkerchief from his
pocket, and she wrapped it around the wound. The blood filled
it as he watched. Hold on, she said. Give me the
handkerchief. Squeeze it with your finger hard. Go on, boy,
apply fucking pressure. She carried the handkerchief to a
water butt, and rinsed it. He could see the water running red
from her fingers in the growing moonlight. She dabbed his

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hand with it, and rinsed again, and gradually the bleeding
ceased.
Now, where were we exactly, Lance-Corporal Corry Burnett?
said Siobhan OFlaherty, reaching between his legs.
*
Sure, I told you Id bring you a present, laughed Siobhan,
opening the back door of the ambulance. Lakritz leapt into it
and turned to face them, tongue lolling, canines gleaming. Go
on, rub his ears. He wont bite hes highly trained and the
Friends Ambulance Service clearly needs a mascot.
Penrose held out his hand, and Lakritz licked it, whining.
What is his name?
Surely, you must be knowing his name, Lionel Penrose. Its
Lakritz: German for licorice. All black dogs are called Lakritz
in Germany. They arent terribly original. Lakritz wagged his
tail and licked more urgently, aiming for the lips.
I had best be taking you back, said Penrose. Youre in
trouble, you know they have been asking
Therell always be trouble, said Siobhan, as long as there are
men. I dont need a lift, thank you. I only came back so as to
give you your present. She darted off into the night. Penrose
shouted and chased her, but she was gone. He sat in the
ambulance for almost an hour, and then he drove on alone.

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*
Siobhan OFlaherty wended her way back to the front-line
trench, seeking a corner where the men were most asleep. She
chose her place, and glanced up at the parapet. There was an
ammunition box leaning up against the trench wall. She
clambered on top of it, gripped the parapet in both hands, and
heaved herself up. A moment later, she walked out into NoMans Land, her head held high and haughty.

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Chapter 35
0300-0315, and Dawn, No Mans Land
7th June 1917
The watches were synchronised. His whistle hung heavy on its
lanyard. His men would be ranged to the right of him, the least
experienced at his side. On his left was Witherow. I want my
best man to my right, he had said, with that smile.
It was ticking in his hand, and in his stillness, he felt the thin
metal pulse of interlocking gears. The second hand trailed and
then outran its shadow. Beside him, Isaacs was whimpering.
At first, he thought it was the wind, but there was very little
wind. He reached out and grasped the mans elbow, softly at
first, then firmly. He held it there; the sobbing subsided.
0305. His fathers hands, in the butchers shop that day: how
they had trembled and let the knife fall to the chopping board.
How tears had sprung to his mothers eyes as though they had
been welling up and waiting. Mother, Ive enlisted, he had
said, and their world imploded.
0307. What had really happened that day in Bailleul. How the
words were on his tongue, but he never spoke them.
0309. The cross on her breast. The way she clutched him to it,
and he lay there, cradled.

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0310. First one explosion, then others closer, louder.

Deafening. To his left, on the horizon, sheets of flame, shooting
skyward, blackening, as though one whole half world had been
ignited. Up ahead of him, nothing. Darkness. Fifteen seconds.
Ten.
*
John McCreesh had found the highest vantage-point now that
he was superfluous to requirements. One of the high-ups had
his fingers on the switches. 0310. From one end, almost to the
other, Messines Ridge turned volcanic, haemorrhaging fire into
the night sky. The noise was physical: a tooth-jarring vibration
so fundamental that the soul of Earth was shaken. He looked
straight up towards Spanbroekmolen, expectant.
Nothing. Darkness.
*
They were over, running. The burning scorched the retina of
his left eye; his right eye gazed on blackness. He felt, not saw,
Witherow beside him. To his right, West stumbled. He turned,
took his hand, yanked him forward screaming. Witherow up
ahead, further left than he expected: his silhouette against the
burning. Bullets hissing. West writhing. Dempster behind
him, gargling blood. Millar falling. An echoing darkness ahead
and to the right of him. Then flame: a sudden, precipitous wall
of it. A rain of mud and rocks and rubble: his Section
obliterated. The earth upturned. A hand sticking out from
under it. The rest gone forever.

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Searing pain.
Silence.
The red cross at her breast.
*
Witherow had turned at just the moment saw the brick
descending, and dived to knock Burnett out of its path, but the
Lance-Corporal merely stumbled, his head thrown forward.
The impact was sickening. He juddered and dropped.
Witherow shook him and his head lolled, turned him over, and
his eyes glazed in the hellfire. Quite dead, quite dead, quite
dead, thought Witherow, but still his hands were at the dead
mans heart, pumping in all the desperation of pure and perfect
hopelessness.
A hand on his shoulder, and then tugging at his elbow. Hes
gone, Sir. Hes gone. Come on! Eddie Rooney, emerged from
the maelstrom, beckoning, desperate. The fire subsiding.
Stones, soil and wood-splinters still pelting down like hail.
Rooney cut down, wailing.
*
Three ravens laid claim to the skies above Messines Ridge,
flying north. To their left, a line of craters stretched into the
distance, the landscape overturned, the surface lunar, like the
skin of a smallpox survivor. Below them, Spanbroekmolen was
a gaping hole the size of a small lake, its slopes littered with
dead and dying men. Some were half submerged, their arms

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or legs dangling like the limbs of malkins. Hundreds were far

under, where even ravens would never find them.
The German trenches swarmed with men in Allied uniforms.
Little trains of German prisoners were being led down the
Ridge, hands behind their heads. Longer trains bore men on
stretchers.
They flew out further, where the land flattened out beneath
them. Field artillery pounded the distance. Out in the fields,
men in Stahlhelms sought refuge behind trees and farm
buildings, were ambushed and slaughtered. Others ran for
their lives, and insect-sized soldiers felled them from a
distance.
Further still they flew and here the Germans were already
digging in, fresh artillery amassing, the valley teeming.
Wheeling back over their territory, the ravens tumbled in the
air, gripped claws and called. Their cronking echoed outward,
and in distant woods, carrion crows, hooded crows and rooks
arched their necks, bent their heads, returned the call and flew.

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Epilogue
Night and Dawn, Execution Cells, Poperinge Town Hall
17th July 1917
The walls were scrawled with the last marks of former
inmates: a cross, the name Morrison, a pencil drawing of a
battleship, a regimental insignia. McBride traced them with his
fingers, but left no marks of his own.
He had tried to waste the time with sleep, and just when he
might have found it, the chaplain had come, bespectacled, his
dog-collar inserted like a helpless afterthought in the collar of
his military uniform. McBride had gone through the motions
with him, but it was more for the chaplains sake than for his
own. He had his reconciliation already.
Men were supposed to pace these cells endlessly, rake their
hair with anguished hands, and moan. McBride did none of
these things. After he had looked at all the drawings, he sat
down in the chair, stared at the barred window in the door, and
waited for the first light of dawn, with barely a quake or
tremble.
Its not true, he thought, that a watched pot never boils. Stare
long enough, and it happens. Everything is inexorable.
The shadow of the bars appeared on the opposite wall. He
stood and walked to the door as the bolt clanged open. Hands
received him, paternal-seeming, on the shoulders. Three steps,

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and the execution post was ahead of him, the firing squad a
blur beyond it. Somebody coughed.
A crow, or something bigger, flew down and landed on the
sandbags behind the post. A soldier shooed it, and it lifted its
wings idly, then resumed its watch. The sky disappeared
behind the blindfold; he felt ropes tightening.
A military voice repeated a formula.
simultaneously.

Rifles were cocked

Three words, barked out into the blackness.

She bent over him, mantling him with her cloak. Gently, with a
nurses expertise, she took his head in her hands, and held it to
the red cross at her breast.
Cradling.

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Afterword and Acknowledgements

This novel is a fantasy, with some foundation in real events.
Wherever possible, I have worked on the principle that the
events described must be historically believable, if not
historically accurate. The details about the Spanbroekmolen
mine are, to the best of my knowledge, a fairly exact
representation of historical reality. Some of the characters are
based on historical figures; others have been built around
nothing but a name on a gravestone; still others are wholly
invented. In the case of the men in Corry Burnetts Section, I
have used real names rather than fictional ones, even when the

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true details about these people are not known, as a way of

offering remembrance through imaginative reconstruction of
what might have been. This novel does not claim to represent
true details of the individual biographies of these soldiers, and
the dates of some of their deaths have been changed.
However, in the case of Sapper McCreesh, the details, including
physical description, are fairly accurate, although it is doubtful
whether he worked specifically on the Spanbroekmolen
tunnel. He was Irish, and an ex-Durham miner. He did have
only one eye, was under the regulation height and weight for
admission into the regular Army, and the existing picture of
him shows that he had a moustache. Corry Burnett is also a real
person who did fight and die at the Battle of Messines, but all
of the details about him and his personal life, apart from his
place of origin, are invented. He may or may not be the same
reliable Corporal mentioned by Lt. Witherow (also real) in his
account of the events of 7th July, 1917.
Other characters (Siobhan O'Flaherty, Mary Newman, Lakritz,
Wilhelm) are imagined but, I hope, historically believable.
Lakritz (liquorice) is a common German name for a black dog,
and whilst there is no record of a dog by that name working at
Messines, both the German and Allied forces did make regular
use of dogs as messengers and sentries.
A Casualty Clearing Station was bombarded by the Germans at
Messines, much as described in Chapter 1, but in reality, this
occurred after the events in the novel, when the front line was

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established beyond Messines Ridge. The shelling of the

Clearing Station at Bailleul in 1917 is imagined.
The real Lionel Penrose could not have served in the Friends'
Ambulance Unit at Messines; he did not join until the following
year. His identity card for the FAU still exists. The Friends'
Ambulance Unit was one means whereby conscientious
objectors (not all of them were Quakers) could engage in
nonviolent war-service and avoid imprisonment. Some
conscientious objectors decided that this, too, was supporting
the war-effort, and opted for imprisonment instead. The
directive "Find work that needs doing. Regularise it later, if
possible," hints at the ambivalence many conscientious
objectors felt in weighing up the relative claims of
compassionate service and absolutist witness against war, as
well as pointing to the open-ended nature of FAU officers'
duties at the Western Front. In this context, I hope that
Penrose's impetuosity in driving off in the ambulance by
himself, and other unorthodox behaviours, are details which
are surprising, but not beyond belief. His words in Chapter 25
are taken from the Quaker Peace Testimony, and were
originally written by George Fox in 1651.
Padraig McBride is an invented character, but cases of men
being shot for cowardice, whether as a result of genuine
funk, conscientious objection, or the effects of shellshock,
were not uncommon. Such men were often not given proper
legal representation, and their courts martial were frequently
perfunctory affairs. The execution pole and cells at the Town

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Hall in Poperinge can still be visited: a poignant and deeply

upsetting experience for most visitors.
The wound-surgery described in Chapter 7 was standard
procedure at Casualty Clearing Stations. The most dangerous
thing about shrapnel wounds, if a soldier survived the initial
trauma, was tissue necrosis. The shrapnel itself would often
drive bacteria-ridden trench-mud into the wound, shredding
the tissue on its way through. Wound excision was essential
for survival: cutting away any tissue which was dirty or
deprived of blood-supply. This explains Siobhans response:
Sure, its good to see the fresh blood. Many of these details
are described very eloquently in a wonderful lecture by Tom
Scotland, which can be seen in transcript and on video here:
http://www.nam.ac.uk/whats-on/lunchtime-lectures/videoarchive/war-surgery-1914-18. Wounds may be sutured, but
often it was necessary to leave a significant portion open, so
that it would granulate and dry out; alternatively, a latex
rubber drain might be inserted to remove excess fluid. It
would be most irregular for a nurse to carry out such a
procedure, but Siobhan OFlaherty is a most irregular nurse, in
most irregular circumstances.
Mine tunnels were mostly reinforced with wooden structures,
but in places where the soil was sandy, the British Engineers
used steel shafts known as "tubbing". Clay-kicking, as
described in Chapter 2, was the only way of excavating soil in
more or less complete silence so as not to attract enemy
attention. The spade used by the Sappers for this purpose was

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known as a grafter. I have used mattock for the German

equivalent. My description of the underground mess-room is
based on Will Dyson's drawing, 'Home Comforts in the
Tunnels, Hill 60'. The work of the Sappers, and of their German
counterparts, was extremely dangerous, for reasons implied in
the text, and the cans full of ammonal were sometimes struck
by shrapnel whilst they were being conveyed to the tunnel.
Underground encounters with the enemy were not
uncommon, and led to brutal hand-to-hand combat in the
confined space. This explains McCreesh's sustained state of
nervousness.
My description of the explosives themselves, and of the
provisions made to detonate them, is as accurate as I have been
able to ascertain. Sappers spent considerable energy in their
attempts to keep the explosives dry, and in repeated,
sometimes compulsive, testing of the electrical circuits, which
were nearly always backed up in any case by a conventional
fuse. I have based these descriptions on accounts given by
Franky Bostyn in his essay, 'Zero Hour: Historical Note on the
British Underground War in Flanders, 1915-1917', in Fields of
Battle: Terrain: A Military History, The Geojournal Library,
Volume 64, 2002, pp. 225-236; and parts of Peter Barton, Peter
Doyle and John Vandewalle's Beneath Flanders Fields: The
Tunnelers' War 1914-1918.
The process of clay-kicking, employed by the Royal Engineers
as a means of ensuring that soil was excavated in near-silence,
was unknown to the Germans, who persisted in using

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mattocks. Wilhelm is an invented character, and this particular

tunnel is also invented, although such tunnels certainly existed
on Messines Ridge, and one had already intercepted the
Spanbroekmolen tunnel at an earlier stage in the fighting.
Despite this, the Germans were quite unaware of the enormous
extent of the British mines under Messines Ridge, and whilst
some experts, and people on or in the ground, may have
suspected that something was afoot, their warnings were not
heeded by the German high command. Any German who did
suspect the extent of the British mines under Messines was
doubtless killed by them.
Private Maes was a real person, and he really did hear rumours
of the attack in an estaminet in Baillieul, as described in
Chapter 29, but I have invented the conversation and
circumstances, as well as Maess lascivious motivations.
McCreesh's stories are adapted from the Tales of the Tuatha De
Danaan, Irish tales of ancient origin, and from other tales
involving the Irish hero Cu Chullain. Mag Tured is pronounced
"Moytura". Badhbh is pronounced (roughly) "Baave". Dagda is
pronounced "Doyda". There can be little doubt that the legend
McCreesh retells in Chapter 6 is the source of later legends of
the Banshee or Washer at the Ford. The Dagda's request of the
Morrign is as described in the Book of Invasions, as is the
detail about his sexual union with her, and the releasing of the
nine tresses, but the presence of her two sisters at that scene,
and her insistence that all of the blood from the battle should
belong to them, and not just the blood of the Fomorians, are my

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own invention. The ability of the three aspects of the Morrign

to transform into corvid birds is attested by other ancient Irish
tales.
The story told by John McCreeshs mother in Chapter 9 is
adapted from The Destruction of Da Dergas Hostel, in Tom
Peete Cross and Clark Harris Slover (Eds.), Ancient Irish Tales,
Barnes and Noble, 1936. The crow-like aspects of the Badhbh
in this story have been emphasised, and the narrative
truncated to make her its focus. The original tale is compelling
in its own right. A gaesa is a taboo which, if broken, will move
its subject one step closer to destruction. Badhbh is only one
of several names given by the mysterious woman. The list also
includes Nemain, another name regarded as an aspect of the
Morrign. The relation between Badhbh, Morrign, Nemain,
and Macha is confused. Three of them are often presented as
sisters, but the names and qualities appear to be
interchangeable. Sometimes they are represented as mortal,
but in origin, the Morrign is almost certainly a triple goddess.
All of the tales attest to her shape-shifting ability, and although
she sometimes appears to take sides, she is, like war itself,
disturbingly arbitrary or inscrutable, perhaps in her choice
of victims. In the case of Conaire, she may be reclaiming him
for the birds, since his father was an avian shape-shifter. My
novel puts forward an interpretation of the ethical stance of
the Morrign which is not attested by the ancient sources, but
not denied, either. The poem recited by Siobhan in Corrys
dream in Chapter 22 is based on the Song of the Morrign
which ends the tale of the Second Battle of Mag Tured. I have

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often combined details from more than one version of these

tales, and have also imagined many of the other details.
The description of the ravens flight in Chapter 8 is consistent
with observation. Ravens and other corvid birds often seem to
enjoy flying for the sake of it, and ravens in particular are fond
of mid-air rolling manoeuvres. All corvids are also playful and
inventive, and throwing objects and catching them in mid-air
are favourite pastimes. Her behaviour in an earlier chapter,
repeatedly rucking up the edge of a sack under one claw in
order to reach morsels at the bottom of it, is based on existing
knowledge of the reasoning ability of crows stretching as far
back as Aesop. Mentally, write John M. Marzluff and Tony
Angell, crows and ravens are more like flying monkeys than
they are like other birds. (In the Company of Crows and
Ravens, Yale, 2005, p. 40.) English corvids have been observed
using our ravens trick with the sack, in order to retrieve fastfood scraps from the bottom of bin-bags at motorway servicestations.
Finally, the events described as occurring on the morning of
the 7th June 1917 are reasonably historically accurate. It is
thought that the Spanproekmolen mine was detonated some
15 seconds too late, killing a large number of men from the
Royal Irish Rifles, as well as others. Many of these men are
buried close to where they died, at Lone Tree Cemetery on
Messines Ridge. The Spanbroekmolen crater is now filled with
water, and is known as the Pool of Peace. Several other craters
can still be seen on adjoining fields on Messines ridge. It is not

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known whether the late detonation of the Spanbroekmolen

mine was due to poor synchronisation of watches, a
communication error of another kind, or some sort of
momentary technical problem.
My decision to write this novel came as a result of a visit to
Poperinge, Ypres and Messines with a group of school
students. I am most grateful to them, and to Kate Armstrong
and Kate Berwick, as well as other teachers from Faringdon
Community College, for their companionship and intellectual
stimulus on that trip. I am also grateful to the following people
for their support, comments and criticism during the writing
of the text: Kate Valleri, Madeline Winton, Simone Keane, Mary
and Les Watson, Judith Reid, Diana Andrews, Christine Hunter,
Rory Graham, Alex Evers, Joe Thurston. Buffarches illustrated
this book as it was being written, and many features of her
illustrations influenced the latter parts of the story.
This novel is dedicated to the memory of those whose
alternative forms of bravery in wartime are often not
specifically commemorated in typical acts of remembrance:
the nurses, surgeons and ambulance drivers who laboured to
heal, the Conscientious Objectors whose witness against the
war deprived them of their liberty, and often of their lives, and
those shell-shocked victims of firing-squads who have at last
received a pardon, but not yet the unreserved apology that
they deserve.

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