There Will Be War Volume VIII, page 25
When the spires of Clifden came into view, she heard his voice again. “Where to, Larkin?”
She gave him her sister’s address.
The house stood in a side street. He halted the tank outside the front door. She got down from the turret. He stayed in his driving cubby, head out of the hatch, watching her. Other eyes watched from behind curtains. Several figures congregated on the street corner. No one approached near the tank.
She called, “Aren’t you coming in with me?”
He shook his head.
She mounted the steps of her sister’s home. The front door was ajar. From within came the sound of a woman screeching in anger, and the basso rumble of protest from a man. Hand on the door knocker, Celia hesitated. She heard the sounds of altercation and the unmistakable crash of breaking pottery. She dropped her hand from the knocker.
She stumbled back to the tank. “I think I’ve made a mistake, Sergeant.”
He jerked a thumb. “Get aboard!”
She climbed back to the turret, conscious of being watched. Safe in her refuge, she thumbed the intercom. “What happens now?”
He said, “Dr. Mallon made us a fair offer.”
Her thoughts were in turmoil. No refuge for the sergeant in Kilcollum. No haven for her at her sister’s. Was there any point in planning ahead? If she didn’t want to lose him, she had to make up her mind. She thumbed the button. “Let’s go back to Barley Cross, Sergeant.”
He reversed to the main road, backed out, and turned east.
She shouted over the intercom, “There’s a strange craft astern. It has a gun!”
The Chieftain came round in its own length.
They stared at the potential threat. Celia got the magnifying sight on the target. “It looks like a tractor, with a trailer.”
He said, “It’s parked. Keep your head down. They may not have seen you.”
Head out in the sunlight, he drove slowly towards the strange vehicle. A platform had been built between the driving wheels. On the platform, an Oerlikon-type gun pointed skywards. From the driver’s seat, a man watched their approach. An automatic rifle rested across his knees.
Sergeant O’Meara called to him. “Hi, chief! Would ye be interested in buying a tank?”
Only the man’s eyes moved. His response was unenthusiastic. “If you’re wanting the boss, he’s in Finnegan’s bar with the boys.”
Patrick O’Meara appeared to meditate. “I was just wondering if he fancied acquiring himself a tank.”
The man’s eyes rolled to take in the full length of the Chieftain’s 120mm gun. “Are you seeking to sell it?”
Patrick O’Meara nodded. “If the price is right.”
“Have you ammo for that cannon?”
“A few rounds.”
“You’d better wait ’til Healey gets back.”
Patrick O’Meara eased himself out of the hatch, to prop his back against the turret. “I’m a stranger here,” he admitted. “I pinched this bugger off the British army. Someone ought to have a use for it.”
The man relaxed. “I reckon the boss will take it, if you’ll wait.”
The sergeant stretched out his legs on the glacis. “Och—I’m in no hurry. What’s that ye have on the trailer?”
The man didn’t turn his head. “Armour plate. A warship went aground in the bay. It’s breaking up. Healey intended to make a tank out of this machine with the plates we salvaged. Looks like you’ve saved him the trouble.”
“Is your boss at war with someone?”
The man glanced along the road behind the tank. “He’s at war with anyone that looks for bother around here.”
The rear periscope showed Celia that the road astern was empty. Clifden’s citizens had decided that neither tank nor tractor was of interest to them. She put her eye back to the gun sight.
Voice casual, Patrick O’Meara said, “Did you ever meet with a gang from out Kilcollum way?”
The man sneered. “That lot? Sure, they were no problem. We burned ’em out, months ago!”
Sergeant O’Meara stiffened. “Were you there?”
The man grinned. “Was I there—Jasus!”
Patrick O’Meara’s hand dived inside his jacket. The man swung up his rifle, and Celia fired her machine gun. A stream of tracers streaked over the man’s head. He ducked, his attention diverted. Patrick O’Meara’s bullet took him in the neck.
The man screamed, and dropped the gun. The sergeant slid back through his hatch. He reversed the tank alongside the tractor. Ignoring the figure slumped over the steering wheel, he got down and uncoupled the trailer.
She screeched at him from the cupola. “What are you doing?”
He looked up. “Watch the road, Larkin. Those shots will bring out the rest of them. I want this armour plate for Barley Cross.”
He undipped the towing hawser from the track cover, and hitched the trailer to the Chieftain. Bullets were spanging off the glacis as he climbed back into the driver’s hatch.
The intercom came alive. “You okay, Larkin?”
She tried to stop trembling. “I—I think so.”
“Batten down—we’re getting out of here.”
The motor roared. He nudged the tractor out of the way. Towing the trailer, the tank rumbled towards the villains spewing from Finnegan’s bar. She watched them scatter for cover.
He said, “If I were up there, I’d give them a dose of metal poisoning.”
She said coldly, “Isn’t one death enough for you, Sergeant?”
The intercom muttered a smothered blasphemy. “They murdered my parents, Larkin. He would have killed me. And that rifle was a Kalashnikov.”
“Is that bad?”
“They’re all bad things in my book.”
Later, trundling along the lonely road below the twelve bens, he began to hum “The Low-backed Car.”
Five miles off Recess, a loose tread began to clang. He got out to inspect the cause. She filled the kettle, and plugged in. Tea was ready when he poked his head over the open cupola.
“Did you notice a blacksmith in Barley Cross?”
She passed him a steaming cup. “He was shoeing a horse as we left.”
He sipped the tea, blowing on the hot liquid. “We’ll be needing his services.”
“Something you can’t fix, Sergeant?”
He nodded. “I can’t–” He broke off to stare back along the road.
She poked her head out to see.
He said, “Those villains have followed us.”
She reached down for his binoculars. The tractor had halted. She could see figures on the gun platform, and others standing in the road.
“How far are they, do you reckon?” he asked.
She shrugged. “A couple of miles.”
“About that,” he agreed. “Make room in there, Larkin. They think they’re out of range.”
She watched him load a round of armour-piercing, fin-stabilised, discarding sabot.
He said, “Put on the headphones, Larkin. This’ll make a noise.”
The explosion gouged out the verge beside the tractor. The tractor lifted sideways, and toppled, to balance on one large wheel. Through the binoculars, she saw figures running away.
The sergeant opened the floor hatch, and wriggled down into the driver’s seat. “Stand by the machine gun, Larkin.”
He turned the tank in the width of the road, and rumbled back towards the tractor.
She said, “Where are we going?”
He was humming softly. “I want that Oerlikon gun, if it’s serviceable.”
Did he think of nothing but guns and vengeance? She said, “Why did you shoot at them? They couldn’t hurt us.”
He continued to hum, unperturbed. “They were following us. Barley Cross has enough troubles, without me bringing them more.”
She gulped with relief. “You only fired to frighten them off?”
The humming ceased. “No, Larkin. I tried to kill them. I’ll get them all, one fine day.”
The doctor was waiting for them in the village’s main street. He waved to them. “Are you stopping this time, Sergeant?”
Patrick O’Meara waved back. “Are those jobs still open?”
The doctor grinned. “Come and meet someone.”
In his surgery-cum-living room, he introduced his friends. “Larry, Kevin and I try to represent the villagers. Larry has been teaching them how to defend themselves. He’ll put you in the picture.”
Larry Desmond stretched long legs towards the turf fire glowing in the grate. “Jasus, Dinny—about all I can teach them is that shotguns aren’t much use against automatic rifles, and the best thing to do is keep yer head down. They can do that without an old soldier’s advice.”
Sergeant O’Meara lounged on the doctor’s cushions. One week of roughing it in a tank was sufficient to teach appreciation of such luxuries. He said, “I have a dozen FN rifles aboard my wagon. I lifted them from the guard room before I took off with the tank.”
Kevin Murphy rubbed reddened hands before the fire. “A sensible precaution for a rebel, Sergeant. I believe they shoot deserters in the British army.”
Patrick O’Meara ignored the jibe. He was no rebel. He was a reasoning being who could recognise the futility of trying to control the uncontrollable. He said, “In my mob they’d crucify you for desertion.”
Kevin Murphy flexed his fingers in the heat. “A typical autocratic reaction.”
Larry Desmond cackled. “What would your lot do, Kev—guillotine ’em?”
Patrick O’Meara hid his disgust. No wonder Barley Cross was everybody’s football, with these two running things! He said, “I’ve some Kalashnikovs I picked up with the Oerlikon. They’ll take a 7.62mm Nato round, too.” He turned to the doctor. “I could arm a platoon.”
Denny Mallon got out a bottle and glasses. Celia shook her head at his enquiring glance. He poured for the men, saying, “Just tell us what to do, Sergeant. We’ll folly your instructions.”
Patrick O’Meara fought the impulse to get up and walk out. Devising a defence for this village, faced with such complacency, could be harder than fighting villains. But Barley Cross was his only hope. At least, its citizens were attempting to live normal lives.
He said, “I want twenty full-time volunteers for my standing army.”
“Done!” exclaimed Larry Desmond. “I’ll guarantee “em.”
“And we need a refuge for noncombatants—who owns the castle up beyond?”
Denny sipped his poteen with a grimace. “It’s an old O’Flaherty stronghold. A chap called Higgins converted it to a home, some years ago. He and his missus went off to Dublin seeking relatives when the troubles started. We’ve seen neither hair nor hide of them since.”
Patrick O’Meara made his voice brisk. This was the fuel business over again—you couldn’t afford to hesitate. He said, “We’ll take it over. If we put armoured shutters on the doors and windows, build gun platforms on the roof, we’ll have a fortress which will shake a fist at the whole of Connemara!”
Larry Desmond waved his glass. “Hold on, now! What if the Higgins—?”
Kevin Murphy raised a restraining palm. “It’s in the name of the people, Larry. Higgins will have to accept force majeure.”
Patrick O’Meara lay back, and let them argue. It had to work, in spite of them. He said, “We start first thing tomorrow.”
In three months, the sergeant had a fighting force which proved itself in a raid on a mobile gang camped near Lough Corrib. Larry Desmond had been promoted to general, getting him out of the way. Kevin Murphy, as a vet, had been given charge of all four-legged transport. Andy McGrath, a foot-loose bachelor who had seen service in the Irish army, had been made up to sergeant. The captured Oerlikon and one of the Chieftain’s machine guns now dominated the battlements of the O’Flaherty stronghold—which had already been christened O’Meara’s Fist—and Celia Larkin was instructing a group of Barley Cross volunteers in the nuances of Modern Art.
Patrick O’Meara sat at his desk in a downstairs room of O’Meara’s Fist, plotting a raid on Tuam for medical supplies.
A knock on the door interrupted his musings.
“Are ye busy?” enquired Denny Mallon. “I’d like a word with you, Pat.”
He pushed his plans up the table. “Come in, Denny.”
The doctor’s face was unreadable. “I have mixed news for you. Celia Larkin came to see me today.”
Patrick O’Meara hadn’t seen the schoolmistress for weeks. Since being appointed Military Adviser, he had been busy creating an army. He growled, “What’s she been up to?”
Denny Mallon pulled out a chair, and sat down facing the sergeant. “She came to consult me in my professional capacity.” He paused a moment, as though reconsidering his decision to break a confidence. Then he said, “She’s had a miscarriage.”
Patrick O’Meara froze.
“She’s all right,” the doctor assured him. “I’ve sent her to bed for a few days. And no one knows what’s happened to her but we three.”
Voice scarcely audible, he whispered, “Was it me, Denny?”
The doctor’s voice was equally restrained. “Who else, Pat? Celia is not a loose woman. And, in any case, we’re all sterile in Barley Cross.”
Patrick O’Meara studied his palms. “What’s it mean, Denny?”
The doctor leaned towards him. “It means you’re unique, Pat. You are fertile! You may be the only fertile man in all Ireland.”
Sergeant O’Meara looked up, fearfully. “What do you expect me to do?”
Denny Mallon spread his hands on the table. “I don’t know yet, Pat. But we can’t ignore such an opportunity. You’d better not go on any more raids…”
Two days later, the doctor summoned them all to his home. Pale-faced, and wrapped in a thick cardigan, Celia Larkin sat close to the fire.
The doctor rubbed his hands together briskly. “I’ve called us together because we have a problem. Our military adviser has discovered that he’s fertile. And, since I know he has his eye on a certain young lady, I feel he should be dissuaded from his honourable intentions.”
Celia Larkin marvelled at the neatness of it. Perhaps the others wouldn’t be too curious…
General Desmond looked up from the glass he was filling with the doctor’s poteen. “Why should we object to his marrying, Dinny? Is it any business of ours what the lad does in private?”
Celia Larkin blessed the old fool.
Kevin Murphy ahemmed. “Might I ask how you can be sure of what you claim?”
Denny Mallon pursed his lips. “Would you expect me to ignore my Hippocratic Oath? You know the secrets of the surgery are inviolate, Kevin. But, rest assured—I have examined Pat, and I confirm what he says.”
“And who’s he fancying to marry?” demanded the general. “I’d like to keep out of the lady’s way for a while.”
The doctor frowned in mock reproof. “Hold on now, Larry.
Who Pat fancies is his own business. I just feel he ought not to marry at all.”
“All right, I’ll buy it,” agreed the general. “Tell us why he shouldn’t wed.”
The doctor steepled his fingers. “If our military adviser is fertile, shouldn’t he be encouraged to spread his gift as widely as possible? Wouldn’t we all be happy to see a few children around the village?”
The general showed interest. “But that would mean polygamy—or its equivalent!”
“I hope not,” interpolated Patrick O’Meara. “I’m no performing ram.”
“There’s our problem,” said the doctor. “How can we fix it so that the O’Meara genes are distributed all over the village?”
“It would help if he was a ram,” grunted the vet.
Denny Mallon rolled the title on his tongue. “O’Meara the Ram. Now that has a fine ring about it!”
“Even if Pat is willing–” began Celia Larkin.
“Who said he was willing?” interrupted the military adviser.
“–what about the women’s feelings? He can’t marry them all. And, if they were not willing, it would be rape. And, if they were, he would be committing adultery. Or fornication, if the lady were single.”
General Desmond turned round in surprise. “I’m astonished to hear such talk from you, Celia!”
She snuggled deep in her cardigan. Was Larry Desmond really astonished? Or did he just want to see which way the only woman present would jump?
She said, “You’re thinking with your stomach, General. What Denny has just told us means that Barley Cross could have children playing in its streets again. The village might possibly survive the demise we all fear. In a few years, I could reopen your school. But we have to work out a way to bring it about.”
The general grunted. “That’s easy. Line ’em up, and send ’em in by numbers. Shoot them that won’t toe the line!”
The military adviser seemed about to speak. Instead, he closed his mouth, and began to think.
Celia Larkin was laughing. “We don’t live in Soviet Russia, General—or wherever it is they do that sort of thing.”
“Nothing wrong with Soviet Russia,” grunted Kevin Murphy. “If they found a ram there, the women would have more sense than to turn their backs on him.”
The general grinned. “But that’s exactly what–!”
“Please, gentlemen!” Denny Mallon intervened. “Let’s avoid lewd talk. We have a lady present.”
Celia Larkin spread her hands before the fire. There was a way it could be done, if a certain person was prepared to forget her hopes. Did the future of a community rate higher than personal happiness? Silently, Celia Larkin made her own sacrifice.
She said, “There used to be a custom called jus primae noctis…”
Kevin Murphy choked on his poteen. “That’s bloody medievalism. Pandering to a depraved aristocracy!”
She smiled sweetly. “Can you think of a better way to spread a survival gene?”
The vet conquered the politician. Kevin Murphy muttered, “Bejasus, I never looked at it in that light!”
Larry Desmond poured himself another drink. “Do you think our Barley Cross women would accept that solution?”
