An opening chapter to a book I never started.

Chapter One

Michael - 10 January 1920

The fog was thick and dense. Michael had left Calais in the small fishing boat four days ago. It took them two days to cross the sea to Plymouth. From Plymouth he was due to depart with the young French fisherman and his even younger crew to Dublin. Home. Michael repeated the word out loud, rolling the sound of it around his mouth, tasting the word, trying to connect the word to the image he had in his head from when he left. It was five years ago now, since he had last seen his city, his Mother, his family. The memories he had of them had been clouded, dulled after the years in France, the final year of which he spent in a hospital bed, using his pigeon french to try and understand what had happened to him. His leg itched, it would for a while the doctor with the thick southern accent had said. He would get used to the feeling, the limp, the lumps of shrapnel impossible to extract, the dead weight, the pain when it rained, he would get used to it. Just like he got used to everything else. At least you are alive, that is what the Doctor had said. Yes, Michael thought, at least I was alive. Michael had wondered, how do I explain to you that it would be better if they had killed me.

Michael stretched his leg and stood. He had to keep mobile, the Doctor had said that the pain would lessen if he kept his leg strong, and his will even stronger. His leg was stiff from the cold, a small whimper escaped his lips as he put all his weight on the bad leg. Not yet, he thought, I’m not strong enough yet. The Doctor had given him pills for his pain and pills to help him sleep. They were to help him move past his experiences, but he did not want to move past, to forget. How could he anyway? Even without the shrapnel in his leg, the images filled his mind every time he closed his eyes. It was worse at night, at night the memories would seem so real it was like being back there. The sobbing of boys too young to die, crying out for their Mothers, their Fathers, anyone to help them. Then after a few hours the crying would stop, and Michael would know they were gone to be with Him. It was only the next morning as the light reached over those high earth walls that Michael would know who they had lost. 

The young O’Connor boy, was one of the first to go, he had been frightened the first night. Michael could smell the urine off him, but he said nothing, the boy did not need to be humiliated for his fear. Fear made you strong, it heightens your senses, no matter what their commander said, fear was your friend, fear would keep you safe. Eventually after the third night as the stench of clothes three times pissed in filled their nostrils the other lads noticed. That moment, Michael was convinced, marked O’Connor, marked him as the next sacrifice for Death to collect, and collect he would, didn’t he always? The insults thrown down the line towards O’Connor, were not to force him over the top early. Of course they weren’t, but they did. When night fell that night and the signal was sounded O’Connor was one of the first over. Michael was behind him, watching O’Connor, terrified at first, but then with each step he survived the boy seemed to grow taller and taller. He glanced back to see Michael, smiling at him O’Connor opened his mouth to say something, Michael had almost even formed a smile at the look of excitement on the boys face, but then that soft sound, utterly unmistakable but indescribable, a bullet piercing through skin, the boys face changed from excitement to confusion and then to darkness. Dead, instantly. He was lucky, Michael thought it then and he thought it now. Lucky to have died instantly, lucky to have died at all. It was Michael who had sent his letters for him. O’Connor was too young to have a sweetheart, a girl back home waiting for him, his letters were to his Mother and it was to her that Michael addressed the envelope. Putting a small note that simply said: Your son is dead. I am sorry. He didn’t even sign it. Why would Mrs O’Connor need to know? Why would she want to see the name of the soldier who gave her the bad news. Why would she care what his name was? Anyway, O’Connor was supposed to write a last letter to her himself, explaining that he loved her, that he had tried to make her proud. Whatever young boys put into the letters for the Mothers that waited for them. For the Mother’s that knelt at the side of their bed each night, slipping the beads of the rosary through their hands. Pray for us, Mothers, now and at the hour of our death. Who prayed for them? Michael wondered, while they were praying for their sons at War. Who prayed for the Mothers? To have given life and to have no control over when it was taken, that must be the hardest trial He ever gave anyone.

The youngest of the crew, Michael couldn’t remember his name, approached him warily. Carefully the young boy moved into Michael’s eye line from as far away as possible and made slow deliberate movements towards Michael. He stopped an arms length away and with a tentative smile and a shaking hand offered him the cup. Michael attempted to smile back, but judging from the young boys frightened expression he didn’t quite manage it. Michael averted his eyes to give the boy the opportunity to scurry away. The fear, Michael thought, came when they had just left Calais. It was the first night, Michael went below deck ostentatiously to sleep, in reality he could not stand the questioning eyes of the young crew members, looking from Michael to the boat’s Captain, Aldrick wondering what the relationship between the two was. There was no real relationship, just a man who needed to get home, and a Captain who took pity on him. It was after midnight and the ships bobbing in the water had managed to lull Michael into a light sleep, the first since he left the hospital two months previously. Aldrick had finished serving dinner to his crew and was wondering whether to wake the young Irishman below, he decided against it and was glad he had when a red flare appeared in the sky. Aldrick mobilised his crew to turn the boat off course to help whoever was in trouble. Following protocol Aldrick ran to fetch his responding flare to let the other boat know that help was on the way. The noise of the crew running back and forth must have woken the Irishman, as he emerged rubbing his eyes to clear the sleep from them Aldrick shot the flare into the sky. As he did so he glanced at the Irishman, Aldrick saw the Irishman’s eyes follow the flare into the sky, and as it erupted casting them all in it’s green hue Aldrick saw the Irishman’s eyes go blank.

Aldrick's own brother Patrice had the same look in his eye when he came back to Calais in 1871, his Maman had called it la peur. Aldrick had only seen the look in Patrice’s eyes twice, the first time in the year after Patrice returned home when a young Aldrick had popped a balloon, as he began to cry Patrice approached him, thinking that his brother sought to comfort him Aldrick had lifted his face to his older brother and had seen the blank stare, just before Aldrick saw Patrice’s fist flying towards him, knocking him into a wall. When he woke up Patrice had disappeared. Aldrick did not tell his Maman fearing that she would send Patrice away. When Patrice returned six months later he had come into Aldrick’s room late and night and gently kissed the boys head, stroking his hair. Patrice sat by Aldrick’s bed and hummed quietly to himself. When Aldrick risked a shy glance through half closed eyelids he saw Patrice weeping with his War rifle in his arms. Aldrick had whispered to Patrice, asking him what he was doing. Patrice had wiped his tears, when Patrice, looked up, locking eyes with his younger brother Aldrick saw the blank stare, and he was afraid. Patrice left, saying nothing. The next morning his Maman wailing had woken Aldrick, he had rushed to the kitchen seeing Patrice’s feet, the rifle lying abandoned and the kitchen floor covered in what looked like tomato sauce. When Aldrick had made to step into the kitchen, to wake Patrice, his Maman had swept him up in her apron. When she had stopped crying his Maman took Aldrick’s chin in her hands, and looked into his eyes and said, that la peur  had taken his brother. When Aldrick had asked what la peur was, she had said that it was something Napoleon had given her son, like a disease.

So when Aldrick saw the Irishman emerge with the same look, he knew what was happening, what he did not know was how la peur  would affect the Irishman. When the young Alexandre, the youngest of the crew and Aldrick’s wife’s bastard nephew, had accidentally bumped into the Irishman, before Aldrick could yell out to stop him, the Irishman had the young boy by the throat, pressing him against the ships side and threatening to kill him. When Aldrick had attempted to pull the Irishman off the boy, the Irishman had with one hand flung him the entire width of the ship. It took all six crew members to tear him away from the boy. Once they had calmed both the Irishman and the young Alexandre they had helped the distressed fishing boat. For Aldrick, no harm had been done, and all the travellers should simply move passed it, but for the duration of their trip to Plymouth Alexandre would not be alone with the Irishman. It was only since they had arrived at Plymouth and departed for Dublin that Alexandre was willing to interact, however briefly. This was in no small part due to the Irishman buying the illiterate boy a picture comic book as a way of unspoken apology. The boy loved the comic and poured over it late and night when he was due to be keeping watch for Aldrick and he and the strange Irishman had made a truce of sorts since.

Michael had known nothing of the Captains past, but he found himself watching the Captain more closely, wondering how the Captain had known what to do with Michael when he was in such a state. Aldrick and his men had wrestled Michael below deck they locked him beneath. After what felt to Michael like hours but probably was only a few minutes Aldrick returned below deck with a bottle of whiskey and two cigarettes. Aldrick simply poured the whiskey into two glasses, proffering the first glass and a cigarette to Michael, Aldrick tipped the glass towards Michael, Santé he said, and Michael had clinked his own glass against the Captains and said Sláinte. As they drank to each others health they had surveyed each other quietly, until Michael cleared his throat and muttered in a mix of French and English. I’m sorry, he said I don’t know what happened, the flare just... Michael trailed off. He didn’t know what happened, never mind knowing how to explain it to a man who had never seen war. Michael didn’t know how to explain what it was like to smell death on his own hands, to feel as if he was being followed by a shadow, to feel the cold icy breath of a ghost whispering that it should have been you. Aldrick spoke then, he told Michael briefly of his brother, of the curse of la peur. When Michael asked what la peur meant Aldrick spoke in English and explained it was the fear, a fear you got like a disease from experiencing too much fear, both your own and other people’s. Michael had nodded as if he agreed, but he didn’t, he believed the fear came from not having experienced enough pain. Dying was easy, no fear, no regrets, nothing. Living though, it is living that is the very essence of fear, beginning every day wondering if today is the day you join them all.

Whenever Michael thought of that night he was ashamed of his actions, of the terror he must have instilled in the young boy. They did not talk much more after their first drink and when they finished Aldrick had simply stood and left. Since that night however Michael and Aldrick had shared something, and it had made both men mildly embarrassed in each others company. There had been no late night drinking since, and when they had landed in Plymouth Michael had simply bought Aldrick a replacement bottle of Whiskey, although not that shite he fed Michael proper Irish Whiskey, the likes of which you could only get in England ironically. Michael had also picked up a comic for the young lad, as a way of apology. He loved the comics as a kid and remembered passing them down to his youngest brother when he was done with them.

Michael looked up from the cup in his hands out onto the black sea. He had not realised that the boy instead of just scuttling off like he usually did was stood beside Michael watching out over the water. How long have we been stood here now, Michael asked. The boy looked at the sky, and shrugged his shoulders. Michael wasn’t sure if it was that he didn’t know the answer or that he didn’t understand the question. Michael sighed and stood with the boy in silence. Eventually the boy turned to Michael and asked in heavily accented English, what was it like? Michael turned his head and eyed the boy curiously. What did this young boy, know of War? Michael decided to answer with his own question, where did you learn English? From the men, the boy answered, the men that came to my village. My mother, he coughed looking embarrassed, I don’t know how to say in English, she was a une fille. A girl? Michael asked laughing, Mother’s usually are. No, the boy cried looking frustrated, she was a, unholy woman, on the streets. The penny dropped, his Mother was a whore. Michael didn’t judge, although he knew many would and they would judge the son of a whore worse then the whore herself. He put his hand on the boys shoulder and said, It doesn’t matter you know. It doesn’t tell you anything about yourself. The boy nodded, My uncle takes care of me. He’s given me a job. Maybe I will meet a girl and I will have my own sons. Michael nodded, understanding how important it was for this young boy to create a legacy that was different to the one his own Mother had left him. Michael thought about his own Father, he was dead, and Michael was glad of it. He had been a hard mean bastard to Michael, his Mother and his siblings. Thinking of his family Michael looked over the sea again and sighed, he would be home soon.

The boy was still looking at him. Wondering, Michael supposed, whether or not he would get to hear stories of the War. Michael wouldn’t tell them, he would not glory War, and he would not take credit for surviving when so many had died. He was lucky, that was all. He was as lucky as the others had been unlucky. That was the nature of War, it was a game of dice, but it wasn’t Michael and the men like him who were throwing it, no, those men sat in comfortable War rooms and spun epitaphs like ‘Home by Christmas’ what utter horseshit that had been. Michael reached into his pocket and felt the edges of the star in his pocket. He had two more medals in his kit below deck. He took the medal out of his pocket and saw the boys eyes fixate on the object. Michael took one look last look at it, hoping that the boy would understand what he was about to do, but realising in the same moment that it didn’t matter. When the boy looked quizzically at Michael he sighed and said too many bad memories. Michael looked once more at the medals, and stared over the choppy sea. The boy wouldn’t understand it and how could Michael expect him to? Resigning himself to what he was about to do, he took a deep breath and hurled the medals over the deck and out to sea. The boy leaned over desperately searching for a glint of the metal as it sank below the suraface, he turned to Michael, I don’t understand the boy said. Michael grimaced, put a hand on the boys shoulder and said, I hope you never have to. The boy nodded briefly at Michael and then rushed below deck, probably to tell his uncle what the stranger had done this time. Michael stared over the choppy sea and thought once more of returning home.