Evil for Evil (35 page)
“Hugh, you know it’s one thing to fight for a cause when your blood’s up. It’s quite another thing to think about dying while underground in the dark, waiting for the gas to take you. It puts things in perspective, and can make the bravest fighting man weep for his home, and one more chance to see it. That’s something I know, Hugh, and I’d say you do too. And whatever happens to these lads, it’s something they’ve learned today as well, God help them.”
“I won’t argue that,” Carrick said. “Or with the results.”
“We’re not out of the woods yet,” I said. “Grady O’Brick and four BARs are missing.”
“THEY’VE GOT TO be the diversion,” I said as we got out of the RUC police car at the church. “The signal for the main group to come out of the tunnel and start the attack. That’s the key to the whole operation, and Grady would see to that himself.”
“Well, I’m game if it will help,” Masters said, following Carrick into the church by a side door. He held it for Uncle Dan and me, and I hesitated for just a moment as I shivered at the memory of what I had been taught in catechism class. It was drummed into us that every Catholic must fulfill his obligation by attending Mass where Jesus Christ himself is physically present in the Eucharist, where prayers are offered for the living and the dead, and where reparation is made for sin. I can still remember that litany. Not to mention the fact that it was forbidden to worship in a Protestant church or, for good measure, to enter one, since they made a mockery of Holy Communion by insisting it was nothing but crackers and grape juice.
“Come on, lad, crossing that threshold is nothing compared to what we have to do next,” Uncle Dan said. So I stepped inside, making the sign of the cross as subtly as I could, to ward off the sin I was committing, comforting myself that Saint Patrick himself must be watching over us and explaining to the Big Guy that it was all in a good cause.
I had started everything by saying Grady was likely to get close with his diversion, figuring he’d want to see the enactment of his vengeance after so many years. We still had no idea where he and the final members of his team were, and questioning the prisoners had revealed nothing. In the bright light aboveground, the threat of immediate immolation gone, they’d found fortitude and told us all to go to hell.
I volunteered to keep close to the marchers but I didn’t want Grady to spot me either. That’s when Carrick came up with his grand idea, and even Uncle Dan had to admit it was a good one.
Bob Masters had the look of a Unitarian about him, so he didn’t care one way or the other. But Uncle Dan and I were about to become the first two Irish Catholics ever to march in an Orangemen’s parade. Any others who ever got this close likely hadn’t lived to speak of it. We’d be in the front row, fitted out in full lodge regalia, beneath the Union Jack and the rest of the heathen Ulster banners the men carried. It was the best camouflage we could ask for, and it would give us a vantage point from which to scout out Grady and his gang.
Carrick led us into a hall off the church itself. It was dominated at one end by a portrait of King William of Orange at the Battle of the Boyne, that terrible event of 1690 that spelled the end of Irish sovereignty for hundreds of years. Here it was celebrated with as much fervor as it was mourned elsewhere. The present-day king smiled from the opposite wall, and between the two English monarchs were hung banners with blood red crosses, skull and crossbones, and the fearsome Red Hand of Ulster. If someone had grabbed me and slit my throat it wouldn’t have come as a surprise.
Everyone was dressed the same: dark suit, bowler hat, satin aprons like the Masons wore, and colorful sashes around their chests, black with red and gold trim, jaunty fringe along with strange symbols and more medals than George Patton ever wore. They eyed us warily, and we stuck close to Carrick, unsure of our welcome.
Carrick called the men around him and gave a little speech. He spoke plainly, telling them there was danger of attack during or after the parade; that most of the IRA conspirators had been caught but that if anyone wanted to bow out, they should feel free to do so. No one wanted to, it was clear. They weren’t a cowardly bunch, I had to give them that. Then Carrick pointed to three men, and asked if they’d be willing to make a sacrifice to help us find the last of the conspirators.
Each said he’d give his life for king and Ulster, and there were cheers all around. Carrick said that wouldn’t be necessary, all he wanted was their clothes and regalia. Hoots and hollers followed. Having offered to surrender their lives, they could hardly decline to turn over their trousers.
Carrick introduced us as his American guests and asked the lodge men to grant us every courtesy, and made sure to say it was through our efforts that the plot had largely been foiled. Meaning that even though two of us were papists, they should tolerate us since we’d saved their Royal Black behinds. There was a bit of grumbling but soon we were each being dressed by our counterparts, who stood in their skivvies adjusting our ties, sashes, ribbons, and medals.
“There, you look like a proper Orangeman,” my guy said as he popped the bowler on my head. “No offense intended, of course.” He gave a sly smile and stepped back, viewing his handiwork. I stuffed my .45 in my waistband and put a full clip in each pocket.
“None taken, pal. I’ll try to return the suit with no holes.” We shook hands, and the three Royal Black Knights in their underwear went off for a cup of tea in the church kitchen.
Carrick signaled us to form up outside. In the road by the church a kilted bagpipe band had formed up, along with a contingent of British and American officers. Behind them were other Royal Knights in the same general garb but with their own banners. Some sported pictures of old King William, others displayed biblical scenes. Flags with the red cross stuck through a crown, the symbol of the Knights, fluttered in the afternoon breeze.
“These are our overseas guests from other lodges,” Carrick said, pointing to the officers. “Actually we call them encampments but not everyone grasps what that means.”
Some of the officers joined our group and, with the Union Jack snapping briskly above us, the pipes swirling their tunes, drums pounding, and the flag of Ulster unfurled with great ceremony, we set off under the Cross of Saint George with the Red Hand smack in the middle of it.
“I think we should keep this to ourselves when we get back home,” Uncle Dan said.
“With the pipes and all, it’s a bit like Saint Patrick’s Day,” I said.
“Sure it is, only without the saint himself. If I get killed, my only joy will be never to be reminded of this again.”
“Don’t say that. Besides, if you get killed, you’ll go to hell for not going to Mass after being in that church. So keep your eyes peeled.” He laughed, and we marched in step. It might have been my imagination but it seemed like the other marchers kept their distance from us. I was in the middle of the front line, with Uncle Dan and Masters on my right. Carrick had been to my left but an Army Air Force bird colonel worked his way between us.
“You’re a Yank,” he said. “Did you bring all your regalia with you?”
“Listen, Colonel, we have sort of an undercover operation going on here. You might want to step back.”
“I heard there was some trouble up at Brownlow House,” he said.
“There was. Colonel, you’re bound to get shot at enough in this war as it is. You might want to drop back a few rows so you don’t start too soon.”
“Hell, boy, I’ve been flying B-17s over France and Germany for a year now. I made it back from the raid on Schweinfurt, so don’t tell me to drop back. They’ve got me over here now flying a desk for bit of rest. You’re not a Royal Black Knight?”
“This is my first parade as one, sir. Probably my last.”
He fell back one row. The wind gusted up and blew leaves across the road as we entered the grounds of Brownlow House. I tried to work out where Grady would be. I looked into the woods but I was sure Masters’s men had checked them out. I scanned the trees, wondering if they’d checked for sniper positions, but a BAR is damn heavy to carry up a tree. We marched straight toward the curve where the rear guard had been, and I tightened my gut as we drew closer, imagining BARs opening up at close range.
We turned, and a small crowd of onlookers in front of Brownlow House cheered. It looked like off-duty GIs, wives, and locals, a few MPs and RUC constables mixed in. On the stone veranda, some chairs and a lectern stood at the edge closest to the lawn. I could make out a few elderly Black Knights, resting their hands on canes, plus some British and American brass and a little girl in a red dress, holding a bouquet of flowers. I caught Carrick’s eye and he shrugged, as if to say he hadn’t known about the girl but it was too late now.
“Where, Billy, where?” Uncle Dan muttered, his head swiveling from side to side. We had about one hundred yards to go to the veranda, where I guessed we would end the march and face the speaker. Carrick held up his left hand, halting the parade. The pipe band moved around us, and we stayed put long enough for them to pass by on the right. Then we started again, making our way to where the viewers had gathered, near the speaker’s stand. The band took up position on our right, in front of the line of vehicles where we’d left the ambulance. The pipes and drums have always stirred me, an otherworldly, ancient sound that served as backdrop to battles through the centuries, from broadswords to bayonets. If ever there was music to keep a man in the line of battle, this was it. I wondered what it was doing for Grady and his men, hidden somewhere nearby, hands clenching their weapons.
One of the Knights on the veranda stood, then the others did too, as the banners came closer. One of them held the little girl’s hand. The veranda was open, no low wall to separate it from the lawn. No cover for the little girl in the red dress. Fifty yards to go. It could happen any second now. I felt sweat drip down the small of my back and a gnawing fear eat at my gut. I had to stop it. I didn’t want to face the bloodshed and the guilt if I failed. It’s what I was supposed to do, what Dad had drummed into my head: Protect the innocent, punish the guilty. Thoughts of carnage filled my mind, and I imagined dozens of bodies, the sharp breeze flapping bits of bloody clothing against lifeless limbs. No, no. no. I didn’t want that, didn’t want to witness that, didn’t want to remember it for the rest of my life.
“Where, goddamn it?!” Uncle Dan said it again louder, and I knew his cop’s sense of duty was at work, desperate to stop the shooters before they inflicted harm.
Where, where, where? The Jenkins truck had seemed perfect, especially if they didn’t think we were onto them. Twenty yards, only that many paces to go. I could see the faces waiting, smiling, hands clapping, pointing out the banners, waving to their husbands and sweethearts. More officers strolled out onto the veranda, admiring the procession. Now, now is when I’d do it. Or wait, wait until we’d halted. Carrick looked at me. I was at a loss.
The truck. Why hadn’t they used it? Because somebody might question why a Jenkins truck was still here. It was a delivery truck, and delivery trucks deliver—and leave. What about a truck that doesn’t leave? We’d driven in without anyone checking us out, and our ambulance was still there. Right next to a U.S. Army deuce-and-a-half, parked head in instead of being backed in, which was standard procedure.
I turned to look again, and I was right—all the other vehicles were backed in. The pipe band was right in front of the truck, between the tailgate and the veranda. I broke ranks, pulling my automatic out, screaming for everyone to get down, get down,
get down!
I raced at the truck, pistol held out in front with a two-handed grip, waiting for everyone to move out of the way, waiting for movement in the truck. Pipers dove out of my way, one drummer at the end of the line standing and drumming in spite of the madness around him. The dying wails of the pipes sounded like so many death rattles. I jumped over a drummer hugging the ground and felt my finger tighten, just a little, wanting that extra split second that could mean another day in the Irish sun.
The tailgate dropped. I fired two quick shots then sidestepped, saw a muzzle blast, fired at it twice, then ran to the side of the truck and fired the last four shots through the canvas, dropped the clip, loaded another as I ducked and ran around the front, popping up on the other side, squeezing off four more shots through the canvas, angling them downward, thinking they’d be flat on their bellies, aiming prone. There was more shooting, and I fired my last three rounds and ran my last clip in as I realized it wasn’t the sound of a BAR I was hearing, thank God, but the sound of police revolvers. I stepped back, automatic aimed at the truck, and worked my way left. Uncle Dan was kneeling, his arm extended, searching for a target. Carrick held his revolver steady as well, Masters at his side, bowler still on his head. After the sound of gunfire, silence filled the air, the marchers and onlookers on the ground, holding their breath, waiting for the next volley. I don’t think I’ve ever experienced such a complete absence of sound.
Then a man in the truck began to cry. Choked sobs at first, then a torrent of anguish, the kind of agony that comes not from bullets on bone but from deep within a fearful heart. I edged around, watching Carrick and the others closing in with one eye and the interior of the truck with the other. The canvas flap was tied off above the tailgate, so I had to stoop for a clear view.
There had been four of them in the prone position, BARs set up on their bipods. One was crying great gobs of tears and wailing like a child with a skinned knee. He was curled up, unharmed, at the rear of the truck, staring at the two dead men still at their weapons, one with the top of his skull blown off, the other in a great pool of blood.
Grady O’Brick lay on his side, grasping a BAR, trying to pull himself upright. His eyes were unfocused, and blood oozed from his mouth. He’d been shot in the shoulder and once in each leg, those last probably by me. I hoisted myself up into the truck bed as Masters pulled out the abandoned BARs. Kneeling by Grady, I holstered my weapon. I didn’t know what to say. I was glad we’d stopped them, glad that the killing wouldn’t spread any farther in Ireland, north or south. But this was a genuine hero of the War of Independence, a man tortured and maimed by the British, whose purposes I had served today. I felt sick.
“No,” he said, falling back and clutching the last BAR to his chest. His hand fumbled at the trigger, and I reached for the gear change lever and set the safety. But he wasn’t going for the trigger, he was holding onto the weapon, cradling it, his mouth set in grim defiance. “No! You’ll not have the Lewis gun, never!”