“Ranging shots will be fired in salvoes,” Tom explained. “That’s one gun of a pair at a time. They’ll try to straddle the target by putting one shell over and one shell on this side of it. That gives the directors the information they need to calculate the exact settings to lay the guns accurately on the target. Get out your cotton wool and bung your ears.”
Fingal did as he was told.
Even with his ears blocked he was aware of a clanging of bells. Tom had told him that bells were the signal to—Holy Mother of God—
Fingal’s world had become an insane maelstrom of light, noise, and stinking smoke. The firing of number-one gun was immediately followed by the number-two gun of A turret. From each barrel, a tongue of orange flame leapt from the muzzles for yards over the sea as four hundred pounds of the explosive cordite was transformed in a millisecond to a ball of superheated gas. Even as the flame persisted before dying, mahogany-coloured smoke poured from each gun, smoke in such quantities that Fingal had not believed could exist, so dense that some of it tumbled to the sea below. Nor had he been prepared for the intensity of the stink as part of the cloud was blown back to where he and Tom stood. Simultaneously he was engulfed by a chest-crushing roar that his body felt as much as heard. It was hard to breathe. And over the thunder came an audible hiss of the departing one-ton shells, which could be hurled to a maximum range of eighteen miles. For sheer spectacle, the sound and fury were as dramatically gripping as anything Fingal had ever witnessed and he wanted to cheer aloud before a more sobering thought struck. When fired in battle, the guns’ sole purpose was to wreak death and destruction.
He stared along the line the shells must take to the target. He had been told that an observer standing behind the guns could follow the flight of the massive projectiles as they arced up into the blue sky at a velocity of 2,450 feet per second on their way to their target. He watched them fly and shuddered, thinking about what such engines of destruction would do to flesh and blood in a real fight.
Between the ship and the horizon he saw two towering white splashes near the target as the shells landed.
He clapped his hands over his ears. The barrels, which had slid back onto their recoil mechanisms with a force of four hundred tons, were now returned to firing position. Warspite’s sixteen-man gun crews could maintain a rate of fire of two shots per minute from each barrel. But before A turret could fire again, the earlier shattering sequence was repeated exactly when B turret thundered.
How, he wondered, sneaking a look, how did they do it? How did the aircraft spotters and Oërlikon gunners who stood near him, how the hell did they tolerate the din and stink and total assault on the senses every time the ship went into action? All four men seemed to be quite unaware and were concentrating on their duties.
Fingal felt a tugging on his coat sleeve, and in the few moments before X turret spoke, managed half to hear, half to lip-read his friend saying, “Had enough?”
Fingal nodded and together they started to make their way below, neither bothering to speak as the gunnery exercise continued. His body was shaken physically by the sights, sounds, and sensations he’d experienced. He’d seen for himself the only reason that twelve hundred men and all the intricacies of the great ship Warspite existed. Everything was in place solely to bring those eight massive engines of destruction, the fifteen-inch rifles, to work against ships and shore installations of an enemy—and an enemy’s personnel.
Half of him was proud of his ship, made more secure in the knowledge that his country had such weapons and would one day soon be bringing them to bear on the foe, each blast of the mighty rifles one tiny step closer to victory and the end of this lunacy called war.
But another part of him realized that watching what before he’d only heard and felt had brought back many of the feelings he’d had after Narvik. He had tried to stifle them then. Put them to the very back of his mind.
Now those memories came back of the destroyed German ships, the smell of burnt flesh, the mutilated men. He had vivid mental images of Doctor Fingal O’Reilly, supposedly inured by his training to the pain of others and the sights of injuries, turning his face away, choking back tears, and trying to be strong enough to comfort a sailor who had been a professional soccer player before the war. With only one leg there’d be no more goals for Aston Villa in that young lad’s future.
“Impressive, aren’t they? The guns,” Tom asked when they reached number two platform, where Tom had his cabin.
Fingal nodded, but said nothing.
“You all right?” Tom asked.
Fingal nodded. “Pretty much. I’ve seen what I wanted to. It’s rocked me a bit.”
“You mean the physical concussion?”
Fingal shook his head. “No. I was thinking … about what our guns did at Narvik. I operated on a young German. I found out his name—Wilhelm Kaufmann. He was from Hamburg.”
Tom looked puzzled, but said nothing.
“He did very well for six days.” Fingal took a deep breath. “I suppose I should have kept a professional distance.” He looked Tom in the eye. “Then he had a relapse and the last thing he said on the seventh postoperative day was ‘Mutti’—Mummy.” We buried him at sea that night.” Fingal lowered his gaze and said in a low voice, “I should have heeded old Rudyard’s advice.” He looked up at Tom. “‘If all men count with you, but none too much.’ Wilhelm was an only son.”
“I couldn’t do your job, Fingal,” Tom said. “And it’s easier for me. I don’t have to look at our handiwork like you do.” He stood close. “If it’s any comfort, we didn’t start the war, but we have to defend ourselves, and no matter what the cost we must, we must win.”
“Thanks, Tom,” Fingal said, and managed a small grin. “They don’t actually train us in medical school to be dispassionate, but it is subtly encouraged; patients are referred to by their initials, not names; the senior staff all have an air of clinical detachment. With all you see in those years it just happens. Most students have built their own armour plating, just like Warspite’s, by the time they’ve qualified, but I’ve always found it hard not to get upset. It’s such—it’s such a bloody awful waste.” He squared his shoulders. “Right. I’ll be off. Thanks for showing it to me and just … thanks.”
“I’ll see you before dinner,” Tom said. “I’m going to finish my letter to Carol, see how the bump’s coming on.” Since it had been confirmed that Tom’s “trying to have a baby” was so far successful, he and his wife referred to the unborn as “the bump.”
“Good idea. I’m going to write to Deirdre,” Fingal said, and wished, how he wished she were here so he could tell her—tell her what? That he was confused? That his job was to make people better, not to patch up the wreckage that his ship’s guns and the enemy’s guns were going to cause? That war was an obscenity, but that he must set that aside and do his duty—because he must? “I’ll see you in the anteroom later,” Fingal said, “and thanks again for letting me watch.”
He walked along the same corridor, lips pursed, fists clenched. But, he asked himself, am I the same Fingal O’Reilly who passed along here earlier today excited at the prospect of watching the big guns in action? He shook his head. He simply did not know. But in the months to come he was sure the Italians would put to sea, and in the grappling of the fleets he was going to find out.
33
Requireth Further Comfort or Counsel
The village seemed deserted as the night drew in and the rooks, cawing and flapping overhead, tumbled down the sky and into their rookery in the old elms of the Ballybucklebo Hills.
O’Reilly had not held Kitty’s hand nor felt much like talking, and as Kitty had remained silent he’d guessed neither had she. “Consuela wants to meet me and I’m not quite sure what to do,” she had said on the beach. The question still hung in the air between them like smoke on a still day.
Now, with Arthur put to bed in his kennel and the back door closed behind them, the normalcy of the everyday was reassertin
g itself. “Go on up and have your whiskey,” said Kitty. “I really don’t want a drink tonight. I’ll get dinner started. One of Kinky’s steak and kidney pies. It’ll take about twenty-five minutes to heat and do the spuds and veggies. One of your favourites, love.”
“Terrific,” he said, trying to sound enthusiastic about the grub. He was relieved to be given the opportunity to think things out alone and suspected Kitty knew that. “I’ll be down in twenty-five minutes then.”
At the sideboard in the upstairs lounge he poured and then walked, glass in hand, to stand in the bay window. In the gloaming, the steeple stood limned against the darker waters of the lough and the mellow softness of the distant Antrim Hills on its far shore. The three running lights on a freighter heading for the Irish Sea glimmered two white, one green, tiny jewels—diamonds and an emerald—set on the jet silhouette of the ship. It bore them to a rendezvous with the earliest diamante evening stars. Venus, goddess of love and beauty, brighter than all the rest, had risen over the ship’s stern.
Venus might be rising, but O’Reilly’s heart sank. Damn it all, he told himself, you’re a grown man. You had no claim, none whatsoever, on Kitty O’Hallorhan after you parted in ’36. That’s crystal clear, so why the hell, thirty years later, are you— He realised how tightly he was clasping the Waterford glass and relaxed his grip. Why is it eating at you and why shouldn’t this Consuela woman come to Ireland? He sipped his drink. Or, come to think of it, perhaps they could go to her. The Spanish government had since the ’50s been developing a stretch of rugged Mediterranean coastline, the Costa Brava, as a cheap tourist destination. Cromie and his wife had gone on a package tour to Lloret de Mar last year and raved about it when they came home. Should he and Kitty meet the woman somewhere like that? Somehow Tenerife, which must have bittersweet memories for Kitty, did not appeal.
Or should they perhaps simply ignore this Consuela? There was a thought. He narrowed his eyes, and sipped. There indeed was a thought. She would have no way of knowing if her letter had been delivered. Why not let the past slip away? Pretend it never happened. He made a harrumphing noise in his throat and shook his head. He’d never in his life refused a head-on challenge.
He became dimly aware of the aromas of steak and kidney wafting upstairs. O’Reilly sighed. Even that failed to move him. He sat in an armchair, welcomed Lady Macbeth onto his lap, stroked the little cat’s head, sipped his whiskey, and tried not to get irritated with himself for his indecision. He couldn’t even be bothered to read a book.
* * *
“Did you enjoy that, Fingal?” Kitty asked.
“Very much,” he said, and forced a smile, “but no thanks. I couldn’t manage a second helping.” He saw her frown and could guess she was thinking, That’s not like Fingal O’Reilly. Conversation during the meal had been desultory, about as personal as a discussion about the weather between a couple of English strangers on a train.
“Is it bothering you so much, pet?” she said, coming to what they both knew was the crux of the matter. “I’m not apologising for what happened.”
“Nor should you.”
“I’m just sad that someone who meant a great deal to me at one time has died.”
“‘… any man’s death diminishes me’?”
“That’s part of it, but he wasn’t just any man either. I think you understand that.”
O’Reilly nodded. “I do, and I know I’m being unreasonable.” He looked straight at her, nodded his head, and said slowly, “It’s just going to take a bit of getting used to. You telling me all this came as something of a shock.”
She pursed her lips then said, “I’m sorry. Perhaps I should have kept it to myself.”
“I don’t think so,” he said, staring at the tablecloth. “You and I have always told each other the truth. I’m being irrational, I know. I just need a bit more time.” He looked up at her. “I love you, Kitty, and I’ve no reason to be jealous—but damn it all, I am.” It helped to say out loud what he’d been trying to avoid recognising. “And I simply don’t want to help you to decide what to do about this Consuela woman. Not yet.” Despite his earlier resolve, he was leaning toward suggesting that they simply pretend the letter had never been delivered. Forget all about it. “I don’t know if it might not be better to let sleeping dogs lie.”
“I understand. I’m not sure myself.” She smiled at him. “What I am sure is that I love you, Fingal. I know this is ultimately my decision to make, but I don’t want to make it on my own. If we do see her, I want us to do it together,” she said, and stood. “We’ll not talk about it anymore tonight. Give me a hand to clear off and then let’s go and watch Softly, Softly.”
“Right,” said O’Reilly, standing. The weekly Saturday night police drama, which the BBC had been broadcasting since January 1966 as live performances, might be just what he needed to get his mind off the conundrum that wasn’t going to go away. It might be seen in a clearer light after his brain, having been consciously focussed on something else for a while, and after a night’s sleep, might find a way to cast a clearer light on the question.
* * *
It had been a broken, sleepless night, and by breakfast time O’Reilly was no closer to knowing what to do. His eyes felt gritty. They’d both feigned cheerfulness at breakfast, avoiding the subject altogether, and now with Jenny on call and Kitty paying back a favour to Sister Jane Hoey with an extra shift at the Royal, O’Reilly had decided to go and see his brother in Portaferry. A quick phone call had confirmed that Lars would be home.
A little after ten O’Reilly put Arthur into the back of the Rover—there’d be time to give him a decent run—and drove up and over the Ballybucklebo Hills, then on toward Newtownards. He was going to drive through Greyabbey, but had an idea and so stopped on the Main Street outside a pebbledashed house next door to the RUC barracks. A man with a neatly clipped grey goatee eventually answered the door.
“Och, Doctor O’Reilly. Sorry to keep you waiting. I was in the studio out back. Great to see you. Come on, on in.” He stepped aside.
“Thanks, Bob,” O’Reilly said, moving into a small, neatly furnished front parlour. “How’s your work going?”
“Have a pew.” The man settled himself in a worn wingback chair and started rubbing at a splash of azure-blue paint on his thumb. “Work is going well, thank you. I’m getting a lot more commissions every week, and I’m selling in the gallery next door.”
“That’s good to hear. I’m happy for you, Bob.” When O’Reilly had first met Bob Milliken a couple of years ago on the foreshore of Strangford, both men had been shooting a dawn flight. Later that day, the house painter had brought O’Reilly home and shown him some beautifully rendered watercolours of Strangford and the waterfowl that lived there. Bob had said he was considering painting watercolours full time and O’Reilly, who had been charmed by the man’s work, had encouraged him. “So you don’t regret taking the chance?”
Bob shook his head. “Best thing I ever did. I’m making a good living as an artist and I’m doing something I love.”
“I’m delighted.” O’Reilly had worried for several months that his encouragement might have been misplaced.
“Cup of tea?”
O’Reilly shook his head. “I’m on my way to Portaferry to have lunch with my brother and I have to give Arthur his walk at the stream at Lisbane before that. So I should be getting on, but I wondered if you still had that wee picture of the snipe?” O’Reilly and Kitty’s most recent outing to Gransha Point had included a stop to see Bob. She’d much admired the piece.
“I do. I’ll go and get it.”
Bob returned in minutes. “Here.” He handed O’Reilly a four-by-eight-inch frame holding a picture of a single cock snipe diving through the air, wings fully spread, long narrow beak pointing ahead, all against a powder blue sky punctuated by the stems of three tufted reeds.
“Lovely,” O’Reilly said, remembering how her grey eyes had sparkled when she’d first seen it. “How much??
??
Bob smiled. “For you, Doctor? Ten pound ten.”
O’Reilly rose, shook Bob’s hand, and said, “Done. Will you take a cheque?”
“Aye, certainly.”
It took moments to write. “Forgive me for running, Bob.”
“Never worry.” They took the few steps to the front door together. “Feel free to drop in anytime, and say hello to Mister Lars for me.”
“I will. See you soon,” O’Reilly said as the painter ushered him out and he headed for the car, the little painting tucked under his arm.
* * *
A happily walked Arthur, who had started two snipe from the banks of the stream at Lisbane, was fast asleep in the seat-well of the Rover when O’Reilly parked outside his brother’s house. The day wasn’t too warm, but O’Reilly rolled down the window, let the big dog snooze on, and clambered out of the car only to be struck, as always, by the sight of Strangford Lough laid out before him.
“Finn.”
O’Reilly spun on his heels and turned to face his brother.
“Good to see you, Finn. Come in.” Lars led the way to the house and held open the door.
“And you, big brother.” O’Reilly stepped into the familiar hall. He noticed a bowl of orchids on a table. Lars and his exotic plants.
“We’ll go on into the lounge,” Lars said.
O’Reilly turned left into the spacious room with its views across the narrows at the mouth of the lough to Strangford Town on the other side and the great bay of the Castleward Estate east of the town. As always he paused to admire a skyscape in oil of a boiling in the heavens, a gargantuan storm that Ma, God rest her, had painted in ’36 as their father had been dying of leukaemia. “Ma was a very good artist, Lars,” O’Reilly said, and for an instant remembered Kitty admiring the same scene when he’d taken her to Lansdowne Road for dinner on his graduation night. Ma had glowed when Kitty, no mean painter herself, had admired the work.
“She was that, Finn.” Lars indicated an armchair. “Have a pew. Tea? Coffee?”