James Benn - Evil for evil

"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!"

His eyes, wide open, glowed with determination as he stared beyond me, past years of struggles and plots, back to the turning point in his life, when everything hinged on a secret that broke him and began his quest for revenge.

"No, they'll never get it, Grady O Bruic," I told him. " Agus bas in Eirinn. " Death in Ireland.

His eyes flickered for a moment, tried to focus, and his mouth curled in an attempted grin. "Never…" His last word came out hot and harsh, smelling of blood, a faint rattle sounding in his throat. Then he was gone.

The man had tried to kill me, and I'd killed him. Still, I knelt and wept. Death in Ireland-that toast would never sound the same again.