James Benn - Evil for evil

"Thanks. But who is this other guy anyway? I think I'm jealous," I said, making a joke of it.

"My father read a lot of history, and he left quite a collection of books. He enjoyed reading about your American Civil War, and I picked up his interest when I was older. Did you know that the Irish fought on both sides?"

"Yes, the Fighting 69th, right?"

"On the Union side, yes, they were called the Irish Brigade. There were Confederate Irish regiments too. A boy named Michael Sullivan fought with the 24th Georgia, mostly Irish. At Fredericksburg, commanded by General Meagher, the 69th charged the heights against the 24th, both sides knowing they were fighting and killing fellow Irishmen. It didn't say in the history books but I can imagine that they wept as they fired and reloaded."

I looked at the floor, unable to meet her eyes, having done all those things myself. "What happened to Michael Sullivan?"

"The Irish Brigade retreated back across the Rappahannock River, leaving behind their regimental banner. It was the green flag of Ireland with the golden harp upon it. Michael Sullivan, who had killed his share of Irish brethren that day, came upon the flag. He wrapped it around his chest, hiding it under his shirt, and swam the Rappahannock to return it to the Union Irish. His own men, thinking he was deserting, fired on him, wounding him in the leg. When he was taken prisoner, he asked to be brought before General Meagher. Once there, he removed the regimental banner and presented it to the general. Meagher was so overcome he had Sullivan's wounds treated, and offered to release him anywhere within Union territory. Sullivan declined, asking only to be taken to the river, so he could swim back to his own lines, which he did. He was an Irishman to admire. Loyal to all, even when divided by war. And always faithful to his duty."

The story had drained her, I could see. She was pale, and her face bathed in sweat. I took a washcloth from the bed stand and gently ran it across her cheeks and forehead. I struggled to speak, the sadness of the slaughter fresh in my mind. Today's and yesterday's as well.

"Hell of an Irishman" was all I could say.

"My father wrote much the same thing in the margin of his book. That's why I always remembered the story," she said, a glow of excitement showing in her eyes before they nearly closed. A minute passed, and she struggled to keep them open. "I'm sorry, I have to sleep now, Billy. Will you come back to see me before you go?"

"I'll stay right here for now. Sleep. I'll be here when you wake."

She smiled, a faint, childlike smile, as she closed her eyes. I pushed the chair against the wall, leaned my head back, closed my eyes, and let sleep find me as well.

"BILLY, WAKE UP, lad." I sat up, not knowing where I was or who was speaking to me. It was Uncle Dan, his hand on my shoulder. "I've got to go now, Billy. Dawson has an aircraft leaving tonight."

"Quiet," I said, motioning him out into the hall. "She's sleeping."

"Wait a minute, Billy," Uncle Dan said, his hand still on my shoulder as he watched Slaine. "I don't think so."

I went to her side as Uncle Dan called for a doctor. It wasn't necessary. No pulse, no breath, her lips pale. I held her hand and there was no warmth, no life, no movement or response. She was dead, whether from Taggart's bullet and the damage it had done, or the wounds, loneliness, and guilt of a lifetime. It didn't matter which had killed her. Agus bas in Eirinn.

It was time to leave. I placed her hand on her breast and turned away as the doctor and nurses rushed in, knowing it was too late, hoping that Slaine had had time for one last dream, of peaceful green fields perhaps, or maybe Michael Sullivan himself, waiting for her, and all the other Wild Geese who had served every cause but their own.

Hugh Carrick drove us to Langford Lodge. I sat in the back as he and Uncle Dan chatted, comparing notes, talking shop, probably each thinking the other was not a bad sort, considering. I wished death could roll like water off my back, letting me join in on the cop talk and sly jokes. But instead it clung to me, as dreary as the darkening sky and the too familiar gray landscape of Lurgan drifting past the window. Our route to Lough Neagh took us through the city but bypassed Brownlow House, which was fine with me.

The air had turned cold, winter showing its bite on a fading autumn day. Smoke drifted from rows of chimneys, and I wondered who would take the peat from Grady's croft.

It wasn't fair, any of it. We were in a war, and there was plenty of killing to go around. That Grady and Taggart had planned to trigger warfare in all of Ireland, for revenge as much as for the Cause, didn't bear thinking about. But I couldn't stop. The waste of innocent lives, the suffering, all for a blood debt that could never be repaid, always demanding a new reprisal, a repayment of pain again and again through the generations. It made me wish I was a common soldier fighting the Germans, man to man. It had been the last thing I wanted when I started working for General Eisenhower, the thing I avoided with all the wit and lies I could muster. But now, recalling the combat I had seen, it seemed cleaner-somehow purer in its intent-than the furtive murders and planned slaughter I'd seen here. Combat had been horrifying, and I'd never been so scared, but it was straightforward. Live or die. No gray areas, no wondering about each pull of the trigger. In combat, you knew who the enemy was; they had different uniforms, and they wanted to kill you. It was simple.

I dug out Pig and ran my fingers over his belly. I understood why Pete Brennan had wanted to leave all the black market intrigue, investigations, and suspicions behind. Put a rifle in his hands and he'd know where to shoot. It was appealing in a way. It would burn away any guilt he felt about his role in the black market, leaving him pure and clean, or dead. It took an honorable man to choose either of those over a rear-area job and plentiful graft.

I rubbed Pig again and understood something else. Diana. It was the same with her. She hadn't yet burned away the guilt she felt, the memories of the wounded soldiers drowning when that destroyer went down in the channel, and the death of her sister, Daphne. Diana was still alive, and that would never be anything but a burden until she did everything she could to prove she deserved to live.

It might kill her. It might free her. Either way, I finally understood.

"We're here, Billy boy," Uncle Dan said. I looked up and saw the sign for Langford Lodge, USAAF Base Air Depot. The MP at the gate consulted a clipboard, gave a snappy salute, and we drove down a road running alongside the main landing strip. Dark shapes of B-17s and B-24s, bristling with machine guns, stood out against the stars. Beyond the runways was Lough Neagh, the huge lake that I'd flown over on the way in, black water as far as the eye could see in either direction. The base was operating under blackout conditions, and the darkness combined with the large, silent aircraft to produce an eerie feeling of barely restrained lethality.

A jeep met us near the main building, and the driver signaled for us to follow. He took us to a hangar, its massive doors open to reveal a C-47 being readied for takeoff. He told us Colonel Dawson had said this was as good as it was going to get, leaving in twenty minutes for Bradley Field in Connecticut-with refueling stops in Iceland, Greenland, Newfoundland-and that he never saw us and never wanted to see us again. He waited, watching us as we said our goodbyes.

"Uncle Dan, I'm sorry you got pulled into all this," I said.

"Ah, Billy, I jumped in feet first, and I was glad to give you a hand. It was good to be by your side. We all miss you back home, you know? You've become quite a man out here. But are you all right? I know this hasn't been the Ireland of our dreams, has it?"