An Obscene War

Our Willie……

William Francis McBride was born on a beautiful summer’s morning on 1^st July 1897 in a small shared three bed-roomed house at the back of Moore Street, Dublin. His father was a Master Cooper who made barrels in one of the many Breweries that were dotted all over Dublin at the time. He was an only son and wanted for very little. With the market in Moore Street close by, they always  ate well. ‘Young Willie’ as he became known, never felt hunger in his life.

He went to the nearby Saint Patrick’s Primary School and was quite bright. His mother helped him each night with his homework and she had hopes that he would not have to follow in his father’s trade. She dreamed and prayed for some form of greatness for her son.

At the age of ten, he moved to the Christian Brothers Secondary School in Westland Row the other side of the River Liffey but it was still well within walking distance from home. 

He was an avid reader and unlike most of the other boys of his age, he always read the morning and evening newspapers. Other boys at the secondary school teased him but soon learned to leave him alone. He was capable of looking after himself but the mere threat of force was always good enough to ensure his peace and quiet.

By the time he was thirteen, there were many articles in the papers about possible war on the Continent of Europe and quickly war clouds began to appear on the horizon. Unusually for a youth of his age, he had formed definite opinions on the rights and wrongs of both sides. Whenever he spoke to his teacher, Brother O’Callaghan, he got a rebuff for saying what he did. He invariably got the reply that "You’d be far better off preparing for the day Ireland fights for her own freedom and leave those Germans and British to their own devices".

He had read a lot about Irish history, but like most Dublin people at the time, he was quite Loyal to the Crown under whose authority Ireland was still being ruled. He had no romantic notions about Mother Ireland.

He followed the newspaper reports on the diplomatic manoeuvrings and the military build-up in Europe with a keen eye. He read avidly the reports of ‘sabre rattling’ between the various states of Eastern Europe and the involvement of Russia. He read of the Serbian government’s attempt to take control of their army without success. He read of the British interest and the various treaties that were being signed left right and centre. He was bright enough to realise that war seemed inevitable.

He left school at fifteen and took employment as a clerk in a shipping office on the Quays on the Liffey. He watched ships with large numbers of soldiers arrive and leave the port. The build-up to war was gathering speed.

On the 29^th June 1914 he read with horror the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand of Austria-Hungary the previous day and realised that war would be declared almost immediately. In fact it was.

The War had by now been going on for eighteen months when Young Willie made up his mind what he was about to do. He confided in his two best friends. The following Saturday, he and they, Tommy Murphy and Patsy O’Brien, without a word to their parents, went to the Army Recruitment Offices and ‘signed-up’.

Young William did not have any silly notions about what the others called the romantic side of war. He knew only too well what to expect. He fervently believed, hoped and prayed that this was ‘the war to end all wars’. After signing, they went for a drink then informed their parents.

Mr. McBride took it well but Willie’s mother fainted. When she came to, she cried all night. The next day, Sunday, with a small suitcase containing his clothes, he met his friends at Amien’s Street Railway Station, joined his group and moved out by train to an army camp north of Dublin. They were to join the Irish Rangers.

Their first day was taken up with filling in forms including next-of-kin and religion and getting various injections. Young Willie was then fitted with a uniform, if you can call it a ‘fitting’. Boots and other bits and pieces were literally thrown at him. The three friends remained together and made their way to the wooden building that they would call home for the next six weeks. They would get no leave until they completed the first three weeks basic training.

Young Willie had no problem getting through the training – unlike Murphy and O’Brien. However, at the end of the three weeks, they were given a three-day pass and a travel warrant for the train. They made straight for their homes.

As soon as Mrs. McBride saw her son she screamed in horror "Sure they are starving you to death, me darlin". With that, she began to cook the biggest fry-up he had ever seen in his life. There must have been six of everything. As soon as he had finished his mother insisted on taking him down to the photographic shop and having a picture taken of him in full uniform. Although sad at the thought of him going to war, she was extremely proud when he explained why he was doing so.

The three days flew past and it seemed like only a day between leaving the camp and their returning. The next three weeks were spent with parading, shooting practice and digging trenches in preparation for going overseas.

On a cold Monday morning in February they boarded a troop ship on the Quay by the Liffey and as they sailed out the estuary their friends and relations waved them goodbye.

Three days later they landed in France. They were given a few days’ rest before they would be taken to the forward trenches. Rumours abounded in the rest camp. There were tales of gas warfare, machine guns, heavy artillery and numerous deaths. Young Willie was resigned to the fact that he might be killed while his two friends were praying for glory.

On Good Friday, 21^st April 1916, Young Willie, his friends and 220 other officers and men from their battalion began to make their way to the forward trenches on the Western Front, whilst all around them as they got nearer, were sounds of gunfire and explosions. Young Willie could feel the fear in the air. It was thick with the smell of both fear, cordite and gunpowder. They rested that night in the trenches on the outer perimeter and on Easter Saturday they resumed their march.

As they neared the front lines they saw literally hundreds of men being carried on stretchers back the way they had come. The open wounds had not even been dressed and many were dead. As they entered the main trench section that was allocated to them, the group stopped and took up positions. By six o’clock that night all had gone silent.

Word spread that there was a cease-fire for the Easter weekend but there was no official confirmation. However, the silence held all Sunday until midnight when at least a hundred heavy artillery weapons began shooting at their section. This continued with short intervals of silence until eight o’clock. Orders came that at exactly 9am they were ‘going over the top’ to make an attempt to reach the enemy lines.

Young Willie was apprehensive but ready. He had made a will leaving everything he owned or was due to his mother back in Dublin. He prayed silently and awaited the signal. The Priest had heard his confession and had administered Holy Communion. Young Willie was at peace with himself.

At five to nine, the Captain gave the order to prepare. The ladders out of the trench had been readied and bayonets had been fixed. The seconds ticked by.

At 9 o’clock the Captain blew his whistle. There was a moment’s silence, and then shouts came from the men who were first to go over the top. Young Willie was to be in the third wave. He had his foot on the ladder awaiting the order. When it came, he did not hesitate, but literally ran up the ten-foot ladder. When he reached the flat ground of ‘No-man’s land’ on the other side the bleakness and devastation before him struck him. There were bodies all around with numerous dying men screaming in agony. It was just like the Hell that was screamed about by the mad priest in the streets of Dublin on occasions.

For one brief moment the sun actually broke through the clouds as he made his way forward. Young Willie heard the noise of many machine guns rat-tat-tatting in the distance but felt nothing as several bullets entered his body ripping his uniform to shreds. He died instantly. He was 19 years old.

Young Willie was never to know that as he died, back home in Ireland, Padraig Pearse was reading the Irish Declaration of Independence on the steps of the General Post Office in Sackville Street, (later to be called  O’Connell Street), Dublin. The Easter Rising had begun.

Private William McBride was buried with the hundreds of thousands of other young men who fell during the Great War in the various War cemeteries scattered all over the war zone. His grave was never visited.

And so it remained until more than half a century later, when a young Scottish/Australian singer, songwriter, whilst on a walking holiday in France, sat down by Willie’s graveside and wrote a beautiful song, which although pure in form, has a bitter edge and anti-war message in it.

------------------------

This story was based on that song:

The Green Fields of France:

By Eric Bogel.

Well how do you do Private William McBride,

Do you mind if I sit here, down by your graveside?

And rest for a while beneath the warm summer sun,

I’ve been walking all day and now I’m nearly done.

I see by your gravestone you were only nineteen,

When you joined the glorious fallen in 1916.

Well I hope you died quick and I hope you died clean,

Or, young Willie McBride, was it slow and obscene.

Refrain:

Did they beat the drum slowly,

Did they play the fife lowly?

Did they sound the Death March

As they lowered you down?

Did the band play "The Last Post and Chorus"?

Did the pipes play "The Flowers of the Forest"?

Did you leave ‘ere a wife or sweetheart behind?

In some faithful heart is your memory enshrined?

And although you died back in 1916,

In that faithful heart are you forever nineteen?

Or are you a stranger without even a name,

Enclosed forever behind a glass pane,

In an old photograph, torn, and battered and stained,

And faded to yellow in a brown leather frame?

Refrain:

Ah the sun now it shines on these green fields of France,

The warm summer breeze makes the red poppies dance,

And look how the sun shines from under the clouds,

There’s no gas, no barbed wire, there’re no guns firing now.

But here in this graveyard is still No Man’s Land,

The countless white crosses in mute witness stand,

To man’s blind indifference to his fellow man,

To a whole generation that was butchered and damned.

Refrain:

Ah, I can’t help wonder why, young Willie McBride,

Did all those who lay here really know why they died?

And did they believe when they answered the cause,

Did they really believe that this war would end wars?

For the sorrow, the suffering, the glory, the shame,

The killing and dying were all done in vain,

For young Willie McBride, it all happened again,

And again and again and again and again.

Refrain

---------Mike------

The Pride of Dublin

The Charlady’s Ball.......

 “Will yeah come here ‘till I tell yeah.   Sure now, haven’t I been living in Dublin all these years.   Me name is Bridget Mary Mulligan and I’ve been a widow this past twenty years.   Poor old Mister Mulligan passed away in his sleep when we had been married some twelve years or so.   He was a fine gentleman and left me well provided for.  

“We had two children, one girl and one boy.   The little girl was a delicate child and many’s the time we thought she was a gonner.  Thank God she survived and she’s now one of the finest lookers in not only the whole of Dublin, but in the whole of Ireland I might add.   She has a pair of lungs on her that would make one of them big women that sing the Opera green with envy.  

 “No matter.... her name is Daffy and she has all the boys chasing after her.   Naturally she takes after her Ma.

“We lived all our life – so far at least - up in the Coombe and I do all me business on the corner of St. Patrick’s Street.   Sure and haven’t I been doing the same for the past forty-six years.   You get a lot of people around here who would steal the skin off your teeth but there’s not a one who would take me on.   Oh no sir, I could beat the lard out of anyone who tried – man or woman....

“Me friends call me Biddy and I’ve always been called that.   When I was a youngster the nun at the Convent school said I shouldn’t let them others call me that because it was ‘derogatry’ or something like that.  She said it meant that I was a chicken or a hen.  I’ve heard some old people called that name like that they are annoying or gossip about their neighbours.   You hear them say “She’s a right auld Biddy” and things like that.   But I don’t mind it when the men call me it because I like to think that they still fancy me, old and all as I am. 

“On a Saturday night after I have a few bottles of stout sure things might happen with one of the lads that takes a lot of forgiveness from the Priest in Confession the next day.   

“Father Brian is alright, he only gives me three Hail Mary’s but Father James, sure he would have me thumping me chest asking for God’s forgiveness until the next Saturday and reciting the Rosary like nobody’s business.   And even though I have a bit of the rheumatism from standing around in the rain at me barrow, he still has me kneeling down in front of the statue of the Virgin Mary for hours on end.   With the greatest respect to Mary and Father James but there’s little I can do except get meself a man whenever I’ve had more than three bottles of Guinness.

“Anyway, I can say with me hand on me heart that you will not find a more dacent and trustworthy women than Biddy Mulligan in the whole of Ireland no matter how far you travel.   ‘The Pride of the Coombe’ they call me and I have never cheated in anything in me life – not even on Mr. Mulligan when we was married.

“As I told yeah, I’ve had the same pitch now for forty-six years and I sell anything and everything.   The little childer love me because of me sweets – bullseyes, fizzbags and sugar-sticks are the best value in town.   They come to me with their pennies and halfpennies and all leave me happy.   Aah God, sure I wish I’d had more babbies when I was young.

“The fish I sell on a Friday is the freshest in the street and I have had the same customers for years and years.  That’s a good sign in itself when they all are still alive.   Ah now, sure I’m only pulling your leg.   The fish comes straight to me from the boat at Howth and me prices are the fairest around.   

“I sell second-hand clothes on a Saturday and charge only what I think the poor people can afford.   I like to think that they will go to Mass on a Sunday looking nice and clean.    Meself, sure I always look me best when I go there and all the old Biddy’s look at me as if I have two heads.   They’re just jealous of the stuff I get from some of the rich toffs from around Saint Stephen’s Green.   I pick the best for meself and have a new getup every week.

“Me son’s name is Michael and we call him Mick for short.   He is a fine strappin’ lad and has all the local girls queuing up to go out with him.   It’s strange but he’s not really interested in girls.   I hope to God he doesn’t turn out like that dandy, Oscar Wilde the quare one.    

Mick plays the fife in the Longford Street Band and on the Summer Sundays it would do your heart good to see him all dressed up in his uniform.   He is a right show-off and seeing him marching up and down with the band on Dolly Mount Strand makes me old heart bleed.   He looks exactly like his father - only much younger.

“Anyway, what I really wanted to talk to you all about is that fancy Ball that was held last year on New Year’s Eve when old Humpy Soodlum had his birthday party and they organised a big do for him and all the other Ragmen in the city.   It was a glorious night and one that will be remembered for many’s a year.    Well, believe it or not, the following summer, all the Charladies got together and decided to see if we could not do better than the Ragmen.   

“What’s that you say?  What are charladies?   Sure now, are you trying to get your own back on me for pulling your leg?     Sure isn’t the charladies the ones who keep all the offices and the posh people’s houses clean and well scrubbed.   When things are tight for money, sure don’t I do a bit of it meself.    Anyway, we all decided to do our best to outdo old Humpy – even though his do was one of the best ever seen in Dublin.

“The Parish Priest let us have the church hall and we did it all up with coloured streamers and polished everything in sight.   It looked glorious and shined like a new penny.   We borrowed bits and pieces from everyone and had a collection to pay for things.   

All of the market stallholders put in some food and we found out that Humpy had a contact in the Brewery and he saw us all right by letting us have a few knocked-off barrels of stout for a few pounds.   I don’t even want to think of where Tommy Mooney got all the wine and a few bottles of Champagne but I am damn-sure he didn’t pay for it.   There was bottles and bottles of lemonade for the childer and for us ladies in particular, there was a dozen bottles of the best Sherry.    We were all cooking lovely different kinds of food all week before it was on.

“The day of the Ball finally came and at four o’clock in the afternoon the doors opened.    Mother of God, but you would want to see all the different costumes that people were wearing..........................

“Meself, sure I wore an outfit that someone borrowed for me from the costume part of the Theatre Royal.   I was supposed to be Queen Anne but sure because nobody had any pictures of her, I had to guess different things.  Me boyfriend for the night was dressed up as a monkey and I can tell you, if he tries any monkey business later on I’ll give him the back of me hand.   Well, maybe just a few kisses and a little cuddle after what Father Brian said to me the last time..................

“The number of people dressed up as Cowboys and Indians was unbelievable.   There must have been enough to make a cowboy film as good as what yez see in the picture houses.   Mary Moore from up the Liberties was the most beautifully dressed.   She came as Queen Mary of Scotland.   God only knows where her son P.J. borrowed the costume she was wearing and even if he was to get six months in Mountjoy Gaol, sure it would have been worth it just to see the happiness it gave his auld mother.

“Lefty Moorehouse came in a big sack and just called himself a sack of spuds.  Sure he even got one of his pals to tie the top and only had two holes for his eyes cut in it.   He must have fallen down about fifty times in the first half-hour until someone cut two holes for his feet in the bottom of the sack.   It's a pity they didn't do the same for his mouth ‘cause he couldn't have a drink all night.  He tried to pour the porter through one of the eye holes in the sack but it never worked.   He even tried to suck the porter through the sack.   He was so mad because nobody would undo the sack over his head.    Like I was saying, all he did all night was to fall around the place with the childers all screaming and shoutin’ at him.   Sure he must have been black and blue for the next three months.

“Some of me son Mick’s friends from the band played some lovely music and we danced for hours.  They played all sorts of things and there was all that foreign dancing.   Meself, all I was ever any good at was a little bit of Irish dancin’, but with the big wide dress I was wearing down to the floor, all I had to do was stand there and shake me hips and bum and it looked like I was doing all the fancy dance steps.   It was great....

“We drank ourselves silly right into the night and it got even better after all the childer were sent home at nine o’clock.   Me daughter Daffy made a show of herself.   She said she was dressed as the film star Mae West and nearly started a riot every time she pretended to do a striptease.    You would think she was a bitch on heat the way all the young men were howling like dogs sniffing around her.   Shame on her but I suppose I will have to take her penance next week at Confession and say I done it.   She only goes about once a year and then always says she forgot all the best sins.   

“At two o’clock in the morning, someone came around with a few bottles of Jameson Whiskey and we all had a nightcap.   Me?  Sure and didn’t I have too much porter once again so me and me man for the night made our way back to my house.

“Here we go again – please God say it will be Father Brian next Saturday cause I think I will still have a hangover even then and I don’t fancy spending a couple of hours on me knees.......................

“And you know something.   It was a glorious night without any angry words being spoken and not a single bloody nose in the whole place.  

That's if ye don't count Lefty Moorehouse of course - sure he was in bits.   Not like Humpy’s and the Ragman’s Ball.    The Charlady’s Ball was indeed the second best do ever seen in Dublin and that’s not bad ‘cause Humpy’s was and always will be number one.....” 

-------Mike-------

A Walk on the Wild Side......

  

One for the Road.....

It was the time of year when the rain in Ireland comes down like stair-rods; at least I think that is the expression.  Anyway, it was raining cats and dogs – now that analogy does make sense – or at least I think it does.................  That one is supposed to come from the time when poor peoples’ houses in Ireland had roofs made of soil with grass growing on them.   Animals including cats and dogs would spend the day and nights up on top.   Unless it was cold that is, then they would be brought into the house to warm it up.  When it rained very heavily the roof became slippery and they – that’s the cats and dogs - slid off it falling to the ground..............sounds like a load of old codswallop to me but it could be true I suppose. So there I was at about midnight, twelve miles from home and having missed the last bus from Dublin.  If I had not bothered with that last drink I would have caught it without any trouble.   But there you are....... I had begun walking and I was soon soaked to the skin.   In the state I found myself, no self-respecting person in his or her right mind would have offered me a seat in their car.  I soon stopped thumbing a lift from passing cars and committed myself to the twelve mile walk home.................. The occasional break in the rain left a clear sky and bearing in mind that I am talking about the early 1960’s, and there being a total lack of street lighting in the suburbs of Dublin, the heavens would occasionally open up and show  millions of bright twinkling stars. I decided to count them to pass the time as I strolled along.... I suppose that sounds strange, but in a semi-drunken state, it seemed quite logical to me. As far as I knew, no one had succeeded in doing so before............ I had reached 4,597 when there was a screech of brakes and a car stopped beside me on the road. "Is this the way to Bray?" the obviously foreign driver asked.  The strange thing about Ireland in those days is that road signs were in Gaelic.   An even odder thing is that nowadays I am told that they are in Gaelic, English and of all things, Polish........................ . The devil inside me took over as I casually lied.   I replied "Naw, sure you are going completely the wrong way".   I never thought of telling him the truth and asking for a lift at the same time after all we were both going to the same place.  Instead I directed him up into the Dublin Mountains. As he drove off, I laughed out loud and shouted after him "Sure, I’ll be there before you, you silly eejit".   It then dawned on me that I had just given up probably my only chance of a lift........................ Right, back to the stars counting: This time I had only reached 1,269 when the skies clouded over again and the rain came down even heavier than before. I decided to remember the number of stars I had reached and recommence the count as soon as it cleared again. I also decided to try to remember which star I had finished on..................... I had completed about five miles of the journey when I reached Blackrock and once again the skies cleared. I could see the sea at Sandymount to my left and would you believe it but I decided to have a paddle in the sea as the tide was out. I crossed over by the station and made my way down to the beach. Now, I doubt if you have any idea of what it looks like at Sandymount but the tide goes out about three miles on a seemingly never ending sand bank. I took off my shoes and socks, left them on a rock, rolled up my trousers and began to paddle in the pools close to the shore. Sure enough, as I moved further out towards the sea I lost my sense of direction. The drink inside me prevented total panic and instead I began to laugh. The rain came down heavier than before and the area was now in complete darkness. I tried to figure out my directions but without success. I decided to walk towards the only light on the skyline and luckily for me I never reached it. It was Dun Laoghaire Lighthouse. As soon as I recognised it, I did a complete about turn back to the shore. Now where on earth did I leave my shoes and socks? I knew it was close to the old swimming baths but did not know in which direction I would find that. I turned right and walked along the sandy beach. Half an hour later I reached the road and suddenly realised that I had walked the wrong way. Still, I now knew where I was. If I retraced my steps I would surely come to the swimming baths, collect my shoes and continue my journey home. Another half an hour and I reached the whitewashed walls of the baths. Another half-hour and I found my shoes just before they were taken away by the incoming tide. Not only were they wet from the rain, but the socks were soaked from the seawater. Still a good wring-out and they were good enough to put on. The squelching from the wet shoes foretold of sore feet to come. Back on the main road and another break in the clouds announced the arrival of the summer dawn. I figured out that it would probably be daybreak in about an hour. As I walked through the shopping area in Blackrock, a shadowy figure stepped out in front of me from a shop doorway. It was a six foot tall Garda. They are the police in Ireland and are usually from the deep countryside. "And where are you going, me boyo?" he asked. "Home" I stuttered, still shocked by his surprising apparition."And where might that be now?" he asked. "Where it’s always been, Bray" I answered, thinking my reply was somehow funny which made me titter.  "And how would you like to spend the remainder of the night in a police cell?" he asked. "Sure now, officer" I had changed my tune "I   would much prefer a lift home" I replied. "I’ll give you a lift, you little smartarse" he sounded a bit annoyed "I’ll give you a good kick in the arse if you are not out of my sight in thirty seconds". With that I was away, squeaking and squelching as I did so. Outside of the town, it began to get brighter in the sky and I began to get very, very tired. As I came to a low wall I decided to sit down and rest my wet feet. As I sat there, I closed my eyes – just for a moment.   A ‘moment’ later I opened them and found that I had fallen back into someone’s garden into a flowerbed, that  the sun was now well up in the sky and that traffic, although not heavy was beginning to appear on the road. As I began to walk again, a familiar car screeched to a halt beside me. "You are the little bastard who sent me all over the Dublin mountains, aren’t you?"  the English driver said in an irate voice. "Me?" I asked, "Sure I never saw you before in me life, I just came out to go to work" whilst pointing to a nearby house. "Sorry" the man said in a calmer voice "I must be mistaken. Is this the way to Bray?"  "Sure" I replied "just go straight ahead until you come to a large crossroads, turn right and keep straight ahead".  Of course it was a lie, but I had no intention of changing now that I was within three miles of home.   Once again he would be taken up into the Dublin Mountains. The rain had now stopped for over an hour and I was now feeling comfortably warm. The shoes and socks had dried out and I was only a little tired. When I got to within two miles of home, I decided to have another rest. I sat on a roadside bench and within literally minutes, I again fell asleep. I don’t quite remember how long I had slept but was awoken by the sound of a bus pulling up. I jumped up and boarded it. Three minutes later I was at the bottom of our road. I called in at a local shop and bought a newspaper. I saw that the time was now half past nine according to the wall clock................... Considering I had left Dublin at close to midnight, nine and a half hours to cover twelve miles must be some sort of record...................... -----------