by Joe Mallon

The boy belly-crawled up to the top of the hill, in the same manner he spied the older fellas-in-training do it, stolen Enfield rifle in his right hand.

 He heard before he saw them, but he knew they were on the road.  His head peeked over the crest.

He guessed right.  Two lorries of British Black and Tans, the scourge of Ireland, parked a bare two miles outside Clonakilty, County Cork.  His hometown and that of his ancestors.  Soldiers stood in front of the lorries, smoking their fags, milling about, uncaring.

They’d care soon enough.

The lieutenant.  There he was.  Having a good laugh with his men.  Not for long, Brit. 

All Ireland hated the Black and Tans and the cruelty they brought with them.  But this lieutenant.  The boy bore his own special hatred for reasons of his own.

He raised the Enfield, tucked it into his right shoulder. He adjusted the sights onto the officer for the shot, the bold shot he was about to take.

 Cocked the rifle.

 Placed his finger ‘round the trigger.

 “Rest in hell, you Cockney fecker,” he whispered.

 He squeezed.

 The officer’s head exploded like his mother’s mashed cabbage, the ringing of the shot echoing through the countryside.

 Yelling and screaming ensued, the soldiers grabbing their pistols and rifles, some ducking behind the lorries.  The body of the dead lieutenant lay motionless.

 “There’s the bastard,” one screamed.

 A hale of bullets rained down on the boy like a vicious hailstorm as he ran back down the hill, holding his cap on his head with one hand and the Enfield with the other.

 More bullets flew, some kicking the wild grass up around him, others whizzing past his head.

 He ran like the devil, knowing his life depended on it.  He splashed his way through a creek, disappearing into the forest.  Lost to them forever like a ghost on a black Irish night.

 No, they’d go back to their lorries and hightail it out, cowards all, afraid of an ambush by the local chapter of the 3rd Cork Brigade of the IRA.

But it was not the IRA.  No permission given, none requested.  It was he, Sean Liston, a boy of sixteen, who killed an officer of the British Army, acting solely on his own.

 ____________________

 The boy, out of breath and hands shaking, slowed to a trot. The revenge of his da now complete, fierce tears released themselves down his face, mixing with the sweat of a narrow escape.  The fecker was dead. 

 The sound of a bullet rang out. Sean never heard it. It ripped through his upper torso, tearing into his heart.

 He dropped to his knees, eyes opened wide, his jaw frozen.

 The Enfield dropped from his hands.

 The spirit of Sean Liston left his body as he fell on the rifle.

 A lone man sauntered up. Dark green pants, khaki jacket, beret.  A Tan, holding a similar Enfield.  He turned the boy over with his boot.

 He shook his head.  “A lad.  Fucking Irish.”

 He turned around, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. and walked back to the lorries.