The Wasted Years Read online

  Never had Oakman Street seemed so long, but at last they left it and hurried along Beechmount Avenue towards Daisy Hill and open fields.

  Once they were safely away from buildings, without wasting breath on words Tommy turned on his heel and headed back the way they had come, just as the first bomb fell. It was some distance away, in the direction of the docks, but they heard the great ‘BOOM!’, saw in the distance the sky redden from its glow.

  ‘Da! Da, don’t go back. Stay here,’ Rosaleen beseeched him.

  But he didn’t pause, just gasped over his shoulder, ‘I must go back. I’ll be needed … if there are fires … in the parish.’

  It was a bright moonlit night, and the fields were crowded, everyone coping in their own way with the fear that gripped them. Some seemed too stunned to do anything, just sat gazing in front of them, cringing closer to the ground at every shot, every blast. Some actually sang between bombs falling, causing others to laugh and jest that if they sang loud enough the planes would certainly go away, to escape the awful din. Someone else started the rosary and as others joined in, Rosaleen added her voice to theirs and prayed. She prayed that somehow or other the Germans would not see Mackie’s, in spite of the clear moonlight. If they did, she would have no home to go back to. As her father had stated, the district would go up if Mackie’s was bombed. She prayed that her mother and Annie were safely away from the houses, away in the fields further up the Springfield Road, and prayed for the brave men, like her father, who were putting out the flares that the Germans dropped to help to identify their chosen targets.

  Their prayers were answered. It was a long night, with bombs and incendiary devices falling constantly, causing fires and doing God knows what other damage. Dawn was breaking when at last the all-clear sounded but, as everyone started the weary journey home from the parks and countryside, Mackie’s still stood!

  Although as raids went it was deemed a small one, it caused a lot of damage. On Tuesday morning Rosaleen heard on the radio that the fuselage factory attached to Harland and Wolff, the shipbuilders, had been completely demolished, and that the docks had also suffered severe damage. Fear gripped her bowels, sending her running to the bathroom every time she thought of Mackie’s Foundry, just a short distance away, surrounded by houses; a huge bomb in itself, so easily detonated. The raid brought home to her how vulnerable Belfast was, and she regretted bringing Laura back from Dungannon. Prayed that if her baby was killed she would be taken also, because she would never be able to forgive herself, never!

  How come her father, a mill worker, had been aware of the danger they were in, while the brains of the country had not? Or had they? Had they known and thought Belfast not important enough to worry about?

  Some of the fear abated when the morning newspapers stated that the planes were just a half dozen strays that had lost their way while on a raid over Liverpool and Manchester on the west coast of England, and would probably not return.

  However, her father disagreed with the newspapers. ‘They’ll be back … you mark my words. Now they know how few defences we have, they’ll be back,’ he predicted.

  ‘Huh! How do you know what kind of defences we have, and you working in the mill, Da!’ Rosaleen ridiculed him.

  ‘I’m an air-raid warden, ampt I? And I hear a lot of criticism of the government,’ he retaliated. ‘You mark my words! I know what I’m talkin’ about and we’ve very few defences.’

  ‘What do you mean, Da, few defences?’ she asked fearfully.

  ‘I mean the government has neglected to provide us with enough planes and machine guns to retaliate. We’ve some Hurricanes at Aldergrove and some anti-aircraft guns, and that’s about it.’

  And hearing this, Rosaleen was inclined to agree with her father that if the Germans were now aware of their vulnerability, they would return. The final casualty figure for that night was thirteen dead and eighty-one injured, twenty-three of them seriously, but the Falls Road had escaped without a scratch and everyone went about their business as usual.

  The rest of Holy Week passed uneasily. Each night Rosaleen prepared for a hurried departure from the house should the dreaded sirens sound, which they did frequently, but, thankfully, they were all false alarms. Although enemy planes were heard, and sometimes seen high in the sky, no bombs were dropped and each morning she thanked God for a night free from terror.

  All the Holy Week ceremonies were well attended; the crowds spilling out into the church yards at each Mass and each Way of the Cross, and the queues for confession hit an all-time record.

  At Mass on Easter Sunday, Rosaleen noted that she was not the only one to have splashed out on new clothes, as she had for herself and Laura. Indeed, no. Clonard Monastery was full of women and children in new dresses and hats, determined to use some of their precious savings while they had the chance, and not to be outdone the men were sporting new jackets and, once outside, new caps. Not that there was anything really fashionable in the shops. Annie and she had travelled the length and breadth of Belfast before managing to buy two dresses. One was green, the other blue, but in style they were much alike, the regulations being that as little material as was reasonable must be used in all clothes, and nothing was to be wasted in fancy work or pockets. Being slim, they both suited the square-shouldered, belted-waist design; not like the plump girls who it did nothing for. The only concession given to femininity was the slightly flared skirt with pleat back and front.

  Easter Monday morning brought a knock on Rosaleen’s door and when she answered it, who should be standing on the doorstep but Billy Mercer looking very dapper in a smart sports jacket and grey flannel trousers. His dark hair was slicked down with Brylcreem, and he carried a holdall slung over one shoulder.

  ‘Billy! This is a surpise.’ Her eyes darted beyond him. ‘Where’s May?’

  ‘She’s down in Spinner Street visiting her mother.’

  Her hands reached out and she drew him into the living room.

  ‘Come in … come in. It’s good to see you.’

  ‘I’m ashamed, Rosaleen.’ He hung his head, eyed her from under dark brows and looked embarrassed. I’m afraid I’m using you, as usual. You’ll be saying the only time ye see me is when I need something. I’ve an hour to waste before I meet May at the corner of the Springfield Road and she said you’d gimme a cuppa, to pass the time.’ He raised an eyebrow inquiringly at her, and when she smiled and nodded, swung the holdall to the floor and added, ‘In fact, I’ve been ordered to persuade you and Laura to accompany me down. We’re going to Bellevue, to the zoo.’

  ‘Is it safe to go so far from home, Billy? I mean … well… after that raid on Tuesday?’

  ‘Ye wouldn’t think there’d been a raid!’ he exclaimed. ‘Why, the trams are packed, and there’s crowds going into the railway station. There’s an offer on “To Bangor and back for a bob”, and it looks like it’ll be a sell out. And you should see the queues outside the picture houses! Honestly, Rosaleen, it’s hard to believe that we were bombed on Tuesday.’

  ‘Me da says they’ll be back. Do you think they’ll come back, Billy?’

  ‘To be truthful, Rosaleen, I don’t know. Maybe they were just strays, like the papers say, and Hitler isn’t going to bother about Ireland. But anyhow … I can’t see them bombing during daylight. So come on, get yourself ready and come to the zoo with me and May. She’ll be disappointed if I land down on me own. You wouldn’t want her to be scrowling at me all afternoon, would ye now?’

  ‘No, Billy, that would never do,’ she assured him with a chuckle, and glad of the opportunity to get away for the day, she quickly changed Laura’s clothes. By the time Billy had finished his fresh Hughes bap and mug of tea, she was dressed and ready for the road.

  ‘What about eats, Billy?’

  He pointed at the holdall, a wry smile on his face. ‘May’s enough in the bag to feed an army, Rosaleen. No need for you to bring any,’ he assured her, with a wink and a nod.

  First, Rosaleen called into
Amy’s house and informed her where she was going. Her father called regularly to check that she was all right and he would worry if no one knew where she was. Then, excitement mounting, she accompanied Billy down to meet May.

  Rosaleen and May had not seen each other since their arrival home from Dungannon and once on the upper deck of the tram they chatted and laughed, bringing each other up to date with gossip, all the way to Bellevue, watched by an amused Billy.

  The Cave Hill, on the outskirts of Belfast, was the favourite spot at Easter for trundling eggs, and right on the side of the hill was Bellevue Zoo. It looked down over Belfast Lough and today, in spite of the fear of air-raids, it was packed. They joined the crowds that thronged the animal pens and caves, delighting in the joy and happiness of the two excited children. It was after their tour of the zoo, as they made their way along the Cave Hill to watch older children trundle their brightly painted eggs, as was the custom, and to eat the picnic lunch May had packed, that the mournful sound of the sirens filled the air.

  The crowds scattered in all directions and Billy, who had often climbed the Cave Hill as a boy and remembered its terrain, quickly guided them some distance down the hill into a cave where they sheltered. To their amazement, although the planes were high they could clearly see them. They made no effort to hide; it was as if the pilots knew that there was no danger and were thumbing their noses at them. It was awesome to see them, as well as hear their drone and some people, in spite of the danger, actually stood out in the open, shading their eyes and gazing up at them in wonder. Luckily, no shots were fired, no bombs dropped, and soon the planes were but specks in the distance. When the all-clear sounded the crowds carried on in their pursuit of pleasure.

  From their picnic spot on the top of the Cave Hill they discovered that looking across Belfast Lough, they could see where the bombs had demolished part of Harland and Wolff on Tuesday, and the desolation of it put a damper on their spirits and fear in their hearts. Had they just been stray planes that came over on Tuesday?

  What about the planes that were spotted during the week? They had been spotted a few times. Why had those planes flown over today … in broad daylight? What was their game? Were they lulling the people of Belfast into a false sense of security? Would they attack when they were least expected? Questions … questions that no one could answer.

  After a day that was quite enjoyable in spite of the ever constant fear of an attack, they parted in town in good spirits. May and Billy to catch a tram up North Street on to the Shankill Road and Rosaleen to make her way around to Castle Street and from there, take a tram up the Falls Road. They vowed to keep in touch, come what may, and Rosaleen arrived home in a happy frame of mind. However, this did not last long. Her neighbours were agog with talk of the lunchtime alarm, and of course gossip had it that the Germans were sizing up Mackie’s and would return that night. Alone in the house with Laura, having refused to go and stay at her mother’s, it struck terror to the very heart of Rosaleen and she was apprehensive as she prepared for bed.

  The planes did return later that night. In the early hours of Easter Tuesday morning to be exact, and the sirens wailed warning of their approach at about ten-thirty. After all the false alarms during the week, Rosaleen was tempted to ignore them. Weary and sore after climbing the Cave Hill, she had retired early and longed to remain snug in bed. However, the thought of Mackie’s, but a stone’s throw away, made her swing her aching legs out of bed and prepare for another night in the fields.

  They were lucky that the weather was mild, she consoled herself. It would be awful if it was bitter cold or pouring down rain. One had to be grateful for small mercies. After all, it wasn’t usually so mild in April. The planes passed over the city for over two hours, their drone deafening. Sitting on the grass in a corner of one of the fields beyond Daily Hill, trying to pacify a whinging child, Rosaleen’s nerves were stretched to breaking point. She actually got to the stage where she wished that they would drop their bombs and get it over with, but to the surprise and relief of all, once again no shots were fired, no bombs dropped.

  Next morning her father voiced his opinion to all who would listen. He said the Germans were probably surprised at just how little opposition they were encountering and had come back on Tuesday to see if any changes had been made.

  Few had; after all, no one had expected German planes to come right across England. Not even those in higher places, so Belfast was unprepared, complacent, and few extra resources were forthcoming.

  ‘They’ll be back!’ Her father prophesied. ‘You mark my words. They’ll be back. They’ll make use of the full moon, and we’re stuck out on the edge of the lough like a sore thumb.’

  And once again he was right. On Tuesday night, when the moon was almost full, the planes came in force. They approached between the Divis and the Black Mountains and were very low. There seemed to be hundreds of them, and their drone was deafening. The sirens gave warning of their approach at about ten o’clock and five minutes later the streets were thronged. No one dallied now. They feared that the Germans were out to get Mackie’s and terror lent speed to their feet.

  Some, mostly the elderly, sought refuge in the shelters, but these were soon full. Of course this was something else to lament; something else that the government had neglected to do. They had not built enough shelters, so those able to run and those with young children headed for open country. Laura was teething and Rosaleen was glad that she had managed to get her to drink some water laced with whiskey and sugar, because tucked snugly in the pram, she slept like a log. At the corner of the street Rosaleen found Amy waiting for her.

  ‘Can I come with you, Rosaleen? I could have gotten into our shelter but it stinks. Youngsters, an some aul lads too, use the shelters if they’re caught short… and then we’re expected to stay in them when the siren goes. It’s a disgrace, so it is. I can’t bear to be in them.’

  ‘Of course you can come with me, Amy. Here, hang on to the pram.’ And slackening her pace to suit Amy, Rosaleen assured her, ‘I’m glad of your company, so I am.’

  After a wet start to the day, the evening was mild with a light south-westerly wind and they picked their way across the fields by the light of the three-quarter moon, seeking a sheltered place to sit down. As they walked in the bright moonlight. Rosaleen was aware that the same moon would show the German planes just where Mackie’s was and she kept heading as far away from this danger as she could.

  However, she soon discovered that the Germans had no need for moonlight. The first planes over dropped huge flares. They fell from the sky like giant torchlights, hundreds of them, and as they hung over the town, suspended from parachutes, everyone stood in the fields and gaped at them. The sound of anti-aircraft guns thundered as they endeavoured to put out the flares, but more and more fell, and soon the sky became as bright and clear as daylight, making the moon look pale and insignificant. Belfast was shown in detail, as if under a huge spotlight. Huddled together on an old raincoat, Amy and Rosaleen prayed as the next lot of planes dropped a constant barrage of bombs, incendiaries, and parachute mines. Anti-aircraft guns woof-woofed in retaliation, and the ground beneath them shook, even though the bombs were falling in the city.

  There was no singing now. Everyone was sure it was to be their last night on earth and each, in their own way, was begging God’s forgiveness for past sins. The night dragged on; they saw flares fall in the vicinity of Mackie’s and thought the bombs would surely not miss, but Mackie’s fire-watchers were diligent in their labours, and as dawn broke and the all-clear sounded, Mackie’s still stood.

  St Paul’s Parish had only one serious casualty, and that was a house at the corner of Springfield Drive (better known as Mackie’s Height), a row of posh houses, with three bedrooms and a bathroom, built just a few years earlier on an elevated sight facing Mackie’s Foundry.

  So close, so very close. Enough to make the blood run cold. The house had been hit by an incendiary device and was badly burnt, in spit
e of prompt action by the air-raid wardens, but it was empty at the time and there were no casualties.

  The rest of the town was not so lucky, with the docks again suffering devastation, and at Shorts and Harland four Stirling aircraft that were almost finished were ignited by explosions and burnt to a cinder.

  York Street spinning factory, said to be the largest of its kind in Europe, was hit, and brought down houses in Sussex Street and Vere Street in its wake, killing thirty people instantly. They also learnt that a bomb falling near a shelter in Percy Street had taken another sixty lives, and tram lines were wrecked and water and gas mains fractured.

  In despair, firemen worked trying to keep the fires that raged all over the city from spreading. With the pipes having been cracked, the water pressure was low, and realizing that they were fighting a losing battle, help was sought from the south. And the south did not fail Ulster in its hour of need. Indeed, no. In spite of the obvious danger, in spite of being a neutral country, fire engines from Dublin, Dún Laoghaire, Drogheda and Dundalk rushed to their fellow countrymen’s aid. With the Lord Mayor of Dublin himself riding up front in one of his city’s engines, they fought the flames side by side with the Ulster brigades, until the fires were extinguished, leaving half of Belfast a smouldering mass.

  Next day on the radio, Rosaleen learnt that five hundred were dead and this number was expected to rise steeply. Over a thousand were injured, thousands more homeless, and there was an exodus to the countryside as Belfast’s inhabitants sought refuge with friends who lived outside the city.

  Food kitchens were set up and the schools, closed for the Easter holidays, were reopened to house the homeless, who came mostly from Protestant areas. Everybody was urged to give all they could in the way of bedding, clothes and food to help the needy.

  As Rosaleen piled blankets, clothes and tins of food ready to be collected, her mother arrived.

  ‘Have you heard the latest?’ she asked.