During a two-day respite in
World War I in France, destiny
entangles the lives of three
young men: Patrick, who is
Anglo-Irish, and Harry, an
Australian, accidentally meet
Karl, an enemy soldier. Karl is
seriously injured and the two
allies are forced to measure
their humanity against their
military training. Should they
comfort the German? Should
they let him die alone? As the
story unfolds, it reveals details about the differences in the
civilian lives of the three young men. Decisions are made and,
for a little while, the war is only about three young men. Siege
of Contraries contains painful memories about survivor guilt
and judgements about the importance of nationalities.
Order
a copy |
Order
a copy
|
Rose Helen Mitchel |
 |
|
Siege of
Contraries
|
Excerpts from Siege of Contraries:
-
p.7 On an August night in 1917 I sat
amongst a mixture of Irish, Scottish and Australian
infantry units at a rest billet near the desecrated
village of Fleury. The final battle for the city of
Verdun had left it, and surrounding areas, in allied
hands. Now and again, an escapee from a swarm of
flies feasting on a pile of horse-dung nearby, would
land on the letter I was writing to Caitlin. A blob
of blood lay splattered on the page. I drew a
circle around it and wrote “dead fly”.
‘Got
the flies daein’ the censorin’ eh Paddy?’ Jock
Macpherson called out as he struggled with a canvas
bucket full of water and a broken rope handle trailing
along the ground at his feet.
‘Well Jock, I’m sure that between the blessed flies and
the MO there will be few enough kind words left on the
page. Now where would you be going with the bucket?’
‘Ah’ve jist been doon at the river. The watter there’s
best for makin’ tea. Why don’t ye go on doon an’ mix wi’
the boys, it’s jist fine for a wee dip.’
‘Maybe later,’ I answered.
-
p.49 When I enter any room these days, conversation
is quickly forced behind pursed lips. So, I sit on the
edge of my bed for hours on end. Here at least I don’t
have to contend with their puzzlement and thwarted
attempts to decipher my speech. Now and again, I drag
my ancient satchel from the bottom of the cupboard. I
stroke it and fiddle with the oxidised clasp then return
it to its hiding place.
The
mud of France, creased into the old worn leather, still
clings to it like a parasite on a pig’s back. Each time
I look at it I feel part of my soul is bound to the
bloodied soil of Europe and I crawl mole-like into a
mental burrow made black and grey with murky shades of
men I’d helped to bury. Their shadows zigzag over the
reality of home. Now, the bag sits open at my feet and
for the past hour I’ve been unwrapping and re-wrapping
souvenirs of a particular night.
-
p.86 My mother was at the back of the crowd an’ the
old kitbag came in handy as a batterin’ ram to get me
through the welcoming committee to her side. When I
picked her up, it was like lifting a ten-year-old child;
I’d forgotten how tiny she was. I spun her around till
we were dizzy. We laughed like loons, staggered for a
minute then stood silent, grinning like conquerors.
‘Hello son.’
‘Hello Ma.’
I
picked up my kit-bag and started moving homewards.
‘Let’s go home Ma.’
‘Ye have tae dae the parade Harry, it’ll no’ take long
and they look forward tae it.’
|