The Sash and the Crucifix

By Marty Dickson

Lance-Corporal Edward Vickers, was born on the 12th July 1900, in the Tigers Bay area of Belfast, under the shadow of Harland and Wolff Shipyard. Edward and his four friends watched some of the greatest ships ever to be built, as they towered over their streets. These five friends made a playground out of the shipyard and got to play on the decks of the greatest ship ever built, The Titanic. As they got older, WW1 shattered their lives like countless others. What they had to endure was hard to comprehend, but this first hand story had to be told. Not only was his story about WW1, but WW2 as well, where he had to fight his way through Belgium and France yet again, to get to the Dunkirk beaches.
Through his life he had some unforgettable ups, but they were overshadowed by unthinkable downs.
Edwards’s story is a remarkable one; of life through the wars, abroad and at home, and it’s a story that spans 105 years of his remarkable life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jan 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9781528906487

Marty Dickson

Marty Dickson was born in a small market village called Sixmilecross, in the county of Tyrone, Northern Ireland and spent all of his youth living there. He started to write music at the age of fifteen and played his first live gig at the age of seventeen in the local farmers club. His love for rock music and motorcycles was to become his passion in life. In 1987, he moved to Cambridge with his then-girlfriend, Elaine, whom he married ten years later. He played bass guitar in numerous bands over the years, spending most of his time on the road touring or in a studio, waiting and recording music. He also became a keen restorer of old motorcycles, which he owned to his father, Cecil Dickon, an ex-road racer and a restorer himself. In 2015, he decided to give up on the constant touring and turned to writing books. His first book was released in 2018 through Austin Maculey Publishers, All for the Love of a Father. He has never forgotten his hometown and writes passionately about his love for it. In this second novel, Sixmilescross has yet again played a role in it.

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About the Author

Marty Dickson was born in a small market village called Sixmilecross, in the county of Tyrone, Northern Ireland and spent all of his youth living there. He started to write music at the age of fifteen and played his first live gig at the age of seventeen in the local farmers club. His love for rock music and motorcycles was to become his passion in life. In 1987, he moved to Cambridge with his then-girlfriend, Elaine, whom he married ten years later. He played bass guitar in numerous bands over the years, spending most of his time on the road touring or in a studio, waiting and recording music. He also became a keen restorer of old motorcycles, which he owned to his father, Cecil Dickon, an ex-road racer and a restorer himself. In 2015, he decided to give up on the constant touring and turned to writing books. His first book was released in 2018 through Austin Maculey Publishers, All for the Love of a Father. He has never forgotten his hometown and writes passionately about his love for it. In this second novel, Sixmilescross has yet again played a role in it.

Dedication

Little did I know that days after receiving my first publishing contract for my first novel, All for the Love of a Father, with Austin Macauley Publishers, that we would lose our father and a brother. We laid them to rest six days apart in Sixmilecross.

Since then, our family have never been the same and never will.

In memory of Dad, Derek, and Tat.

Copyright Information ©

Marty Dickson 2022

The right of Marty Dickson to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This novel’s story and characters are fictitious. Certain long-standing institutions, agencies, and public offices are mentioned, but most of the characters involved are wholly imaginary. Names, characters, some events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528902489 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528906487 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2022

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

Many thanks goes to the W.F Marshall family for letting me use a verse from Me an Me Da in my second book. My father was a great lover of his work and grew up in Drumlister, which was the influence in this poem. If you ever get the chance to visit Tyrone , find your way to Sixmilecross. The history of W.F Marshall is everywhere to see.

My gratitude goes to the Royal York LOL 145 from Belfast for letting me using their lodge name and LOL number in this story. They lost many members in many wars and conflicts throughout the years.

Thank you, Claire Goldby, for your inspirational poem – Those Gallant Boys. It gives emotional feeling and understanding to what men and women of all ages have to go through in war.

To all those who paid the ultimate sacrifice and never came home. You give your today, so we could have our tomorrow.

We will remember them.

One year has passed since the deaths of our mother and our brother, Billy, and it’s been a year that has passed by like a leaf blowing in a gust of wind. Every single moment of every single day since then, my thoughts have been constantly back to the Cross and on the day that we laid Mum and Billy to rest beside Daddy, Sammy, and Baby Richie.

Like many other families in the North of Ireland, we as a family were destroyed by the troubles. I left home when I was sixteen to join the British Army at a time when the troubles were in full flow, but that didn’t stop me from going back there. I always tried to travel back home to Sixmilecross, which is in the County of Tyrone in Ulster, when I could, and I still do. When I do go home I try to spend some time at our church, and in the graveyard where my family are all laid to rest. I call it my place of peace which is where I used to go to get away from the pressures of day to day life back when I lived there. Even with so many family members buried in this place, you would think I would be sad and somewhat depressed spending time here. No, I do still get upset now and then, but I still find some solace and peace when I visit; just me, my thoughts and my memories are all I need when I’m there.

It’s a usual April morning back home with the misty rain filling the air. It’s hard to tell where the sun in the sky is when it’s like this. When I look towards the valley I can hardly see the green fields that can blind you with their stunning beauty. It’s bitterly cold this time of year but there is no other place I would want to be on this day of the year. As I walk through the iron gates that creak with the noise of time, I immediately go back to dark days and what they did to us as a family. I make my way up the small slope and right away I am hit with flashbacks of sad times. Over and over again I start seeing in my mind the faces of friends and family as I walk past; although this time I’m not carrying a coffin. This time I’m visiting loved ones that have left this place and I do hope they have gone to a better place. I know if I tried, I could walk the footsteps up to the family plot blindfolded and not put a foot wrong, as I have done it so many times. Again without even thinking I stop and turn to my right. I’m here again.

Standing in front of the graves of five of my family members I try to smile and think back to better days, but those better days are fading with time. It’s just a pity that the bad times don’t fade as fast. William Billy Darcy, our dad, is always the first name I look at on the headstones. He was murdered at the age of thirty-three by an IRA murder squad fifteen days before Christmas in 1979. That tragic moment inevitably decided the path that his six sons took in life. He would not have wished this path for us but we all knew it was the path we had to take, and stay on until the journey was over. It was a path that our mother made us promise to take, the day our daddy was buried, and we never forgot our promise to her, and to each other.

The day we buried him she made us swear with our hands placed on Daddy’s coffin to have our revenge. The revenge she craved, stayed with her until her death and the promise we made, stayed with us until the end of the nightmare we were forced into. The name on the headstone below Dad’s name is Rose Darcy, our mother. She died on 5 April 2004. One year to the day, and that’s why this is the only place I would want to be today. Even though our mother was fighting cancer it wasn’t the cancer that killed her in the end. Mummy died of a broken heart twenty-five years after it was broken, when the only man she ever loved was taken from her just before Christmas in 1979. She never really got over his murder and spent the rest of her life dealing with the grief, the pain and the sadness. Looking after her six boys was her mission in life and the only thing that got her through each day.

She did however see the day that we got the revenge she prayed for and had always wanted. That however was the last day of her life. When we told her of our revenge against the murderers of our dad, she passed away soon after knowing her life’s promise to her only love and to her sons was fulfilled. In a sad way she died with a sense of happiness and fulfilment, and us boys, who were still alive; well, we had a sense of relief for her. Her sadness was over.

On the same headstone is the name, Baby Richard Darcy, who was born in 1972 but died soon after. He lived for a month before dying of pneumonia. Mummy always blamed the hospital for leaving a window open by his cot but nothing was ever done or said about it.

As I glance to my right the next name on the joining headstone is our brother Sammy Darcy. Sammy died in 2003 after a lifelong battle dealing with the injuries he received when Daddy’s car was attacked. Sammy and Billy were in the car with Dad, the day of his murder and Sammy ended up with life-changing injuries after being shot three times while in the back seat of the car. He suffered so much in his short life and eventually turned to alcohol to help deal with and blank out his harrowing memories and injuries, and also to help him deal with our dad’s death. He eventually became an alcoholic, but that was only through his sheer bravery in trying to find the murderers of our daddy. He would pretend to be a drunk and would drink in well-known republican pubs just to hear what was said, hoping to hear something said about our father’s shooting. That lifestyle caught up with him in the end but not before tracking them down and helping us find out who planned and carried out the murder; and that helped us get our revenge. This was something we didn’t know about until he was dead. Only Sammy and Mummy knew what he was up to but never in a million years did they think it would take such a grip on his life. Sammy was without a doubt the bravest man I know. He forgave his life so Mum could have her revenge.

The last name on the headstone is our brother Billy Darcy. He died in 2004 the day after Mummy’s death. He died after being shot by the man who was protecting the men who planned the murder of our dad away back in 1979. He got his revenge before he died though. He was the sort of man who never took a step back for no man and had one mission in life which he fulfilled the day he died.

Out of the nine of our family members, five were dead. The four of us that were left would promise our mother on her death bed, that we would live our lives to the fullest and never lay our heads to rest at night without saying good night to them all in our prayers. That is always the last thing I say before I close my eyes to sleep at night.

God bless you all.

Not long after the funerals of Mum and Billy I decided to end my time in the British Army and give my family the future it deserved. My marriage to my wife Mary ended because of my army career which meant I never got to see my beautiful daughter Rosie growing up to become a beautiful and intelligent young girl. I was spending most of my time in the battlefields in some god damn shithole fighting some other man’s war and not having a say in my own life. Myself and Mary always got on well and remained good friends after we split, and when I needed someone to lean on she was always there. When Sammy died she was at the family home waiting for me to get back from Iraq. Seeing her face the moment I walked in the door at our family home helped me through that awful time, as it also did when Mummy got sick. After the deaths of Mum and Billy we decided to give our marriage another chance.

The second chance that I was given helped me to make a decision to end my military career. I had only eighteen months left until I could retire with a full pension so my commanding officer accepted my decision and got me a post back in England training new army recruits. It worked out perfectly for us as the posting was in the south west of London. We got a military house which was surprisingly good and a promise of a council house in whatever area we decided to settle in after I got de-mobbed from the army.

Not long after we got back together Mary announced to me that she was pregnant. My heart nearly jumped out of my mouth with joy when she told me that the three of us would become the four of us. Our second daughter was born in early 2005. We called her Sammy-Jo Darcy in memory of my brother Sammy.

Our life as a family had a second chance now and I intended to do everything in my powers to make it work. Because of my new rank and new role within the army I could spend more and more time with the three girls in my life. Rosie was now in school full time and Mary was being a fantastic Mum to Sammy-Jo.

In late June I was asked if I wanted to help out at The Royal Hospital Chelsea on a voluntary basis. The Chelsea pensioners are all retired soldiers of the British Army. Since 1692 the Chelsea Hospital has offered care and comradeship to veterans in recognition of their loyal service to the nation and in 1997, I had the pleasure to accompany some of those pensioners on Remembrance Sunday at the Cenotaph Service and Parade in Whitehall. It was a day that made me stand tall with pride as I was amongst men who gave everything for their country and so the thought of helping out voluntary was a no brainer to me. I would help out with just about anything that was asked of me and to do it with a smile because it was a joy.

On one occasion I had the pleasure of showing Rosie and her class mates around when their school visited the hospital and that made Rosie everybody’s best friend at her school. I could see the look in her eyes and she loved every moment. The moment that gave me a new focus in life happened on July 2005. It just happened to be on the glorious twelfth of July, ‘as we called it’.

I was in the main hall when I met the oldest pensioner in the hospital and he turned out to be an Ulster man who served in the first and second world wars. His name was Edward Vickers. He was born in Belfast on 12 July 1900 and today he was celebrating the grand old age of 105. Not only was he celebrating his birthday he was celebrating the glorious twelfth with his friends. As he was wheeled into the main hall some of the old boys started to sing the ‘Sash My Father Wore’. The sash is a ballad from Ulster commemorating the victory of King William III at the battle of the Boyne in Ireland in 1690. It was a song that would be sang and played on 12 July every year since then.

That’s what got my attention as I myself have played the song many times on the flute when I was in marching bands as a young boy. When everything calmed down and he had eaten his birthday lunch I introduced myself to him. When he found out I was a serving soldier from Ulster he welcomed me with open arms and I was over whelmed at how well he spoke at the ripe old age of 105. We got on like a house on fire and as I was leaving and saying my goodbyes he asked me to visit him again soon.

The thought of sitting down with such a man who fought in the Great War was only something in my wildest dreams. I made him a promise that I would call with him every time I was there and I did. It seemed to make him happy at the thought of having another Ulster man to talk to and I have to say, if he was just a fraction as happy as I was, he would have to be over the moon. I couldn’t wait to get back home to tell Mary and the girls of my day at the hospital. I was like a kid in a candy shop. As I told them of my day they seemed to get as excited as me.

I’m so happy for you, Stephen, you deserve to be happy, said Mary.

I had only about ten months left to serve in the army and it was about time I made plans for that when I would be de-mobbed from the army. Working at the Chelsea Hospital on a voluntary basis was good but the thought of working there as doing a job was great. I had skills that could help out in many ways and the fact that I was a serving soldier could help me out if I ever applied for a job of sorts. Mary thought it was a great idea and said she would support me in any way. I decided that I would do my best to spend as much time as possible getting to know Edward.

My first visit with him was over whelming to me. He was so well spoken and sharp as a razor for his age. He still had a Belfast accent and was no doubt proud of his roots. If I tried to explain the setup of the hospital wards to the normal man on the street he would call me a liar. Edward had a small box room set off in a long corridor with a tall arm chair and a small table outside his room. Each of the rooms was the same size. There were up to eighteen berths in a ward that were side to side along the corridors, and every one of them was exactly the same inside and out. They were all roughly nine foot by nine foot. I was used to such a set up so it didn’t get to me. The room was just somewhere to lay their heads.

The pensioners were encouraged to wear a blue uniform while in the barracks and if they travel further from the hospital, they would wear the distinctive scarlet coats. All the pensioners could wear their medal ribbons and the insignia of the rank they had reached while serving in the military. They could also wear any other insignia’s they earned during their service.

On the first visit I had with Edward he ordered me to wheel him outside to the gardens where there was a glorious golden statue of King Charles the second. It reminded me of Caesar when Rome ruled the world. It turned out to be his favourite spot and he would often spend hours there when the sun was out. The gardens were specular in colour as well, but the golden statue took pride of place.

As I wheeled him to his favourite spot he said in his broad Belfast accent, Just over there, wee man. Sure ye couldn’t ask for any more, could ye.

I was treading lightly at first because for all I knew he could be a cantankerous old bugger that would have snapped the nose of you it he thought you were being nosy, and the last thing I wanted to do was to upset him and he tells me to bugger off.

So you’re an Ulster man, are ye, where are you from, cub?

The fact that he asked me where I was from made me feel a bit more relaxed.

I’m from a small village in County Tyrone called Sixmilecross. It’s near the town of Omagh.

He looked at me with a sense of shock.

The Cross? Jasus, sure I know it well, cub. That’s where my dear wife Margret is from. She was a Cross girl through and through so she was. Her family was all farmers and staunch loyalists. I met her on a ship in 1918 on my way back from England. I didn’t meet her again until 1925. I was at a church parade one Sunday and she was standing outside the church at the bottom of the bray in the Cross with her three brothers. They were all in RUC uniforms and looked smashing to boot. I tell yea she was a prey girl and that’s no lie. It took me a few weeks to get her to agree to walk out with me, but I knew I would win over that wee girl. It was around about the time that the old Royal Irish Constabulary (RIC) was turned into the newly formed Royal Ulster Constabulary (RUC). I was stationed in Omagh and spent some time in Sixmilecross. If I remember right, they were very loyal men in those parts so there were. My dear wife, Margret’s daddy, was in the RUC as well. The whole family of them was in uniform, uncles and cousins alike. Ay, her daddy was a good man so he was. I remember yer man Marshall the poet so I do. He was in charge of the B-Specials in the Cross. By Jasus he could write a good poem, and I’ll tell yea another thing too; he was the bloody presbyterian minister as well so he was.

Before I could tell him that my dad also loved W.F. Marshall’s poetry and what his favourite Marshall poem was Edward burst into one of Marshalls best known poem’s, ‘Me An Me Da’.

"I’m livin in Drumlister,

An’ I’m gettin’ very oul’

I have to wear an Indian bag

To save me from the coul’.

The deil a man in this townlan’

Wos claner raired nor me,

But I’m livin’ in Drumlister

In clabber to the knee."

The last time I heard that poem spoken with such enthusiasm, Edward, was by my dad, and you speaking it the way you did. It did take me back for a moment. W.F. Marshall was my dad’s favourite poet, Edward, and he would often recite his poetry to us when we were children. In fact, my Aunty Margaret read a couple of verses of Dad’s favourite poem ‘Tullyneil’ at his funeral. Marshall’s poetry holds a special place in our hearts, Edward. I spent many an evening listening to my dad reading Marshall’s poems and you speak with great feeling just like my dad, and I’ll tell you another thing, Edward, my family is buried in that very church.

He held out his frail hands for me to grasp and shake with a look of acceptance in his eyes.

Well, bugger me, that shows how small of a world it’s becoming. So is my Margret and most of her family. Your da had good taste, cub, I would love to have met him someday.

I believe that this moment was the start of our friendship. The thought of this old soldier being a cantankerous old git was gone. We sat there in the gorgeous sun shine talking for an hour before it was time for him to take his usual afternoon nap. These old fellas would still get up at the regimental time which was about six a.m. so it’s understandable why they needed a nap in the afternoon. He thanked me for keeping him company and told me to come back anytime. He was a friendly old fella that loved to talk and I have no doubt loved to listen. That evening when I got home I told Mary of my day with Edward and how we clicked right away.

I’m so looking forward to hearing the stories he has to tell, Mary, but I don’t think he will want to talk about the Great War. I know from my experiences that wars like that are better best forgotten to the men who fought them. They bring back horrid memories that are better left in the past. Poor bugger, what he must have seen in his lifetime must have been horrendous.

She could see the upset in my eyes with just the mention of the word ‘war’.

She kissed me on the forehead before getting up. I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?

Yep, that’s a good idea, darling.

As Mary was getting the milk out of the fridge she stopped. Stephen.

What?

Why don’t you ask him if you could write his life memoir? You have always been a keen writer and it’s something you could do to fill the void left from the army.

I looked or should I say stared at Mary for a moment; I walked towards her, looked into her eyes and planted a big kiss on her forehead before giving her a man hug.

Jesus Christ, Stephen, you’re hurting me.

Shit, sorry, honey. I’m a bit excited. That’s what I’m missing in my life, a purpose and you just filled it. Mary, my dear, you are one of a kind and too good for the likes of me. Thank you, thank you. I will ask him on my next visit.

Well, me being me, I didn’t wait until the next visit. I decided to call there the very next morning. Next morning when I was in the mess room just after I inspected the new recruits I made my excuses to go to the Chelsea Hospital. It was a white lie but I didn’t care.

Just popping over to the hospital, chaps, to drop off a donation. I’ll be back soon.

Not a word was said. When I got there it was just after breakfast and as usual, there he was sitting on his chair outside his room reading the day’s newspaper. I had to stop to pluck up the courage just to walk in and I was so excited.

Mr Vickers, good morning, sir, how are you this fine morning?

He looked up at me and seemed very happy to see me. Good Lord, is it Friday already? It just seemed like yesterday you were here.

I did laugh at him. No, sir. Its Saturday morning and I thought I would pop over to see you, old boys. It was quiet at the barracks and I thought, bugger it, I might as well spend some time over here annoying you lot.

One of his old comrades popped up from behind his newspaper. You’re a bit young to be looking for a bed here, young man. You’d be best coming back in thirty years or so.

Next thing I knew, the whole corridor which was occupied by six old chaps all reading the daily newspapers, started to giggle with approval of the comment.

You have to get up a bit earlier in the morning to fool us old soldiers, Stephen, said Edward. Gentleman, I would like to introduce a fellow Ulsterman and a serving member of the Royal Marines. This is Staff Sargent, Stephen Darcy, from Tyrone.

My head was held high with pride when they all got up and saluted me which took a little time for them all to get to their feet. That indeed was a proud unforgettable moment in my life. These men gave everything for their country and now their country was giving back.

Thank you, gentlemen; it is truly an honor to meet you all.

One by one they introduced themselves as I approached their area.

Good morning, Staff Sargent, Darcy. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.

One by one they introduced themselves with their name and rank.

"Sargent, James Wilson, from Glasgow, Royal Navy. Warrant officer, George Wright from London, Grenadier Guards. Staff Sargent, Arthur Wells from Cambridge, Parachute regiment. Corporal, Chaz Campbell, Oxford, Royal Marines. Captain, William Wilson Glasgow, the Royal Scots Regiment."

Bugger me it was a surreal moment.

Gentlemen, it is an honor to meet you all.

It felt like Edward was the ranking officer by the way the other old soldiers spoke to him but he wasn’t. Edward was a Lance Corporal when he was de-mobbed back in 1947. They just held him in high esteem because of the fact that he fought in the Great War. He was the only Great War veteran left at the Chelsea Hospital. Everyone knew Edward which made it more special to me that I was allowed to be in his company. As I made my way back up the long corridor to Edward I was offered a cup of tea from one of the staff.

"You wear that uniform quite smartly, Lance Corporal. It suits you. Now, sit