ANDROCLES AND THE ARMY ‘Politics and religion!’ Healy said when Cloone, the lion-tamer, announced that he was joining the army for the duration of the war. ‘Even a lion-tamer you can’t trust not to get patriotic on you. The next thing will be the Clown getting religion and wanting to join the Trappists.’ He argued, he pleaded, he threatened proceedings for breach of contract, but Cloone only retorted with arguments about the danger of the country. Threatened by the Germans, threatened by the English, threatened even by the Americans, she needed all her children. She did like hell, thought Healy, and his long red mournful nose shuddered and began to ascend like a helicopter. ‘Look, Cloone, there’s nothing wrong with the bloody country,’ he said patiently. ‘It’s the show I’m thinking of. ’Twill only be the mercy of God if we can keep going at all. You know yourself there isn’t another man in Ireland within a hundred miles of you, and if there was anyone outside it half as good, I couldn’t get him in. Not with a war on.’ ‘Ah, damn it, I know, I know,’ Cloone said in anguish. ‘I like the show as well as you do, and I like my lions better than I like the show, but if I have to choose between my lions and my country, I have to choose my country. It’s as hard on me as it is on you, but war is always like that. Look at the sugar rationing!’ Healy pleaded up to the very last minute. He knew that not only could he not get another lion-tamer, but that even if he could, the man would be nothing like as good as Cloone. He hated to admit it, because he was a professional, and Cloone was nothing but an amateur, a Dublin stone mason who wasn’t happy at home. But because he was a professional, Healy knew an artist when he saw one. What others could do by fear, Cloone could do by a simple dropping of his voice. Healy could not see what magic there was in that sudden change of pitch, but he could see the result all right, because an angry lion would suddenly uncoil his tightened springs of muscle and roll over to be stroked like a cat. And Cloone would play with it like a cat, his blue eyes soft with emotion, and mutter as though to himself, ‘God, Ned, isn’t he beautiful?’ ‘Beautiful my ass!’ Healy would think, as his helicopter nose began to ascend, but he wouldn’t say it. It was plain enough that the lion knew what Cloone meant, and there was no saying but that he might understand what Healy meant as well. Anyone seeing Cloone with animals would be bound to think of St Francis of Assisi, but Healy knew that that was the only thing saintly about him. He had a wicked temper, and brooded for months on imaginary insults and injuries. He would begin to mutter about a half-crown that he said had been unjustly stopped from his pay six months before and go on nagging till Healy asked God for patience with him. ‘Listen, Cloone,’ he would say, ‘I told you fifty times that there was nothing stopped. If you don’t believe me, I’ll give you the bloody half-crown to take your puss off me.’ ‘Then spasms of outraged pride would run through Cloone like electric shocks, and he would cry, ‘It isn’t the money, Ned. It’s not the money. It’s the principle.’ But Healy, who had been in show business from the time he was five, knew that artists had no principle; and it took a man like himself who hated animals but loved human beings to put up with it at all. Cloone knew that, too. He knew that Healy had some sort of hold over him and he didn’t like it. ‘I tame lions, but Healy tames me,’ he said one night in a public-house with a sort of exasperated giggle that showed he was half ashamed of it. But even Healy could not persuade him to stay on during the war. And it wasn’t just because the show was only a ghost of itself, stripped by restrictions and regulations; it was pure unqualified, blood-thirsty patriotism ~ a thing Healy could not understand in a mature man. ‘If you can ever say an artist is mature,’ he added darkly. It was a wrench for Cloone, because he really loved the few animals that had been left him, he liked Healy and the others, and he enjoyed the wandering life and the crowds of the small towns and fair greens. He had taken to the life as though he had never known any other. He left with a breaking heart to be shut up in a Nissen hut, dressed in uniform, stood to attention, stood at ease, presenting arms and forming twos and fours, as if he himself was only a mangy old circus lion. Besides, he was an awkward, excitable man who could never remember his right from his left, and he shouldered arms when he should have presented them and had to listen to the tongue-lashings of a sergeant without even replying. It often reduced him to mutinous tears, and he lay on his cot at night, exhausted, thinking of himself as a caged old animal with his spirit broken. Then he shed more tears because he felt he had never understood wild animals before. All the same, his desperate sincerity stood to him. They had to make a corporal of him in the end, and in the way of other great artists, he was prouder of his two miserable stripes than of all his other attainments. Drinking in a pub with another man, he could not help glancing at his sleeve with a girlish smirk. Then one day he opened a local paper and saw that Doyle’s World-Famous Circus was visiting Asragh for one evening the following week. Filled with excitement, he went off to ask for a pass. Everyone in the battalion knew his trade, and there was no difficulty about the pass. The trouble was that the whole battalion felt it had a personal interest in the circus and wanted passes as well. On the afternoon of the show two lorry loads of troops left for town, and the Commandant, looking darkly at them, said, ‘Well, boys, if the Germans come tonight, the country is lost.’ In the main street the soldiers scattered to the public-houses to wait for the circus, but Cloone hurried off joyously to the fair green. In his temperamental way he threw his arms round Healy and sobbed with pleasure till Healy grabbed him by the shoulders and inspected his uniform, the green gloves tucked in the shoulder strap and the natty little cane. ‘God Almighty, John, you look a sight!’ he said with affectionate malice. ‘Ah, how bad I am!’ Cloone said, giving him a punch. ‘I’m all right, only for the hair, he added self-consciously, ‘I feel lost without the old wig.’ ‘’Twould take more than a haircut to make a soldier of you,’ said Healy. ‘How well they had to give me the stripes!’ said Cloone, looking admiringly at his sleeve. ‘You’re like a baby in a new sailor suit,’ said Healy. ‘Come in and have a drink.’ They went into the caravan, and Healy poured half tumblers of neat whiskey for the pair of them. ‘Ah, John, I thought you had more sense, boy,’ he added as he handed one to Cloone. ‘Oh, God, Ned, I know, I know,’ said Cloone, wriggling miserably on the edge of the bed. ‘I’m not suited to the life at all. But when you have it in the family! The father was in the Rising, and the two uncles were in the Volunteers, and I’m the same. Even now, when I’m in the Army I can never hear the Anthem without the heart rising in me.’ ‘I know. Like a pony when the band strikes up,’ Healy said cruelly. ‘Ah, ’tisn’t alike, Ned,’ Cloone said sadly. ‘But believe me, the day I get my discharge, I’ll be back. Tell me, who have you on the lions?’ ‘Who do you think?’ Healy asked gloomily. ‘Darcy—the Strong Man.’ The description was added not by way of information, but as a sneer, for Healy, who had a wretched stomach and suffered agonies from it had seen the Strong Man screaming his head off with an ordinary toothache. It had left an indelible impression on his mind. ‘Ah, God, Ned, sure Darcy could never handle a lion!’ Cloone said in consternation. ‘Darcy is too rough.’ ‘Darcy is too frightened,’ Healy said candidly. ‘Here, let me fill that for you.’ ‘Is he any good at all with them?’ Cloone asked tensely. ‘He’s good all right,’ Healy replied with a frown, for, though he didn’t like Darcy much, he was a fair man. ‘He’s very conscientious. They don’t like him; that’s the only thing.’ ‘But how could they, Ned?’ Cloone asked feverishly. ‘Lions could never get on with a Strong Man. Lions are sensitive, like women. What possessed you to give them to Darcy?’ ‘I was damn grateful to Darcy for helping me out of the hole you left me in,’ Healy said candidly, ‘And I’ll never criticize any man that does his best.’ It was like old times for Cloone, sitting in the twilight with his friend, sniffing the thick circus smells all round him and talking to the old hands who came in to ask how he was doing. He told them all about the importance of the army and the danger to the country, and they listened politely but with utter incredulity. It was at times like this that you could see Cloone wasn’t really one of them, Healy thought sadly. When he went off to take the gate, Cloone with a foolish smile nodded in the direction of the big cage and said, ‘I’ll slip round and have a look at Jumbo and Bess.’ They might have been two old sweethearts, the way he talked of them. ‘Plenty of time, John,’ Healy said. ‘They won’t be on for half an hour yet.’ From Healy’s point of view the main satisfaction of the evening was the number of soldiers who came, officers and all. Healy couldn’t help liking a bit of style, and style was something that was disappearing from the Irish countryside. He was only sorry for the miserable show he had for them, and the two lions that were all he had left when the rationing was done. And then their turn came and Darcy stood ready, a huge and handsome man with a self-conscious air. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the Cockney ringmaster explained, ‘owing to Emergency restrictions, Doyle’s collection of wild animals—the greatest in the world—has been considerably depleted. But the two lions you are about to see are not just ordinary animals. No, ladies and gentlemen, these two terrible lions are the most savage ever to be captured alive. In the capture of these lions—especially for Doyle’s Circus—no less than eight famous big-game hunters lost their lives, as well as an untold number of simple natives,’ Then the band—what was left of it—played; the big cage was rolled on; Darcy whipped. the curtain back, and then—after a moment of incredulous silence—came a laugh that chilled Healy’s blood. For, inside the cage, with his tunic open and his cap off, was Cloone, sprawled on the ground against the bars, embracing Jumbo with one arm and Bess with the other. The two lions had a smug, meditative air, as though they were posing for a family photograph. At the uproar from the audience, they raised their heads sharply and fresh screams broke out, because Jumbo was seen to be holding Cloone’s green gloves in his jaws while Bess sedately held his cane. There was an atmosphere of intense domesticity about the scene that made Healy feel that instead of a cage there should be a comfortable living room with a good fire burning. As a turn, it was superior to anything that had yet been seen, but the circus hands felt it was disaster. ‘Oh, my God!’ muttered the ringmaster. ‘This is awful. This is the end. How could a thing like this happen, Darcy?’ ‘That’s Cloone,’ said Darcy with a puzzled frown. ‘I know damned well it’s Cloone, the ringmaster said. severely. ‘I hadn’t imagined it was a casual visitor. But how the hell did he get in, and how are we to get him out? Come along now, John,’ he called pathetically. ‘You don’t want to hold up the show.’ But Cloone was too far gone to notice anything except that he had the whole audience to himself. ‘Bess wants me to desert, he announced. ‘She says the old war is after going on long enough,’ This delighted the soldiers because, for some reason Bess looked exactly as though she had been saying something of the kind. ‘Leave the man go home to his mother,’ said a voice. ‘Oh, Christ!’ said the ringmaster. ‘We’ll be the laughing stock of the whole country. Darcy, you go in and get him out, there’s a good man!’ ‘Is it me?’ Darcy asked angrily. ‘How the hell can I go in with him there? They’d ate you, man.’ All the same he was a conscientious man, if a bit slow-witted, and after a moment he muttered despairingly ‘Where’s me hot bar?’ Two policemen who had been sitting near the front approached with their uniform caps in their hands to indicate that this was merely friendly curiosity and that nothing had yet occurred to require their official attention. ‘Now, lads, what’s the disturbance about?’ the sergeant asked amiably. ‘Wouldn’t you come out of that cage like a good man and not be obstructing the traffic?’ Cloone began to giggle as the humour of it struck him. ‘The door is open,’ he said. ‘Can’t you come in and join the party.’ “What’s that?” asked the sergeant. ‘Come in and meet the family,’ said Cloone. “You’re only making trouble for yourself,’ the sergeant said sternly. ‘Cowardy, cowardy custard!’ Cloone said archly. The sergeant glared at him for a moment and then put on his official cap. It had something of the effect of the judge’s donning of the black cap in a murder trial. The younger policeman with a shy air put on his own. ‘Someone will have to get him out, the sergeant announced in an entirely different tone, the one that went with the cap. ‘All right, all right,’ Darcy said irritably, fetching his hot bar. He opened the door of the cage cautiously and the two lions rose and growled at him. Cloone jumped to his feet. ‘Put that down,’ he said in an outraged voice. ‘Put it down, I say.’ ‘Get out of my way, God blast you!’ snarled Darcy. ‘Haven’t I trouble enough without you?’ In a moment the atmosphere of domesticity had vanished. It was clear that Darcy hated the lions and the lions hated Darcy. For a few moments) they eyed the Strong Man hungrily and growled; they slunk slowly back to the separate compartment at the end of the cage. Darcy, white in the face, slammed the gate behind them, and the ringmaster and the policeman, followed by Healy, entered the other compartment. ‘Come home now, John,’ Healy said softly. ‘That’s no way to treat my animals,’ Cloone said. ‘John! John! Remember the uniform,’ A remark that, as he said later, he’d have to answer for on the Last Day because he cared as much about the uniform as he did about the danger to the country. But he was a man-tamer as Cloone was a lion-tamer: each made his own sort of soothing nonsensical noise. ‘All right, all right,’ Cloone muttered, ‘Just let me say goodbye to them.’ ‘Don’t let that man open the gate again or I won’t be responsible, Darcy shouted in a frenzy. ‘I’ll be responsible, Darcy,’ Healy said shortly. ‘Go on, John. Do it quick, and for God’s sake don’t let them out on us. Come on outside, boys.’ And there they had to stand outside the cage powerlessly while Cloone said goodbye to his pets. He opened the gate of the inner cage and stood there for a moment, overcome with emotion. The lions seemed to be overcome as well. After a moment Jumbo tossed his big head as though suppressing a sob and padded up to Cloone. Cloone bent and kissed him on the snout. Bess growled in a way that suggested a moan and came to lick his hand. He kissed her as well. ‘I’ll be back, Bess, I’ll be back,’ he said with an anguished air. Then he drew himself up and gave them both a military salute. ‘Company, present arms!’ yelled one of the soldiers, and as Cloone staggered out they rose to cheer him. As Healy said, ‘There was never the like of it seen in show business. If you could put it on as an act, you’d be turning them away.’ But for Cloone it was anything but show-business. He strode straight up to Darcy. ‘You bloody big bully!’ he said with tears of rage in his voice. ‘You had to take a red-hot bar to frighten these poor innocent creatures. Like every other bully you’re a coward.’ He gave Darcy a punch, and the Strong Man was so astonished that he went down flat on the ground. There was fresh uproar in the audience. The soldiers were getting out-of-hand. Darcy rose with a dazed expression as the two policemen seized Cloone from behind. To give them their due they were less afraid of what Cloone would do to Darcy than of what Darcy might do to Cloone. He was one of those powerful melancholy men whose tragedy is that they can’t have a little disagreement with a man in a pub without running the risk of manslaughter. Cloone pulled himself away, leaving his unbuttoned tunic in the policeman’s hands and then made a dash for the side of the tent. He disappeared under the canvas with the two guards close behind and a score of soldiers after the guards to see that Cloone got fair play. As they were unbuckling their belts for the task, two officers got up as well and rushed out through the main entrance to see that the guards got fair play. It was all very confusing, and the show was as good as over. They ran Cloone to earth in the kitchen of a cottage down a lane from which there was no escape. By this time he had had the opportunity of considering his own behaviour, and all the fight had gone out of him. Once more he was only a broken-spirited old circus lion. He apologized to the woman of the house for the fright he had given her, and she moaned. over him like a Greek chorus, blaming it all on the bad whiskey. He apologized to the police for the trouble he had given them and begged them not to spoil their night’s pleasure but to let him surrender himself. He apologized all over again to the two young lieutenants who appeared soon after. By this time he was trembling like an aspen leaf. ‘I’m sorry I disgraced ye the way I did, he muttered, ‘I’ll never forgive myself. If ’twasn’t for the lions I wouldn’t have done it.’ At his court martial he appeared on a charge of “conduct prejudicial to good order and discipline, in that he, Corporal Jobn Cloone, on the 18th day of September of the current year had appeared in public with his tunic in disorder and minus certain articles of equipment: viz. one pair of gloves and one walking stick (regulations).’ The charge of assault was dropped at the instance of the President who suggested. to the Prosecutor that, considering the prisoner’s occupation in civil life, there might have been provocation. But armies are alike the world over, and whatever their disregard for civilian rights, they all have the same old-maidish preoccupation with their own dignity, and Cloone lost his stripes. Healy asked him what better he could expect from soldiers, people who tried to turn decent artists into megalomaniacs like themselves. As if anybody had ever succeeded in turning a soldier into anything that was the least use to God or man!