by P. L. Wytka
“Was it only eight weeks? I think it was longer than that. So much has happened since you left. I lost thirty francs in a game of crown and anchor, my bladder was giving me some trouble but it got better, and my son-in-law came by to visit me, oh, Wednesday? Or was it Saturday? What are you doing here? Eight weeks?”
“I’m here with a draft of new men, but it looks like the battalion has already moved up the line.”
“That’s good,” Jack said, motioning to his assistant. “Bring those pickets and wire. You see, they forgot some stuff. You can bring it up for them, how many men do you have? Eight weeks?”
Bill sighed. He would have been better off just waiting around for the officer to figure out which direction the front was in. “About thirty. They didn’t leave any scouts behind to guide us up, did they?”
“Not that I know of. Apparently the front is a real mess; they need them all up there.”
*
Twenty minutes later the draft was formed up and ready to go. Jack had supplied the officer with excessively detailed instructions for how to reach the battalion. Every two men carried a six foot barbed wire stake over their shoulders, a coil of wire resting between them, constantly threatening to slide into one’s face, or the other’s back.
The march to the frontline brought the men slowly uphill. Roads gave way to abandoned trenches, then to polluted fields, formerly no-man’s land. The open ground was often more difficult to move past than the trenches, being covered with old barbed wire entanglements, heaps of refuse, and the ubiquitous shellholes.
A passing stretcher-bearer had informed the draft that the battalion was in close support, occupying a mix of old Canadian and German trenches, while other units, some few hundred yards beyond, were holding the firing line. The Germans had become aware that a new group was taking over the line, and had taken the opportunity to blanket the entire area with sporadic shellfire.
Exhausted from moving through winding trenches and smashed fields, getting lost, finding his way, and getting lost again, the officer in charge of the draft decided to call a halt. The men dropped into a deserted trench and rested, preparing for the final leg of their journey. Bill could tell from the officer’s expression that he was hoping for a guide to suddenly appear and bring them to wherever they were supposed to be. He wished it too, hoping that Post might be their saviour.
Bill had heard it first, and though the sound was dulled through his damaged eardrums, incoming shellfire of this quantity was impossible to miss. High explosive rounds wouldn’t have worried him, much, but these were shrapnel rounds: fused to explode overhead and send hundreds of metal balls scattering downwards. They were intended to rip through flesh, not damage fortifications.
“Shrapnel shells!”
A few veterans and quick-thinking replacements clued in, and disappeared around the nearest traverses searching for dugouts or niches carved into the wall; others flopped to the ground or curled up into balls.
The officer in charge, along with about half of the draft stood still, dazed. “Who ordered that? Get back here!”
The first shell exploded just to their rear, moments later, another three went off overhead all at once. Bill forced his body to attention; it was the best way to avoid the shrapnel balls raining down from above. A man standing upright presented a smaller target, and allowed the brim of his steel helmet to do its job. Those who dove to the ground only made themselves bigger targets, while those who ran covered more ground and gave the shrapnel balls more opportunities to get lucky.
Bundles of wire and stakes lay scattered amongst the khaki heaps. More shells whined and exploded above them as the soldiers sought to become one with the earth. Soon the fire shifted two hundred yards north, found its desired target, and carried on with greater fury.
“Okay, get back here,” Bill called out. “Check each man to see who’s wounded. Even if they say they’re okay, look for yourself.”
It wasn’t unusual for a stunned soldier to insist he was unhurt, even when an obvious wound proved otherwise.
“Lance, come here quick,” one of the privates called. “What do we do? What do we do?” He had pulled out a field dressing and was uselessly manoeuvring it, unable to commit himself to applying it to the appalling wound.
There was not much that could be done. The man was kneeling next to another, blood coursing from his neck, which was so badly torn and mutilated it looked as if his head might fall off altogether if it leaned the wrong way. Bill sat the man up, so as to change the cause of death from choking on his own blood to shock from loss of it. The man’s eyes were calm, and through his spluttering for air, even managed a weak smile. Bill had seen this before, and those who survived such blood loss often described a peaceful euphoria. Bill waved away the man with the dressing; bandaging the wound would only slow things down.
“You’re doing well. Everything is great, isn’t it?”
The dying man’s smile twisted upwards; he was delirious and would believe anything Bill said.
“Going back to Canada tomorrow, eh? Well I don’t know how you managed that, but congratulations, pal. We’ll sure miss you around here, but it’ll be great to finally go home, won’t it? I’ll write them a letter and let them know. Everyone will be waiting for you at the station.”
Still smiling, the man nodded slightly, rested his chin on his chest, and died.
“Did you know him?” Bill asked the other private.
“No, did you?”
Bill shook his head, then raised his voice. “Anyone hit bad?”
“Just some scrapes over here,” a man called.
“Three walking here,” another soldier replied, obviously a veteran by his calm and firm tone.
“Hard to say for certain,” a third, unsteady voice chimed in.
Bill turned his attention back to the body and instinctively relieved it of a pack of cigarettes. “Get the wounded together, let me have a look.”
The officer stood impotently as Bill decided the fate of the wounded men, offering them the dead man’s cigarettes as he went. Four were alright to go forward with the draft. Three, including a corporal, definitely had to proceed to the nearest aid station.
“Okay, let’s get moving,” Bill announced to the remainder of the group, then indicated the wire and stakes. “Just kick that gear to the side.”
“No,” the officer stated loudly and obstinately, eager to take control again.
“Can I have a word in private, Sir?” Bill asked.
The officer hesitated, but Bill remained where he was. After an embarrassing few seconds, the officer came to Bill.
“What do you mean, ‘kick that gear to the side?’” He asked in a hushed tone.
“These men have just been under fire, most for the first time. They need a cup of tea and a few hours sleep. Someone else can deal with this gear later, or us, but later; it ain’t going anywhere.”
“And what about the dead man?”
“He ain’t either.”
*
The officer had at last brought the group to battalion headquarters, a freshly captured German dugout that had previously served the same purpose, to receive instructions for the draft. Bill headed off on his own, leaving the others to wait and see where they were to be allotted. Probably the officer would volunteer the men to go back and retrieve the abandoned wire and pickets, now that he was safe among the other Misters and Sirs, and away from Bill.
It didn’t take long to get directions to B Company headquarters, another recently captured dugout. Bill removed his helmet and placed his ridiculous winter cap on his head before descending the steps. Six small tables, probably looted from a local elementary school, lay spaced equally apart; one for each platoon commander, one for the company commander, and one for scouts, signallers, and runners.
The dugout was vacant, aside from two sleeping runners, ready to be roused and deliver a message at a moment’s notice, and Company Sergeant Major Turner. The CSM was seated at Captain Reid’s table, looking over sketches l
eft behind by the battalion they had just relieved. He was determining what parts of the line required repairs, when and where to place his working parties and patrols, and how many men should be standing-by in case of a German breakthrough. He looked up as Bill entered, and almost showed some kind of emotion that Bill couldn’t discern.
“Lance Corporal Brown, what happened to your other stripe? And take that Goddamned flappy cap off; is it summer or winter? And what are you doing back from England?” Turner droned monotonously.
Bill couldn’t help but smile. It really was good to see the sergeant major again. “Well you see, Sir, England was too quiet for me; I can’t sleep without a good bombardment for a lullaby. But I had to take a demotion to go along with the latest draft; I was actually a sergeant, briefly. As for the cap, you’ve got to admit it’s getting cold.”
Turner nodded, absorbing the information instantly and filling in the gaps of his knowledge with sensible assumptions. He looked Bill over and became concerned. “Where’s your ring? Married men wear rings, don’t they?” He asked, presenting his hands and tapping two fingers against his own wedding band.
“Not to worry, Kate hasn’t divorced me, yet. It’s tied to my cold meat tickets.”
“Identity discs,” Turner corrected. “There’s no need to be morbid, is there? And what about your hearing?”
“It’s gotten better.”
“I assume since you came alone, you’ve ditched the rest of the draft and want a spot in your old company, am I right?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Well that’s fine with me, but I can’t guarantee you Six Platoon. They have all the NCOs they need right now. I actually need a corporal for Seven. Maybe the Misters can sort out a trade, understand?”
“Any chance I can talk it over with Carter?”
“He’s out getting the troops settled into their positions, but you can wait for him, okay?”
“Thanks, Sir. And by the way, your corporal got crocked on the way up. And I sure hope that officer isn’t for B Company.”
Bill piled up his equipment next to the table marked in chalk with a number ‘6’, and settled down underneath it. Soon he was asleep, and dreaming of Kate.
*
Bill’s eyes opened to a vision of an unbelieving Lieutenant Carter. He sighed heavily and produced two cigarettes, lighting both and offering one to Bill, who took it without a word. They had smoked for over a minute until Carter decided to break the silence.
“So, you’re back,” he said sheepishly. “I’m glad to see you.”
Carter was aware now that he had taken part in something untoward. Why else would Bill have gone from a bombproof job in England, back to his old battalion in just two months?
Bill pulled himself from under the table and stood. “Likewise, Sir.”
Carter finished his cigarette, regained his composure, and waited for Bill to explain himself. He checked his watch; it was five-fifteen in the morning.
“I was bored, Sir.”
“Well that’s a damned stupid thing to say.”
“It’s true. England is okay for a little bit, but it gets old fast.”
“How do you mean?”
Bill shrugged. “It’s too, I don’t know, luxurious maybe. How can I appreciate a hot meal when I get three a day? How can I enjoy twenty minutes sleep when I get eight hours every night?”
“Okay, I get the picture. Unfortunately, I don’t have room for an NCO in Six Platoon right now. But the next time I need one I’ll find whoever owns you then and bring you back.”
“No, that won’t do, Sir. Who’re your NCOs now?”
Carter was taken aback by Bill’s tone, but something about the Original’s bearing demanded an answer. “Sergeant McCloud, Corporals Lincoln and McCreery, and Lance Corporals Fyles and Erikson.”
“Erikson? Who the hell is that?”
“We got him just after you left; he took over the Lewis Gun section. Between the time we lost Blake and got Erikson, Thompson was in control of the section and the gun. That’s just too much work for one man.”
“McCreery is in charge of my old section?”
“That’s right.”
“Put him in charge of the Lewis Section. Send Erikson over to Seven. I’ll take my old position: Three Section Commander with the bombers.”
“Look, Bill–”
“No, you look, Sir. I can cause a lot of trouble.” It was half-threat, half-promise.“I don’t want to; I love this battalion more than you’ll ever understand. But I will not allow myself to be whored out or sent away. I know things about almost every officer, NCO, and private in the company. I know it wouldn’t be difficult for you to pull some strings and do as I ask. So, please, Sir, do as I ask.”
Carter wasn’t sure whether to shake Bill’s hand or charge him with insubordination. However, Bill was an Original, a good leader – most of the time – and more passionate than anyone else.
“It’ll take a day or two to line things up. But it’ll get done.”
“Thanks, Sir. You won’t regret it.”
“I just might live to. Sergeant McCloud is outside; you’d better go talk to him.”
Bill climbed the dugout steps. McCloud was giving detailed instructions to a soldier holding a wooden gas rattle; a sentry whose job it would be to alert the men in the immediate area in case of a gas attack. He saw Bill the moment he emerged from the entrance and concluded his instructions to the sentry before acknowledging Bill’s presence.
McCloud had a bandage wrapped around his jaw, and tied at the back of his head. The previous night he had been grazed by a piece of shrapnel while bringing Six Platoon to their new positions and relieving the previous occupants. Not being an awfully serious wound, he had decided to remain with the battalion. A leather holster housing a Webley revolver hung from his canvas waistbelt, while his Lee Enfield rifle was slung tightly over one shoulder.
“Holy hell. Bombproof Bill.” McCloud’s expression was something between annoyance and nostalgia. “That’s all I need. I guess you talked to the Mister?”
“That’s Lance Corporal Brown. I’m coming back to Six; soonest.”
“Well, I have to admit, it’s good to have you back,” McCloud said, extending his hand.
Bill looked down in disdain, and shoved his own hands into his trouser pockets. “No. It’s not like that.”
“Like what?”
“Handshakes, ‘nice to see you’, ‘let’s go for a pint.’ From now on, consider our relationship strictly operational, Sergeant.”
CHAPTER TWO
Toronto, 1921
Bill couldn’t bring his eyes back to McCloud’s face; it had gotten much worse since the last time he saw him. A painted metal plate screwed into his lower right jaw had restored the basic structure. Three primitive, discoloured skin grafts had failed and turned necrotic after several months. The inside of his mouth was no better. The gums around the old wound were black and rotting. The false teeth he had been supplied with never stayed put for more than a few minutes, and McCould hadn’t worn them in over a year. His palsied lips drooped and occasionally shuttered uncontrollably. What should have been a light scar, the kind considered dashing by some, had transformed into a gruesome deformity. And it might not have been that way.
“Gary,” Bill called.
“Yeah?”
“I’m going to finish this beer. Once I’m done, either the sergeant will be gone, or there’s gonna be trouble.”
McCloud stood. “Fine, if you want to act like a child, you can do that. But your little grudge doesn’t change anything. I made your brother a promise. I kept it during the war, and I always will.”
Post walked McCloud to the door. “Sorry, Jim. I didn’t think he would be like that.”
“It’s alright. I shouldn’t have come.”
“Oh nonsense, everybody was happy to see you. Uh, except Bill of course. I think he’ll come to his senses, do you want to come back a little later?”
“No thanks, Gary. I
better keep my distance. It’s a nice place you have here, good luck with it.”
When Gary returned, Bill was chewing on a piece of toffee furiously, his glass empty. “You gonna let me die of thirst? And toss a little whiskey in there too.”
Post refilled the glass. “You didn’t need to act like that. Jim McCloud is the only reason you and I are alive today, or had you forgotten?”
Bill ignored that and spat his wad of toffee into his beer. “Gimme a nail.”
Bill wasn’t supposed to smoke. Kate hated it, and although the customary cigars were permitted, she had asked Post specifically to make sure he didn’t smoke any cigarettes.
“Kate would be mad with me. It’s bad enough I’m gonna let you get as drunk as you like. She wanted me to hold you to two drinks.”
“More conspiracies,” Bill said shortly, returning his attention to his beer.
“You never answered me; about McCloud.”
“Christ, will you stop taking everyone’s side but mine?”
Post allowed himself a derisive laugh. “Sure. But if you think I’ve ever been on anyone else’s ‘side’ you’re a damn fool. Besides, you know perfectly well that McCloud was only trying to look out for you. If you don’t want to admit it, then I have a story for you. I think you know how it goes.”
France, 1917
Bill waited outside the dugout, smoking ceaselessly as the sun came up. He knew Corporal Post would pass by sooner or later with a message, report, sketch, or list of some variety for Turner or Reid. Bill was right, and soon he was shaking hands with his old friend. Post’s weariness, despite his excitement, showed through easily.
“Good morning, Bill! If I had known you were here I would have brought you breakfast.”
“How about a nail?”
“Give me a minute; I need to drop something off. Don’t go anywhere.” Post disappeared down into the dugout and reappeared a moment later, holding his nose. “Stinks like Hun and officer down there.” Post lit two cigarettes and handed one to Bill. “Breakfast.”
Bill sniffed at a soaking blanket shoved to one side of the dugout entrance, hooks and nails at the ready to block it off. “Speaking of stink, what’s this?”
“Gas blanket,” Post explained. “It’s soaked in special chemicals that neutralize Fritz’s new stuff. He’s been dumping it all over this area for a few weeks. During a gas alarm we seal up everything we can. When it’s clear we air it out, or try to anyway.”
