by P. L. Wytka
“Who are you?”
“I’m the top man here.”
The sergeant scanned the filthy tunics hanging on the clothesline, then settled on the only one with any rank insignia sewn to it. “Get them dressed. It won’t take long.”
Bill was still sliding into his boots. “I’ll be with you in just a moment.”
“Now, Lance Corporal. Get your men dressed.”
Something in the sergeant’s tone was enough to destroy what tact Bill had left for the day. Slipping back out of his boots, and underwear, he decided that the “private chat” would be a public one. “I cannot give you these men.”
The sergeant’s face reddened with anger. “You will, immediately.”
“I’m sorry, Sergeant, but you aren’t in my chain of command. Normally I would oblige you, but we just got out of the frontline, and every man here is suffering from mustard gas poisoning. We’re casualties, and we’ll not act as a work party.”
“Who’s your company commander?”
“Captain Reid, Third Battalion, B Company. And my name’s Bill Brown.”
Twenty minutes later the sergeant returned with Captain Reid. Reid was barefoot, wearing only a collared shirt and trousers; he too was doing his best to rid himself of the persistent gas. “Lance Corporal Brown, I understand you won’t give this nice sergeant a work party. Is that right?”
Bill was still naked, and now smoking a cigarette as he rubbed a damp cloth across his buttocks. “Yes, Sir.”
Reid, obviously annoyed with the sergeant at having to put his trousers back on, was fully intent on giving him a hard time. “I think that was very good of you. I’m glad to have NCOs who know when to make decisions for themselves. Even if it means crossing a dolt with a few more stripes than him.”
The sergeant’s face reddened again, this time with embarrassment. He had been expecting the officer to lecture his lance corporal and arrange for a work party.
“Sergeant, it would be very kind of you to bring these men as much soap, towels, gas ointment, and clean underwear that you can get your hands on. In the meantime I’m going to speak with your officers, and let them know how helpful you’ve been. Maybe they’ll pin a Meritorious Service Medal on you.”
Bill’s group broke into laughter at that, as the sergeant stormed away. The MSM was the kind of medal awarded for devotion to duty outside of the frontlines. To the soldiers of an infantry battalion it meant less than nothing.
“Fellows, I wanted to thank you for an outstanding performance under very trying circumstances. B Company will have the shower-house just after lunch. Carry on.”
“Sir,” Bill called after Captain Reid.
“Yes?”
Bill grinned and offered an intentionally sloppy salute.
Captain Reid made a motion as if to doff and don a top hat, as the men erupted in cheers and applause. A bow finished the officer’s performance.
*
The men of B Company were not yet dry when the order came to form up for a route march. Five miles and four hours later, the battalion sauntered into Barlin, a little coal-mining town much like Mazingarbe. The men of C and D Companies, whose turn to use the shower-house had not yet come, were glad to learn that a small pond, in fact an abandoned and long-since flooded mine pit, was only a short walk from the already-crowded billets.
Bill was heading towards an abandoned house buzzing with NCOs when CSM Turner approached him.
“Lance Corporal Brown, how are you?”
“Good, Sir,” Bill replied anxiously as more NCOs crammed into the building, no doubt jockeying for choice real estate.
“I have a favour to ask.”
Bill feared the worst, like calling drill for replacements, or forming part of a ceremonial guard for a special parade. “Of course, Sir.”
“I can see that your badges were tarnished by that gas.”
All at once Bill noticed that Turner wasn’t wearing his own cap and collar badges. “I’ll get them cleaned up as soon as possible.”
“I know you will,” Turner said, reaching into his pocket. “I’d like you to do mine too. Apart from me, you have the best badges in the battalion, and that includes the other CSMs.”
“And the RSM?” Bill asked facetiously.
Turner ignored that. “If I weren’t so busy with–”
“CSM stuff,” Bill cut in helpfully.
“That’s right. I’d do it myself.”
Bill had no problem believing that. Judging by the shine on the CSM’s pace stick, already fully-restored, Turner probably enjoyed polishing brass more than drinking, gambling, or even sex. “I will certainly do my best,” Bill said.
“I want them first thing in the morning. I’ll find you at breakfast, alright? They don’t need to be perfect, but you wouldn’t want to let me down, would you?”
“Of course not, Sir.”
“Good. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Uh, Sir.”
“Yes, Lance Corporal?”
“If you hadn’t shown up when you did–”
“Don’t get all soppy on me now, Brown. Besides, you should be thanking Sergeant McCloud. One more thing, I’m bumping you back up to full corporal the next time we have a chance for a parade.”
“Thank you, Sergeant Major.”
“The Sir told me about you and that sergeant from the CASC,” Turner said, allowing himself a slight wink and approving smile. “You’re going to keep looking after your boys, right?”
“Yes, Sergeant Major.”
“Good. Now go get yourself a billet.”
CHAPTER FOUR
A week later the battalion was ten miles east, in Orlencourt. They had spent the last few days practicing for a big inspection, and in another two hours it would commence. General Haig, the commander of all British and Empire forces in Europe, would be inspecting all four battalions of the First Brigade. Inspections on this scale didn’t mean looking for tiny deficiencies in a man’s uniform or equipment. This was a formality, and while each section commander would conduct their own thorough inspections beforehand, General Haig would simply stand on a pedestal while thousands of soldiers marched past. Afterwards he would tell the commanding officers that he was thoroughly impressed, that this brigade was the finest under his command, et cetera. For now, the bulk of the battalion was sitting in a field, waiting for the final call to form up.
B Company headquarters, a larger house that had once belonged to the mayor, was nearly empty. A skeleton crew that consisted of Captain Reid and Corporal Post was also waiting; at the last minute, the captain would join the company for the parade. Post was one of the few men allowed to sit it out; in case of an emergency someone had to be at company headquarters.
“It’ll have to wait for after the parade, but I have a surprise for you and Private Payne,” Captain Reid said.
“The good kind of surprise, Sir?” Post asked.
“I think so. Short leave to Paris; seven days.”
Post was ecstatic. His previous leaves had been spent in England; why waste an annual two-week furlough in a city where the women couldn’t be romanced in English? London had always been his destination of choice. But short leave was different: a kind of bonus. And with only seven days, a trip to England would be all but wasted on travel time.
“This is a reward for the prisoners we took, right, Sir?”
“You and Payne did a fine job. Brigade headquarters was very happy with the Huns you brought in alive.”
“Jimmy, uh, Sergeant McCloud, and the CSM really did more than me or Payne.”
“No offence intended, but I can’t spare them. I can spare you and Payne. Besides, Sergeant McCloud and CSM Turner would reject the offer and try to trade it off to yourself and Lance Corporal Brown anyway.”
“Brown didn’t really do anything.”
“I know. But McCloud and Turner have a soft spot for him. I’m sure you know more about it than I do.”
It was true. The quartet of Originals had been togeth
er, more or less, for the past three years.
“Could I give my leave to Brown?”
“Why? You just said yourself he didn’t earn it.”
“His wife is in England. I know short leave is usually kept more local, but if he doesn’t mind wasting the extra travel days–”
“Unfortunately I need Lance Corporal Brown for the brigade school. It’s our turn to provide instructors: bombers, Lewis Gunners, and the like. It should just be for six weeks.”
“He won’t like that, Sir.”
“If there is some problem, he can take it up with the CSM. I’ve put him in charge of picking the instructors, and since Lance Corporal Brown has just returned from a tasking at a bombing school in England, I’m sure he’ll be chosen.” Reid checked his watch. “It’s about time I join the company. Don’t interrupt the parade for anything but an SOS.”
“Of course, Sir,” Post replied, his mind already fluttering with schemes, explanations, and downright lies.
Once Reid left, Post was alone. A box of papers: blank war diary templates, requisition forms, nominal rolls, and leave passes was his target. He snatched two passes then ran to catch up with Reid.
“You get lonely or something? Don’t tell me the German army launched an attack once they saw me leave HQ.”
“No, Sir. You see a fellow, a truck driver, just came by headquarters asking for directions. He was on his way to Paris.”
“And you want to skip out on the parade and take your leave?”
“He promised to wait fifteen minutes.”
“We can sort out a ride after the parade.”
“But the First Battalion let their guys go.”
“They did?”
“Uh huh, and the Second and Fourth, Sir.”
“Well, in that case–”
Post produced the two leave passes and a pen, then turned and crouched to allow the company commander to use his back as a writing surface.
“Initials and service number?” Reid asked.
“G, it’s for Gary, Sir. Nine, seven, eight, five.”
“No middle name?”
“Just Gary, Sir.”
“And Private Payne?”
“T, don’t know his service number, but I’ll make sure he fills it out on the truck.”
Reid signed and dated both passes then handed them off to Post. “You know that I spoil you, right?”
“I know it, Sir,” Post said with a huge smile and a quick salute.
“Off you go, enjoy yourselves.”
*
“Bill, come here,” Post said, motioning for Bill to drop out of his place in the ranks. The parade would be starting in ten minutes, and the men were standing in formation, ready to come to attention and step off.
Bill shot a quick glance left and right. He was in the front rank; CSM Turner would certainly notice the empty space. “You there,” Bill said in his best NCO voice, making his way towards Stinson, positioned in the rearmost rank. “Ever hear of buttoning up your tunic? Fall out, quick, let’s get you sorted out.”
Stinson obeyed, but asked quietly, “What do you mean, Bill?”
“Nevermind. I need you to go take my place in the front rank. You know how nervous parades make me. I don’t want to make the battalion look bad.”
“Oh, sure, no problem.”
“Thanks, Stins; I’ll owe you a pint.”
With Stinson now filling Bill’s spot, he ducked back towards Post.
“Get back to billets, don’t get caught. Put a few changes of underclothes in your haversack, all your money too. Here, give me your identity discs and paybook.”
“Are we deserting?” Bill asked casually.
“Sort of.”
“Okay, but I’ll need the ring, and Hal’s ticket.”
Bill didn’t need to ask what the hell Post was talking about. Something was up, and following his old section commander’s instructions was an instinct that came to him readily. He complied and began to skulk away, as Post tracked down Payne and covertly traded Bill’s identity discs and paybook for his brother-in-law’s. A man’s paybook, which had no photograph and listed no physical description, along with his identity discs, were the only means for a soldier to prove who they were. With Payne’s discs and book, Bill could easily become his doppelganger, and make use of the leave pass intended for him.
“I’m not even gonna ask,” Payne said. “Wait, I really have to ask.”
“It’s for Bill, they’re gonna send him away again, but I have a plan, trust me.”
“Okay, just don’t get yourselves court-martialled or anything.”
“I’ll try. Thanks. I’ll send you a postcard from Paris.”
“Paris?” Payne asked unbelievingly as Post disappeared.
*
For nearly five miles Bill and Post made their way south on foot. Post explained the situation. Bill didn’t know what made him happier, a week in Paris, or knowing that when he returned the bombing instructor position would have already been filled by someone else. Skipping out on a big parade and snubbing the highest ranking man on the continent was the icing on the cake.
At Tincques, one of the seemingly millions of little villages, a main road ran southeast to Arras, and they began to hitchhike. Soon after, a big truck rumbled to a halt near them, and both men squeezed into the cab, Bill half-sitting on Post’s lap. The driver was a talkative Englishman, probably a relative of Old Jack’s, and the Canadians said little throughout the ride. In less than an hour they had arrived at a station just southwest of Arras, thanked the driver, and dismounted.
Arras, the largest city in the immediate area, had been a rail hub before the war. But owing to its proximity to the frontlines, trains stayed a safe distance back, turning formerly tiny stations into large depots. A few miles down the track, Post and Bill came to a station that was buzzing with activity, while the platform itself was surprisingly empty. They had just missed the train, and had no idea when the next one would come. But they didn’t care.
*
Paris.
“What’ll we do first?” Bill asked. “See the Eiffel Tower? The Louvre? The Arc de Triomphe? Notre Dame Cathedral? The catacombs?”
“I wonder if they rebuilt the Moulin Rouge yet,” Post mused.
“You still want to see that dancer lady, huh?”
“Mistinguett. You know her legs are insured for ten hundred thousand dollars, or something like that.”
“Something like that, I’m sure.”
“But we can go see one of those places first.”
“That’s okay, I need a drink anyway. And not that watery swill they serve in estaminets. I want a real beer, in a bottle.”
“It’s settled then. I’ll ask this fellow, he looks like a veteran,” Post said. “Excuse moi, les monsieur, we are les Canadians, can you les helpez us?”
Although the man wore civilian clothes, several medals were pinned to his jacket. He was obviously befuddled with Post’s sad attempt to communicate, but saw enough wound badges and qualification patches between the two men to decide to help, and keep it simple. “Mon camarade, comment puis-je nous aider?”
“What did he say, Bill?”
“He says, ‘How can I help you?’”
“Tell him we want to know if the Moulin Rouge is rebuilt yet.”
“I don’t know how to say that.”
“Well just, okay, I’ll try. Les Moulin Rouge, oui?”
“Oui,” the man replied slowly, not knowing what Post was getting at.
“Uh, je, want, want, you know? I want to go there.”
The man shrugged his shoulders. “Je suis désolé, je ne comprends pas.”
“Mistinguett,” Post offered.
“Ah oui, Mistinguett,” the man replied, his eyes lighting up. “Elle donne une présentation au Folies Bergère. Pas au Moulin Rouge.”
“You get that, Bill?”
“Yeah, it’s the name of a night club, you know from that famous painting; ‘A Bar at the Folies Bergere.’�
� Bill turned his attention to the veteran. “Mistinguett est a la Folies Bergere, oui?”
“Bonne chance mes amis, je vous souhaite un bon séjour à Paris,” the man said, deciding that if the Canadians had any other questions they should ask someone in a khaki uniform.
“Thanks, pal, amis, ami? Mercy,” Post said. “Okay, Bill, you know this Folly Berger place, where is it?”
“I said I know it from a painting; I don’t actually know how to get to it.”
“Oh, right. Let’s ask a Brit how to get there.”
“Good idea.”
*
Asking a Brit had in fact been a bad idea. The first few men they spoke to, also on short leave, had never even heard of the Folies Bergere. The next few gave very confident but very inaccurate directions that sent Bill and Post in circles. It wasn’t until after dark that the pair finally reached their destination, and both men felt that they had arrived in the Promised Land...except for the several hundred people, mostly officers and well-dressed civilians, lined up outside waiting to be admitted.
“Well this is hopeless,” Post conceded. “We could wait until three in the morning and still not be anywhere near the door. We have all week; maybe tomorrow night won’t be so busy.”
“Maybe, but look at this crowd: high society types with lots of money to spend. I don’t think two Canadian NCOs are going to get a warm welcome, even if we did get to the front of the line.”
“You think they won’t let us in at all?”
“No. But I’ve got an idea. Help me push to the front of the line. Just look confident and don’t say anything.”
A few dozen “Excusez mois” later, Bill and Post were confronted by two large men in expensive suits. Neither doorman wore medals, but both looked like combat veterans: tough, confident, and a little disingenuous towards their high-class patrons. Bill leaned in close and whispered something into one of their ears, as Post set his jaw with entitled arrogance. Much to his surprise, the two men made way, and allowed the lowly Canadians to enter; though escorted them past the ticket booth and directly into the grand foyer. One even grinned and patted Post on the back approvingly. The foyer was lined with bars on either side, bustled with socialites in the space between, and ended with a grand staircase that led to the main theatre.
“What did you say to them, Bill?” Post asked in awe.
“I told them you were Mistinguette’s garcon.”
“What?”
“Her, well... her hired companion.”
Post cracked a huge smile. “A man-whore?”
