by P. L. Wytka
“Thank you, Gary,” Kate said laying her cap on the table, then turned to address Carter. “Good to see you again, Robert.”
“You too,” Carter replied.
“I didn’t think you would be in uniform,” Post said.
“You look well in it though,” Carter interjected.
“Thank you,” Kate replied, removing her tie and undoing the top two buttons of her blouse. “I hate that damned tie though. You both look very handsome in civvies. Khaki is so passé.”
Both men smiled proudly, and held their heads a little higher.
“What would you like to drink?” Post asked.
“Oh, thank you, but I don’t imbibe,” Kate replied.
“Maybe just a glass of water?”
“No, thank you. I wanted to ask you both a few questions, about the war, would you mind?”
“Not at all,” Carter replied.
“Anything,” Post followed.
“What’s it really like?” She asked. “The weather, the work, the living conditions, everything. And don’t tell me some pleasant falsehood. I want to know how it really is.”
Post and Carter exchanged glances and shrugs. They were so used to lying about how easy and fun army life could be, but seeing the sincerity in Kate’s face, were unable to deceive her.
“Dirty,” Carter said after awhile.
“Damned cold, or else damned hot,” Post added.
“Exhausting.”
“Annoying.”
“Wet,” both men said at once.
“You can never know when your number’s up,” Carter said. “It’s as if you’ve already died.”
“But maybe you’ll get to come back, one day,” Post added. “Probably not in one piece though.”
Seeing Kate’s expression turn from interest to distress, and remembering that her husband was somewhere in France or Flanders as they sat in a warm pub in England, they decided to change tack.
“There’s a certain feeling of, having to be there, not because you have to be, but, just because, you know,” Post tried.
“An obligation to your friends,” Carter said. “One that you’re glad to fulfill, and that offers a special sense of self-worth we never had before the war.”
All three were taken aback by Carter’s words. He seemed to have summed the whole thing up in one off-the-cuff response.
“The battalion is a special place,” Post went on. “Where a man can be judged by his actions; not his birth, or religion, or anything else.”
“And Bill’s been a fine member,” Carter said. “An NCO who cares more about his soldiers than himself. You’re a lucky woman to be married to such a man.”
“To Bill,” Post offered, and both men emptied their glasses.
Kate fought back a tear, stood. “I’ll get some refills. No arguments.”
When she returned, another woman, in civilian clothes, was following a few paces behind her. As Kate set down the drinks and sat again, she couldn’t help but see the look of exasperation on both men’s faces. Her own expression turned to concern. “What’s wrong, boys?”
Post shot a momentary glance upwards. Kate turned half-way around in her seat, and saw a well-dressed woman wielding two white feathers like poisoned daggers. It was a tradition that had begun many years earlier, and had been revived in the first days of the war. “Patriotic” women would present able-bodied men in civilian clothes with a white feather; a symbol of cowardice intended to shame them into enlisting in the military.
“Well?” The woman asked. It was obvious that she was expecting to see some proof that Post and Carter were either disabled veterans, or servicemen on leave.
Carter reached into his pocket for his paybook, while Post began to roll up his sleeve, intending to show off any one of his many scars.
“Stop,” Kate said with such authority that both men froze. “You don’t have to prove yourselves to this silly girl. An officer and recipient of the Military Cross, and an Original who hasn’t seen home in over three years needn’t answer to any soldiers or civilians, man or woman, white feather or no.”
The other woman wasn’t fazed, but only smirked and raised her voice. “A woman in uniform defending two playboy shirkers. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, all of you. I’d wager you aren’t even a nurse, but a lady of the night playing to a coward’s fantasy.”
“Ambulance driver, and you should leave now – before I put you in a hospital,” Kate replied roughly, teeth clenched and eyes burning.
“Yes, there are a lot of these to deliver,” the woman replied, dropping the two feathers in the air above the table.
Before they could even land, Kate had jumped from her seat and slapped the other woman across the face. The pub fell silent at the thunderous sound of Kate’s hand contacting the woman’s cheek. The rush of air was enough to set the feathers off their course, and send them to the floor at her feet. She turned beet-red as tears streamed down her face, and made a hasty retreat.
Kate was shaking as she sat down. “Mister Carter, could I please have a sip of your wine?”
A huge smile came across Carter’s face as he slid his glass towards her. “Have all you, like, Kate.”
“That was amazing!” Post exclaimed. “Damn, here’s to you, Kate!”
After touching glasses, Post half-emptied his, while Kate had a small sip and returned it to Carter. “Thank you.”
The celebration was short-lived. A British private approached the table, looking like he was trying to look tough; he didn’t. He had no wound badges, qualification patches, or medal ribbons; if Carter and Post had been in uniform, the young private would have been in awe of their military ornaments.
“I demand an apology,” he announced loudly.
Kate raised her hands slightly, silencing Carter and Post before they could respond. She stood again, and turned to face the private. “No. I demand one.”
“For what?”
“For that girl of yours insulting two Canadian veterans with her pathetic white feathers. The three of us have come half-way around the world to answer Britain’s call. We won’t be looked down on, or–”
“Listen here, missy, I won’t settle this with you. One of these men will have to answer for–”
Before he could say more, Kate grabbed his right ear and twisted it, like a disapproving mother. The man shuddered as she pulled downwards and nearly sent him to his knees. “Pick up those feathers,” she ordered coldly.
Post and Carter watched giddily as the man collected the two white feathers from the ground.
“Now, either you and that floozy leave this place, or I’ll have you both in an ambulance, soonest.”
The man gave a slight nod of acquiescence, and Kate released his ear. In less than a minute he and the woman were gone. Kate took her seat again, trembling with adrenaline.
“We should let women in the infantry; the war’d be over by now,” Post said, sliding his glass of whiskey towards her. “Here, this’ll stop the shaking.”
Kate took a big sip and exhaled a deep breath. “I’m sorry for making a scene, but those types bother me.”
“Hell of a scene! Better than any music hall routine or concert party I’ve ever been to,” Post said, withholding that it was also more exciting than half the burlesque shows he’d seen. “Wanna dance? It’ll get your mind off all that.”
“Sounds fun,” Kate replied enthusiastically.
Bill hadn’t danced with her since they were kids, before the war. Over the summer and during his more recent leave to England, the most romantic thing they had done was play cards. It didn’t even occur to her until Post had one hand on her hip, the other on her shoulder, that she might be leading him on. Or that he might have indecent intentions.
“Remember, I’m married,” she said suddenly.
“Don’t worry,” Post replied, pulling her in close, then leaping backwards. “I only sleep with loose women.”
When they returned to their seats, Carter had a look in his eye
s like a child who hadn’t received anything for Christmas. He didn’t have anything inappropriate in mind; he just wanted to be included.
Kate pretended not to notice. “I’ve tired Gary out, would you care to dance, Robert?”
Carter’s enthusiasm showed through easily, and he was already holding Kate’s hand before he was standing. He was light on his feet during the quicker numbers, but adjusted his pace well when a slow song came on. He had obviously had some degree of formal instruction. Before long Kate had her head on his chest. It was only when the band stopped playing that they realized the pub was nearly empty now.
“Just about closing time,” Post said, when the two returned to the table. “One last drink, Bob?”
“Sure, and I’m buying,” Carter replied.
“Good: we’ll be even for me saving your life.”
*
“What are your plans for after the war?” Kate asked as the three walked back to the hospital, a light snow coming down.
“Finish university, be some kind of high-paid jerk,” Carter replied drunkenly. “Marry a woman I hate, then get old and die. Hopefully not too old though.”
“Nevermind him; officers can’t hold their drink,” Post said. “As for me, I have a girl and a kid waiting,” Post said.
“I didn’t know you had a wife and child. Congratulations,” Carter replied.
“She ain’t my wife, and the kid ain’t mine, but they’re waiting for me.”
“Oh. Well, asides from that rubbish.”
“I want to own a bar,” Post said whimsically. “None of this fancy stuff you see, but none of those awful gin joints either. A decent place where a decent man, decent mind you, not rich, can enjoy as much as he wants. I’ll even let my regulars run a tab.”
“I’ll be your first customer,” Carter promised.
Kate kept an ear on the two men’s banter, not wanting to seem impolite if either one should bring the conversation back to her. They didn’t. They were like two old friends meeting again after years apart. But there was something else about them. Carter, even inebriated, was sophisticated. Post was playful. Both were tough and honest. Bill had had all of these qualities, once. But every time she saw him, or received a letter from him, he seemed more and more like a dull version of his former self. She had of course attributed this to the stress of so many years in the army, and more recently, to his responsibility as a section commander. But Post had led men into battle too, and was an Original, like Bill. Carter, meanwhile had had to deal with even larger responsibilities, all the while unable to join in the jaunty comradeship of the enlisted ranks. The army was full of better men than Bill.
Toronto, 1923
“What’s this got to do with Robert taking his own life?” Ben asked.
Post continued telling his story for a few moments more. “Oh, what?”
“What’s this got to do with Carter?” Bill reiterated.
“Oh, right. After we were discharged from the hospital, we had to return to the front. We were at a station, waiting for a train...”
England, 1918
Anybody who still believed that young volunteers were in good supply would be proven wrong by the mere sight of the men on the platform. Nearly each man wore a wound stripe on their lower left cuff; quite a few wore two or three. Nobody was happy to be going back to their battalion, but that might change once they actually arrived. They were all in that awful transitional period between one form of discomfort and another. It was a “better the devil you know” situation, but whether the men knew England or France better was up for debate. For some men the answer was perfectly clear: Post and Carter weren’t the only men wearing colonial uniforms. And as transitional periods go, it was a cold one: early February.
“At least ‘ee knew it was coming,” an Australian private was telling his sergeant. “Wint on ‘is own terms.”
“Can’t agree with you,” the sergeant replied. “Offer him up a bottle of beer and a nice steak, ee’d av’ been loving life. ‘Ee was in a tough circumstance and gave up, that’s all there is to it.”
“Wa’wud you know about tough circumstances, Sargey? A private takes all the burden in this war. Sometimes a man’s ‘ad enough. We’ve all got a limit.”
“They’re talking about someone who killed himself,” Carter said to Post. “I think.”
Post shrugged, not out of apathy, but of genuine confusion. “I can barely understand a word they’re saying.”
“Sime to you, Corp,” the Aussie private shot back. “Nothing more puzzling than a Canadian accent.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” the sergeant added, “we like you blokes, but you could speak a litt’l clear’r.”
Carter wasn’t interested in discussing accents. “What were you saying earlier, about a man who ‘wint on ‘is own terms?’”
“Bloke a half mile up the track,” the private replied. “J’mped out in front of the train. I ‘reckon ‘ee wer’a soldier oo’d seen one too many scraps. Didn’t fancy going back out a’gin. That’s the story anyway.”
“Gossip,” the sergeant corrected. “So, you fellows are Canadians...eh?”
“That’s right.”
“Fine job you did at Passchendaele. Were you two there?”
“We were. Both got crocked in The Salient.”
“Join the club. My mate and I were hit at Broodseinde Ridge. Probably just a few weeks before you fellows showed up. That was a rough show.”
A British lance corporal who had been reclining nearby on a pile of gear turned his head upward and joined the conversation. “Menin Road was no easy go, either.”
“Neither was Poelcappelle,” an officer with an Irish accent added. “You colonials might have put in the final push, but remember who got you close enough to do that.”
“It’s the Canadians,” the Australian private said, almost accusingly. “They’re the glory hounds–”
“Ah, shut that,” his sergeant responded. “They were only asking after the corpse on the track.”
“Corpse on the track? So that’s the hold up?” The British lance asked.
“It’s only gossip,” Post said, giving the Aussie sergeant a supportive nod.
“I can’t understand what you’re saying,” the Irish officer replied. “Except you, somewhat,” he said, indicating the lance corporal.
“What?” the British one-striper replied.
“Are we all speaking English?” Post asked slowly.
A cacophony of informal affirmative responses confused and silenced him. He lit a cigarette, took one step back, and decided to only observe, and not participate in the conversation.
“Can’t blame him,” the Aussie private said.
“For killing himself, or for making us all wait in the cold while they scrape his guts of the track?” the Brit countered.
“Don’t be gruesome, Lance,” the Irishman chided.
“What?”
“It ain’t gruesome, Sir, just the way it is,” the private added.
“It’s true,” Carter confirmed. “Everyone’s had a moment when they would rather die than see what the future holds.”
“That’s an awful way for an officer to speak,” the Irishman replied.
“Have you ever been passed over by a stretcher-bearer? I saw a man with no legs, screaming hysterically and strapped down to keep him from falling off go past me, and the men who carried him looked to me as a lost cause. If I had the strength at the moment, I would have put my revolver to my head.”
The others all fell silent. They had only been speaking theoretically about suicide; Carter seemed to be serious about it. The group soon dispersed. Carter and Post returned to waiting for the train.
“I’ve been having these thoughts,” Carter said after a long pause.
“What kind?” Post asked.
“Dark things. I already accepted that I was dead when you pulled me out of that muck at Passchendaele. I keep thinking that maybe I was supposed to go, and you just interrupted it.”
“Uh, sorry?”
“I don’t mean that I blame you. I’m just saying that maybe it was my time.”
Post forced a sardonic smile. “Everyone’s got their time, and nobody can do anything about it. If the man upstairs wants you dead, he’ll find a way.”
Toronto, 1923
“Since the moment I dragged him out of the mud, I saw it in his eyes. I had never seen it before, not in him anyway, but after he was hit and left for dead, it was always there,” Post said. “Hopelessness, I guess. He didn’t kill himself – he died of wounds. Same as anyone else who stopped a bullet and lived a few more months, or took in too much poison gas and is still wheezing for every bit of air, but knows that last breath is coming a lot sooner than it would have otherwise.”
Ben finished his drink and stood. “Thank you, Mister Post, for telling me your story.”
“I know it doesn’t really help, or change anything, but maybe you won’t look down on your cousin, and what he did.”
“I never did look down on him; I was proud to call him family. I tried to convince his parents to let the veterans wear their medals at the funeral, but they didn’t understand. They thought Robert was a victim of the military, that it changed him and made him a worse person. No, I don’t agree with that,” Ben said, reaching into his suit pocket. “I heard this place was like a shrine to your old battalion. I like it. Here, I brought something for you. I think Robert would approve. His parents didn’t care to keep them.”
Bill and Post felt a cold shiver as Carter’s medals were placed on the table next to the portrait. A Military Cross, awarded for his handling of the platoon at Vimy Ridge, a silver bar affixed to it, representing a repeated honour, this time for his leadership of the entire company in the last weeks of the war. Next to that were the two most basic of medals, awarded to any man who had seen active service. Not being an Original, Carter’s set lacked the revered 1915 Star that Bill and Post were both entitled to as early recruits.
“They would go well with the portrait, I think,” Ben went on. “And I know for certain now that you’ll not let them rot in a drawer, or lose them, or pawn them for a few dollars.”
