by P. L. Wytka
After another long day of marching, the battalion settled down into some pathetic Belgian town that Bill didn’t bother to learn the name of. They would be marching again tomorrow, or if not, the next day. Still company sergeant major, Bill was glad when he had finally dealt with all the little details a man of his rank was expected to, and was glad that both Turner and McCloud, though in England, were in good health, and either one, or both, might be rejoining the battalion again soon.
The one task he had enjoyed was a parade the previous week. He had officially confirmed Stinson as a sergeant, while Kellowitz had earned his corporal stripes, as well as the Military Medal for saving the life of Mister Harrison. It had been hard to resist laughing when Kellowitz accepted his promotion and medal with the words: “You thank, Sergeant Major Lance Bill.”
Usually Bill hated parades. Especially now that he had to lead an entire company in drill. This of course meant calling out corrections to slow or sloppy soldiers, giving and receiving salutes whenever the company commander took over or left, and memorizing a variety of obscure and ancient manoeuvres and traditions. It turned out that being a private or corporal on parade was a hell of a lot easier than being a company sergeant major. But it was a surreal joy to bestow rank and medals upon the men who, to him, were more like friends or brothers than underlings. He was proud of them, and had every reason in the world to be. They were his company.
*
“You’re a hard man to find.” Only one woman had that wonderful voice.
Bill turned around and ran full speed towards Kate. She had been stalking around him for over an hour, waiting until his duties as CSM were complete, before approaching him.
“Kate!” Bill cried, embracing her.
Between the big offensive, Bill’s position as CSM, and Kate’s constantly changing location, the two had not been able to meet earlier. As it was, they had not laid eyes upon each other since Bill had left her in England, a year before.
He was still a small man, not much larger than Kate, but it was obvious that the infantry had made him light on his feet, and even a little bit brawny. He picked her up and swung her around a little, almost dancing.
“Oh, Sergeant Major, put me down!” Kate said playfully as Bill bounded about blissfully.
He complied, but his expression soon changed to curiosity.
“What happened to your neck? Are you alright?”
“Oh, just a little cut.”
“That isn’t little. It’s almost as big as mine,” Bill said, removing his cap and showing off his scar from Regina Trench. “Tell me.”
“A shell shattered–”
“A shell?”
“William, you asked me to tell you, so let me tell you. A shell shattered my windshield, but I’m perfectly fine.”
“Were you wearing a helmet?”
“I never wear a helmet. It musses my hair.”
“Kate, you should wear your helmet at all…”
“Yes?”
“I guess you can’t drive too well with a helmet in the way, huh?”
“That’s right,” Kate replied, now noticing the second wound stripe on Bill’s lower left cuff. “You never told me you were hit again. What happened?”
“My helmet stopped a piece of shrapnel, and no, I wasn’t wearing it at the time. Probably a paperwork cock-up; I’ve had worse ingrown toenails. You should have it,” Bill replied, removing the stripe and handing it to her. “It can be a nice little accessory to your uniform. Maybe I’ll get it gold-plated for you; I’m making CSM money now.”
“How are your boys doing, CSM?” Kate asked. “I trust you’ve been keeping the company in order.”
“Best I can,” Bill said dully.
“Oh, William, I’m sure nobody can do the job better than you.” She placed her hands on his shoulders again. “You’re a good solder, William. You know why? Because you’re a good man.”
Bill forced a smile. “You know I don’t deserve you, right?”
Kate shoved the wound stripe into her pocket, and decided to change the conversation.
“Well, I suppose I’m bombproof too. And now we have these lovely ‘his and hers’ scars to prove it.”
“How many couples have that? So, how’d you know where to find me?”
“Us drivers have our resources.”
“How’d you even get the time?”
“Things have finally quieted down. I don’t have so many clients to chauffeur around these days. Mostly returning prisoners, actually. One of the benefits of having your own vehicle is to take it for a joyride every now and then.”
“Joyride?”
“A pleasure excursion in an automobile.”
“Well that’s great. Why now?”
“It’s your birthday, silly.”
Bill had forgotten entirely. “And how old am I turning?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Hmm,” Bill considered mischievously. “And how old are you, young lady?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Well,” Bill began, now mimicking CSM Turner, “that makes us both young, beautiful, aroused adults; doesn’t it? You are aroused, aren’t you? Sexually speaking? I think I can find us a tent, or a shack, which would you prefer? Or I could always just dig us a nice cozy trench, sound good?”
“I have a better idea,” Kate replied, leading Bill by his pace stick. “Come on.”
“I should resist your charms, but…”
“It’s okay; we’re married.”
Kate brought him to her ambulance, tucked away in a quiet corner of an open field.
“‘By whose direction found’st thou out this place?’” Bill asked.
It was an old game of theirs, one they had not played since 1914. They would exchange romantic lines from classic plays, poems, and novels. The conversation had to be complete and coherent, and no one author could be quoted twice. Originally the rule had been that no single piece of literature could be quoted twice, but that had only led to endless Shakespearean banter.
“That’s Juliet’s line,” Kate replied.
“So? How will you respond?”
“‘And the twin-stars that shine on the wanderer’s devotion, its guide and its God – are thine eyes!’”
“Last Days of Pompeii; my favourite. Let’s see… ‘Wheresoever she was, there was Eden.’”
“Mark Twain,” Kate replied, dragging Bill towards the back of the ambulance and flinging the doors open.
“You still owe me a quote,” Bill replied, climbing aboard and closing the doors.
“Let’s take our time tonight.”
“Who said that?”
“Me.”
*
Bill was still asleep when the sun began to come up. Kate had borrowed a dozen blankets from the nearest hospital and made a comfortable mattress out of them in the back of her ambulance. With nothing to do, she dressed and began to gather up Bill’s clothes. She wrote a quick note and pulled out his paybook to slip it in. She was surprised to see the photo she had sent to him two years earlier at the very front. Behind it was a more recent letter, which she couldn’t help but read.
October 15th, 1918
London
Sergeant Major Brown,
I know you are keeping my company in good form, aren’t you? Remember to distance yourself from the men, but not to exclude their ideas and feelings. While you are now a leader of soldiers above all things, you must strive to maintain your good relationships. Whether an officer, an NCO, or a private, all soldiers respond better to orders from a man they also consider a friend, understand?
I expect you to keep my pace stick in good condition as well. If you can find a lemon and some olive oil, you can make a fine wood polish; ask the other CSMs about it. And only use Brasso on the metal parts; you do use Brasso on your own cap and collar badges, don’t you? Keep the metal polish off the wood, and the wood polish off the metal, and use different clean cloths for each. Make sense?
Remember also that you are a mar
ried man. And while you must presume all risks before your men, do not put yourself in danger unless necessary. This means wear your Goddamned “tin hat.” Why wouldn’t you? And if I hear about a CSM wearing a flappy cap, I might just make you get rid of it, fair enough?
Please write Sergeant McCloud a letter, he would appreciate it, don’t you think?
Yours,
D.L. Turner
Another letter was tucked just beneath it.
September 4th, 1918
Toronto
Dear Mister Brown,
I am sorry for going so long without writing. I hope you have been keeping well. Edward wrote me recently that he had arrived in your platoon. I know that you will look after him, but I have a favour to ask. If it is at all possible, I would like you to have him transferred out of the battalion, to somewhere safer. I realize that as a conscript he will not be privy to any special treatment, but perhaps as an “Original” you may have influence over such things.
I hate to ask this of you, as I know that there are men, such as yourself, who have spent so many years in the army. But Edward is the only boy I have left. I do not know what would happen to the family if we were forced to endure yet another loss.
I apologize for my pleading; I know that it is unseemly. But I can do nothing to help save my boy other than to beg you to take care of him. Keep Edward safe, for the sake of what’s left of the family.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Charles Hallicks
Kate shoved the letters back where they had been, and added her own note. Then she climbed back under the covers with Bill, who stirred.
“Good morning,” Bill said, going straight for a kiss, and gratefully letting it linger. “Dressed already? That’s too bad.”
“It’s nearly seven. I assume your company will be forming up sometime soon,” Kate replied.
“Probably. Say, wanna drive me and a few of the boys into Germany? It’d sure save us a lot of walking,” Bill said, getting dressed.
“Of course. I think two francs a mile is a fair rate.”
“For a truckload of us?”
“Per man.”
“Well that’s too rich for our blood.”
“William?”
“Yes?”
“Do you keep the letters I send you?”
“In the frontlines most letters ended up as toilet paper.”
Kate sighed.
“But not yours. What I did with them is even more embarrassing.”
“Did you use them for fuel?”
“No, guess again.”
“As cleaning rags?”
“Nope.”
“What, then?”
“I kept them with me. I read them again and again until the next one arrived. Then when I had so many they became an encumbrance – can I just stop and say that I love being able to use big words when I’m with you? – well, once I had too many, I’d bundle them up and send them home.”
“Encumbrance is the sweetest word you could have used; burden or hassle would ruin the romance.”
“Exactly,” Bill said, pulling on Kate’s cap and exiting the ambulance, pace stick tucked under his arm. “So, how do I look?”
Kate rolled her eyes. “I suppose you want me to wear this?” She asked, holding up Bill’s absurd winter cap. “I will, just to humour you.”
“Jeez, I guess everyone was right: that cap is ugly. But somehow you make it look good.”
“Really?”
“Really. Come on, humour me one last time,” Bill said, grabbing one of the blankets and heading for the front of the ambulance.
“What have you got in mind, William?”
Bill climbed onto the hood and flung the blanket to the very top of the vehicle, then extended his hand. Kate took it and climbed to the hood with him, then over the windshield and to the roof.
“We can watch the sun come up, then I should get back.”
Toronto, 1938
With the pace stick now free of dust, Bill walked to the wall where it had hung. His old winter cap was there too, and he inexplicably decided to don it. He had worn it several times since the war ended, usually when shovelling snow, but had not touched it since he had deposited it in the Leaf and Crown eight years earlier. The pint of whiskey-beer probably had something to do with it.
At first, Bill thought his mind was still stuck in 1918. But the crashing explosion that flung him to the floor, set his ears bleeding, and his mind racing, was somehow unfamiliar. It wasn’t a bomb or a shell, and it wasn’t just in his head. This was real.
A moment later the exposed knob and tube wiring began to buzz and hiss; then the lights went out entirely, moonbeams through the windows casting odd shadows. The distinct smell of coal smoke began to waft upwards from the basement, as the crackling of burning wood accompanied it: spare furniture, old kegs, and other items stored downstairs.
Gary Post knew at once what must have happened. The boiler of the Leaf and Crown had been acting finicky since the previous winter. In preparation for the reunion, he had called in a repairman just two days earlier. He would have been better off tinkering with it himself; the “expert” must have left one of the pressure valves disengaged, or perhaps damaged the delicate old boiler while cleaning the inner-workings.
Post ran to the door that led downstairs and wrenched it open, intent on fighting the fire before it spread to the main floor. If he had known what a backdraft was, he wouldn’t have tried it. The initial explosion had sent hot coals scattering all about, and sucked all of the oxygen out of the basement. The result was a hungry fire below, that pulled down air from the main floor, and sent a fireball towards Post.
Fortunately, the change in air pressure also served to rip the door from its rusty hinges, knocking Post to the ground and preventing him from being burned alive. Unfortunately, the fire soon spread throughout the main floor, then carried on to the second storey, spreading like ivy along doorframes and crown moulding. Smoke filled the Leaf and Crown as windows shattered and ceiling beams came crashing down; a side-effect of huge fragments of the boiler and chunks of concrete block from the basement walls being sent skyward through the floorboards and lathe-and-plaster walls.
Bill’s visibility went from pitch blackness, to flames of illumination, to a blanket of smoke before he could understand what was going on. The clattering of chairs and tables, mingling with shouts of confusion and screams of terror was enough to set him into action. He had spent more time in the Leaf and Crown than anyone else, asides from Post. He knew exactly where he had been standing, where the others had been, and most importantly, where the only door out was.
Bill held one hand out, feeling for anyone nearby, while his pace stick now acted like a blind man’s cane, improving his sense of direction. Before long he had shepherded a half-dozen people to the exit, while others were finding their own way out.
Post was slow to get back to his feet, but scrambled towards the staircase leading to the upper floor as quickly as he could. His daughter Pauline has gone to bed an hour earlier. The bottom of the staircase was blocked with flaming wreckage, and there was no way he could get through without braving the fire. Painstakingly, he reached above his head and began to pull himself up by the banister rungs.
“Careful, Lance, don’t burn yourself,” Green called.
He was climbing down the stairs, Pauline cradled in his stump and against his chest. Planting his good arm on the railing, he bolted over and landed next to Post. The move was done with surprising agility, especially considering that Green had to launch himself over with his left hand, while the handrail was designed to be descended with the right. It was a testament to Green’s impertinence to disability. Post took Pauline from him, then grabbed him by the hand, and lead all three outside. At least his eyesight was as sharp as ever.
As the trio was exiting, Bill was re-entering; Kate and his boys, along with several others, had yet to emerge. Of course Bill had initially went towards where Kate had been when he last saw her. But ever
y time he got near, he came across others and decided to lead them out first. The fewer people remained inside, the more likely he was to find his family. Besides, the Browns were bombproof.
Kate was no stranger to the Leaf and Crown either. She had attended enough events, and dragged Bill home after enough late nights, to know her way around as well. Kate’s focus had been Stan McCreery. It should have been John and Hal, but all the recent reminiscing had turned her thoughts to the boys of the battalion, not her own.
Missing both legs at least made McCreery light, but it was only with great strain that she managed to shift him onto her back, and carry him to the door. Once outside, several others relieved her of McCreery, and she began to search the motley group of veterans and civilians for her sons.
John and Harold were still inside the Leaf and Crown. Harold had gone towards Missus Hallicks, while John had tried to catch Harold and drag him out. The clinking of medals – two silver crosses – had brought the boys to where Missus Hallicks was struggling to pull something down from the wall. Realizing that she would only refuse to leave without it, they decided to help her. It was a large picture frame, and recognizable even through the smoke: the Third Battalion flag Post had carried at Vimy Ridge. Once it was off the wall, all three exited.
Outside, Bill, Post, and McCloud had assembled by the front door. They had grouped together the escapees into clusters of family and friends. Nobody seemed to be missing.
“Browns and Posts are all accounted for,” McCloud said. “Greens too.”
“McCreery?” Bill asked.
“I saw him,” Post joined in. “Also Czar and Stinson. The Paynes too.”
“Yeah, I saw them,” Bill replied. “I think everybody got out.”
“One more person,” Post said, then disappeared into the burning building. A minute later he returned with the portrait of Carter. “All accounted for.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
England, 1919
“A veterans club,” Post said, already nostalgic for his time in France and Belgium. “I’ve been saving up my pay since the war ended. If I can get a decent job–”
