Ten kilometers (6 mi.) behind the lines of trenches that formed the war front, Jake and the platoon rested at a barn that been converted into a place where eighty men could sleep.
Outside the barn, in pleasant sunshine, Thomas sat on an old crate, facing a crate in the center. Jake sat across on another crate. They’d finished breakfast: hard biscuits, cheese and something that the cook tried to tell them was bacon, and each had a cup of tea. From the field behind came the occasional neighing of a horse.
“It reminds me of wheelbarrows,” Thomas said. “Many horses. Much poop. I would like it very much to find a way to avoid those wheelbarrows.”
“Better here with shovels than at the front with rifles,” Jake said.
Thomas nodded agreement, even though the straw mattresses were infested with fleas, the floor was dirt, and cracks in the walls let in rain and wind.
To the Storming Normans platoon, it was like a luxury hotel.
They were on leave from fighting at the front. Every platoon followed a rotation. Six days in the trenches, then twelve days behind the trenches. In the trenches, it was mud and rats and keeping watch through the night, then trying to sleep sitting up or standing during the day while shells constantly exploded around them. Away from the trenches, there was a daily routine of work like feeding animals, digging or helping with transportation of goods.
“I think I will be hearing another sound very soon,” Thomas said.
“Yes?” Jake asked.
Thomas pointed at the chessboard on the crate between them. “The sound of you crying when I defeat you once again.”
“Watch out for that spider on your shoulder,” Jake told Thomas.
“Nice try,” Thomas said. “You will not be able to distract me from my mission to take your king.”
Jake reached forward and plucked the spider from Thomas’s shoulder. Jake let the wriggling spider cross his open palm in front of Thomas.
Thomas shuddered and closed his eyes. “Thank you, my friend. Promise me when I open my eyes that this monster of evil will be gone.”
Jake set the spider on the ground and let it walk away. There was too much dying in war. No sense in killing something innocent.
“Gone,” Jake said. “You’re safe, you big baby. Remind me again about the bishop.”
Thomas opened his eyes and looked at the board. He leaned over and touched the top of a bishop. “It moves forward or backward on its own color. Diagonally. See how it can reach this pawn?”
Thomas lifted the bishop, moved it down the board to tap the pawn, then replaced the bishop to its original position. “But do not make that move. It would leave your queen in a weak position because of my knight.”
“The one that moves two squares one direction and another square in a different direction?” Jake asked.
“That is right. The queen can make all moves of all pieces except the knight.”
Jake studied the board, then lifted his head to look at Thomas. “You know, I signed up to fight, not take care of animals. I grew up on a farm and I wanted to get away from animals. Don’t get me wrong. Fighting isn’t as great as I thought it would be, and I’m happy to be out of the trenches for a few days. But of all the duties to pull, I’m back with horses.”
Jake stopped talking to move a pawn, then said, “Worse, we’re stuck with Charlie. He tries to do as little work as possible.”
“Now your king is in mortal danger,” Thomas said. “You may replace the piece and try another move.”
Jake moved the pawn back and spoke as he looked at the chess pieces. “Why did you sign up?”
Thomas didn’t answer.
“Go ahead and use oxygen to speak,” Jake said. “The sky has lots of it.”
“Except for when it has been replaced with poison gas.”
“Just when we were having fun,” Jake said, “you bring that up.”
Jake moved a castle.
Thomas sighed and moved his queen. “Remember that word I taught you?”
“Checkmate?” Jake said.
“Yes. That word.”
“Again? So soon?”
“Yes,” Thomas said. He pointed. “Checkmate.”
“I like this game,” Jake said. “Give me another chance.”
Jake began setting up the board.
Thomas said, “I first saw this game at my residential school. The priests seemed like stealthy hunters when they played, staring at the board like a soaring hawk peering down for mice. I wondered what it was, but they refused to explain. They said a Cree boy was not smart enough for such a game. Naturally, that made me angry. So I found ways to watch them play when they did not know I was nearby. I was smart enough for that. I learned how each piece moves by studying the priests as they played.”
Thomas’s face had been angry as he spoke, but then he smiled. “It was my grandfather William who taught me the strategy of the game. He learned it at many campfires from a North West Mounted Policeman when Saskatchewan was a territory. He saved the policeman’s life once, but I will tell you that story another day.”
A frown returned to Thomas’s face. “I do not like my memories of the residential school. The Cree and Soto from my home do not deserve the treatment we receive there. When Kaneonuskatew signed the treaty—”
“Did you just sneeze?” Jake asked. “Kanawhatsky?”
“Do not hurt your tongue by twisting it. You are only a farm boy from Manitoba, so I will not take your ignorance as an insult. Besides that, you just saved my life from a spider capable of taking out an entire platoon. Kaneonuskatew means One Who Walks on Four Claws. In English he is known as George Gordon. And he was the first to sign the treaty with Queen Victoria. We expect that we should be treated as equals and thus we are also fighting for Canada as equals. I dream that when we get home we will finally be treated as you are. As citizens.”
Jake scratched his head to think about it. He hoped it was just an itch and not a flea. Before he could respond, Charlie Austin reached them with a wheelbarrow.
“Horse poop,” Charlie said.
“No,” Jake said. “I think that Thomas is right to be angry. The Cree and Soto deserve to be citizens of our country.”
“Huh?” Charlie said. “I’m here because it’s your turn to shovel horse poop.”
“Good thing you left some behind,” Jake said. Jake noticed the wheelbarrow was only half full of horse manure. “Otherwise what work would I have?”
Charlie looked at the chessboard and said to Jake, “Why are you wasting time trying to teach Thomas something complicated like chess? Indians are just good for scouting or as snipers.”
“You assume I am good at those things just because I am of the Kaneonuskatew Nation?” Thomas asked.
“If that means Indian or redskin, I’d say yes.”
“Any man—white or red—who spends a boyhood in the forests and fields with guns to track animals will be good for scouting or shooting,” Thomas said. “You grew up in the city. I grew up in the woods. That will give me an advantage over you in scouting or with rifles. It has little to do with color of skin.”
“Wrong,” Charlie said. “Indians know Indian stuff. It’s in the blood. Like with chess for me. I have a natural advantage over you. Because chess needs thinking, not tracking.”
“I’ve been teaching Thomas plenty about chess,” Jake said. “He might surprise you with how good he is.”
Jake scratched his head again. He grimaced. It was a flea.
“In fact,” Jake said, “he might even be able to beat you.”
“Not a chance,” Charlie said. “An Indian?”
“How about this?” Jake said. “You play him right now, and if you win, I’ll shovel horse poop for you all week. If you lose, you do all that work for me.”
“Are you sure?” Thomas said. “This should be a fair bet.”
“Too late,” Charlie said. He reached over and moved a pawn. “Jake made the bet and I’m taking it. I’m white. I start first.”
&nb
sp; “Why is that?” Thomas asked.
“I just explained. I’m white.”
Thomas pointed to the black bishop. “Jake, tell me again how this piece moves. What is it called again?”
“A bishop,” Jake told Thomas. Jake hid his smile. “Try to remember. It moves on the black squares in a diagonal.”
“Explain to me again what is a diagonal,” Thomas said.
Charlie rubbed his hands. “This is going to be good. Too bad I didn’t bet more.”
“I’m willing to take a chance on Thomas,” Jake said. “How about we bet your supper for the next two nights as well?”
“Deal,” Charlie said.
“I still do not think this is a fair bet,” Thomas said.
Thomas was right. The game only lasted fourteen moves. Like they said back home, Thomas beat Charlie like Charlie was leather stretched across a ceremonial drum.
—
“Didn’t you say you wouldn’t be back?”
This came from Lance Wesley, who found an angry Charlie with a shovel, scooping horse manure into a wheelbarrow.
Lance Wesley was a broad-shouldered man with a square face. He carried himself like the former policeman that he was. Lance was holding the reins to his horse, Coal Dust.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Charlie said in answer to Lance’s question.
“You mean you don’t want to talk about how you bragged you were going to leave most of the work for Jake York and Thomas Northstar?” Lance asked.
Beside him, Coal Dust stamped an impatient front foot. The horse got his name because he was coal black. Coal Dust was glossy and rippled with muscles, which was a good indication that he had reached the war only a few weeks earlier. Conditions were so difficult that, after a few months, most horses suffered badly. Another reason for Coal Dust’s health was Lance Wesley, who spent hours looking after and grooming him.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Charlie said.
“Do you want to talk about how Thomas Northstar beat you at chess in fourteen moves?” Lance asked. “Everyone else is talking about it.”
Charlie didn’t answer.
Lance said, “Let me give you some advice, okay?”
“No thanks.”
Lance said, “What’s the name of our platoon?”
“The Storming Normans.”
“Notice how much the men respect the lieutenant?” As Lance spoke, Coal Dust nuzzled the big man’s shoulder and Lance rubbed the horse’s nose.
“I noticed that in my first few days with the platoon we got trapped by the enemy,” Charlie answered. “I noticed it took a stupid pigeon to save us.”
Lance said, “Then what you didn’t notice was that when the attack started, Lieutenant Norman managed to get us to a safe place where we could defend ourselves until the other platoons showed up. Without the lieutenant, we wouldn’t have lasted an hour out there. I can tell you it’s a good thing he’s Canadian and that we’re Canadian.”
Charlie stopped shoveling and showed his first sign of interest. “Why?”
“Sometimes British officers are chosen because of their family connections. Not Canadians. Canadians get their stripes because they earn it. Sometimes British officers don’t make good decisions because they go by the book. They’ll send soldiers over the top from a trench in a mad rush because in the old days of war, before machine guns, that’s how you did it. Canadian officers like to think for themselves. They find a different way to do something when it looks like the old way won’t do it. That’s why Canada told the British we’d keep our troops together, not let British officers lead us. We come from prairies and woods and we’re tough against cold and as much hard work as you can throw at us. You should feel good about that.”
“I’m filling a wheelbarrow with horse poop. I don’t feel good about that. I wasn’t born for this kind of work. I deserve better.”
“There’s your problem. Want to fit in? Drop the attitude. If it takes shoveling horse poop to win the war, then it needs to be done without complaint.”
“I don’t have to listen to you,” Charlie said. His resentment was back in his voice.
Lance used his hand to rub the nose of his horse again. Coal Dust lifted his magnificent head and exhaled gently on Lance. Lance let out a deep breath directly into Coal Dust’s nostrils.
“What is that?” Charlie said. “Are you two in love?”
Lance smiled. “In a sense, maybe. Horses have amazing smell. We bond through that, smelling each other. Actually, Coal Dust bonds when I let him smell me. I just pretend to smell him back. It tells him I am part of his herd.”
“How about you bond by shoveling what he leaves behind?” Charlie said. “I didn’t sign up for this. If my father knew—”
“Stop talking about your father. He’s not here. I come from Toronto too. I recognize your family name. I know the area where you live and about the mansions behind the gates. My advice, whether you want it or not, is that in a platoon, it doesn’t matter where you came from or how many connections your father has. Respect out here is earned.”
“Didn’t you hear me? I said no thanks to your stupid advice.”
“Over here,” Lance continued, “you can prove that you deserve respect for who you are, not who your family is. It’s what we’re doing as Canadian soldiers. Earning respect. Become one of us, and you’ll get that respect.”
“Finished?” Charlie asked.
Lance moved around to the side of Coal Dust and checked the saddle to make sure it was secure. He tugged the blanket beneath the saddle, more out of habit than anything. Lance always took care of his horse.
“If you don’t want to talk, then yeah, I’m finished.”
“Easy for you to give advice. You get to ride a horse. I clean up behind it.”
Lance didn’t bother pointing out to Charlie that he was about to ride Coal Dust on a scouting mission to confirm the location of an enemy machine gun nest, putting himself and his horse at risk.
After all, it didn’t appear that Charlie thought about anyone but himself.
—
Before the war, Lance Wesley had been a traffic policeman in Toronto, and each day he’d spent hours on a horse, its hooves clattering the cobblestone at busy intersections.
He knew and appreciated the loyalty that a horse can have for a human. An understanding of the horse began with knowing that it was primarily a herd animal. When a horse showed teeth, it was showing that it was a herbivore, not a predator. Just like humans smiled to show they weren’t a threat.
As large herd animals that lived off grasses, horses were built to detect the slightest of dangers from approaching predators. Of any land animals, horses had the largest eyes, and fully a third of their brains were devoted to vision. With eyes on the sides of their heads, they lacked the depth perception of dogs and cats and humans, for example, but they had amazing peripheral vision. In fact, they could almost see for a full 360 degrees, with small blind spots only directly behind and directly in front of them. Lance knew that because of those blind spots horses step to the side to see things behind them. He knew they backed up to lower their heads to see things in front. That was part of the natural rhythm of a horse, and Lance always gave rein to Coal Dust for that.
Lance could read a horse’s emotions by the position of its ears. Laid back, the ears showed that the horse was in pain or afraid or ready to be aggressive.
But what Lance marveled at the most each time he rode Coal Dust was the superb design of the animal’s legs. Coal Dust could walk, trot, canter or gallop on nearly any kind of terrain. The upper part of his leg held the bulk of the muscle, while the thin lower part was a springboard. All of it was supported by a complicated arrangement of ligaments and joint capsules. Horses’ legs were flexible and long and powerful, capable of carrying a heavy load at amazing speeds. But horses’ legs were also delicate. If broken, a horse’s shattered leg would be impossible to repair.
That’s why Lance feared for Coal Dust ea
ch time they went on a scouting mission.
A broken leg would mean death for his incredible companion.
—
Five other soldiers from various platoons rode with Lance. The weather for their mission was pleasant and balmy. Too often storms brought in the rain and cold that made life so miserable for the soldiers in the trenches. But today, Lance could pretend he was on a peaceful ride in the country.
Except it did not look like any countryside he had ever seen before.
The ground was pocked with craters from the huge shells that the opposing armies flung at each other from distances measured in miles. These craters had filled with water. Some craters were so deep that the mud walls were a treacherous, almost impossible to climb wall for anyone unfortunate enough to fall to the bottom.
Worse, however, were the unexploded shells, waiting for an unaware soldier or horse to trigger an explosion. All six riders moved carefully through the area.
Their destination was a hill on the horizon. From there, they hoped to map a hillside with the details that could not be seen from blimps above.
Then Lance heard the dreaded whistling sound. An incoming shell. Had the enemy spotted them and aimed for them? Or was it a random shot? The answer didn’t matter, because the danger was the same either way.
“Scatter!” Lance yelled. His warning wasn’t needed. All the cavalrymen were experienced and had already spurred their horses into motion.
Nobody could guess where the shell might land, so avoiding the explosion was a matter of luck. What did matter was getting all the horses as far apart as possible so that the shell wouldn’t destroy all of them with a single horrible punch.
To Lance, it seemed to happen in slow, cartwheeling motion. With a thunderous roar, the earth rose beneath him and Coal Dust. Lance’s world went silent, his hearing temporarily destroyed in that moment. Yet his vision remained, and the sky went topsy-turvy as he was flung into the air.
Had he landed flat, the impact would have broken his ribs and injured him beyond repair.
Instead, Lance landed on the slippery slope of a crater and rolled and rolled. There was a snap of pain in his leg that fired a flash of white through his vision. And, finally, all movement stopped.
Innocent Heroes Page 4
