Billy Boy

by Jean Mary Flahive

  The train whistled its final stop—Portland. Grabbing his pack, Billy leaped down the platform steps, relieved to breathe deeply of the salt-scented air. Gulls screeched and hovered overhead as he walked beside his friends over the long bridge across the bay to the endless rows of cone-shaped tents that dotted the fields.

  “Is that the army?” Billy asked, wiping sweat from his brow and pointing to the other side of the inlet.

  Harry chuckled. “Yeah, it’s Camp King all right. Only it’s just a training bivouac for the Seventeenth Maine, Billy.”

  “Bivouac?”

  “It means we’re going to camp here.”

  Billy stopped in the middle of the bridge and looked back over his shoulder. In the distance he spotted the railway depot, red brick against the light blue sky. His spirits soared. “This ain’t so far from home.”

  Leighton threw his arm around Billy’s shoulders and laughed. “Billy Boy, we ain’t fightin’ the rebellion in Portland, Maine. The army’s learnin’ us to be soldiers here, but we’re gonna be a long way from home afore long.”

  Billy buttoned his trousers, tucked in his shirt, and politely nodded at the army surgeon as he moved through the line of new recruits in the broiling sun. With little scheduled for the rest of the day, Billy and his friends scouted the encampment until the dinner call sounded from the frame cookhouse. Shadowing Harry’s footsteps, Billy followed him through the long meal line, averting his eyes from those of strangers gathering for their first meal in the army. Under the cool shade of an oak, he settled on the grass with his friends and Jeb and Charlie and reached for the fork tucked in his shirt pocket. He stared curiously at the rations in his tin tray, turning up his nose at the grayish meat, poking the cracker.

  Leighton emitted a low moan as he forked a hunk of meat. “Nothin’ but some fatty boiled beef and tasteless hardtack. This ain’t fightin’ food.”

  “We ain’t fighting yet,” said Josh, sopping his cracker in the watery gravy.

  Harry laughed. “We may be eating field mice before this is over. Best enjoy what you got right now.”

  “Well, what I got ain’t enough,” Leighton grumped.

  Billy sat quietly, the food on his tray untouched. “You gonna eat any of that dismal grub, Billy Boy?” asked Leighton.

  Billy shook his head. “Reckon I ain’t much hungry.” He held out his tray. Leighton reached over, stabbed the boiled beef, and shoved it into his mouth.

  “I’ll likely starve to death before I see a bullet,” Leighton said.

  “Wager you’ll take a bullet sooner. Take you more’n a fortnight to starve with all that fat you got on you,” said Josh.

  Harry jumped to his feet. “Enough of this fool talk! Ain’t nobody here gonna take a bullet. Besides, we got to figure out where we’re sleeping tonight.” He glanced at Billy. “If you ain’t gonna eat, then come with me.”

  Captain Martin introduced himself as the officer of the day and, when Harry asked for bedding for himself and the five others, he checked his log and tossed three wool blankets on the table.

  Billy stared at the small stack. He glanced at Harry.

  “May we have three more blankets, sir?” Harry asked, a perplexed look on his face.

  Captain Martin smirked. “Privates don’t ask questions.” He dismissed them both with a wave of his hand.

  “Harry,” Billy asked as he followed him across the field, “you thinkin’ ’bout how we gonna stay warm at night?”

  “Sleep in everything but your boots,” he chuckled. “Good thing it’s August and not November. Looks like the army ain’t interested in giving us lowly privates proper bedding.”

  Billy stood on the edge of the bank and looked out over the mudflats below. A rivulet ran through the center of the marsh. “Smell the sea, Harry?”

  “Tide’s out. That’s the Fore River below us. Flows into Casco Bay over there. When the tide comes in, she fills right up and covers all that mud.”

  “This here tent’s eighteen feet wide,” hollered Charlie from inside the white canvas. “Just paced it out.” He blew a low whistle as he walked over to the campfire and sat down. “Some fella said we’ll be sleeping twelve men to a tent when we’re in the field. Said there’s only one way to fit everyone—everyone’s got to point his feet to the center.”

  Billy smiled. He liked Charlie. He was older than the others, but he was friendly and all, and right smart.

  “Well, I’m pointin’ these big feet to bed.” Leighton stared at the blankets still folded on the ground, reached over, and flung one over this shoulder. “Guess we got to partner up. So who’s gonna share a blanket with me? You, Harry?”

  “Sorry, Leighton,” he answered. “Josh, you being the smallest, you go on and sleep with Leighton.”

  “Not by a darned sight!” Josh placed his hands on his hips. “Leighton, you’re my best friend and all, but like as not your big ol’ body’s gonna roll over and squash me dead.”

  “Why don’t I just squash you dead right now.”

  “I’m sleeping with Jeb.”

  “I’ll share with you, Leighton,” Billy said.

  Leighton laughed and let out a huge sigh. “You’re all right, Billy—better’n the whole lot of ’em.”

  Billy stood in front of the fire and watched a heavy mist creep through the camp. Drizzle seeped through his clothes, chilling him. Finally he ducked into the tent and found Leighton on his knees spreading the blanket across a floor of hay before he crashed his bulky frame down on top of it. Billy sat down beside him, pulled off his boots, and rested his chin on his knees.

  “Leighton?” he asked quietly.

  “Yeah?”

  “You scared of fightin’?”

  “Naw.” He heard Leighton yawn. “Wrestled too many ornery bulls to be scared of a few Johnnies.”

  “You thinkin’ I’ll be a good soldier?”

  “Don’t rightly know if I’ll be a good one.” Leighton yawned again, rolled on his side.

  “We gonna die? Harry says we won’t take a bullet—”

  “Truth is, we ain’t all comin’ back, Billy Boy.”

  Leighton’s words frightened Billy. Staring into the darkness, he hesitated for several moments.

  “If I don’t like it and all, can I go home? I can find my way.”

  “Ain’t none of us goin’ home for a long time. We do what the army says now.”

  “Leighton?”

  “Billy, you ask me one more question and I’m gonna throw you outta this tent. Now lie down and get some sleep.”

  Billy ran his fingers through his hair and moved to the edge of the blanket. “Sure enough, you take up the whole dang thing.” Rocking his thin body, his arms clasped around his knees, Billy thought about home. Already he sorely missed Jamie. Sometimes Jamie sneaked across the hall and crawled beneath Billy’s covers, snuggling against his back. Many nights Jamie would talk about things he learned in school, explaining it all nice and easy.

  If he was home right now, he might be playing checkers. Or maybe Ma would be reading from the Bible. He shook his head. He’d sooner be in his own bed, warm under his quilt. Lying down on a sliver of blanket, he leaned his back into Leighton’s broad shoulders and closed his eyes.

  “My name’s Captain Edward Mathers—commanding officer of Company G.”

  Billy listened to the words of his new commander and glanced at the members of his company. Most of the soldiers were older. Charlie said a couple were lawyers; some had even been to college. But mostly, Charlie told him, the others were like them—just plain farmers.

  “Reveille will sound at five,” Captain Mathers continued. “The regiment will form ranks by company. You will be given a description of the day’s duties. For the next week and a half, your days will be filled with company, battalion, and regimental drills, target practice, policing camp, and digging sinks.” He added the last with a smirk on his face.

  Billy nudged Leighton. “What’s he mean, diggin’ sinks?”

  �
��Gonna be pissin’ in a hole in the ground,” Leighton replied.

  By the end of his first week at Camp King, the only relief Billy had found was when he finally received his own wool blanket. He cringed each time the drill sergeants screamed at his slowness or leaned into his face, hurling torrents of mean words. Increasingly frustrated, Billy walked away from drill one afternoon. Harry ran after him, telling him the sergeants’ hurtful words were just army talk. At roll call the next morning the sergeant major shouted Billy’s name and ordered him to step forward. A few others were called, including Leighton. Terrified, Billy inched forward, timidly, brushing his shoulder against Leighton.

  “Is he sore at us?”

  Leighton’s face flushed. “Looks like you and me gonna be doin’ extra drills ’til we get things right.” He shook his head in disgust. “Sergeant major’s put us fellas in a new squad. Already give us a name.”

  “What name?”

  “Billy Boy, you and me is in the Awkward Squad.”

  “Then we ain’t in trouble?”

  “Naw, just slow is all.”

  Billy liked having Leighton at his side. When the teasing got bad, Leighton would slap him on the back and tell Billy to laugh. Said laughter was like a shield of armor. If you laugh, Leighton said, the hurtful words can’t go all the way to your heart. Billy tried to imagine the shield whenever the drill sergeants or other privates teased him, but mostly the taunts still managed to pierce his heart. He reckoned his shield was plum full of holes.

  Near the end of the training, Billy’s excitement was renewed when he at last slipped into his uniform. He received baggy light blue woolen trousers and two coats: a dark blue single-breasted frock coat, and, for daily wear, a four-button sack coat. The sack coat was shorter and fit him best; he sweated too much in the frock coat. As a private he was told he would receive only two pairs of gray flannel underdrawers, two gray flannel shirts, and two pairs of woolen stockings. His footwear was a pair of black leather brogans called bootees. Unlike most of the others, he liked the dark blue woolen forage cap with the 17TH REGIMENT in brass and his company letter “G” ornamenting the crown.

  “Looks like you can put another soldier in there with you, Billy Boy,” laughed Leighton as he buttoned his frock coat. Suddenly three brass buttons popped from Leighton’s coat, disappearing into the tall grass.

  “The uniforms only come in four sizes. Ain’t one of them fits us good,” said Harry as he tried to hold his woolen trousers up with a piece of rope around his waist.

  “Josh walks like a large-fin duck in them oversized boots,” said Jeb, watching him waddle across the ground.

  “Here, little fella, stuff these in your bootees.” Charlie laughed and tossed Josh a pair of woolen socks.

  Billy stared at the pile of tow-cloth trousers and cotton shirts in a heap by the tent. He spotted the buttons from Leighton’s uniform in the grass, dropped to his knees, and scooped them in his hand.

  “I can sew these buttons on for you, Leighton. I like to sew buttons.” Billy jumped up from the grass, his eyes darting back and forth between his friends.

  “Billy Boy, I’m thinkin’ you and me is gonna get along real fine.” Leighton grinned and threw off his coat.

  “Get up, all you lazy toadies! Roll them blankets! Get up, Billy.” Harry tapped him on the shoulder. “It’s August eighteenth! We’re mustering into service today.”

  Billy moaned, rubbed his eyes, and rolled off his blanket. He pushed back the flap and squinted at the brilliant sunrise. He had heard that Major Gardiner, the mustering officer, was going to make all the companies stand ranks until the full dress inspection was over. And already it was hot and muggy. Billy needed to hurry, what with his friends mostly dressed and already checking their packs. He hoped Harry would put things right in his knapsack. Colonel Roberts held Sunday-morning inspections, and Harry always made sure things were in place for Billy. Slipping into his trousers, he glanced around the tent. Harry was gone.

  The sun was high by the time Major Gardiner walked across the grass to Company G and greeted Captain Mathers. He paced in front of the first row, his face stern, his dark eyes flashing. Suddenly the major stopped, faced the privates, and loudly ordered them to empty their knapsacks. Harry stole a glance at Billy’s pack and hissed under his breath as the articles spilled onto the ground. Major Gardiner stepped in front of Billy, staring at him from head to toe. He took a step backward and with the toe of his boot spread the articles across the ground. For a moment he hesitated, and then all of a sudden he kicked the knapsack aside. Leaning into Billy’s face, his voice was deep and guttural.

  “Where’s your regulation knife, Private?”

  Billy winced, blinked his eyes. He tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry. He slid his hand down the side of his coat, felt the solid lump in the pocket, reached in, and pulled out the knife.

  Behind him, a soldier moaned fitfully about the heat and fainted to the ground, noisily scattering the tin utensils in the air.

  Major Gardiner shook his head in disgust at both Billy and the collapsed soldier and lashed out at Captain Mathers before he turned and marched away.

  At last it was over. In spite of everything, Billy felt proud when Adjutant General Hodson presented the regimental colors and he marched in the formal dress parade, passing in review before his senior officers.

  The night sky swirled orange as Billy stared at the rows of campfires throughout Camp King. It felt good to be with his friends.

  “Rum’s been flowing all through this camp tonight,” said Charlie.

  “Don’t nobody feel much like goin’ to bed,” said Leighton. “Our last night on good ol’ Maine soil for a long time.” He turned his head to the raucous privates at a nearby fire.

  Jeb shook his head. “I ain’t never seen folks so liquored up.”

  “Looks like you’re gonna get your chance to see a drunkard up close,” answered Harry. “Ol’ Lars Soule is staggering this way.”

  Reeking of tobacco and rum, a burly, disheveled Lars leaned over and passed his bottle to Jeb. “Hey, Berwick boy? How ’bout a little drink?”

  Billy watched as Jeb reluctantly accepted the bottle and took a short swig. He quickly handed it back. The private grunted in approval and looked around. Billy lowered his head.

  “Hey,” Lars yelled, stifling a large belch. “Ain’t you one of them dumb cusses in the Awkward Squad?” Billy shuddered as Lars shuffled toward him.

  “Here—take a drink.” He belched again and laughed.

  Billy turned his head away from the bottle. “Pa says drinkin’s a curse.”

  “Well, your pa ain’t here now, is he?” Lars leaned his face into Billy’s.

  “Ain’t wantin’ to.”

  “What a whimpering little toad.” Lars turned and hollered to his buddies at the next campfire. “Hey fellas, we got us a real sissy boy here. Says his pa don’t want him to drink.” Hooting and laughter erupted.

  Billy hung his head, ran his fingers through his hair, then tore at a fingernail.

  “Looks like we got us a Sunday soldier. You know what a Sunday soldier is, boy?”

  “Reckon I don’t.”

  “Well, see here … A Sunday soldier is a name we give you dumb little cusses—”

  “Shut your mouth, Lars.” Leighton’s face was raw with anger.

  “Oh, look, it’s another fool from the Awkward Squad.”

  Billy heard Harry leap to his feet, saw the heels of Harry’s boots charge at the drunken private. “If you’re looking for a fight, you can start with me. Seems to me we should be getting along, Lars, but if it’s a fight you want, I’ll take you down right now.”

  Harry yanked off his sack coat, tossing it to the ground in an angry flourish. Lars raised the bottle and rushed toward Harry, rum spilling over his head and shoulders as he swung it around in midair. Harry ducked his head and lunged forward, grabbing the private’s arm and twisting it hard against his back. The bottle fell onto one of the rocks th
at circled the campfire and shattered, the strong scent of rum fouling the air. In seconds Lars was on his knees, wincing in pain as Harry held his grip, preventing the private from striking back, his free arm dangling limply at his side. Out of the darkness, Lars’s drunken friends shouted and lurched for Harry. Leighton jumped to his feet. Charlie picked up a piece of broken glass. Unsteady on their feet, the privates retreated, staggering back to their fire.

  Harry waited a few moments and then released his hold, pushing Lars to the ground with his foot. “Go on now, back to your friends.”

  Wincing in pain, Lars pulled his arm into his chest. He struggled to his feet. “You fellas ain’t heard the last of this!” He turned and spit on the ground. “Especially the Sunday soldier,” he shouted from the shadows.

  Billy’s head fell to his chest. He got up, moved slowly from the campfire, and disappeared into the tent. He lay still as his friends slowly entered the tent, rolled out their blankets, and settled onto the ground.

  “You okay, Billy Boy?” Harry tapped him on the shoulder. Billy rolled onto his back but said nothing.

  “I know you ain’t asleep.”

  “Wonderin’ is all.”

  “’Bout what?”

  “Wonderin’ mostly—just who the enemy is.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

  “Aw, them fellas are a bunch of bullies for sure, but they’ll be all right after a time. It’s just the liquor talking.”

  “Wish I was like you, Harry.”

  “Billy Boy, I like you just the way you are.” Harry leaned close and whispered, “Besides, want to know a secret?”

  “Reckon.”

  “Always wished I was as tall as you.”

  “You mean that, Harry?”

  “You betcha. If I was taller … Well, thing is, I had to learn to fight my way through things, what with me being so short.” Harry paused and took a deep breath. “All the blustering I do? It’s just so folks will take notice.”

  Billy stared in astonishment.

  “Anyway, don’t you worry none. We’re in this army together. I’m right by your side, just like I told you. Go on now and get some sleep.”