by P. S. Duffy
Barbed wire. Every man and officer carried wire cutters. Wave upon wave of forward-rushing soldiers at the Somme had been mowed down by machine-gun fire as they waited for the belts of barbed wire to be cut. Heavy artillery had failed to destroy it. When those cutting the wire fell, the next ones tried and toppled over them so that those eventually funneling through were forced to crawl over stacks of corpses that clogged the narrow opening. Rarely had the term “shooting fish in a barrel” been so appropriate. Fifty-seven thousand Allied casualties that first day alone.
“Up to now we’ve had to rely on ordnance that explodes only on impact. Of course, the wire’s too insubstantial to set it off. Well, gentlemen, we now have the 106 fuse—so finely sprung it doesn’t need impact to explode. It’ll go off when it so much as brushes the wire. The 106, our new wire cutter!”
Murmured disbelief rippled through the room.
“That’s right. Now, something else. We Canadians may be an unruly lot, as our British friends like to say. And, thank God for it, because the high command of this army has figured out something that has eluded our good allies. We’re going to trust the intelligence of our men. Think of that. Going to make sure if the officer’s dead, a sergeant can take over. If he’s out of the action, a corporal can lead on, right on down to private. Maps and objectives will be in the hands of every single section leader.”
You could have heard a pin drop.
“That’s right,” Stokes nodded. “We won’t have men stranded with their officers dead around them. We’re going to trust the lowest of the ranks because we’re smart enough to know that we depend on them as much as they depend on us. We’re bound together, ranks and officers, and not one of you matters more than one of them. That’s the army you’re in.
“Never forget, not for a moment, that you are part of the best fighting force ever assembled on God’s green earth. The CEF. The force that’s going to take that ridge. This is the watershed moment for our young country, by God! Have no doubt that when you fight, you fight for king and country. You fight for the Empire. For God’s great purpose. But you also fight for Canada! What do you say?”
Cheers pounded out through the room. With a surge of adrenaline Angus cheered almost as loudly as Publicover, then sat back, amazed. He was part of it. And proud of it. He wondered how long the feeling would last. Maybe until he blew the whistle to send his men over the top.
“Dis-missed!” the colonel shouted.
“WHO DESIGNED IT? The fuse. Us? Did he say? Us, I bet. Was it?” Publicover asked eagerly as they filed out with the others.
“The Frogs is what I’ve heard,” a captain said.
“The Frogs?” Publicover said. “That’s ridiculous.”
Conlon patted Publicover’s shoulder. “Not every innovation is Canadian, Sam. Let the French have their due, eh?”
“Think it’ll work?” Angus asked.
Conlon shrugged.
“This idea of men knowing the battle plan,” a lieutenant named Crick said with mock surprise, “awfully generous. Have the generals lost their minds?”
“No. Just their officers,” Conlon replied. Everyone laughed.
“Publicover!” someone behind them shouted. “I’ll be damned!” It was Andy Loftus, a second lieutenant. “Publicover of the twenty kills!” he said, shaking his head. “And MacGrath, right? We met just before you headed up. Good to see you boys. May I suggest a reunion?”
Angus shook hands, but was anxious to get to his men. He turned to Publicover as he left. “Twenty kills?”
Publicover just shrugged.
HIS MEN WERE still in the barn. “Thank God you made it,” he said. “Yes sir,” they responded formally, though he thought he saw relief in a few faces. He looked for Hiller. Wertz pointed with his pipe to the far end of the barn. Katz explained Hiller had refused food and water, just huddled there all night. And there he was, hunched in the shadows, bits of straw clinging to his hair. One side of his mouth was clamped in a grimace that loosened only when Angus told him he was taking him to the field hospital. Angus saw that his tunic was rippling as if alive. Because the man seemed incapable, Angus avoided giving him a direct order and began to unbutton the jacket himself. Hiller sank to his knees. Three yellow chicks fell out of his tunic. Angus pulled him to his feet as Boudrey tried to scoop up the chicks. A hen darted about in wing-flapping fury.
Hiller said nothing all the way to the field hospital, and Angus left him there with a report on his behavior. Let the doctor figure out if it was a charade. Angus prayed it was not. Hiller’s trembling and facial grimacing set the men’s teeth on edge. Publicover was right. Faking it or not, he’d be a liability on the line.
On the road back to the town, Angus checked his trench watch. Nearly noon. A few minutes later, passing a low rise, the sharp report of massed rifle fire cut the air. And then it was quiet. Target practice? At the top of the slope, he saw what looked like sails. It was a chaplain, surplice billowing. Angus angled up to him. Below them, soldiers with rifles were being marched away toward a brick building. By a tree, a man on a block, hands tied behind him, a hood over his head, fell forward. Two others steadied the body and pulled off the hood.
Angus whipped around. The chaplain was crawling off. His knee caught on his surplice, and he fell forward and retched. Angus picked up a silver box from the ground and walked over to him. Blocking the sun, Angus lowered his canteen. The chaplain took it, rinsed his mouth and rolled to a sitting position. “So sorry,” he whispered. He wiped his mouth on the edge of his surplice, streaked with vomit.
Angus tried to hand him a cigarette, but the chaplain just stared out beyond the road. Angus sat down next to him. They were silent for a long time. Finally, the chaplain told Angus he’d been called in the night before, right after evening service, to visit with the prisoner. He’d never met the man, but spent the long hours of the long night with him. “He’d been in a lot of rough patches before he joined up. That much I got from him. He had regrets. Asked to be baptized. I tried to get the sentence commuted this morning. Asked if I could see the general, but the colonel would have none of it.”
“Stokes?”
The chaplain nodded.
“Was he innocent? The prisoner?”
“Who is innocent in war?” the chaplain sighed. “His name is Ewan Ellsworth, a private. They found him in uniform a month ago, living with a family a good twenty miles back. A deserter. I thought maybe there were commutable circumstances. Why still in uniform living with that family? Why not try to blend in?”
“Did he say?”
“No. Never did, though I asked him. It was part of some elaborate plan, I suppose. Or maybe spur-of-the-moment. Who knows? I was told that my job was to see to his soul, get him to die bravely. The matter had been reviewed by every proper channel.”
“What made you think he might be innocent?”
“Not a single thing,” the chaplain shook his head. “Still, brought into it like that, I saw the man—saw remorse, the terror in his eyes. I wasn’t trying to free him, just save him from . . .”
The firing squad had formed up again and were marching past on the road below. “I had his life in my hands,” the chaplain said, his hands limp in his lap. “I didn’t, of course, and yet by our very communion, I did. I was one with him all of last night. And am still.”
Angus passed him the silver box. The chaplain opened it. A breeze lifted communion wafers from it, and they chased away down the slope like a stream of confetti.
SIX
February 20th, 1917
Arras Sector, France
The woman, who had a brittle aspect to her, pierced Publicover’s kilt and tunic with a forked stick. “No!” He lunged after them. She swung the stick away. He stumbled, and the boy laughed. All of about ten, with one milky eye and a stiff shock of white through his hair, the boy stirred a steaming cauldron on a grate over an open fire.
“No! Non!” Publicover shouted. “Would you get over here?” he said to Angus. �
�This witch and her apprentice are about to ruin our uniforms.”
Angus threw his underwear over the sheet on the line where she’d had him undress and, wrapped in the threadbare quilt she’d provided, hobbled out, bare feet burning with the cold. Publicover, in a similar quilt, grabbed up what clothing he could from the ground. She scowled at him. “Wool,” he said, shaking his kilt at her. His quilt slipped. He held a corner of it with his teeth to cover himself, clutching the uniforms to his chest. “Ull. Ull no good in ’oilin ’ater,” he said.
She forked his tunic on her stick and swept it over the pot. “Lice!” she hissed. In English.
“We know. Je comprends, but—” Angus sighed.
Publicover dispensed with his quilt and waved his arms in an exaggerated X. “Wait!” he said loudly. “I have the so-lu-tion!” He ran back to his pack, stark naked except for his boots, shouting, “Tell her to wait!”
“Attendez, attendez, s’il vous plaît,” Angus said, and touched her arm. She squinted at Publicover, who rifled through his pack and held up a jar. “Bertie’s Cream! Kills lice!” he shouted with the enthusiasm of a traveling salesman. He leapt back across the yard, and recovered his quilt. The woman scowled, then took the jar and held it at arm’s length. “Better than boiling!” he said to her. “French?” he said to Angus. “Have the words?”
“For ‘better than boiling’?”
“My sister Lizzie just sent it over. It’s a hair tonic, see? But seems it’s great for killing lice. This fellow Lizzie knows swears by it. We just rub it in our hair, and all over ourselves. Why not? And our uniforms. Seam squirrels march out—in formation! Guaranteed.”
The woman looked at them, shrugged and dipped her hand in the cream and threw a blob of it into the water.
“No . . .” Publicover moaned.
“S’il vous plaît, Madame,” Angus said. He held out his hand for the jar. The boy ran off. Reluctantly, she handed the jar over and then in one swift move forked up the tunic again.
“Damn it. Damn it!” Publicover grabbed the stick and then there was a click. He and Angus whipped around. The boy had a revolver in his hands. Publicover’s eyes went wide. “Whoa!” he said. “That’s mine! Give it here, pal.” The boy marched over and held the gun straight at Publicover. “Bang!” he said, as Angus grabbed his wrist and took the gun.
“Hey!” The boy glowered. The woman came to and started scolding and jabbing at him. “A joke! Je le taquine! I tease him!” the boy cried.
Angus removed the bullets one by one and shook his head at Publicover. “Should have put this away.”
“This is my fault? It was with my stuff. Where’s your gun? The boy’s a goddamn lunatic. They both are.”
Angus turned the boy around, ignoring his defiant expression. The woman fell quiet.
“A joke! Piece of crap,” the boy snarled.
“No, not a joke. A loaded revolver.” Angus opened his hands and showed him the bullets. “You could have killed him. Might not have meant to, but you could have.”
The boy crossed his arms. “Lice,” he said.
“No excuse,” Angus said. “Dead. Mort. He’s a soldier. Un ami. Understand?”
The boy rolled his eyes. “Oui.” He shifted his gaze to his mother and back at Angus. “My papa was a soldier. Il est mort.”
“I’m sorry—” Angus said.
“I am a soldier also.”
“Sure, sure you are.” Angus knelt down. “Protecting the home front. Good job. But never, ever point a gun unless you intend to use it. What if this had gone off? You need to apologize.”
The boy scuffed his feet. “Do it,” Angus said. He was shaking with the cold now.
Finally, the boy turned to Publicover and sighed in a sing-song, “Désolé.” After a beat, he added, “Votre revolver, c’est merdeux. Je peux vous obtenir un meilleur . . . pour un prix.”
The woman and Angus exchanged a look. They almost laughed.
“What? What’d he say?” Publicover demanded.
“Well, he apologized, and then said that your gun is shit and he could get you a better one. For a price. I think that’s what he said anyway.”
Publicover stiffened, but said, “Yeah? Tell him to be my guest. Name his price. Never much liked that revolver anyway.”
The boy grinned and his mother quickly dipped the clothes in and out again. The smell of lye came on strong. Shivering, Angus and Publicover decided there might be advantages to boiling water after all. It was too damn cold to figure out. The woman pulled her shawl tight and tapped the boy on the shoulder. “Allons-y!” she said, and he ran ahead of her to the house. Angus asked Publicover her name.
“Raffarin. Madame Raffarin,” she said without glancing back. “Et Paul, mon fils.”
“Ah, you speak English!” Publicover called after her.
“No, she just spoke French,” Angus said.
“Aren’t you the bloody riot? Where’ve you been anyway?”
“Witnessing the army taking care of its own,” Angus replied. “After which I spent the night with my men in the barn. And you? Didn’t you get my message? Where were you? Not here, obviously.”
“Obviously. Got here around midnight, and she had the door locked, so I—”
Before Publicover could finish, the boy sloshed a bucket of water at them. Angus jumped out of the quilt just in time to receive the splash against his legs. Warm water, thankfully. Mud streaked off. The boy and his mother were clearly professionals at housing soldiers. The boy, Paul, cocked his head toward the house, and they followed him up the steps and into the kitchen.
A tub of water, partially hidden by a folding screen, steamed by the far wall. Shivering badly now, Angus reached in his haversack for a coin, flipped it up, and barely caught it. “Heads!” Publicover said. It was tails.
The woman lit a lamp on the table and one on the cupboard. A parchment yellow glow filled in against the gloom, and Angus saw the woman was neither brittle nor skittish, but worn and tired, and that there was dignity in her bearing. And in her lean frame, her dark hair and eyes, her solemn expression, something that reminded him of himself. She gestured at the tub. Angus shuffled over. She took his quilt without looking at him. He tested the water, steaming hot, and slowly crouched in.
Paul shoved past his mother. A photograph on the cupboard had her holding a baby in a beribboned dress. A short, sturdy man, very proud, had his arm around her waist. Paul moved the picture, pulled back a cutwork curtain from the cupboard and took out a narrow box. On the cover, a jaunty scarecrow; inside a set of jackstraws. He cocked his head at Publicover, who inspected the box.
“Jackstraws! Why not, eh, while I wait my turn,” Publicover said.
Paul took out the pointed sticks and held them up. “How much?”
“How much? Are you kidding? You selling the sticks, or are we playing a game?”
“Play! How much?”
“Alright,” Publicover sighed. “A penny a stick. God only knows how many revolvers you’ve got stashed away from your winnings.”
The woman stood over Angus with a thick bar of soap and a sponge.
“You’re not thinking of washing him? Not necessary,” Publicover said brightly. “He can wash himself.” To Angus, he said, “How’s the water?”
Angus didn’t answer.
“Might I add that I didn’t get a bath yesterday? Had to stand under a trickle of water from a rusted pipe in the barn with the men? Cold water,” he continued, following Paul to the table. “No handmaiden to wash me. But certainly, you go right ahead.”
Engulfed in steam, Angus lifted the water to his face. Hot water. Clean, clear water. He cupped it in his hands, let it slip through his fingers as if witness to a miracle. He lifted it to his face again and again. A shudder went through him. And another.
He could sense the woman watching him. He put his face in his hands and fought a welling-up.
“La guerre,” she whispered, kneeling next to him.
He shook his head, but cou
ld not look up. The shuddering grew violent. She waited.
“Un jour, vous serez lavé propre de lui,” she whispered as the shaking subsided. “Un jour . . .”
Someday. Washed clean of it—if only. Finally, he was able to glance up. La guerre. It was there in the shadows beneath her eyes, in her unflinching gaze. She knew.
She lowered her eyes and dipped the fat sponge into the water, then stood behind him and squeezed it over his head. Her movements were slow and sure. She lathered his hair. He tried to stop her, but let himself fall into the slow, circular rhythm of her hands against his temples, over the crown of his head, along the back of his neck. Vague words, English and French—Publicover and the boy at their game—circled through the steam and evaporated. She reached for a pitcher and poured a stream of water over his head that cascaded down his back, over him and through him. “Un jour. Someday,” she said.
“You’re an optimist,” he whispered.
“Died and gone to heaven, have you?” Publicover broke in. “Some of us wouldn’t mind a bit of washing-up ourselves. Hot water, that sort of thing. What! You moved that stick. I saw it!”
“Non!” Paul protested as Publicover stood up, his quilt catching a jackstraw and trailing a clatter of sticks to the floor. “Arrrgh!” Paul growled. He grabbed the white patch of his hair and crouched around in mock temper.
“Merci, Madame Raffarin,” Angus whispered. He took the soap and sponge from her.
“Juliette,” she said, and placed a towel on the chair next to the tub.
“Um, are you quite done?” Publicover stood over him. Angus finished washing quickly. They exchanged places. Juliette set a bowl of water, a razor, shaving brush and cup of soap on the table beneath a mirror. The light so dim, his hands so heavy, Angus could barely lather up, barely scrape the razor against his cheek. When he was done, he wiped his face with the towel and stared at the mirror. The hollows of his cheeks seemed deeper, as did the lines that framed the corners of his mouth—two thin lines that deepened when he smiled, and that, when he was serious, made him seem all the more so. So he’d been told. By whom? He couldn’t remember. Publicover, splashing in the tub, said, “Think I might get some help here? Sponge? Or, no. I see, you have to shave.”
