The Cartographer of No Man's Land: A Novel

by P. S. Duffy

  “There,” she murmured. “You need to get well before you can do anything else. All right? I’ll get another blanket.”

  As soon as she left, he forced himself to sit up. It was then that he realized his arm, his right arm, wasn’t moving. The bayonet had gone in just below his shoulder. He couldn’t feel his arm. He followed its length down to the hand, lying palm-up on the pillow by his side. He willed his fingers to curl, to straighten, but they did not. He willed his wrist to lift the hand, but it remained still. He willed his shoulder to raise the arm, but nothing happened. Worse, it seemed to belong to someone else. He ripped back the blanket—his legs. Still there, thank God. He swung them over the cot and planted both feet on the stone floor. His right arm rolled off the pillow like an anchor. He gripped the bed frame, too dizzy to stand, then bent over and heaved. Nothing came up. He fell back. He wanted to weep.

  He barely heard the nurse scolding him, a different one this time, tall, her eyes hidden by the glare on her frameless spectacles. She got him under the covers and placed the arm properly on its pillow. To his right a great commotion started up. A soldier was in convulsions that would not stop, until they did, and he was dead.

  Angus turned away. “Shrap in the head,” the man in the next cot said. “Been doing that for over a day. Jerking like that. A goner now, poor chap. Or lucky bastard, depending. How about you? You’ve been yelling up a storm. Who’s this Ebbin? And ‘Sam, Sam,’ you kept saying. Peter. Simon. Hattie. A raft of names.”

  Angus did not trust himself to speak, but the man persisted. “Shot through the arm, were you? Can’t move it, eh?”

  “No,” Angus whispered. He felt he should ask the man about his wounds, but he was too busy clawing at fragments. Debris shooting out from the loft. The tree flaring up like a matchstick. Publicover rounding the barn. The bloodied Bowie next to him. Publicover. Conlon’s tortured disbelief when he saw Publicover was dead.

  And Ebbin. And now he remembered Conlon’s words. You were right about Havers. Must have had a death wish. A shudder raced through him.

  “Got the willies, eh? You’ll get through them,” the man said in a kindly tone. “This is my third time in hospital. Sent back every time. I’ll have to lose my leg or my mind to get sent home. Wait. I think I did that already. Know how I can tell? I don’t bloody care if they send me home or not.” He tried a laugh.

  Angus shut his eyes. He prayed he’d never open them. Everything was shutting down. He reached over the side of the dory and gathered up a handful of water and held ripples of sunlight in his palm. But the water slipped through his fingers, stiff and bloody, and sloshed beneath the floor boards. And he looked up empty-handed at his young son.

  OVER THE NEXT days, as his fever subsided, Angus regained focus. It was clear that his immobilized arm was God’s punishment for not speaking up about Ebbin, for Ebbin’s death, for Publicover’s and the others. The doctor assigned to his case—a tall, eager, broad-shouldered young man, “so clever and so spic and span,” the nurses described him—was named Boes, pronounced “Bays.” He was an American from Nebraska, now in the CEF. Angus repeated the name “Ne-bras-kah” slowly as if trying to make sense of it.

  “That’s right. Means ‘flat water,’ ” Dr. Boes said in an American accent as flat as the state he described. He told Angus he’d left Nebraska for London to study with Dr. Purves-Stewart, a temporary colonel and consulting physician to His Majesty’s forces. “An expert in disorders of the nervous system.” When the war broke out, an older associate had told young Dr. Boes, “There’s the place for your training. There’s where you’ll find nerve damage.”

  “And he was right! Nerve injuries are rampant,” Dr. Boes said, eyes wide. So now he’d had a lot of field experience fixing up just the sort of injury Angus had, he said. “Bullets and shrapnel can sever nerves, bruise them with bone fragments, or create hemorrhagic pressure, squeezing the function out of them so they’re tangled—unable to send messages to and from the brain.”

  A tangled web we weave, Angus thought as the words jumbled past.

  “Preventing,” Boes continued, “messages that are protopathic, epicritic and, of course, motor.” The “of course” thrown in as if Angus were a fellow physician. But Angus encouraged this medical lesson, and together they entered a pact of abstraction in which they could keep the actual effects of these injuries—the withered, paralytic, deformed limbs and cases of unremitting pain—at bay. Boes wasn’t patronizing, merely earnest—almost cheerful, a quality Angus found refreshingly out of whack.

  “There is always hope,” Boes finished up, leaning down at Angus from his dizzying height. “Nerves can be repaired, not always, but often, with the finest of cat gut.” It was his job to figure out which nerves were impaired and if they could be rescued. But they had to wait. The initial lesion was not the whole story. Swelling pressing against the nerves might be the cause of the paralysis. Waiting was the hard part. They had to wait for ten days after the sepsis cleared to check for “electrical responses,” which Boes promised he’d be only too glad to explain at the time.

  “At the time of what?” Angus asked.

  “At the time you’re connected to the condenser apparatus,” Dr. Boes said brightly. They were lucky to have one so close to the Front. But now was the time for Angus to rest. Could he do that? Could he rest and wait for the swelling to subside? Yes? Good.

  Angus refrained from asking what the condenser apparatus was and refrained as well from asking whether the world would right itself, because he clung to the answer that it would—as soon as he got back to his men. He pulled at the chain around his neck, and closed his fist over the cross. He wouldn’t let it end here, lying in a hospital cot. He’d get back to the Front, make up for it. Make it worth something, make it mean something.

  NINETEEN

  April 22nd, 1917

  Snag Harbor, Nova Scotia

  In the parish hall, the women were washing up the cups and plates, and some of the men and boys began folding the chairs with a steady thump, thump, thump. Simon helped Wallace take down the blue cross fund banner and the sign with vimy victory social painted on it. Money had been made, all the raffle tickets sold, and the prize, a hooked rug with the image of a schooner and the Union Jack on it, had gone to Tim Barkhouse.

  Before the raffle, a Major Edwin McDonald from Halifax had read a letter from a colleague in the medical corps, which referenced those “invaluable members of the corps to whom we owe a debt of gratitude,” the mules and horses transporting the wounded and limbers of hospital tents and supplies. Illuminating, edifying, everyone agreed. His speech was followed by a plea from Lady Bromley for funds. The social ended with a blessing from Reverend Dimmock, a call for enlistments from the major, and a round of patriotic hymn-singing at the piano with Mr. Williams. “Onward, Christian Soldiers!”

  Through it all, Simon worked hard to block out horses falling to their knees in the rain. The image could choke the breath from him when he least expected it. It hadn’t helped that George showed up at the end of the social. Seeing him made Simon decide he’d just ask Major McDonald outright if George was right about the horses. If he was wrong, then chances were good he’d never seen Ebbin at Thiepval either. But to ask was to have an answer. So Simon circled the edges of the major’s conversations with Delsie and Ida, and his taking of tea with Enid Rafuse and Dr. Woodruff. It was not until he found Major McDonald alone in the hallway, preparing to leave, that Simon stammered out his question. The major frowned impatiently. He thrust his arms in his coat and squared his features in the mirror. “Certainly, horses are wounded and die. That’s why they’re heroic. They’re beasts of burden, doing their job.” He adjusted his cap and opened the door.

  “But of overwork,” Simon persisted, following him down the steps. “Flogged to death, or too tired to eat.”

  “Everyone at the Front is overworked,” the major snapped. He strode past Reverend Dimmock to wait for Lady Bromley’s car.

  “Wonderful ev
ening,” Reverend Dimmock said, tipping his head up to the great swath of stars misting the sky. “The Milky Way. Breathe deep of this spring air, Simon Peter, and let God’s majesty above be your guide, and his great purpose, inexorable and mysterious, your inspiration.” The car pulled up and he dashed over to hold the door for the major. Watching them was George, who sidled up to Simon. “I’ve a raft of silver stars in my pocket, one for every heart-broke, mud-soaked horse on the field,” he said, as the Reverend bid the major and Lady Bromley good night. “And three silver bullets.”

  SIX DAYS LATER, word came that Angus had been wounded. In the shock and grief that followed, Ida took Hettie upstairs. Duncan stayed at the house to get supper going. With an apron tied over his vest, he was slashing potatoes at the sink. Gluey bits of dough clung to his fingers from a raisin duff he had been making for dessert. As if they needed dessert. As if anyone wanted to eat. His white hair was plastered to his forehead and beads of sweat inched down his cheek. “We’ll have a scupper supper, eh? Simon! Peel these potatoes.”

  “Can I help?” Young Fred dragged the stool over.

  “More the merrier. Come here, young snapper!” Duncan put an arm around him. “A scupper supper is what I used to cook up on the Lauralee. It’s been a while, but a good seaman can do for himself. You know,” he tapped the knife on the sink, “this just may be good news. He’s wounded, but out of harm’s way. The bright side of things—let’s try that on for size. Now, Young Fred, help me get this cod out of the pot so’s we can chip-chop-chip it up and set it to boil.”

  The bright side? Which side was that, Simon wanted to ask. The one where his father came home with a useless right arm or where he got better and went back to the Front?

  Young Fred dug out as much of the white flesh as he could fit in his hands, all of it dripping, some of it slipping to the floor. Duncan gathered the rest and slapped it on the table. Simon jammed raisins in the dough and slung it into a loaf pan and into the oven. He didn’t know if a duff needed to rise or not, but it sure needed to cook.

  “Got to pump fresh water into this pot!” Duncan boomed out at the sink. “There’s a boy! Pump hard!” He jerked Fred’s arm up and down, then left him, water gushing from the pump, and strode in and out of the cold room. He held up a wrapped piece of salt pork and two onions in triumph. “See here? We’ll fry these up. Know what we’ll do next, Master Fred?” Young Fred was rubbing his arm, about to cry.

  “We’re going to . . . let’s see now.” Duncan set the onions and pork on the table and leaned on his hands. “Flake, no, boil the cod, then flake it,” he mumbled. “Boil the potatoes. Fry the onion and boil the potatoes.” He ran a sticky hand through his hair.

  “Cook the lot. Layer them in the bowl with the drippings over,” Simon said.

  “Right!” Duncan snapped to attention. “Now we’ll need a bowl big enough.”

  “I can get it!” Young Fred was already hauling himself from the footstool to the ledge of the sink. As he did, two figures appeared through the window. Zenus and his father rounded the corner and were at the kitchen door. Duncan waved them in.

  “Me and the boy heard you had bad news from Angus. Thought we’d see how Hettie’s faring.” Cap in hand, Herman Weagle shifted his eyes from Duncan’s apron to the slabs of raw cod dripping on the table.

  Duncan rubbed his hands. Snakes of dough shredded to the floor. “She’s upstairs with Ida. She’ll be alright. Letter says he took a bayonet in the shoulder. He’s in a military hospital somewhere on the French coast. Under the best of care.”

  “Which arm? His right? Is he going to keep it?” Herman asked.

  “Right arm. He’ll keep it. Far as we know.” Duncan’s voice faltered. He squeezed the bridge of his nose and took in a deep breath. He blew it out slowly. “He’s not among the dead. Not among the missing . . .”

  “That’s right,” Herman said thoughtfully. “That’s something.” Hand on his hip, he shook his big head. “You heard about Clem and Ernest Younge on the Banks? Fine pair them two. Dory mates these last ten years.”

  “What? What happened?

  “They was seen going down just as the fog cleared. Seas come up of sudden. Washed over the gunwales. Went down like a rock—they was that loaded with catch in the dory—is what I heard.” Herman had fished the Banks and had three missing fingers to prove it.

  “God rest their souls,” Duncan whispered. He stood with his hand on his chest, his head down.

  “Lucky for them it was quick,” Herman offered. “Better than rowing for days on end, never to be found—dying of thirst and cold. Missing forever.”

  Duncan took a ragged breath.

  Herman slapped his cap against his leg. “Well, best be going. You got plenty to do here, I can see, and the missus will wonder what’s become of us. Come on, Zenus. You send Angus our best. Tell Hettie to hold on.”

  Simon pulled Zenus over. “Dad was in hand-to-hand,” he whispered. Zenus’s eyes went wide.

  Duncan struggled to fill his pipe. Damp fibers of tobacco spilled from the pouch and clung to his fingers. Herman put a hand on his shoulder. “Angus’ll be alright,” he said. “If he’s packed off home, well, then he made it, and did the country a good turn. He’s a strong feller. He’ll come through.” He slapped his cap again and steered Zenus to the door.

  Water bubbled over and sizzled on the stove. The smell of raw onions filled the room. Duncan looked about vacantly and said he’d take his pipe outside since they had things well in hand, and wandered off in his apron.

  “Thought I heard a clatter down here!” Ida said, clumping into the kitchen. “Who’s got supper going?”

  “Us! Me mostly,” Young Fred piped up. “But, but Grandpa ran away.” He began to cry. Simon pulled him onto his lap.

  “I see,” Ida said, tying on an apron and bustling to the stove. “Well now, I’m going to make your mother a sleeping tonic, then we’ll finish cooking this—whatever’s got started here. Fetch me the brandy, Simon. I’ll heat some milk. What’s that smell?” She whipped open the oven and pulled out the duff. “You boil this, Simon. In a bag. You don’t bake it. Can’t anyone in this family cook?”

  “How is she?” Simon asked.

  “Worried. Upset. Like you. Like all of us. What else would she be?” Ida attacked the duff with a knife to loosen it from the pan. “She’ll come round.” She tipped the pan over and dumped the remains in the sink. “There, now,” she said, pouring milk into a pot and uncorking the brandy. She gave it a sniff and took a sip. “That passes muster. I’ll just test it again. Yes, it’ll help your mother get through the night. The shock of it, you know. For her. Duncan, too.” She peered out the window. “Go see to him Simon. I’ve got my hands full here.” She lifted Fred up and stirred the milk.

  Simon did as he was told and found his grandfather on the bridge over the causeway. He stood a few feet from him, knotted up with anger and sorrow at the war, at his grandfather for suddenly caring and for needing care. But his grandfather didn’t seem to notice him. Apparently out of breath, he was leaning over the railing. “Maybe the war will be over soon,” Simon said. “That way he’ll come home and get better, both.” When his grandfather just shook his head, Simon added, “People say German morale is broken.”

  “Oh?” His grandfather pushed away and stood straight. “And where’d you get that piece of intelligence? Lady Bromley? The world’s authority on the war.” He took out his tobacco pouch and filled his pipe. “Just yesterday, I heard her tell someone our troops don’t use gas.”

  “Well, do we?”

  “Good Christ, we’d use flame throwers if it didn’t set our own on fire! How’d you like that? Being burned alive? This is war, Simon, not some Christian mission. And I’ll tell you, Hespera Bromley’s only mission is to outshine the ladies of Halifax in providing for the troops. Those comfort boxes, those ‘little needfuls’—balls of string, chocolate and pins—pins for God’s sake—end up in the hands of desperate men for whom the only good package
is a round of bullets and a gun to shoot them. Comfort to those at home is all those boxes bring.” He struck a match on his thumbnail, cupped his palm and drew the flame to his pipe in rhythmic pulses, sucking his cheeks in, eyes on Simon. “You need to get your facts straight.” He waved the match out.

  “Why are you always against him? You don’t even care he’s wounded.”

  “Don’t you speak to me like that, boy! I told you. I’m against this fool war, not him.”

  I’ll speak to you any damn way I please, Simon thought as he pounded back up the hill. He found a stick and swiped at the bushes. He wanted to kill the German bastard who sliced his father’s arm. He wanted to slice up every word that came out of his grandfather’s mouth.

  HAVING ENDURED THE SUPPER that no one wanted to eat, dishes done, Ida gone to her sister’s, his mother and Young Fred sound asleep, Simon stood in the kitchen trying to collect the jagged confusion of the day. The idea surfaced that his father might never make it home. He threw on a wool shirt, checked the stove, grabbed two apples and slipped out the back door. For a long time he stood with his head against his father’s shed, but he could not face its abandoned brushes and paints.

  He went to the barn instead, where he fed Peg and Rooster an apple each, comforted by their nuzzling. Rooster looked for more. “Don’t get used to nighttime treats, now,” Simon murmured. Finally, he turned to go. Leaning against the barn door, staring up at the stars, everything spilled over itself. His chest heaved with the effort of keeping tears at bay. “He’ll make it. He’ll make it. He has to,” he whispered.

  Up the hill, his grandfather’s house was dark, not a light on. But there was smoke coming from the chimney. Had the old man forgotten to bank the fire?