The Gunner

by Paul Almond

  “I thought it was suffragette?” I asked.

  “Suffragist is one who believes in the movement, but is not actively chaining herself to railings or throwing herself under horses and that sort of rubbish,” Leo said.

  I had heard about Emily Wilding Davison who did so at the famous horserace they call the Derby. Terrible to have to go to such lengths just to get a vote. Some of them had been stuck in jail. I hoped we didn’t do that in Canada.

  “The oldest is brother George,” Rene said.

  “The less said about him the better,” Leo added in her own inimitable way. Boy, I thought, she’ll wait a long time before she finds a man.

  After we had finished lunch and I had paid the big bill over Rene’s objections, she announced, “Next, the Tower of London.”

  “Oh good. A lot of our officers in training have been there,” I said. “And the crown jewels?”

  “Funny how everyone from the Colonies wants to see our crown jewels,” Leo said with a condescending smirk.

  “Yes, but there is more to the Tower than just that,” Rene put in gently.

  Leo drove over the Thames so that we got a good view of the great square castle with its four towers. Back over Tower Bridge we drove, and entered the famous grounds. Huge, they occupied eleven acres, so I was told. After seeing the crown jewels, we walked on through other enclosures and Leo remarked, “Do you remember three weeks ago, Rene, when we took that handsome Captain around? He was just so knowledgeable.”

  Rene was watching for my reaction. But how could I react? Of course, they took other soldiers around. That didn’t make me doubt Rene’s sincerity.

  “Let’s show him where the royal menagerie used to be,” said Leo. “I expect coming from a farm, he’d like that.”

  With Leo, I’d never live that down.

  “That officer was just so clever!” she went on, when we got to the enclosure. “I don’t expect you know Blake’s poem The Tyger, Eric, but he told us the poet saw his only tiger right here.”

  I didn’t know the poem.

  Leo must have seen that because she went on, “You know: “Tyger! Tyger! burning bright, In the forests of the night...?”

  “What immortal hand or eye, Could frame thy fearful symmetry?” Rene finished. They both loved the poem, even Leo.

  “And this is where he saw it?”

  “He’d never been to India or any jungle, you see,” Leo finished.

  Well, that sure was something — not picked up in any guidebook, I bet. Yes sir, lots of fun moments sightseeing with these two girls, even though Leo left a lot to be desired. But when was I going to be alone with Rene?

  “And now, for the finale,” said Rene.

  We drove just a short way up Ludgate Hill and stopped in front of the most magnificent building ever. Even bigger, taller, more amazing than Westminster Abbey.

  “St. Paul’s Cathedral,” said Rene proudly.

  Well, when we got out of the car, I just leaned back against it and stared. A triple layered dome, huge clock tower on the left, classical columns in front. Almost reminded me of some of the blasted churches on the Continent, but so much bigger. And safe, here. Shame what war was doing over there.

  “Masterpiece of neo-classical architecture,” Leo said, somewhat triumphantly.

  We went in, and I followed the girls who went straight through to where Sir Christopher Wren was buried.

  I read the slab slowly, “Lector si monumentum requiris, circumspice.”

  Rene translated: “Reader, if you seek his monument, look about you.”

  As I found out, after the Great Fire he had designed thirty-seven parish churches and other public buildings. “Took thirty-three years to build,” Leo remarked. Then Rene took us over to a big black sarcophagus in a side chapel.

  Leo gestured. “Eric, this is the tomb of one of our greatest warriors ever. You’ve probably never heard of him, but he won the Battle of Trafalgar, and stopped Napoleon from invading England. Lord Nelson.”

  I could see Rene beginning to blush — fed up with Leo putting me down. But what could she do? She looked at me, with almost imploring eyes.

  “Well,” and then I put on an exaggerated Gaspe accent. “This ’ere fella, my grandfather served under.” Leo looked up, shocked. “James Alford fought on a 74-gun warship, the Bellerophon, the one that took Napoleon, when he surrendered, back to Plymouth.” Her jaw dropped; Rene broke into a beautiful smile. “Yep, my grandfather served under Nelson at the battle of the Nile in Alexandria, and then in the Battle of Trafalgar. When the ship came to Canada, he jumped off in Port Daniel Bay — all wilderness at that time.” I was pleased at their reactions. “So he became the first settler to carve a home out of what they now call Shigawake. Some pioneer, I tell yez!” I hoped that would put her in her place once and for all.

  And you know what? It did.

  From then on, she treated me like I was the King of England. These damn Brits, they are so full of their own importance. But not Rene, for sure, she was just delighted.

  “Come on you two,” Rene said, “I am going to take you both to tea in the Strand.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  London, April 1918

  “So I shan’t be seeing you again for a little while?” asked Rene.

  “Not till this blasted war is over, I guess.” We were speeding along, probably thirty miles an hour, towards the South Coast on a big outing. Such a beautiful day, the likes of which you don’t get a lot in England. Being late in April, flowers were out, hedgerows in bloom — you could even smell them in some places — and cattle cropped their pastures. My brother was preaching to the troops at Shorncliffe Camp today. He had suggested I take the train down so we could have lunch, seeing as how I was leaving the next day, 29th, for the Front. When I broached this in a letter to Rene, she came to Witley in the morning so we could spend the day together.

  “Let’s make a pact not to talk about the war, Rene,” I said. “This is one day I’ll remember, probably all my life.”

  “May I just ask if you’re looking forward to going back?”

  “Yes, and no. I sure learned a lot being at the Canadian Gunnery School. And I know I’m needed over there. I’ve almost forgotten, thank heaven, what it’s like on that firing line. So I don’t want to spoil today with you...”

  My Lord! How amazing it was to sail along like this! A car meant you could go wherever you wanted whenever you needed. Imagine if we had a car on the Gaspe! The trip to Bonaventure to get our wheat ground into flour took all day with a team of horses, whereas in a car maybe you’d spend only an hour or two. Imagine how a doctor would benefit, instead of relying on his horse and buggy, no matter how fast. Any accident, he’d be down from New Carlisle in a flash. I wondered when we’d get to see our first car in Shigawake.

  I leaned back and watched Rene’s dancer’s fingers on the steering wheel, and on the beautiful wood knob of that gearshift, listening with half an ear to how much she liked her dancing school. It would take an age to fill in all she knew about the classical Greek dancing she had been studying under Ruby Ginner. “Of course, the Mater doesn’t approve. But as you know, when I set my mind on doing something, I find a way to get it done.”

  “Yes, like getting the car for us to go to the South Coast.”

  Rene smiled. “Now that she knows your grandfather fought under Nelson, that makes everything all right. I didn’t tell her we were going on to Shorncliffe Camp, of course.”

  We had, it is true, seen each other fairly often the last few weeks. She took me to my first play ever: The Duchess of Malfi, by a fellow who had lived around Shakespeare’s time. Most other soldiers went to Chou Chin Chow, or Charlie’s Aunt, which Rene classed as foolish comedies. She saw herself as a serious artist, and wanted me to be properly educated.

  Such a thrill for me to be invited to a real theatre and see a play for the first time. I can still hear that pretty Cathleen Nesbitt (she’d been engaged to the poet Rupert Brooke, as we all knew) sa
ying, loud and clear, “I am Duchess of Malfi still.” And later, over her dead body and all that blood and gore, the bad guy, Bosola, saying, “Cover her face. Mine eyes dazzle. She died young.” That sure applied to what I saw at the Front, I can tell you.

  “I might even get into Ruby Ginner’s company of Grecian Dancers,” she added, “though the Mater would hate to hear of me performing on stage.”

  “I should think she’d be honoured.”

  Rene smiled, such nice lips — a perfect mouth for sure. “Oh no, no nice girl ever goes on the stage...” She shook her head. “She wouldn’t even support Hilda in her suffragism — another reason she joined up and went off to serve in Macedonia. I do hope she’s all right,” she added.

  We saw a couple of other plays, and then a concert at the Royal Albert Hall, that enormous circular auditorium with balconies and rows of boxes, including the one reserved for the King and Queen. Rene told me that for a small charge, poor people could hear the performance, standing behind the rail.

  Rene looked stunning in her evening dress. We went with Leo; the Mater decided at the last minute against coming. So I still haven’t met her. I’m pretty sure that she doesn’t think a farm lad, albeit a Lieutenant now and grandson of a naval man, would be that suitable a match for her daughter.

  Jack’s service, at the church of St. Mary & St. Eanswythe in Folkestone not far from camp, was quite inspiring: these young soldiers singing so lustily — including William Blake’s Jerusalem. The church was hundreds of years old, and of course, with all the trainees about to leave for the Front, it was crammed.

  My brother preached a real patriotic sermon — well, what else could he do? I gathered, from the men I talked to, that his coming there to preach was a signal honour. Afterwards, Rene drove us, me beside her this time and Jack in the back, to an old Inn just outside Folkestone.

  We went into the cosy dining room with its small coal fire glowing in spite of the warm day. I could tell that Jack had now accepted the fact that Rene and I were, at the very least, good friends. After being given menus, I’m happy to say I saw none of this Bubble and Squeak and Toad-in-the-Hole. Instead, British roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes, and vegetables. Jack even suggested that we all have a glass of wine.

  Jack brought me up to speed on the Old Homestead, in which happily nothing appeared to have changed since we talked a couple of months ago. I prodded Rene into telling him about her classical Greek dancing, and then, after we got our sumptuous plates, the last good meal I’d have for a long time, Jack turned to the obvious subject that we could not avoid: war.

  “Rene,” I said, “You know, Jack always gets the latest from his friends in the High Command.” I turned to him. “And the news doesn’t seem tremendously good?”

  “Tremendously bad, if the truth be known: in the last month, the Germans have taken over fifty thousand prisoners.” He said it slowly, to let it sink in. I felt really alarmed. The papers had not told us that, of course.

  “Just as I predicted, you remember, those Bolsheviks signed the Brest-Litovsk Treaty in early March, so the Germans rushed their forces across to the Western Front. On the 21st of March, Ludendorff attacked with so much gas and such a terrible barrage that he put our counter-batteries out of action. The Hun was able to penetrate several miles past our front lines. It was almost a rout.” He turned to Rene. “I do hope, my dear, you’ll keep this under that pretty hat of yours. I shouldn’t be speaking out of turn, but then, Eric and I are brothers, and as he’s heading back now into that maelstrom, I feel a fraternal duty to describe what he’ll face.”

  “Yes, of course, Father John, I won’t say anything.”

  “Keep on, Jack. I’d better know the worst.”

  “Well, the Germans are now within shelling distance of Paris, and have actually done so. And only last week — and this I know is bound to depress you — only last week the British gave up the ridge and village of Passchendaele. Before that, the Germans retook most of the Somme where so many of our brave men lost their lives.”

  Good Lord, I thought, could the news be any worse? I still had faith in our Canadians, but I could see that everyone was sure needed.

  “That’s about it,” continued Jack. “The Germans are on the outskirts of Albert, and are attacking Armentières. Our brave forces are responding and, even though depleted, are engaging in counter attacks. The Americans have arrived and are about to enter the fray; that well help. Let us never forget that right is on our side.”

  “That’s for sure,” I responded.

  Rene put down her knife and fork; she had lost her appetite. I thought I’d change the conversation. “And how are things back in Canada?”

  “Not much better. They tried conscription — only a few hundred at first, but a third of them refused to turn up, so they got arrested. Riots broke out: windows smashed and fires set, so the government backed down.” Jack shook his head and went on eating.

  “Well, Jack,” I tried to cheer everyone up, “you just wait till I get back to the Front. This one new Lieutenant is gonna change everything!” I gave a weak laugh.

  Jack looked up, and managed a smile. “I bet you will, Eric. And you feel good about going back?”

  The way he said it, I could see that he had been wanting to ask that all along, but had been afraid to do so. Not many veterans who had seen as much action as I had were keen to return.

  “Jack, I feel fit as a fiddle and fine to go back!” But dammit, just as I said that, didn’t a flight of planes roar over the hotel on their way to France, or perhaps German planes coming to attack, and I found myself shaking. My fork started banging against the plate; there was nothing I could do to stop it. I shook my head. I almost wanted to cry. What was happening? I had noticed recently such reactions getting worse, in fact, out of control. But then, they always passed, as this one did. I took a good swig of wine.

  Jack kept eating and Rene picked up her knife and fork in an effort to make everything seem normal. “So Father John, the word is that you have done a splendid job in reorganizing the Chaplaincy Service. Bully for you.”

  Jack cleared his throat. “Thank you, Rene. Our father always taught us to do our best. That is what I do, and I have every confidence that Eric will acquit himself like a true Canadian hero when he rejoins his Brigade.”

  ***

  Rene dropped Jack back at camp headquarters and then asked, “Would it be fun for you to see the ruins of a castle built by William the Conqueror?”

  Anything to prolong our time together! As we drove along, from the odd high point I could see black dots of houses in France across the Channel, where I was heading tomorrow. It reminded me of how my dreams had been getting worse. When I heard the cannon fire in training, I sometimes reacted oddly. I wondered if I should tell Rene, but it would only make her worry. Then a passing car gave a loud backfire. I pitched sideways into her lap, knocking her driving arm. I lay there for a moment, my head in her lap. She began to stroke my temple soothingly.

  I slowly picked myself up, feeling a bit sheepish. “I’m sorry, Rene.”

  “Nothing to be sorry for, Eric,” she said, eyes filling with tears. “That’s what saves your life on the battlefield. Poor soul, having to go back. How many times have I prayed that this dreadful war will soon be over, and you can stay with us in England.”

  Stay? Well, that had never entered my head. But now, I certainly would think about Rene in my future plans, if I lived through the next long months — or Heaven forbid, years — of war.

  Hastings Castle right on the edge of the cliffs turned out to be really just a pile of old walls, but kind of interesting. “Dates from 1066,” Rene repeated. On the Gaspe coast the oldest place is where Jacques Cartier planted that cross in 1534. By then, this castle was already five hundred years old. Amazing.

  Being Sunday afternoon, there were quite a few visitors. We strolled across the uneven grass and then found, behind one of the standing walls, a small plaque on the Cinque Ports that I
stopped to read. Rene leaned back against the wall beside the plaque and looked into my face with her searching, brown eyes. I looked back at her.

  And then, as if some force was pressing me forward, I leaned over and our lips met. Hers were so soft and tender, and yet welcoming. Our first kiss.

  We parted without saying anything, but continued wandering, holding hands now, through these old ruins. I hated for the afternoon to end.

  After going back to the car, we drove off to explore St. Clements Caves, but I’m afraid, after that kiss, everything was a blur.

  On the way back to Witley, we did very little speaking. I think we both felt that something had ended and something far more important had begun. When we got to the camp, she said, “I wish we could go to dinner at some little restaurant, but I’m afraid the Mater will be annoyed if I’m too late. I have to drive all through London before I can head out towards Brentwood. So I shall be fairly late as it is.”

  I was about to lean in and kiss her again, but it didn’t seem appropriate. I stood looking at her as she sat in the driver’s seat. I wanted to take in everything about her, every feature, and I said so.

  “The way you are right now I shall remember when I’m in a Forward Observation Post, beyond the front line.” I managed a smile.

  But then, I saw she was crying, though trying so hard to hold it back.

  “Goodbye, dear Rene, thank you for everything you have done for me. And everything you mean to me.” I turned abruptly and strode to the entrance of Witley camp, and my future in the firing lines of France.

  Part Five

  The Hundred Days, 1918

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  ­Amiens

  Bacoul, [Nr. Amiens] August 3rd: Batteries on detraining were placed in the surrounding woods and kept under cover all day. Absolutely no movement of any description was allowed on the roads. All batteries would march at 10 p.m. tonight to Wagon Lines in Boves Wood.

  Aug 4th: Batteries arrived in Boves Wood early this morning after a long march from Bacoul. Owing to heavy rains, roads and tracks were in a very bad condition and the march was made very slowly.