“Come in,” she called, closing the drawer as Joan entered. Her sister-in-law walked over to put a hand on Ellen’s shoulder. Ellen moved over on her bench, patting the seat beside her. “Sit down, Joan. Am I holding everyone up?”
“Not so anyone would notice.” Joan’s face was prematurely etched with deep lines, her often-grave mien even more pronounced than usual.
Now what, wondered Ellen, just as she noticed Joan had a folded newspaper in her hand. “What’s that?”
“Not good news, I’m afraid.” Joan handed the paper to Ellen, who hesitated but took it in her hands. The paper had been folded to the second page, displaying a photo of Tom, a copy of the one on her mirror. The caption screamed at her:
WINNIPEG SOLDIER WOUNDED
Mr. and Mrs. Wm. Macrae of East Kildonan have been informed their son Thomas has been severely wounded in France. Sergeant Macrae, pictured above, was injured at Moreuil Wood while serving with the Canadian Cavalry Brigade.
Ellen gasped as she clenched the paper in her hand, shaking it angrily. “It can’t be true. It can’t.” She flung it from her, knocking bottles and jars from her dressing table. Joan put her arms around her.
Ellen let herself be held for a moment, then broke loose and stood to pace the room. The anger eased, and guilt rocked her. My God, how could I lose faith in Tom, how could I think about not waiting for him? I haven’t written, I’ve left him alone. Now he may be dying. She stopped her pacing and stared out the window, where a late spring threatened snow.
Joan rose, once again putting an arm around the younger woman. “I’m sure Tom can fight his own battles, Ellen. There’s nothing you can do for him, so far away. You may not want to hear this, but really, you should think about yourself. Your father has your best interests at heart. He jokes and says he wants you to settle down before he’s too old to enjoy grandchildren. God knows he won’t get any more from Ned and me.”
Joan walked to the door, then stopped and turned back. “I’m going downstairs, Ellen, and I’ll just say this once. Before this damned war, I saw a world-beater of a man off to England. You remember what Ned was like. But it wasn’t Ned who came home to me, it was a shadow. Don’t let that happen to you.” She left, softly closing the door behind her.
Ellen knew Joan was right about Ned: he was not the man he had been. He had not been able to work once his wounds healed, nor had he adapted to the fact that he could no longer walk. An air of self-pity pervaded all his thoughts and conversations. Wheelchair-bound, he was less than a man in his own mind and he was drinking far too much for his own good. The family’s efforts to make him face up to his problems with alcohol had been shrugged off.
Ellen resumed her pacing. She had to decide. She thought she had done the right thing, telling Tom about her indecision, but perhaps that had been wrong. She simply must face up to the decision that only she could make. Harry was everything she could want: handsome, good prospects, as her father reminded her on numerous occasions, up-and-coming in society. He’d be good to her. So would Tom, if he was able, if he was the same man, in spite of his wounds. Assuming he survived.
She walked absently to her window, where she saw bright crystals of snow floating from a partly blue sky. Unconsciously clasping her hands, she stared at the falling flakes, lit from the side by late rays of sunshine. She smiled, her mind turning to a nearly forgotten earlier snow shower, just before Belle had unceremoniously dumped her, face down in the snow.
Her brother’s querulous voice, expressing some complaint that she could not make out, was enough to distract her. She frowned, then, purposefully returning to her dressing table, she picked up her fountain pen, placed her stationery squarely in front of her, and began to write. She didn’t stop until she had completed two letters, which she sealed in envelopes and addressed, one to Harry and one to Tom.
♦ ♦ ♦
Through the window, Tom saw larches waving in the Hampshire breeze. He looked around the ward and counted twenty beds, mostly men with missing limbs or other severe wounds. The man on his left, who was named Sykes, had no right arm. Sykes would sit, if the orderlies propped him up, but he wouldn’t respond to questions and would not feed himself.
In charge of the ward was Clara Duncan, an English girl, although most of the nurses were Canadian. Clara was only twenty, a young woman with an open, freckled face who did her best to be reserved with the men.
Tom asked Clara about Sykes, and she told him Sykes, who was from rural Ontario, had been wounded in an artillery barrage. “He’s only spoken once since he’s been here,” Clara whispered. “Said, ‘How am I going to milk the cows?’”
Tom thought back to Sergeant Grey, who had lost both arms. “Maybe he could do something else.”
“We get a lot of them,” said Clara. “Sometimes they’re not even wounded. ‘Shellshock’ they’re calling it, from all the explosions. It’s almost as if they’re not here anymore.”
She looked around, leaned close to Tom, and said, in such a low voice that he could hardly hear her, “It drives some of the senior officers crazy. They think the men are faking.”
Tom remembered his first time in the trenches, when the artillery pounded without letup, the terror that blossomed like a poison, clinging even after the barrage had lifted. Sykes reminded him of some of the troops they had replaced, men who had been under constant shelling for days. He had wondered at the time if they’d be able to force themselves back into the front lines when their turn came up again; he had wondered if he himself would be able to face it again.
Clara told Tom what she had read in the newspapers about the Canadian cavalry during the days and weeks he had been convalescing. Moreuil Wood had changed hands several times after the Canadians had fought the Germans to a standstill; the area was still the scene of heavy fighting days after Flowerdew’s charge. Flowerdew had been awarded a posthumous Victoria Cross, the Empire’s highest award for bravery. It was said he would not leave the field of battle until his men were looked after. Tom remembered his last sight of the lieutenant, waving off assistance that might have saved him, grieving over the staggering number of men killed or wounded in the charge he had led.
Tom had never aspired to a commission, had always identified with the common soldier, but at times he felt a grudging respect for the commanders at all levels, who accepted their role in this ugly war, leading or pushing men to their deaths. “Generals die in bed” was the common expression, but junior officers seldom did.
When Tom arrived on the ward the soldier in the bed to his right had moaned constantly. The nurses were feeding him morphine like there was no tomorrow, and maybe for him there wasn’t. After a few days the moaning eased off. The soldier told Tom his name was Romeo, home town Toronto. He talked as if his mouth was wired shut.
“You don’t look much like a Romeo,” remarked Clara Duncan, who happened to be walking by.
“You want to try me out? Want to play Juliet?” Romeo had mumbled.
“Now, soldier, don’t get yourself excited,” Clara laughed as she left the room.
Romeo’s head was bandaged. Only his right eye peeped out and he seemed to have a stiff neck. When he sat up he swung his whole body hard left so he could see Tom. “Don’t get any smart ideas, Macrae. I been asked ‘How is Juliet?’ more times than you’ve been to the can. Hey—where you wounded?”
“The legs.”
“Lucky. Damn Fritz got me in the left side of the head. Bullet went in my earhole and out my eye. Could have been worse—could have been my asshole.” Romeo shook with laughter, then groaned. “Hurts when I laugh,” he said, his voice pinched between gritted teeth. “Where’s that nurse gone? Nurse!”
A nurse came and administered an injection. Romeo muttered to himself from inside his bulky dressings and dozed off.
A few days later, Tom was awakened from a troubled sleep by Clara. “You have a visitor.”
It was Bruce Johanson. Tom had last seen him in the charge, way off to the right, close to the
wood itself. He had to blink back tears at the sight of his comrade.
“How you doing, Tommy? They say you got a lot of holes in you.”
“Yes. I do, for sure. I’m still fighting infection. They scrape it out of one place and it pops up in another. What about you, Cowboy?”
“Well, I got through the charge in one piece. I swerved into the bush. No sooner got there than Fritz popped up from behind a log and shot me clean through the left hand.” Bruce held up his hand for Tom to see. It was misshapen, the skin scarred and puckered, but he wiggled his fingers. “It got infected and I’ve just been cleared to go back. Not too bad. Say—have you heard about Seely?”
“No. Nothing.”
“He’s out of it. Got gassed. And the regiment has been moved into reserve again.” He leaned closer to Tom. “Word is there’ll be a major breakout soon.”
“There’s always going to be a major breakout.”
“Yes, but this time they figure Fritz has shot his bolt. Maybe there really is an end in sight.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it. What about the other boys?” Tom asked.
Bruce frowned. “Right after the charge I was sent off with the other wounded, too, so I’m not totally up to date. But what was left of the regiment attacked Rifle Wood, just a couple of miles from Moreuil. They were awful battered and shorthanded, as you can imagine. They went in dismounted, along with the Fort Garrys. Quartermain was somewhere out in front when he caught some shrapnel. They say he’ll survive.”
Tom hesitated. He didn’t want to ask. “Ferguson?”
“You won’t believe it! Fritz got an artillery piece into play during our charge, and they fired off a couple of rounds in the midst of the confusion until they were put out of action by rifle fire from our boys in the wood. One of their shells hit somebody bang on, right next to Ferguson. Blew Fergie right out of his saddle. They found him later, unconscious. Not a mark on him. One boot torn off and his uniform burned black in spots. He didn’t know what had happened.”
Relief flooded Tom. Better than a shot of morphine after a bad night. “Where is he now?”
“He said he was sick and tired of being shot at, so he volunteered for the machine gun brigade. He’s there now, riding around on a truck with a Vickers machine gun, doing the shooting!”
“Hard to picture him in a truck and not on a horse. What’s next for you, Bruce?”
“I’m back to the regiment tomorrow. I’ll say hello to the boys for you.”
“Speaking of boys, did Simpson make it?”
“He was real lucky. Took a piece of shrapnel in the ribs. He was knocked off his horse and would have died except that one of the 2nd Troop, Lieutenant Harvey’s bunch, dragged him into the woods in spite of the German fire and stopped the bleeding. He’s somewhere in England in hospital, too.”
Damn few of the troop left, but Tom didn’t pursue the issue. He had heard earlier that Reynolds, who had been wounded in the listening post, had been invalided back to Canada. He tried to avoid thinking about the carnage in specific detail, and he knew Johanson didn’t need reminding about numbers killed or wounded. He’d be back in that brutal reality within days or even hours.
Bruce looked sombre, then brightened. “Hell, I’ll get another crack at the Boche. Damn glad I don’t have to hang around here and play pinochle like some people. I’ve got to go. My train awaits me.” He smiled, clapping his cap on at a jaunty angle and sticking out his good hand. Tom shook it with both of his. Bruce swallowed and nodded once, turned on his heel and left without another word.
I wonder if I’ll see him again. Maybe Bruce was thinking the same thing. For a moment Tom felt a pang of guilt, lying in a bed in England while the regiment’s survivors carried on the war.
Nurse Duncan bustled into the ward and pulled back the blanket. “Dressing change!” she announced, and Tom watched as she peeled off the sticky bandages. He still had a few battles of his own to fight.
♦ ♦ ♦
Tom’s wounds slowly improved. The smaller ones healed over, and his skin grafts finally took hold. Day by day the gangrene and the nightmare of surgeries with no anaesthetic faded from conscious thought, although he still had great raw gashes below his right hip, on his calves and left thigh. My very own craters, he thought. The same shape as the ones that dotted France, eighty-metre-wide holes that marked where tunnellers had blown up enemy dugouts, trenches, and soldiers.
Tom wrote to his parents. He passed on what the doctors told him: that he’d be wheelchair bound for years, perhaps walk again but maybe not. His father wrote back to say he had given up the option the family had obtained for a fresh start on a farm in the Peace River country. He no longer had the stomach for new ventures if his eldest son could not be at his side. Tom’s mother was not well, but she was coping. There was no mention of Ellen.
“Hey, trooper. It can’t be that bad.” It was Clara, a smile on her face. The hospital staff put on cheerful countenances for the patients and Tom sometimes wondered what it cost them, given the dire condition of many of their charges. Patients like poor armless Sergeant Grey in the Winnipeg hospital, so long ago. A painful memory of Ellen, putting on a brave face as she ministered to him, came flooding back.
“No, it’s not that bad,” said Tom, “especially when I think of some of these other poor buggers.”
“Well, whatever it is, my guess is it could be helped by a pint of bitters. Are you up to it?”
“Do bears have claws?”
“I’ll be back at shift change. Get ready for some excitement, soldier. We’re off to the local. I’ll be here with your chariot.”
An orderly, Herbert, appeared right after supper was cleared away. “I hear you have an appointment. Let’s get at it then.” He hauled Tom’s greatcoat out of the storage locker.
“I’m not going out in this,” said Tom, pulling at his gown. “Get me some trousers and a shirt.”
“You’re crazy, Canuck. Doctor would not approve.”
“Doctor’s not here. Get me some trousers.”
Herbert came back with an oversized pair of khaki trousers and a checked shirt he had found somewhere. Tom wrestled his gown off. When he glanced down he was appalled at the sight of his emaciated body—his muscles atrophied, flesh sagging; he looked like his bloody grandfather.
Tom put on the shirt. Herbert helped ease his legs off the bed and with much headshaking and tut-tutting, guided the pants on. Tom hoisted his buttocks up off the bed by pushing down with his hands, and Herbert slid the trousers under him and up to his waist. As Tom did up his buttons sweat broke out on his forehead.
Romeo, now with some of his bandages removed, boosted himself upright in the next bed and cackled through his wired jaw, “Hey, Tommy-boy, you better behave yourself with our Clara.”
Herbert brought the wheelchair alongside the bed and once again took part of the weight as Tom shifted to the chair from the edge of the bed.
Someone from down the row of beds yelled, “I’ve got seniority here. I saw her first, you Red River bastard.”
“Maybe, but I’m going to be on my feet first.”
“Now why would you want to be on your feet?”
Raucous laughter broke out and came to an abrupt halt as Clara walked into the ward, wearing a green civilian coat over a long brown skirt.
“What’s the joke, boys?” she asked.
“Just enjoying the camaraderie of the common soldier, Nurse,” Romeo replied.
“Mind your manners, Mr. Romeo,” said Clara. “Perhaps you too will get out of your bed and off to the pub one of these days.”
There were whistles and barely heard comments from the ward as Clara wheeled Tom toward the door, and he gave a wave over his shoulder to the catcalls of the remaining patients. All except Sykes, who never looked up.
Tom wheeled himself, with a lot of help from Clara, to the steps outside the public bar of the Iron Duke. It had been a rough ride for Tom and a hard push for Clara, bouncing along the cobblestones
of the High Street.
“Hang on, love. Shan’t be long.” She went in through the door and was back a moment later with two older men.
“This him, then?” asked one. “Ready for a lift, Canada?”
Clara held the door open while the men each took a side of the chair and lifted Tom up the stairs. He wheeled himself in through the door to breathe deeply of the marvellous, pungent aromas of pipe tobacco and freshly drawn beer.
Clara pulled a chair out of the way so Tom could manoeuvre his wheelchair alongside a battered oak table, yellow with age, and then went to the bar while he looked around. The pub was dark, the windows few and small, its walls decorated with bits of harness and paintings of horses. Tom’s mind flashed to the horses lost to the war, hundreds of thousands of them. He felt a sadness and a bitter edge that was new to him. A few men stood at the bar, and six or seven others were seated at tables nursing their pints. All the men were middle-aged or older.
Clara returned with a pint of dark ale for Tom and a small lager for herself. She sat and raised her glass. “Here’s to a quick recovery,” she said, clinking her glass against his.
Tom sipped the dark liquid, his first alcohol since Blanshard had given him a shot of rum just before the charge. A familiar feeling of warmth flooded through him. Maybe he was on the road to recovery.
He slowly became aware that he was the centre of attention in the pub. The last time he had been in an English pub, he and his mates had also been the centre of attention. They were big and boisterous, loud and confident. Somewhat exotic. Colonials, the Brits called them. He didn’t feel boisterous now, or exotic.
Clara looked at him, touched his hand where it clutched his glass. Tom saw a figure approaching, and glanced up to see the “governor,” the owner of the pub, out from behind the bar, a pint in his hand.
“Compliments of the squire.” The governor nodded toward the saloon bar in the adjoining room where the gentry and their ladies sat and were served. As he put the pint on the table, Tom saw an elderly man in a tie and tweed jacket, who raised his glass and nodded.
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