Yes, Joe, all the while you were dreaming and conniving and pretending; all the time you wasted might have been used on the one thing, and an honest thing, too, that would get you home. But like many another guy, you watched blue hills in the distance while you stumbled over good earth at your feet. There was a way home—a sure way home—and if Phil Rutledge hadn’t mentioned it you’d never have thought of it. No, it wasn’t a way out of the Army, or out of the war, but it could get you back to Canada...and long enough, perhaps, long enough to see your girl. Oh, you’re a smart laddie, Private Mack, a very smart laddie. So smart that when Phil gave you the simple way to get home you nearly fell out of the car. It was the good earth at your feet, Joe...you’ve stood on it many a time and missed it.
We were driving back from a week end at Nancy’s, and Phil asked, “Would you take a commission if you had the chance, Joe?”
“I guess so...are they stuck for a general?”
“Well...you’d have to start in a smaller way...say, with being a second leftenant.”
“It might be all right, Phil. Why?”
“They’re sending a few guys back to Canada to take...”
“Back to Canada?”
“Yeah...to take an OTC. Anything wrong?”
“Jesus Christ!”
“Don’t get your blood too hot, Joe, it’s only an idea and it’d take a lot of work. I’ve heard remarks from some officers—they wonder why you’ve never tried for promotion. I don’t say anything is in the bag...it’d help if you were a sergeant, or even a corporal.”
I awakened the next morning and started my long career of suck-holing for promotion. A career that involved some damned hard work, as well.
The bad pennies come back, though, and you’ll stub your toe twice on the same loose board. My bad penny was Quill Masters, but he wasn’t plain Quill Masters any more, nor was he Major Masters. He was a full Colonel, and he had his eye on a generalship. Brigadier Masters, by God; Brigadier Masters, if he worked a regiment to death to get there. Masters’ methods included anything and everything, but they operated better under the table, behind a back, or with an extra double-cross. You can take a bastard and make him any rank you want, major, colonel, or brigadier. You can hang all the red tabs you want on his tunic lapel. But he’ll still be a bastard. Men are men first and soldiers second. Bastards are bastards first and soldiers second. Masters was always a bastard.
Yes, Colonel Masters, you fixed it. You, with enough curves to be a thirty-game winner in anybody’s league. You, the last guy I wanted ever to hear of again, had to turn out to be my colonel. You were a cold fish, Masters, so cold you didn’t even bother to dislike the people you clipped. Most bastards try at least to drum up some spleen for their victims, but not you. Not my colonel—he was too busy working his angles, clipping Joe Mack, and moving on to richer fields. The army was a good spot for you, wasn’t it, Quill? Plenty of authority and plenty of room to grease and be greased. It didn’t matter that I bust a gut for a year and a half, working the tortuous climb from private to corporal, corporal to sergeant, before I’d let Phil Rutledge propose me as an officer candidate. It didn’t matter that I tried more honestly than I’d ever tried anything in my life to be a good soldier, to deserve promotion, and to be sent back for further training. I’d have been a good officer, too, Masters, but you made damned sure I never got the chance. I stuck my neck out, I guess, but I couldn’t think of everything...how the hell was I to know you’d turn up? All my efforts were aimed at impressing a good man, your predecessor. A good soldier, Masters, but he hadn’t played his politics with the fine technique you used—and so Colonel Weatherby was sent home to a dull training job. Too old, or something, they said.
God, how I tried! I was the neatest soldier in the unit. My boots the shiniest; my rifle the cleanest; my bunk the tidiest; my deportment the best. I brown-nosed every NCO with a hook on his sleeve and every officer with a pip on his shoulder. I’d never thought of promotion before, but when it offered a chance to get back to Steffie, I moved like an inspired demon. I didn’t want the recommendation to go to “the old man” until I was sure it couldn’t miss. I didn’t want another disappointment, another shattered dream. I thought up means to attract attention to myself in the proper way. Things like borrowing a set of advanced training pamphlets from Captain Bowens, creating the impression that I was an ambitious soldier. Submitting an application for transfer to the Paratroops when I was very sure it wouldn’t go through. Pitching the regimental softball team to a pushover win against the neighboring unit; and, finally, putting up prizes for the boxing tournament and damned near winning the heavyweight division. Those were just some of the things I tried, Masters, and they had nothing to do with the hours of study, practice, training, that I went through. But I wouldn’t have lifted a finger if I’d known it would be you, and not Colonel Weatherby, who would pass on my application. I knew you from before, Masters, and a uniform can’t change a bastard, any more than a snake becomes a garden hose if it crawls into a French-safe.
I even missed a few week ends at Nancy’s, and they were awfully important to me, Masters. I did anything and everything, but always stayed on the honest side. That is, until you came along. You came in November, November of ‘42, Masters. But then all bad things come in November. It’s the month when the young die...the old wait till spring. You came in November, Masters, a week after I’d submitted my application to Colonel Weatherby. And can you imagine how I felt when I read that our new Commanding Officer was to be my dear old friend and business associate, Quill Masters? The name-stealing Masters? The army-talking Masters? The English-loving Masters...I didn’t feel very good, Quill...I felt like I’d felt once before when a big farmer kicked me in the crotch...I wanted to puke.
He liked it, didn’t he, Joe? He liked having you on that line, letting it out for a little, then pulling you up sharply, and at just the right minute he stuck it in, turned it, and broke it off. Masters handled you like he handled everything else, Joe. Coldly and surely. Like the way he went after his promotion to brigadier, but the son-of-a-bitch didn’t live long enough to get it. Remember the faces on the men when he addressed them the second day he had command of the regiment? Remember how perplexed they were at hearing Masters’ accent and how they wondered what bastard form of Canadian this could be who sounded more English than the King? But he looked lean and hard and very military and they were impressed. Not for long, eh, Joe? He worked the outfit like a madman. He’d have killed a thousand men by training them to death, if it would get him another boost. Then he could kill three regiments, as a brigadier.
“Condition” was his theme, and “Security” his watchword. Great stuff, but we’d been in condition for nearly three years, and we’d heard so much about “Security” that we wouldn’t even talk to each other. He “hardened” us, as he called it, by endless forced marches—ten, twenty, and thirty miles. The last two or three miles of the march Masters would join us, fresh and strong for the finish. And why not? He’d ridden that far in his staff car. His ideas of security were to have corny gags hung up all over the camp. Gags that were old in the last war. “Be careful what you say...there may be a Jerry under the bed.” Gags like a big sign over the gate of the camp to be read as we left on leave, “Keep your bowels open and your mouth shut.” It didn’t take Quill Masters long to become the most hated colonel in the Canadian Army...and no man can be hated the way a lousy colonel can be hated, just as no man will be loved the way a good colonel will be loved. But I kept my mouth shut about my colonel and his past.
He toyed with me for months—from November to March. Then he sent for me. He’d had my application all that time. I stood at attention in front of his desk until he said, “Stand easy, Mack,” and dismissed his orderly sergeant. He looked up.
“How are you, Mack...it’s been quite a time since we’ve met.”
Here was a colonel who could send me to Canada. It didn’t matter that he was Quill Masters, he was my colonel and I talk
ed that way.
“Yes, it has, sir...I’m quite well, thank you.”
He kept the difference in our ranks dangling casually in his conversation.
“Enjoying your work?”
“Yes, sir, I enjoy my work very much.”
“That’s fine, Mack...I’ve wondered if it mightn’t be difficult for you—the acceptance of this life, in view of your other successes—but I’m glad to see it hasn’t made any difference. Your record here, generally speaking, is excellent.”
The “generally speaking” stuck out like a skunk at a lawn party and smelled just as much. He picked up some papers and went through them. Then he lit a cigarette and looked out of the window for a long time.
“You know, Mack,” he said, without turning, “it’s a shame you have the one conviction on your army record...Coming in late or something, wasn’t it? And not long after you arrived here. It places this application Captain Bowens and Leftenant Rutledge have filed on your behalf in jeopardy. We are instructed to consider officer candidates on a basis of clean records only. However, I’ll think further about it and let you know. Good to see you happy and doing well. That will be all.”
He didn’t turn his head as I saluted and left.
It was May before he sent for me again. He wanted me to have lots of time to think, and I did. His orderly sergeant told me to report, properly dressed, at the entrance to the officers’ mess at 1300 hours to drive Colonel Masters to London. I stood stiffly by the staff car, waiting, and it occurred to me that Masters had chosen his locale well. Very few things are as free from the danger of eavesdropping as a car speeding along the highway. Masters came out, acknowledged my salute in the careless manner affected by British brass-hats, and we started. I kept my eyes on the road and my mind on the business of driving. My colonel said nothing until we were some distance along the road. He watched me for a time, then he reached into his inside tunic pocket and pulled out some papers. I could see from the corner of my eye that it was my OTC application, and attached to it was my army crime record. My one conviction—three years earlier. Fourteen days “confined-to-barracks” for coming in late. Masters looked at it for a time, then separated the two sheets. His actions were slow and deliberate—he was making damned sure I saw everything he did. He folded the application and returned it to his pocket, then he tore the crime record into a hundred tiny pieces and, with an offhand shrug, let them scatter out of the window and lose themselves on the greening countryside.
He waited for a time, then said, “How many men com. prise an infantry division, Mack?”
I knew now where my colonel was going, but I stalled to be very sure.
“With full supporting arms, sir?”
“Yes.”
“National Defense HQ’s seems to have trouble making up its mind, sir, but I’d say about ten thousand...”
“That’s close enough, Joe...”
“Where do you want it, Quill...I can’t get that much over here, but BF could bank it for you in Canada.”
He smiled smugly, and his too British accent fell away when he spoke. “Now, Joe, I’d be a sucker to go for that, wouldn’t I? You’ll have to think of a smarter angle.”
I thought for a moment. “BF could deliver it in small bills to Mrs. Masters and she could wire you ‘okay.’”
“That’s better, Joe, much better. Write a letter for Kasten with the instructions and I’ll see that it’s mailed by a chap returning to Canada. Have to avoid the censors, you know. When I hear from Mrs. Masters, we’ll go ahead.”
I did it, but that was May of 1943 and Masters knew there couldn’t be time for it to go through before we’d pull out for Sicily. There’d be time, though, for BF to deliver ten grand of my money to a little bird-like woman in Toronto. She never understood her colonel-husband very well, but she was awfully proud of him. Yes, little wren, you may well be, for the last time I saw the smart alec bastard he was washing to and fro in the shallow water of a Sicilian beach with his face down...and I enjoyed it. The old babe in the corner got one I was glad about. One of the spots on her dress is Quill Masters, one of the smelliest spots. She was a cinch to get him, he’d been hers from the day he opened his eyes. Aren’t we all, Joe, sooner or later? Yes, I guess we are—but she gives it to some of us in the right place and in the right time...I wonder if Masters could think of an angle when that Heinie shell came at him? That isn’t very funny, Joe...will you be able to think of an angle if one comes at you? No, I won’t have to...there isn’t going to be one coming at me...I’m going home, and Masters can be forever that corner of a foreign field and he’s welcome to it. I, Joe Mack, give it to him with my blessing.
I waited through May and about then the rumors started flying. I ignored them until they issued us with tropical kit, and then we knew it would be Italy and soon. The Yanks and Limeys were fast cleaning up Tunisia and the hop across into Sicily looked like the logical bet. The boys started a pool on what day it would be, and from the betting I knew it wouldn’t be long. I wasn’t sorry to be leaving England, but I knew I’d miss Nancy. We started the practice of saying good-by each week end as though it would be the last, and in that way we’d be sure to cover whichever one it would be. I hated to leave her because she was the only part of my dream, my obsession, that had been true. The rest had been dull and dreary-flat, like pee on a plate. I didn’t mind so much, except about the parts where I’d worked so damned hard, only to have a rotten louse mess it up for me. But I’ll remember England, and I’ll almost like the English for Nancy Benton.
The last week end with Nancy was wonderful, and somehow we were sure it would be the last, for our kidding good-bys didn’t seem enough. We wandered back over the fields behind the house, while a warm June wind picked up the lazy heat of the day and tossed Nancy’s lovely hair in her eyes. I threw some sticks and her setter retrieved them; then we both seemed to laugh awfully hard at foolish things. We came upon a field grown suddenly high with daisies...and we stayed there for a long time. She held me tightly and cried a little.
“Joe...Joe, look after yourself, won’t you? And Joe...come back to see me some day.”
Yes, Nancy, some day I’ll come back to see you. And please, just be standing as you were when I left, with the heather look of you waving from the doorway of a quiet house, sitting in some patches of green.
There was one last thing I had to do. I had to make a will, another one, because the one I’d made upon entering the army wouldn’t cover the growth of my wealth or all of the people I wanted to remember. It’s a gloomy job, making a will, and the gloomy voice of an English solicitor didn’t help. I wanted to remember Jake and Sarah, Fern Miller and the Sally Ann. I wanted Nancy Benton to be secure, and I wanted Steffie never to have to worry about money as long as she lived. Then I left the rest to Betty’s kid, Joe Mack McConnell, a good little guy...and he won’t make any bigger damned fool of himself with it than his uncle might. When I was through and named B. F. Kasten as executor, I had a hell of a lump in my throat—I felt sorry, very sorry, for Joe Mack. I won’t need that will now, but it’s still a good one.
Snap into it, men! Sergeant Mack, get your men lined up...step lively, the colonel will be along in a minute. Smartly, men...along the platform there...Stanowski, get your pack straight. Mullins, help Stanowski with his pack. Get moving now. Smartly does it...hep two three four...that’s it, men. Show these Limeys how the Canadians do it...down the street, down the same street...smartly, men...lead off from the left in single file, up the gangplank with you...lift that bag, Stanowski...Mullins, give Stanowski a hand. Hep two three four...you’re off to the wars, my lads...off to get yourself made into a hero. See the gray ship, boys...see how she runs...see how they run...they all ran into the farmer’s wife, she cut off their heads with a carving knife...and only the old ears can hear the faint rattle on the wings of the wind.
It isn’t the rattle of old laughter, Joe, it’s the turbines turning. The throb isn’t your heart, it’s the engine. You aren’t af
raid, are you, Joe? You’re a soldier, off to the wars. Isn’t that what soldiers are for, Joe, to fight wars? Sure, soldiers are to fight wars, that’s what they’re for. But what are wars for? Don’t you know, Joe, wars are to kill off the excess population...cut off their heads with a carving knife...see how they run...see how they run...Oh, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.
Later, days later, the engines stopped. We lined the rails in the early light and off in the distance was a gray line. See that, they said, that’s Sicily! And we could see the flashes of heavy guns and later hear their rumble. Down the sides, boys, down to the barges. Were off to a holiday in Italy. See the pretty land...keep your head down, Stanowski...Mullins, keep an eye on Stanowski. We’re getting in, lads, getting close. Jesus...look at the colonel...oh, the crazy bastard. Christ! He got it! Rub your hands, you old bitch, rub them and grin. It was a great day for you, wasn’t it? You stood up there in the shadows, on a dark Sicilian hill, and watched it. You’d had a great time in North Africa, and now it was going to get better. Nice, shiny, Canadian boys. Like the Americans, aren’t they? Taller than the English, and healthier. Not any gamer, but just as good, and bigger. Bigger targets, too. Healthy boys...and they felt alone...and they started to die. Good ones and bad ones, tall ones and short ones, fat ones and thin ones...but you’re a whore, aren’t you? You’ll take all comers.
CHAPTER 12
He moved twice in the brush. He lifted his head slowly and looked across at me, but he couldn’t see me. Then he must have figured he was in the clear because the damned fool stood up. I lifted my rifle a little and brought him into the V of the sight. He was moving now across the open stretch, as if he didn’t care, and as I took up the first trigger pressure, I thought of Togger Benton. The next pressure brought the Lee-Enfield back hard against my shoulder and the Kraut slid down out of the “v” of the sight, clutching his belly. I felt a nice, warm glow wave over me. They can die, too, I thought, the Master Race can die. And for a long time I enjoyed watching them do it.
The Long November Page 17
