Shot at Dawn

by John Wilson

  Many nights I lay awake, wallowing in guilt. I felt like a coward for living comfortably while others were fighting, and I was saddened that my parents probably thought I was dead and there was no way I could tell them I wasn’t. On top of everything else, Bob kept turning up in my recurring nightmares.

  In them, he stood, pale and dead, about 10 feet from me, staring. He never said anything, even though I asked him why he was there. But I knew. He was accusing me. Deep down, I was certain that his death was my stupid fault. If I hadn’t panicked like a coward and tried to run away, he wouldn’t have tried to stop me, I wouldn’t have knocked him down and the explosion wouldn’t have buried and suffocated him. I had killed Bob as surely as if I had shot him myself.

  Every night I would wake with a start in a cold sweat, too terrified to go back to sleep. Exhaustion overwhelmed me and everything seemed black. Sometimes I thought that my only future was to keep running until I was captured and shot.

  I sank deeper and deeper into depression and avoided the others as much as possible, but sometimes, as tonight, we were thrust together.

  “Come on, let’s go.” Pete stood and slung his rifle over his shoulder. “It’s dark enough now.” He was the roughest of the group. Sommerfield had told me he had been in prison before the war, and I suspected that he regarded the war as a great opportunity to get what he could for himself.

  We hurried across the fields, keeping close to the edges. It was a beautiful evening, the air fresh and rich with the smell of freshly cut hay and the sound of birdsong. The clouds turning red in the western sky made me think fondly of sunsets over the Nicola Valley.

  We crossed the yard behind a farmhouse and knocked on the heavy wooden door. It was opened by a middle-aged woman dressed in a coarse woollen skirt and blouse and wiping her hands on a stained apron. She was short but powerfully built, probably from a lifetime of working on the farm. Her face was deeply lined, yet she looked us up and down and smiled a welcome.

  In halting, schoolboy French, and gestures, I explained that we were heading for our unit and had been delayed by an airplane attack. We were hungry and wondered if we could exchange some equipment — I had a roll of blankets, clothing and cloth — for some eggs and a few slices of ham, or perhaps a goose that we could take back to our comrades.

  It was a weak story and I doubt if she believed us, but she invited us in, sat us at a rough wooden table and fed us a thin stew and some weak wine. Two small boys, about nine and twelve, sat in a huddle by the fireplace and watched us, wide-eyed. On the mantle I noticed three photographs, two of young, smiling soldiers and one of an older man who stared suspiciously at the camera. All three photographs were draped with black ribbons.

  The woman saw me looking and went over and touched each photo in turn. “Mon mari, Pierre,” she said. “Nos fils … our sons, Antoine et Honoré. Tous tués … ” She hesitated uncertainly.

  “All killed?” I asked.

  “Oui, all killed. Pierre et Antoine à Verdun et Honoré sur le Chemin des Dames.” She stared for a long moment at the pictures. Was this how my parents felt back home, mourning their dead son? I swallowed back my own sadness, but before I could think of anything to say, I felt Pete tugging at my sleeve. “Let’s get a goose and shove off,” he said. “I ’eard noises in the barn.”

  “You go and get one,” I said, annoyed at Pete’s manner. “I’ll do the bargaining.”

  Pete stomped off and I unrolled my bundle of supplies. I didn’t bargain hard, simply placing everything on the table and asking what we could get for it. We agreed on two geese and the woman brought a tray of eggs from the kitchen. “English?” she asked.

  “No. Canadian.”

  Her face brightened. “Ah, oui, Canadien. Vous avez attaqué les Boches à Amiens.” Her brow

  wrinkled in concentration. “Deux jours … two days — ” she waved her arm to the side “ — past.”

  “Two days ago?” I asked. “Who attacked the Germans at Amiens two days ago? The Canadians?”

  “Oui! Oui!” she exclaimed. “Les Canadiens ont cassé les Boches.”

  “Broke? The Canadians broke the Germans?”

  “Oui. Ils ont avancé de treize kilomètres.” She made hurried running motions with her fingers.

  I made a quick calculation. “Eight miles! That’s impossible. No one has ever advanced that far in one day.”

  “Oui,” she nodded vigorously. “Un moment.” Clutching her apron in front of her, she scuttled through to the kitchen and returned holding a newspaper. She thrust it at me. I couldn’t understand the details but there was no doubting the main message. Huge headlines blared the news that the German lines had collapsed, that huge advances into open country had been made and that it was the Canadians who were leading the attack.

  “C’est magnifique, non? Les Boches sont finis.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Could it be true? Had the Canadians really won a great victory? Was the war going to end?

  “I have to show this to Pete,” I said, standing up, waving the newspaper and pointing to the door. The woman nodded.

  I had barely stepped outside when I heard a scream from the barn. Dropping the paper, I ran across the yard. Just inside the barn door, there was a girl lying on a pile of straw, wide-eyed and gasping. She could have been no more than fifteen. A red mark was deepening above her left eye. Pete stood over her, glaring.

  “No!” I yelled. I rushed at Pete. He was broader and stronger than me, and he knew how to use his fists, but my first rush took him by surprise. We crashed into the wall and onto the floor.

  We struggled for a while before Pete threw me off and stood up. His first punch caught me on the cheek. I managed to keep my feet and moved forward, but he grabbed my jacket in both hands and drove his forehead into my nose. I heard a loud crack as pain jolted though me. Pete brought his knee up into my groin and I collapsed in a heap, gasping and tasting the blood running from my nose.

  “I’ll finish with you later,” Pete snarled as he drove his boot into my ribs. “Right now, I’m goin’ to — ”

  “Don’t,” I said, as loud as I could manage. I tried to stand, but pain swamped me and I collapsed back, retching. I could hear the girl whimpering again.

  “Tell me what to do, will you,” Pete said, landing another kick to my ribs. “You’re nothin’ but a snivellin’ little wretch from a godforsaken colony. I’m sick of your — ”

  I squinted up to see why Pete had stopped in mid-sentence. He was standing over me, staring down at the four thin tines of a pitchfork sticking out the front of his chest. A startled look crossed his face as he pawed helplessly at the two longest ones. Blood was already soaking his uniform front. Then he looked at me. “What … ?” was all he managed to say before he gave an odd, gurgling gasp, coughed out a mouthful of blood and fell to the ground. When he landed, the long handle of the pitchfork stood straight out of his back. Behind it stood the woman.

  “Partez!” she said.

  I struggled to my feet and stumbled out the barn door. Pain radiated from my nose right through my head. My ribs throbbed with every step, but I forced myself to continue across the fields and into the trees. As soon as I was covered by the darkness, I slumped down with my back against a gnarled oak and caught my breath. The pain in my chest eased and I gingerly felt the spots where Pete’s boots had landed. They were sore, but it didn’t feel as if anything was broken. My nose, however, was streaming blood, and as I dug my handkerchief out of my trouser pocket and held it to my face, I thought about how things had suddenly changed.

  Pete was dead. That didn’t bother me. In fact, I was glad I had helped save the girl from whatever he had in mind. Part of me was elated that Canada had won such a great victory. I was proud, but I also felt guilty. I should have been there. While my countrymen had been doing what no one else had managed in four years of war, I had been skulking in the woods.

  I sat as the full moon, huge and bright, rose slowly into a gap between the trees. Som
ething — an owl, I assumed — flashed silently across its silver face. Gradually, I made up my mind. I was going back. My place was with the Canadian army, not the deserters in the woods. It was a difficult decision to make, but the time had come to choose between the person I had been when I joined up and the person I had become — between Ken and Sommerfield. Even if Ken was now only a memory, I owed it to him to do the honourable thing, regardless of the consequences. If I didn’t, Ken’s ghost would always haunt me. He had gone through much worse than I had and he hadn’t deserted. He had tried to keep going, to fulfil his responsibility to his men, right up until the strain had become too much and he had completely broken down. Even then, that night when he had stood up in the harsh glare of the German flare, his answer had been to die rather than leave.

  Sommerfield’s answer was always the easy one. He had taken the safest option and thought only of himself. There had to be more to life than that. Ken knew it and now so did I. I wasn’t going to be seduced by Sommerfield any longer. Tomorrow I would leave the camp, walk to Amiens and give myself up to the first Canadian patrol I came across.

  The journey back to the camp took hours. The night was warm and the full moon gave me some light through the trees. At times it was all I could manage to crawl forward, and every movement was agony. My nose wouldn’t stop bleeding and my head throbbed, but my decision, and a vague sense that Ken was watching over me with approval, kept me struggling on. At last, I collapsed gratefully beside the campfire.

  Sommerfield, wearing his major’s uniform complete with more medal ribbons than I remembered from last time, put a field dressing on my bloody nose and attached it behind my head. He cleaned me up and gave me a stiff shot of brandy before he asked what had happened. The brandy made me choke, but its warmth revived me enough to give the group a short version of events leading to Pete’s death.

  “Fool,” was Sommerfield’s only comment on Pete’s behaviour. “Get some rest,” he ordered everyone. “Tomorrow at first light we move on. That woman will have every Red Cap for miles around combing these woods for us in no time. We’ll split up and head northeast. We’ll meet up at that old camp near Béthune.”

  “The woman at the farm told me something and showed me a newspaper,” I said, once everyone had moved away and it was only Sommerfield and me by the fire. “The Canadians broke through at Amiens two days ago. They advanced eight miles in the first day alone.”

  “I know,” he said. “While you were away today, I took the Triumph and paid a visit to the big camp outside Amiens. The advance is still going on. The German resistance is crumbling and thousands of prisoners have been taken.”

  “This attack’s different, isn’t it?” I asked. “This is the end of the war.”

  Sommerfield nodded. “I think you’re right. It won’t end tomorrow, but this is the year the war really will be over by Christmas. With the Americans here, there are enough fresh soldiers and new equipment to keep the pressure on the Germans. I saw lines of those new tank things waiting to go forward. The Gerries will only get weaker as we get stronger.”

  “I’ve made a decision,” I said, steeling myself to tell Sommerfield I was going to turn myself in. Before I had a chance to go on, he interrupted me.

  “This is our chance to come out of this mess free and clear,” he said. “Tomorrow, we’ll let the others leave first thing, and then we’ll go, but not northeast. You and I will head north to Boulogne. We’ll get a boat over to England. Once there, it should be simple enough to wait out the war and then catch a boat back to Canada.”

  It took me a moment to understand what he was saying. “It’s impossible to get on a boat. Boulogne is crawling with Red Caps. No deserter anyone has ever heard of has made it onto one of the boats to England.”

  “No one’s had these before,” Sommerfield said triumphantly, reaching into his uniform pocket to pull out several folded sheets of paper. He held one up. “These are blank leave forms and travel requisitions.”

  “Where did you get those?” I asked. “They’re worth their weight in gold to anyone trying to get out of France. The army guards them like the crown jewels.”

  “I have my ways,” Sommerfield said with a wink. “Actually, I’ve had these for some time. Just been waiting for the right moment to use them, and this is it.”

  “Why me?” I asked.

  “We Canadians have to stick together,” Sommerfield said with a laugh.

  He must have seen from my expression that I didn’t believe him, because he continued. “Because you can carry it off. Pete would have gone and done something stupid and got caught. The others are just a rabble, and I meant it about us Canadians sticking together. It’ll look less suspicious if we’re both Canadians. People might ask questions if my companion has a strong Australian accent. Besides, no one will question two wounded men, a major and a private, with all the right paperwork. You already look as if you’ve fought the battle of Amiens all on your own.”

  “But you’re not wounded.”

  “Not yet.” Sommerfield pulled his pistol out of its holster, held up his left hand and shot off his small finger. The pinkie tumbled through the air and landed 10 feet away.

  He gasped and held his injured hand to his chest. A few heads poked out of tent flaps to see what the commotion was.

  “It’s okay, boys,” Sommerfield said in a strained voice. “Pistol went off by accident. No harm done.” The heads withdrew.

  He replaced his pistol and proceeded to wrap a bandage around his bleeding hand.

  “Do this in the trenches and you’re up for a court martial, but no one will question a decorated officer — ” he patted his medal ribbons “ — and a brave private with his head half bandaged up. Blood’s already seeping through the dressing. You look very convincing as the wounded hero. Now get some sleep. I’m going to fill out these forms so that they’re nice and dry before we leave. Even on the cycle it’s a long journey up to Boulogne.”

  He stood up, cradling his crudely bandaged hand across his chest. “Don’t look so serious. We’re nearly home free.” He saw me looking at his hand. “And don’t worry about this. I never use that finger anyway. It’s a good exchange for freedom.”

  I stared after Sommerfield as he walked away. I almost called him back to tell him I’d decided to give myself up, but I was sore, exhausted and reeling from the events of the evening. And, if I was honest, Sommerfield’s offer was tempting. It sounded so easy. Use the forms to get over to England. Slip onto a boat to Canada amid the euphoria of a victorious end to the war. In a matter of few months, I could be walking in the door back at the Nicola Valley farm and hugging my mother.

  The alternative could be standing tied to a post as the bullets from a firing squad ripped into my chest.

  I shuddered and cursed Sommerfield for undermining my resolve. Praying that I would feel stronger in the morning, I dragged myself over to my tent and collapsed into a bone-weary sleep.

  Chapter 12

  An End

  North of Amiens, August 11, 1918

  My first sensation as I awoke from a deep sleep was of freedom, then I realized why. My sleep had been utterly dreamless. None of the dead had visited to accuse me. Even Bob had stayed away and, although I had no rational reason to believe it, I knew he was gone for good. I felt rested for the first time in as long as I could remember. In that moment I also understood why I was free. I had made the right decision and knew what I had to do. Sommerfield’s plan was just another easy solution. It might save my body, but it did nothing to resolve the conflict in my mind. Giving myself up was hard, but if I didn’t do it, I would be burdened by guilt and shame for the rest of my life.

  I crawled out of the tent and looked round. Discarded equipment lay all over but Sommerfield was the only person in sight. He was standing by the motorcycle with a leather dispatch pouch tucked under his left arm.

  “Grab whatever you need and come help me. Packing up one-handed isn’t as easy as I thought.” He laughed shortly
and turned away.

  I stood up and stretched. It was a beautiful morning. The sun was sending bright shafts of light through the trees and the sky straight overhead was the colour of a robin’s egg. A squirrel complained about something in a nearby tree. It was going to be hot later, but it was still cool among the trees.

  “I’m not coming with you,” I said.

  “What?” Sommerfield asked mildly, half turning.

  “I said I’m not coming with you. I’m going to Amiens to turn myself in. I was going to tell you last night.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked, slowly completing his turn towards me. His face was darkening with anger. “Don’t be a bloody fool. I thought you were over the stupid idea of going back and getting shot.”

  “I have to go,” I said. “It’s the right thing to do.”

  “The right thing to do?” Sommerfield snarled and strode towards me. “What do you, a dim-witted boy who should still be at home playing with his lead soldiers, know about what’s right? What’s right is to stay alive in this godforsaken mess. To survive at all costs.”

  Sommerfield was right in front of me now, shouting in my face. I could feel his spit land on my forehead. “I need you to help me get on the boat,” he yelled.

  “You’ll have to manage that on your own,” I said, turning on my heel and striding away. “I’m going to Amiens to turn myself in.”

  Sommerfield caught me after two steps. His right hand grabbed my shoulder and spun me round. It was only because he had to let go of me and draw back his right fist to hit me that I had time to react. I swung wildly at him. It was a clumsy blow and wouldn’t have done much damage, except that Sommerfield instinctively raised his left arm to protect himself and my punch landed square on his mutilated hand. He yelled in pain and sat down heavily.