“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
*
By nightfall a blizzard was hammering B Company worse than the German artillery. Visibility ranged from a few yards to a few inches. Of course some stray shells occasionally caused a scare, but no serious damage was done. More importantly, no counterattack came. Aside from the howling winds, it was pretty quiet.
A few hours before dawn, Sergeant Bailey was checking up on each section. As long as one man was awake, he didn’t mind if the others were asleep. He walked slowly from one section to the next, offering words of encouragement to his own men, and those on either side of Six Platoon.
His last stop was Three Section. Private Roy acknowledged the sergeant’s presence with a little wave of his hand. It was understood that if Roy felt himself nodding off, he would awaken another man. Bill was asleep for the first time since Bailey had begun his rounds. Teeth chattering like a machine-gun, and eyes watering from the wind, he looked like a homeless man on the verge of freezing to death. At least he was wearing his helmet, topped with a thick layer of ice and snow. Hal’s scarf was frozen stiff.
“Poor bombproof bastard,” Bailey said, removing his greatcoat and placing it on the young lance corporal. “You’ll be here right to the end, won’t you?”
Bailey gently shifted the metal hook suspended from Bill’s left wrist, and hiked up his glove. “You kids and your toys. Did I ever tell you about the old days? Of course not, it’d only embarrass me. We used to go with nothing but a canteen and a bandolier. Gas masks, shovels, bombs, flares; you boys are more like porters than real soldiers. But what do I know anyway, I’m just a worn-out old man.”
Bailey reached into the greatcoat, careful not to wake Bill, and pulled out his pack of cigarettes. He took one and replaced the remainder. “Goodbye, Bill. It’s my Zero Hour.”
*
Once dawn had broken, the absence of Sergeant Bailey became apparent. McCloud had been the first to find him, and called the other NCOs over. His skin was cold and blue, and little chunks of snow had formed all over him. His chest was still, eyes closed with a peaceful, or perhaps relieved expression on his face. There wasn’t a scratch or spot of blood anywhere on him.
Bill was wearing Bailey’s greatcoat, the bottom hem nearly dragging along the ground. He couldn’t manage words, but knelt next to his dead sergeant, and hugged him, like a little boy whose first dog had just died.
Lincoln crossed himself. He was trying to remember the Catholic last rites. It had to do with anointing the sick with oil; it was somewhere in The Book of James. With no better substitute, Lincoln clicked open the buttplate of his Lee Enfield rifle and removed the little tin of gun oil. Placing a drop on his right thumb and forefinger, he streaked a cross onto Bailey’s forehead. “I absolve you of your sins.” Finally, he pulled Bailey’s identity discs free, took the little gold crucifix tied to them, and touched it to the cracked, lifeless lips.
“What happened?” Blake asked.
“He was tired,” McCloud said. “Just plain tired.”
“I guess this means you’re in charge now?”
“Guess so. Lincoln, would you please go through Paul’s things: photos, letters, anything else for the family. Also tear his gear apart and issue out anything useful to whoever needs it. Blake and Bill, back to your sections. I’ve got to tell Carter, and figure out who’s gonna take over my section. I guess Fyles.”
“You want these?” Bill asked, indicating the sergeant stripes on either side of the greatcoat.
“That’s okay. I think Post would like them more than me. They were closer, and it won’t be long ‘til he needs a pair too.”
“Post,” Bill mumbled quietly, suddenly remembering that he wasn’t the only one who had looked to Bailey as a surrogate father. “Originals,” he said again, realizing that he and McCloud were now the only two left in the platoon.
Bill shoved his hands into the coat’s pockets and found the pack of cigarettes Bailey had left for him. He lit one and stuck it in the snow next to Bailey, the smoke drifting up to the dead man’s face, settling under the brim of his steel helmet for a moment, then escaping upwards and dispersing.
*
It was nearly noon before Post returned to Six Platoon’s position. He had been busy guiding relief and supply parties, as well as wounded men and prisoners, to and from the front. And ever since Carter had forced him out of Six Platoon, he had kept social calls to a minimum. So, it was only once Carter had been called away to a meeting with Captain Reid, that Post appeared at the sunken road.
“I got it for you, Bill,” Post announced brightly, holding in his hands a German helmet. “Turner was going to send it the Queen’s Own Sergeant’s Mess, but when I told him it was for you, he let me have it.”
Bill stared dumbly at his old friend.
“Okay, I know it has the ball on top instead of the spike, but that’s the style their artillerymen wear. In a way it’s even more special because of that. Maybe that’s why they surrendered so easy; they’d been sent up at the last moment, probably never been in a firing trench before.”
“Gary, I have some bad news,” Bill choked.
Post had seen enough men devastated by a recent loss to know what Bill was about to say. All his joy turned instantly to grief. “You’re wearing his coat. What happened?”
“He just didn’t wake up.”
“Nail,” Post said weakly.
Bill reached for the pack in Bailey’s coat again, two cigarettes remaining. “Do you want his stripes?”
“Later.”
*
“Where’s the spike, the little brass spike? It’s supposed to have a spike. It’s broken, I think,” Roy said, inspecting the helmet.
“It was an artillery officer’s; they wear a ball, not a spike. It’s special,” Bill replied.
“Well thanks anyway. What do I owe you?”
“I told you before, just keep up the good work.”
“Oh, I will. Maybe in our next scrap I can get my hands on one with a spike.”
“Sure. You just had bad luck this time. I mean what good is surviving unscathed if you can’t send home a souvenir or two.”
“Maybe one of those pistols, a Luger. That might be easier to get my hands on, eh? I heard someone in Blake’s section found one.”
“Makes sense. I’m sure you’ll have better luck next time.”
*
It was several more days before the battalion was relieved. The dead had been taken away and buried by one of those special units whose job it was to perform such tasks. Cemeteries always popped up after big battles; Bois-Carre was one of many. Thirty-six hundred fresh Canadian graves already made their mark on the countryside just west of Vimy. When McCloud, Post, and Bill arrived at Bailey’s grave, the burial parties were still at work at the far end of the cemetery, dealing with the men who had died of their wounds in the days following the battle.
“It’s a nice little spot,” McCloud offered.
Bill and Post nodded. Neither man knew what to say or do, after all there really wasn’t anything they could say or do, at least nothing that would matter.
“It’ll be beautiful once Spring really sets in. Glorious in Summer I’m sure.”
After a few minutes of silence McCloud glanced at his watch. “Well, time to go?”
“We’ll catch up,” Post managed.
McCloud laid a hand on the cross. “I’ll take care of everything, Paul, don’t worry.”
Bill knelt next to the wooden cross. It was nearly bare. No doubt the men who had buried Bailey hadn’t known him. Only the information that his identity discs provided, and his date of death, were painted in white. ‘Bailey, P, 9380, Third Batt, RC, 04-10-17.’
“We should write something on it,” Bill said.
“What?”
“I don’t know. Something though. Maybe Shakespeare or something from the bible. ‘Now cracks a noble heart, good night, sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.’”
/>
Post shrugged. “I don’t think we could fit all that. Besides, it’s kind of fancy.”
“How about, ‘He shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever?’”
“But that doesn’t say anything about him.”
“‘Husband, Father, Soldier, Friend.’ Or is that too cliché?”
“Perfect.”
6
Toronto, 1930
As funeral services go, it had been relatively short. A line had formed and each man was filing by Turner’s open casket, taking a final glance or whispering a last goodbye. Kate sat as Bill and Post took a spot in the line.
“Who’s that your wife is talking to?” Post asked.
Bill craned his head to see Kate speaking with a pretty young woman. “I don’t know. Someone’s wife I guess.”
“Or daughter.”
“You know who she looks like?”
“Yeah.”
“She could be. He had two daughters. And maybe Kate knows her from the regimental association.”
“She’s a beauty.”
“I think she’s looking at you Gary.”
“Don’t be daft. Kate’s pointing you out to her. ‘Oh there’s my husband that I’m so proud of, he’s an unemployed junk shop
clerk–’”
“Ah, unemployed used book store clerk. Come on, Gary, fair play.”
“Books are junk.”
“Yeah, you would say that. And she is definitely looking at you. ‘Oh, brave soldier man with all your shiny medals, come sweep me off my feet and take me to your pub.’” Both men suppressed laughter. They had been getting closer to Turner’s casket and it was nearly their turn to pass by.
Post went first. “Hello, Sir,” he said, pausing to think of something. “You look well in that suit. Good luck in heaven or, wherever you ended up. Just kidding.” Post paused again. “Thanks for everything, Sergeant Major. Rest in peace, understand?”
Bill held his old khaki cap in both hands as he approached Turner. He leaned in close. “I just wanted to say thanks for letting me keep this stupid thing. I know you hated it, but I know that you knew how it made me feel. Like I was my own person for once, like I was special. It’s just a dumb hat, but, it meant something to me. I don’t know why. Anyway, rest in peace, Sergeant Major.”
When Bill returned to where Kate was standing, Gary was shaking hands awkwardly with the young woman.
“Miss Bailey,” Kate announced, “this is my husband, William.”
“I’ve heard so much about you, Mister Brown.”
“All good, I hope. Call me Bill.”
“Of course, please call me Margaret.”
Miss Bailey’s gaze snapped back to Gary. It was clear she wasn’t seeing his wrinkles or fledgling grey hairs. She was seeing him as he was fifteen years ago. She was seeing him standing next to her father, both men in uniform, on a photo postcard with ‘My pal Post and I. Love always, Daddy’ written on the reverse.
Turner’s casket was closed now, and the sergeant in charge of the honour guard placed an aged but pristine pace stick on top of it. Six pallbearers from the Toronto Regiment raised the casket with such exact drill movements, Bill thought they must be afraid of the sergeant major’s ghost screaming corrections at them if they made a mistake. The casket was carried towards the entrance of the church, and the crowd began to leave their pews, front rows first, then second, then third as the honour guard made their way down the aisle. Outside, a hearse received the casket, the sergeant riding along with it. The honour guard, their previous pomp and formality gone, piled into a light truck.
Margaret had barely taken her eyes off Post the whole time. It was becoming obvious, even to onlookers, that her reason for attending had less to do with any connection to the deceased, and more to do with the handsome, if somewhat older, veteran.
“Gary has an automobile, you know,” Kate said. “We can ride to the cemetery together.”
“An auto? Your business must be doing very well,” Margaret said.
“Actually it’s been quiet recently. Since they repealed prohibition there are bars popping up everywhere. And people don’t have quite the money to spend they used to. I don’t know why, but Missus Turner arranged for a reception afterwards at my place. Will you be joining us?”
“Of course.”
*
It was two miles between St. Paul’s Anglican Church and Mount Pleasant Cemetery. Gary and Bill sat silently in the front seats, while Kate and Margaret whispered in the back. None of them wanted to attend the burial, but both men felt a commitment to Turner. And both women felt a commitment to the men.
At the cemetery, the honour guard dismounted their truck, smoothed out their tunics, and marched to the hearse in perfect step. The casket was brought to the freshly-dug plot and the honour guard disappeared briefly, only to return with wartime Lee Enfields in hand. The minister said a few final words that Bill didn’t hear, as he was busy observing the unspoken conversation that Gary and Margaret were having. The crack of rifles made some of the attendees flinch, but for the veterans the blank rounds made far too little noise to disturb them. They were used to, and only scared of, the real thing. The sergeant removed the pace stick from the casket and handed it to Missus Turner. Turner’s children began distributing poppies to each person as the casket was lowered.
“Civilians first, please, then the family, then veterans,” the sergeant called out, loud enough to be heard but without yelling.
Each person filed past the grave and dropped their poppy on top of the casket. As Bill waited for his turn, it occurred to him how much this must have meant to Turner. Turner, the least sociable man in the battalion, the man whose role as company sergeant major forced him to alienate himself from his men. Turner, the man whose last will and testament had elevated the soldiers who had served with him above his own family.
When the veterans moved towards the burial plot, Bill slowed his pace. He wanted to be the last man to drop his poppy into the grave. And he was. For the first time in years, his back straightened fully. He forced his head high, his neck into the back of his collar, and brought his arms neatly to his side. As much as Bill hated drill and parades, he was at attention.
“Goodbye, Sergeant Major.”
The honour guard swapped their rifles for shovels, which was certainly unusual. Apparently Turner had not been content with civilians putting him in the ground. Bill and Gary couldn’t afford to wait around until the job was done.
*
When they arrived at the Leaf and Crown, a handful of mourners had already assembled. Among them, Bill noticed, were veterans who had not been at the church or the cemetery. Gary unlocked the door and immediately began pouring pints of beer. “Every veteran gets one on the house,” he called. “But don’t drink it just yet. We’ll toast to the sergeant major. Bill, help me pour.”
Bill handed off his jacket, medals jangling to Kate, and began rolling up his sleeves. “Would you mind seeing to Missus Turner, get her a tea or something?”
Kate knew the Leaf and Crown as well as anybody else. It wasn’t the first social event that had been hosted there. Margaret helped Kate in the kitchen; boiling water, preparing sandwiches, and heating casseroles and soups that had been prepared the night before. Gary had also stocked up on eggs and chips, anticipating an appetite for the nostalgic dish. Fresh bottles of HP sauce were also at the ready.
“Where did Gary get all of those things?” Margaret asked.
For someone who had never been in the Leaf and Crown before, the banners, photographs and souvenirs made it resemble a museum more than a bar.
“Mostly straight from other men who were in the battalion. Sometimes their children or widows,” Kate replied.
“Gary has two children, doesn’t he?”
“Two boys, Gary Jr. and Paul. Named after your father of course.”
“They were so close during the war. I still have all of my father’s letters. Gary must be mentioned in almost every one.”
“William was the same. He could scarcely write a letter that didn’t mention the latest escapades of Gary Post.”
“I understand he and his wife are no longer together, is that so?”
“She ran off about seven years ago. They’ve been divorced for some time.”
“So Gary is a bachelor again?”
“And not seeing anybody. The bar and his kids keep him busy enough.”
“You don’t think he’s old, do you?”
“Gary’s young at heart,” Kate paused. “And handsome. He could use a good woman.”
Gary poured his own glass last. Only once every other man in the Leaf had one did he raise his own. It went quiet. A few men came to attention, followed by a few more. Soon every old back had straightened up, civilian shoes came together at the heels, and heads, some balding, others with hair too long for army standards, were held high. In spirit, the men were back on parade, standing ready for their CSM’s inspection. “Sergeant Major Turner. Here’s at ya.”
Before the first glasses were emptied, Missus Turner pulled Gary aside. She was holding Turner’s pace stick. “Mister Post, thank you for hosting the reception. My husband was very sick before he passed. He knew he was dying, and made some things clear in his will. He wanted to bring the men he served with back together, a reunion of sorts. That’s why we decided to hold the reception here. We were given some more formal options; armouries, Legion halls, but he didn’t think many of the veterans would be interested in them.”
“To be honest I was surprised when I got your call. Your husband never even stepped foot in the Leaf,” Post said. “I thought perhaps he didn’t approve of a bar acting as a shrine to the battalion.”
“He wanted to come, but he was afraid of disrupting the atmosphere. Sergeant majors aren’t exactly known for being chummy.”
“He would have been welcome, I promise you that.”
“I can see that now. The way the men came to attention during your toast; it would have made my husband very happy to see that his men could still ‘steady up’.” Missus Turner laid the pace stick in Gary’s hands. “He wanted you to have this. Maybe you could place it on your wall.”
“It would be my honour. I know just the spot for it.”
Gary led Missus Turner to the battalion flag he had carried at Vimy, mounted behind an expensive frame. Two carefully placed nails later, the pace stick hung next to it, set for twenty-four inches. “Do you know what a blank file is?”