Private Francis Green
Third Canadian Infantry Battalion
(Toronto Regiment)
p.s. Please inquire to Princess Mary on my behalf. She is a saucy tart.
CC:
Artie “Guts and Gaiters” Currie
Sammy “Sham Shoes” Hughes
Bobby “Trade Tax” Borden
“I like it,” Post said. “Short, eloquent, and with just a hint of treason. What did you think, Bill?”
“Needs more swears,” Bill replied.
Private Hallicks rubbed his chin and nodded his head seriously, all the while tapping two fingers against his left chest. He was trying to get Bill to call hearts trump. “Yeah, more fucking swears.”
“You heard them,” Post said. “Let’s start working on another draft.”
“What about Lincoln and Jack? We haven’t heard their assessment,” Green said.
“Jack’s asleep, but I thought it was mostly funny,” Private Lincoln replied. “Take out the ‘saucy tart’ bit though, that’s rude. And remember, you too Hal, that people who use bad language do so only because of their poor vocabulary.”
*
The pre-breakfast rumours of an upcoming action had been proven false a few minutes before lunch, and of course revived with greater detail a few minutes after. By dinner it was clear: the battalion was moving up the line tomorrow morning, a big show in the offing. The orders were simple enough: five o’clock in the morning, full battle equipment, formed up by companies outside the half-destroyed basilica in the centre of the ruined city of Albert.
It was an obvious meeting point. The basilica tower stood ninety yards tall, or at least it had when it was built. The gilded statue of the Virgin Mary and Child, six yards tall, that once crowned the structure, had been knocked over nearly two years before. Now held in place with rebar and chains, the statue leaned at a precarious angle below the horizontal. Every soldier who passed through Albert remembered the “Leaning Virgin.” Most said a silent prayer while crossing beneath it. Bill didn’t.
Although flooded with French, British, Australian, and most recently Canadian soldiers, Albert had lost the vast majority of its civilian population. The few civilians who remained were mostly operators of estaminets: cafes where soldiers could indulge in a night of home-cooked food, wine, and beer. Although not brothels, women could sometimes be had at estaminets as well.
Six Platoon had been lucky to be dismissed early. Their new officer, Second Lieutenant Carter, had only been with them a few months, but acted like a real veteran. No big speeches, no unnecessary drill and marching, no endless back-and-forth of useless question and unsure answer. As a result, the men of Six Platoon had been able to secure a few tables at the city’s best estaminet: La Bouteille.
According to Lincoln, La Bouteille translated into “a bad play on words having to do with a nearby region.” He did admit, however, that “France French,” which he was slowly learning was different from “Canadian French,” which was in turn different from “Montreal French,” of which he had only a working knowledge. With most of the men having hailed from Toronto, “Lincoln French” was the best the platoon could offer.
Like most estaminets, “La Boot” was family owned and operated, in this case by a mother and daughter. It had been a little corner café before the war, with bedrooms on the second floor. With the men of the family away in the French army, the spare rooms were put to a new use.
Madame’s daughter was young, but no amateur; Post would know. She was clearly pleased to have an experienced client, rather than a boring married man, or an incompetent kid. Post had met her during his first night in Albert, six weeks earlier. And while this was only their eighth night together, La Fille had taken a deep liking to him. It certainly helped that he was good with his hands.
Post loved to hear her little moans and squeaks of pleasure; even better were the wild screams. “Maybe you should be paying me.”
“Non non, vingt francs,” the girl replied with a flirty laugh.
La Fille had two rates, one for men who wore a condom and one for those who didn’t. Bare skin cost twenty francs. A man who agreed to wear one of the many prophylactics she kept stockpiled in her room, courtesy of a client who happened to work for the Red Cross, paid just fifteen. Of course Post had already paid the girl’s mother, and, like most men, he had paid twenty: about four Canadian dollars. As lance corporals made a dollar and five cents a day, it was quite the investment for a few minutes of raw pleasure. La Fille was a lot more expensive than the two or three franc whores a soldier could find in the red lanterns, but much, much better looking.
“Well alright, I won’t ask for a refund this time, but next time I at least expect a free bottle. Vin gratuity. Or better yet one of those bottles of whiskey you keep stashed away in case an officer ever shows up in this dump.”
The girl laughed again, she knew how men loved her laugh, and pulled him on top of her. “D’accord. Entrer en moi.”
*
On the main floor, at the table nearest the bar sat the privates of Three Section. Watery beer and tart wine were in good supply. Green had ordered the ubiquitous eggs and chips; the most common, and often only food to be had at such estaminets. Hallicks was picking at the other man’s meal.
“You could order your own, you know,” Lincoln said.
“I’m not that hungry,” Hallicks replied. “I just want a few bites.”
Green smiled his trademark thin grin, laid down his fork on the half-empty plate and lit a cigarette. “You finish it up, Hal. I’ve got to watch my figure. Maybe you ought to as well.”
Hallicks pulled the plate towards himself covetously.
“I thought you just wanted a few bites,” Lincoln said.
Hallicks looked up from the plate, wiping the fork on his trousers. “A man’s gotta eat. Besides, I can’t let it go to waste.”
“He’s got you there,” Green said, exhaling a lungful of smoke, adding to the already thick screen of it that blanketed the estaminet. “Even if he could stand to lose a pound or two... or ten.”
“Fuck off, you stupid fuck,” Hal replied through a mouthful of food.
“Where I come from we just say, ‘Thanks for the free meal’, but your gratitude certainly shines through,” Green replied.
Whenever the conversation went quiet, the occasional lusty cry from Madame’s daughter could be heard. Lance Corporal Post was a very thorough lover, and most of the revellers on the main floor didn’t seem to mind. Lewd comments and raucous laughter were being tossed about amicably.
Private Lloyd, whom the others called Old Jack, grimaced slightly as the cries of passion built towards and then hit their crescendo. “So, fellas, did I tell you about my son?”
“Yeah, sure, with the big guns,” Bill replied, straining an ear upwards. “You told us a few weeks ago. He’s in England now, should be crossing the channel soon.”
“He better watch it or he’ll go deaf,” Lincoln said, also hoping to drown out La Fille’s cries. “I had a friend in the artillery who lost most of his hearing, had to be sent back to Canada. Tell him to get some wax earplugs, you know, like Odysseus.”
Bill turned and nodded his approval to Lincoln for making such an obscure reference. Both men were avid readers, rarities in an infantry battalion if one discounted trashy dime magazines. “I can hear the Siren’s song now, listen.”
“What?” Hallicks asked. “Nobody actually wears earplugs, and what the hell is a ‘Siren song?’”
“It’s from Greek myth, never mind,” Bill said. “Just be quiet, and listen to that wonderful racket.”
Old Jack looked from one man to the next, hoping for an explanation, but received none. “So, Linc, what about your daughters? What are their men up to?”
“They’re a little young for sweethearts,” Lincoln replied.
“How about the boys?”
“Eager. My older boy Carlyle tried to enlist in August. They must be getting desperate back home to tak
e a seventeen year old. They let him sign the papers and everything. Thank goodness my wife caught wind of it.”
He was quite sure he had already told Jack the story, but Jack loved to talk, even if it was in circles.
Green perked up like an excited dog. “Seventeen, huh? My youngest sister is fifteen; do you think she’d like Montreal? I’m sure she’d like your boy.”
“I thought you were pawning your sister off on Hal,” Bill said.
“Hal gets my older one, there’s a younger one too,” Green said.
Hallicks looked up from his plate for a moment at the mention of his name. “For the last time, I can’t afford another woman,” he said quickly, then returned his attention to sopping up runny eggs with burnt chips.
“I’ll convince you yet, Hal,” Green said. “I don’t want to be looking after spinsters when I get home, there’ll be a shortage of men I reckon. So what do you say, Linc, Montreal, yes?”
“Montreal’s a fine city,” Lincoln replied. “I’m sure she’d love it. The old part reminds me of France actually, sans the shellfire and roadside crucifixes everywhere.”
“You know I’ve been to Montreal,” Jack said unable to resist hijacking the conversation. “Oh, back in ’05, no, ’06, yeah, ’06. ’05, certainly ‘05. I was there on a buying trip for Eaton’s; did I ever tell you I was in charge of hats and scarves at the big store in Toronto? This was just after, no, just before I retired from the militia; you know I was a sergeant then? Well there was a little shop, maybe on, that big street, the main street there in Montreal, what street is that Linc?”
It had been nearly two years since Lincoln had seen Montreal. A wistful smile played on his lips. “Rue St. Catherine.”
“Yes, that’s the one, Rue St. Catherine. Hey, Bill, that’s your girl’s name!”
“Katherine’s a common name,” Bill conceded, taking a big gulp of wine and hoping the old man was done telling stories for the moment. He preferred beer, but it would have taken about a gallon of it to get him drunk.
Jack wasn’t done talking; he rarely was until his voice was hoarse. “You’re going to marry her right? Well I bet I can get you a discount on a nice suit, and a dress for her. A nice, long, white wedding dress. When it comes to quality, Eaton’s has never been on the short end.”
Lincoln, Hallicks, and Green shifted slightly towards each other and leaned in. Bill, seated closest to Jack, had no polite way of leaving the old man’s one-sided conversation.
“That’s his mess now,” Lincoln said to the other two men. “We can carry on, Jack will focus in on Bill.”
“And Bill’ll focus in on his bottle,” Hallicks said.
Green nodded, not to anyone in particular, as he turned his attention from one conversation to the next. He wasn’t really interested in Jack’s ramblings or Bill’s drinking, but enjoyed observing. And for Green, observation went hand in hand with commentary.
“Well, again, that’s his mess. What were we talking about?” Lincoln asked.
Green turned back momentarily. “My older sister. You’d like her, Hal. Stop being so cheap, you miserly pinchpenny.”
“Shut up, Green. A family as ugly as yours shouldn’t even be allowed to breed, you fuckin’ Mick,” Hal said.
“Ouch,” Lincoln said. “That’s a bit much, Hal.”
Green grinned and nodded his approval. “Good one Hal, but the difference between a plain insult and a witty retort is truthfulness. Sure I’m Irish, but you can’t deny my good looks. You’re learning though; I’m proud of you.”
“Remember, Hal, vocabulary,” Lincoln cut in before Hallicks could unleash another flood of expletives.
“Smart Aleck,” Hal mumbled harshly at Green, who had already rejoined Bill and Jack’s conversation.
“Smart Francis, actually,” Green shot back one last time.
“Never mind him,” Lincoln said. “You two are too alike for your own good, you know that? Like my sons. Big mouths, the both of you.”
“Alike? Don’t think so. Sure I grouse, but I’ve been around. When I make a comment it isn’t just to poke fun, it’s to make things better, or prove a point. Problem is no one will listen,” Hal replied.
“Get promoted,” Green said, turning back to Bill and Jack before Hallicks could respond.
Lincoln shrugged. “He’s right, you can’t complain if you don’t want to give it a go yourself.”
“They wouldn’t take me. I’ve stepped on too many toes, you know, my ‘big mouth’. But you, Linc, why don’t you get a couple of stripes? You play by the rules, even seem to understand ‘em too. Must’ve learned that at the bank, or from the wife.”
Lincoln smiled, set down his bottle of wine, and turned playfully contemplative. “I couldn’t stand to order around such fine young privates as myself. Oh, and Green, and Bill, and Jack.” He took up his bottle, taking a long swig as Hallicks sighed, annoyed. “Oh, and you, Hal. But of course that goes without saying, being an Original and all.”
“Then why’d you say it?” Green asked, again returning to Bill and Jack without waiting for an answer.
“Hey,” Hal called across the table, as the other conversation carried on. “Hey!” Hal repeated, stretching across to tap Jack on the shoulder with one hand, his other pointed squarely at Green. “Does he do this to you too?”
“Does he do what?” Jack replied, deeply confused at having been pulled back into reality from his fond reminiscences of the hats and scarves department of the Toronto Eaton’s store. In particular, he had been relating the story of a French-Canadian woman from northern Ontario who always got the catalogue numbers mixed up, and complained so ferociously that Jack had been compelled to simply give her the replacement items for free; something he regretted to this day. It was one of Jack’s favourite stories and was being told for the third time this week, ostensibly for the benefit of the listeners.
“Green. Does Green interrupt your conversations with little smart comments every thirty seconds?” Hallicks asked, exasperated.
“Green’s a good kid. He pays attention to the story,” Jack responded, giving Green a broad smile, which Green passed along to Hallicks.
Hal shook his head. “Unbelievable.”
Jack went back to telling his story as the rest of the section smirked. They liked Hallicks, but sometimes it was fun to wind him up a little.
“Honestly though,” Lincoln said, facing Hallicks again, “would you want to be in any other section? Sure, I wouldn’t mind a little rank, but not if it means leaving Three Section. Post’s done a damn fine job of keeping us alive; you’d know better than me.”
“Yeah,” Hallicks said. “Between me, Bill, and Post, Three Section has more Originals, maybe than any other in the company.”
“Probably the battalion; just a matter of time though,” Green said, smiling darkly.
“Jesus, Green, you sick fuck,” Bill said, turning away from Jack. “I’m sitting right here. Thanks for the bright imagery.”
“Yeah, thanks, Green,” Hallicks said. “A good luck toast, Bill, just the Originals.”
Hal raised a finger only to point it towards the table, indicating the others to lay down their drinks. Bill smiled as the two men touched the necks of their bottles together.
“Je suis j’mappelle Santé,” Bill said in an intentionally disastrous French accent.
“Gesundheit! Hoch der Kaiser! Schnell!” Hal replied in a crazy voice, clicking his heels and slamming a fist on the table as both men took a long gulp.
“Better have another, for Post, you know, just to be safe,” Bill said.
“Here’s at ya’,” they said together, taking another drink.
“Gentlemen,” Bill said to the remainder of the section, “you may resume.”
“I think I’ll call it a night now,” Jack said, his grey moustache sopping with beer. He was the only man in the estaminet wearing his overcoat, his bald head now covered with a wool cap. “My back hasn’t been the same since South Africa, you know. Sitting too
long really hurts my legs. And my arms are just deadweight since those carrying parties last month. Ooh, aw, oh,” Jack groaned, standing slowly and placing one hand on his lower left back, the other on his upper right thigh. “You kids are lucky. Don’t get old, that’s my advice.”
“Fantastic advice, but we hadn’t planned on getting a whole lot older anyway,” Green said.
“Sick fuck,” Bill repeated, shaking his head.
Hal stood. “I think I ought to turn in too. Thanks for the drinks Bill, I’ll owe you for next time.”
“Sounds good,” Bill said with a knowing smile.
Hallicks hadn’t bought a drink for anyone, including himself, the entire time Bill had known him: twenty-six months. Hal may have been cheap behind the lines, but when the rations were late or the nights bitterly cold, he was the first man to offer up a tin of corned beef or a pair of gloves to the hungry and frozen. After all, anything army issue was free.
“You’re welcome for the free dinner too,” Green said.
“Fuck yourself, you quick-witted handsome devil,” Hal replied.
Green smirked. “Better, much better.”
As Jack and Hal began to leave, Lance Corporal Post descended the staircase. He ducked back for a moment until the old man and the malcontent had left, then joined the men on the main floor, assured he wouldn’t be ambushed with a semi-senile story or caustic rant about army life.
The clapping of hands greeted him as he made his way towards the table his section was seated at. Madame’s daughter didn’t usually take customers after ten o’clock, but Post was the exception, and therefore the envy of every man in the estaminet. La Fille followed a minute later to whistles and catcalls, as Madame motioned for her to tend to a table of Canadians awaiting fresh drinks.
“Boys, I’m heartbroken,” Post said, triumph stamped on his weary but attractive features as he indicated the half-empty wine bottles around the table. “You started drinking without me.”
“Apologies,” Green said with a flourish, offering up a bottle.
“Good man. I see a promotion in your future.”
“It’s a dowry. Now you have to marry one of my sisters. You’ve gotten over that dose of chaude-pisse, right?”