Once Eight Platoon cleared out of the showers the NCOs of B Company took their turn. While the privates had to share bars of soap and towels, fresh ones were standing by for the NCOs and were in good supply.
Fresh undergarments followed, then each man dug through his kit bag for his spare uniform, and turned in the soiled one he had worn for the last few weeks. It was warm enough now that Bill decided to bury his winter cap at the bottom of his duffel bag. A standard-issue soft cap was dug up, and his battalion badge transferred to it. That ought to make Turner happy.
*
The next day a few dozen reinforcements arrived. Having taken over two hundred casualties at Fresnoy, it wasn’t very encouraging. Upon closer inspection however, most of the men were familiar faces: former members of the battalion wounded at Vimy, Regina Trench, or even Mount Sorrel.
News was also received about some of the wounded men. Stinson, it was reported, was recovering well, and might even rejoin the battalion within the next month. For the time being, Three Section was still down to just Bill, McCreery, and Payne.
McCloud brought a dazed-looking private to where Bill and his men were cleaning their personal gear. “This is Private Wilson, he’s yours. I’ll get you another if I can, but you’ll probably need to wait for Stinson before you’re up to par.” Par here was a loose term. An ideal infantry section consisted of seven, eight, even ten men. Manpower shortages, added to McCloud’s limited confidence in Bill, meant that five was the ideal number.
Bill stood and shook the new man’s hand. “Welcome to Three Section. I’m Bill, this is Tom, and Stan.”
He was clearly uncomfortable. A mix of arrogance and helplessness showed on his face. Though a volunteer, he didn’t want to be here. His own battalion had been broken up in England, his friends and acquaintances parcelled out as reinforcements to several units. “Wilson.”
“Your parents give you a name?”
“Wilson. It’s my father’s surname.”
The Three veterans exchanged a knowing glance. Stinson and Roy were already missed, but now with a new urgency. Payne and McCreery seemed to be silently saying ‘get rid of him.’
“I mean a first name,” Bill said, trying to be helpful.
“Martin.”
“Well, nice to meet you, Marty.”
“Martin. Same.”
*
That night the enlisted men of the battalion surged towards the three estaminets clustered on the north end of Petit Servins. The officers had gone south, to what had once been a hotel, and now catered to a slightly more sophisticated class of drunken soldier.
The three estaminets at the north end of the village were marked with notable bits of debris. The Crucifix, named for a smashed roadside statue that had been rescued from further damage by its pious owner, had disturbed Lincoln. The Smashed Cannon was the busiest of the three, most likely due to the owner being a well-established pimp. While ostensibly named for a reclaimed artillery piece, the symbolism was not lost on any man who had suffered from syphilis, gonorrhoea, or herpes. The Wagon Wheel, though the least popular due to its small size and older serving staff, was where most of Six Platoon decided to spend the night.
It didn’t take long for Wilson to alienate himself from Three Section. A few cheap glasses of wine and he was slurring his words, inserting himself into conversations, and commenting on card games. The rest of Three Section sat at a little table together, dining on the standard eggs, chips, and beer.
“This is too much, Bill,” Payne said. “We need to get rid of this idiot.”
Bill sipped his beer and nodded to McCreery.
“I agree. I don’t want him here.”
It wasn’t right for a new man to receive such a cold reception, but Bill felt the same way. Already Wilson had failed to salute every officer he saw, made a mess of his uniform, and misplaced his equipment twice. As an NCO, however, Bill had to try to defend his man.
“You two were new once, not too long ago really. A couple weeks and I’m sure we’ll manage to sort him out.”
“Or you can just get rid of him, now,” Payne said.
“He’s a walking cock-up,” McCreery added.
Bill snickered; he had tried, a little. “Alright, I’ll see about getting rid of him.”
As if on cue, Lieutenant Carter and Sergeant McCloud entered.
“Not just yet though. I think I can work something out with Jack.”
The newer men who noticed half-stiffened, unsure if they should come to attention; the veterans cheered, booed, and catcalled. The officer was in their territory: there was no need to pay him any formal respect. McCloud called above the racket, “It’s okay, I invited him.”
Once the noise came to a halt and the men returned to their drinks, Carter’s eyes fell upon the dusty upright piano at the back of the estaminet. McCloud’s calls went unheeded as Carter, looking like a man possessed, made his way towards the sound of ivory keys and taut steel wires. It hadn’t received much attention ever since the scavenged billiards table made its debut. Lincoln was seated at the piano, quietly playing a hymn, just for practice.
Carter leaned one elbow on the piano. “That’s quite good.”
Lincoln didn’t look up. He was too busy concentrating on the keys; normally he played with sheet music. “You play?”
“Since I was a boy.”
“You must have good parents. Each of my children had to start learning once they turned seven.”
“We had to start at six, but we got to choose what instrument we wanted to learn. I chose piano for ragtime.”
Lincoln shuddered. “Oh, your poor parents. I assume they made you learn something respectable though. Do you know any four-hands?”
Carter nodded and cracked his fingers. “Cortege burlesque. Ever hear of that?”
“Please, Carter, or should I call you?”
Carter shrugged; he was in an estaminet for enlisted men after all. “Bob.”
“Please, Bob, something an old man like me would know. What about Schubert’s Fantasia in F minor?”
Carter sighed a little. “Yes, I know that one, dad.”
Lincoln smiled and shifted to one side of the piano bench. “Have a seat.”
“Sorry, but how long is this going to take?” McCloud asked.
“Oh it’s a short piece. About twenty minutes,” Lincoln replied with a grin.
As the pair began playing, the men nearest to them went quiet and listened attentively. McCloud waited impatiently for the duet to end. Once it had, he politely shooed Lincoln away.
Carter was still fiddling with the keys. “So, what was it you wanted me to see, Jim?”
“It’s Bill Brown, Sir,” McCloud began. “He’s been getting worse lately. I think he’s had it.”
Carter turned pensive, continued pressing keys.
“I just need your permission, and I know I can have him transferred to a good instructing job in England. Away from harm, and to be honest, away from where he can do any harm. It isn’t right to let a man in his state continue to lead a section.”
“And what state would that be?”
“He’s cracked, Sir. He thinks he’s blessed, or marked.”
“He’s an Original and still around, of course he’s blessed.”
“Maybe blessed is the wrong word. Bombproof. He thinks he can’t be killed, and he makes the men around him think that way too.”
“Perhaps a little foolhardy bravery is a good thing. I think it best that the men believe in something positive, like divine protection, rather than existential nihilism.”
“I don’t know what that means, but just look at him. He gets drunk whenever he gets a chance; he’s happy one moment and glum the next. And he can barely see or hear anything. It’s dangerous.”
Carter stopped playing. He knew McCloud was a good sergeant, and that he only wanted what was best for Bill. He also knew that McCloud would continue to pester him until he approved of Bill being transferred.
“Alright, Ji
m. I’ll talk to Captain Reid about it. I think he’ll agree, especially if I tell him that it’s what you want.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
*
“Excusing me,” a heavily-accented voice came from behind Bill. It was Jack’s assistant.
“Yes?”
“Please to let me sit with you, I brought drink.”
McCreery and Payne shrugged and smiled. Why argue with a free drink? Jack’s assistant set down four glasses of beer, two each pincered between the thumb and index finger of either hand. “My name is Kellowitz, Witold. Friends in training call me Czar. You can call me too if you want.”
“I’m Bill Brown, this is Tom Payne, and Stan McCreery. Nice to meet you.”
Kellowitz had a firm handshake, the kind that impressed Payne and McCreery, but struck Bill as unnecessarily hard.
“What can I do for you?” Bill asked.
“I get right to point. I hear you talking, talking about you want to rid of someone in your section. New guy, nobody like him, he too stupid, not nice, not fun. Not good soldier, not good friend. I am stuck with Grandpa Jack, old man, never stop talking. So I come to your section, new man you don’t like, he take my spot with Grandpa Jack. Trade one for one, Grandpa Jack talking all the time of friend Bill Brown, you.”
McCreery and Payne exchanged a look. They could get used to having Kellowitz around, especially if it meant getting rid of Wilson faster. Bill noticed their glances and added his own.
“I’d love to do that,” Bill said. “But Jack is a little angry with me.”
“Not angry, good friend, he like you a lot.”
“I owe him a pair of wire-cutters.”
“Little folding type or big wooden handle ones?”
“The big ones.”
“Okay, that’s harder a little. Won’t be Kosher, but I can find,” Kellowitz said, standing to leave.
“Hold on a minute, aren’t you going to finish your drink and get to know your new section members?” Payne asked.
Bill nodded. “The cutters can wait.”
“Besides, I want to hear about Russia,” McCreery added.
A few minutes later, Wilson returned. Laying one hand on McCreery, he used the other to point at Kellowitz. “Hey, Payne, who’s this? He’s in my spot.”
“That is not Tom Payne, that is Stan McCreery,” Kellowitz coolly corrected.
Wilson made a face at the sound of Kellowitz’s accent. “What the fuck did he even say?”
“Okay, we’re gonna take you back to billets,” McCreery said. “Give me a hand, Tom.”
Both men stood and took a hold of him. Wilson resisted, spilling Bill’s beer. “Hey, get off me!”
Kellowitz moved to help, but Bill motioned for him to stay where he was. This was a Three Section affair, and if it escalated, it wouldn’t help to involve the company quartermaster’s assistant.
Payne tightened his grip. “I have no problem hurting you. Stop fighting and let’s fucking go.”
Nobody in the estaminet seemed surprised to see Wilson getting dragged away. He had been making a fool of himself the entire night.
Kellowitz slid one of the remaining glasses to Bill. “So we have deal, trade me for him?”
“If Jack will go for it,” Bill said, wiping beer off his fresh tunic with a fresh handkerchief.
“We will convince him. I will do job poorly, never speak to him, tell only, ‘No English.’ He get lonely and angry, trade me for anybody, you be doing him favour. And me.”
Bill shook his head. “I don’t want to put Jack through that. Besides, he’ll make a point of fixing you, which is why I don’t mind dumping Wilson on him.”
“What to do then?”
Bill scanned the estaminet and caught sight of Old Jack. He was watching Corporal Post, who hadn’t left the battered and greasy billiards table since earning his spot there; a man had to lose a game in order to give up his right to play. The soldiers assembled around the table were gambling, and the odds were clearly in Post’s favour.
“How much money have you got?” Bill asked.
“Twenty francs.”
“Give ‘em to me. I’ll pay you back later.”
Kellowitz swiftly handed over the crisp notes. “I can get more if you need, I have in my gear. Also British pounds.”
“No, this will do.”
At the billiards table, Bill waited for the game to end, then threw down all of Kellowitz’s money on the table. “I want the next game, Post.”
Post laughed. “Are you serious, Bill?”
Already bets were being made against Bill, a few unlucky men betting in favour of the newcomer. Most of the men who did place their money on Bill were bombers who recognized his patch and decided to back one of their own.
Bill leaned in close to Post. “Listen, Gary, I know you can beat me, but I just want to make sure you don’t go easy. After you win this game, I need you to lose the next one, no matter who plays you, okay?”
Post gave nothing away with his expression. He could have winked, or nodded his head slightly, but he didn’t have to. Post knew Bill was up to something and needed his cooperation. Understanding passed through the air as if by radio waves.
“You’re about to become twenty francs poorer, my friend,” Post called loudly. “Place your bets, fellas!”
It didn’t take long for Bill to lose. Even though he was trying his best, he was still no match for Post.
“It’s all in the bridge,” Post announced after sinking the eight ball. “Now, who’s next?”
Lance Corporal Fyles wasn’t new to billiards. He had been watching the last several games, observing Post’s weak points. “Ten francs.”
“Any higher bidders?”
The spectators, while willing to bet a few francs on each game, had no interest in topping Fyles’ stake.
“Alright, I’ll rack ‘em up, you can break.”
Bill made his way to where Old Jack was seated. “You have to admit it was close, I almost got him.”
Jack laughed aloud. “Close? Post is unbeatable.”
“Well then how about a little wager? I happen to know that Fyles is pretty keen with a billiards cue.”
“I don’t gamble, Bill. I have a family to send all my money to. All that time I was a private was a real loss.”
“We don’t need to gamble with money.”
“With what then?”
“Men. I have a new chap in my section; he’s a great soldier, just a little small for frontline work. I could use that big Russian fellow you have.”
“Does your man speak English?”
“Of course, his name is Wilson. You can’t get much more English than that.”
“I don’t know, Bill.”
“I’ll make it easy for you. I’m betting on Fyles, you can bet on your ‘unbeatable’ Post.”
“Okay. If Post somehow loses, I’ll talk to Captain Reid and trade you Kellowitz for Wilson.”
“Deal.”
“Wait, what do I get if you lose?”
“If I win, we trade.”
Jack paused and turned reflective. “Oh, right, okay.”
Fyles gave a good performance, and while Post could have beaten him, it didn’t seem to any of the crowd that he had indeed thrown the game. Post shook hands cordially with Fyles and left the billiards table for the bar.
“Gary, what happened?” Jack demanded.
“My arm must have gotten tired. Hope you didn’t bet on me.”
Jack returned his attention to Bill. “You never said what I would win.”
Bill was stuck. He didn’t want the trade to be reversed. “I promised to find those wire-cutters, tonight.”
“Well if they’re so easy to find, I want them first thing in the morning, otherwise the deal is off.”
“We made a bet, Jack–”
“Just go through your men’s gear and find them, they’ve got to be somewhere. Tomorrow morning, Bill.”
*
It was dark when Bill and
Kellowitz left the Wagon Wheel. Bill had eagerly gulped down what was left of Payne’s and McCreery’s beer, and was feeling slightly giddy. Trucks were rumbling somewhere in Petit Servins; dropping off rations or bringing up more reinforcements. Bill stopped and began digging a pack of cigarettes out of his trouser pocket. It was stuck on something. Bill twisted and tugged until the pack came free, flying out of his hand and into a puddle in the middle of the dirt road.
“Fuck, nails!” Bill yelled, diving for them.
In his impaired state, Bill assumed the truck’s headlights were a ray of moonlight. The rumbling of the engine and the rattling of its load he barely heard, and supposed it to be a distant sound. As Bill reached for the pack of cigarettes, the truck’s horn sounded, but there was no time to brake. Funny how vehicles always seem to have time to blast their horn, but are so rarely able to stop.
Kellowitz was not only a big man, but an agile one. As Bill contemplated whether being bombproof applied to large vehicles, a hand grabbed him by the collar of his tunic and wrenched him to safety. The truck rolled by, blowing its horn once more, but not stopping, or even slowing.
Kellowitz was far more shaken than Bill and broke out into a language he couldn’t even guess at.
“It’s okay, Czar. I’m bombproof, do you know that word? It means I can’t be killed. I will never die, at least not in this war.”
Kellowitz wasn’t sure if Bill’s confidence was a sign of insanity or courage. “God wants that you live.”
Bill shrugged indifferently, assessing the damage done to his precious and now somewhat wet cigarettes.
“And he wants me to as well. Have you heard: ‘He who saves one, it is as if he saved world?’”
Bill shook his head, finding a dry cigarette and lighting it.
“We will both bombproof,” Kellowitz said, pulling out an expensive looking cigarette case and lighting up. “I bring you back to billets, then I go find cutters.”
*
Kellowitz had brought Bill to the house that Six Platoon’s NCOs shared. Just after he disappeared to locate the cutters, Bill heard a sound coming from the rear of the building. He walked closer to it. Muffled weeping. Not the desperate, inconsolable sobbing of the truly hopeless. This was different; contained. Taking a few steps towards the sound, Bill caught sight of Thompson, now an acting lance, sitting with his back to a tree and rubbing his hands in his face, as if coercing out each tear.