“Are you okay?” Bill asked.
At once the crying ceased and the machine-gunner wiped his face, stood, and turned to see Bill. “Just getting it out,” Thompson replied, embarrassed but not ashamed.
“Yeah, it’s been a rough couple of days.”
“More like a rough couple of months.”
“Months? You seem to be holding up pretty well. I mean, until right now.”
“This isn’t the first time. Since October I’ve been bottling it all up and letting it out when I can.”
“What happened in October?” Bill asked.
Thompson didn’t reply.
“Maybe you would have preferred to be put into another platoon.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You were with us at Regina Trench, right?”
Thompson sounded like a man pleading guilty. “Yes.”
“This was back when we only had a handful of machine-gunners. Most of them have been killed or transferred since. And most of the Lewis teams we have now only got their job after Regina Trench, when the platoons specialized. But not you.”
Thompson nodded. “Hallicks. He was a friend of yours, I know. An Original too. It’s my fault he’s dead. We all fell asleep. I woke and heard a noise, and–”
“Don’t say it. I don’t want to hear you say it. You aren’t the only one who got someone killed.” Roy. Blake. McNeil. “A minute earlier and you’d be dead too. A minute later and I would have been.”
“But it was my fault.”
“I know,” Bill said sadly. “It was my fault too.”
*
Bill was exhausted. He flopped down on his gear, which formed a pathetic imitation of a pillow, and closed his eyes. Sleep came fitfully, images of Hal and Roy appearing in his mind. One moment they were talking, smoking, and laughing with him in an estaminet, the next they were strung up over a belt of barbed wire. Bill tossed and turned until something stuck into his thigh. Wire-cutters. So Kellowitz was good for his word after all. Bill snuggled up with the cutters, caressed them like a child would a toy bear, and in a minute he was fast asleep.
Toronto, 1932
The Leaf and Crown was empty when Gary returned with Kate and the children. As usual when the adults were busy with an emergency, the kids were allowed to stay up late and play. Gary showed Kate to the bedroom and closed the door behind him. Bill had told him plenty of times that he only slept well when he was with her.
Kate could smell the whiskey on his breath, but decided not to comment on it. Instead, she slipped under the blankets with him. “Do you want to talk about it? Or should we just get it over with?”
“You’ve come to have your wicked way with me, have you? Well, I won’t argue. Maybe Gary’s bed will grant me some extraordinary talents.”
“You’re a boor when you’re drunk, you know that?”
“And you’re cute when you’re upset with me,” Bill said, taking a sip of whiskey-laced tea.
Kate snatched the cup from Bill and choked it down, briefly making a face.
“I wasn’t done with that,” Bill said, smiling and pressing his lips to Kate’s for a long kiss. He loved it when she drank.
She pulled away. “William, are you alright? Really.”
“Of course, you think an automobile can hurt me? Don’t be silly.”
“I was asleep when Mister Post knocked on the door. I had dreamed of a candle, burning too bright, flickering, extinguishing itself.”
“Don’t worry about that one. A candle burns for us somewhere. It always will. Let’s take our time.”
END OF PART III
EPILOGUE
France, 1917
“Anything for a Goddamned parade,” Bill grumbled. “They love this shit.”
“Aren’t you at least used to it by now?” Stinson asked, newly returned from an English hospital a few days earlier.
“No.”
The battalion had assembled in a field just south of Petit Servins. The four companies were spaced out perfectly, the men all standing in ranks three deep. Bill was in the most rearward rank. He preferred it that way. Nobody could see his sloppy drill movements and constantly shifting feet; somehow he never could stay at attention.
It had been one year to the day, June 13th, 1916, that the battalion had taken Mount Sorrel. This was the first time they had celebrated any sort of anniversary or special day. Their victories at Vimy and Fresnoy were too fresh to commemorate, and the early battles of 1915 were too disastrous to mythologize.
Mount Sorrel had been their first big success, but it had been costly. Nearly as many men had been killed or wounded at Sorrel as at Regina Trench. Each time, fresh drafts of reinforcements easily outnumbered the survivors. Mount Sorrel had been where Bill’s old platoon commander had been killed. It had also been where Captain Reid took command of B Company.
The men were called to the open-order as the band played an elongated medley, and the commanding officer passed by each soldier. It wasn’t the formal inspection of an NCO; this was strictly ceremonial. Bill didn’t mind the CO; he was an Original too, and had come to France as a mere lieutenant. Still, he hated the pointless pomp.
When the inspection concluded the battalion was stood at ease. Little sprigs of wood sorrel were distributed by each company’s sergeant major, and placed in the men’s caps, just next to the brass battalion badge each man wore. These were to commemorate the events of one year prior, though Bill didn’t see the connection. What would they do to commemorate Regina Trench, smear their uniforms with shit and human innards?
After the CO’s speech and the chaplain’s prayer, a number of men were called forward. Captain Reid held a handful of medals. Bill flushed with pride, after all, he had wrote the citation, as Stinson’s name was called and he took his place among those to be awarded the Distinguished Conduct Medal. Vimy, prisoners, Fresnoy, bombs, gas. Carter received the Military Cross: coolness, leadership, inspiration, objective. The usual for an officer.
After the chosen men returned to their places in the ranks, the CO called the names of posthumous recipients. Sergeant Bailey had been given the dubious honour of a Meritorious Service Medal: the kind of award usually reserved for clerks who write especially neat reports, or bombproof instructors who yell especially loud. It was a pat on the back for years of unremarkable service, several months too late to matter; Reid’s way of saying thank you without having sufficient grounds for granting a gallantry award. Considering all that Bailey had given to the battalion, Bill viewed it as a slap in the face. He wondered which was considered the greater medal, Bailey’s MSM or Hal’s Croix de Guerre.
Next came the promotions. Bill wasn’t surprised to hear his own name called; he’d been a lance corporal for longer than most, but then again he had been a private for longer than most as well. He could hear snickers as he marched forward, his drill still not up to par. He was glad nobody bothered with a parade when he was promoted to lance. When he arrived at the front of the battalion along with the other men awaiting new stripes, he was surprised to hear McCreery’s name called out too. It would be a shame to lose such a mature private to another section. Besides, somebody should have told him beforehand.
Company Sergeant Major Turner gave each man their new rank insignia and a few words of encouragement. “Good job on the boots, Lance Corporal Brown, probably the shiniest in the company, next to mine, alright? I can see you took your time with those buttons, very nice. I’m glad to see you’ve ditched that flappy cap, it was starting to annoy me.” Turner shook Bill’s hand and palmed a set of corporal stripes into his. “Congratulations, Corporal Brown. I knew you had it in you, okay? I guess you’ve finally earned that nickname: you’re really bombproof now, aren’t you?”
Bill furrowed his brow, half-frowned. “What’s that, Sir?”
“You’ve got Sergeant McCloud to thank for it. We’ll miss you around here, Corporal. And sew those stripes on straight this time, alright? The sergeant majors in England are less forgiving tha
n I am. Remember, you’re representing the battalion.”
Bill couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I’m sorry, Sir, can you say that again?”
Turner’s face turned soft with sympathy as he leaned in close. “I know your hearing hasn’t been very good since Fresnoy, okay? That’s the only reason McCloud managed to convince me to let you go. Make us proud. And don’t worry about your section; Lance Corporal McCreery will take good care of it.”
*
After the parade Bill found Turner and McCloud talking. He stood at a safe distance, letting them know he wanted to talk to them but without seeming to eavesdrop on their conversation. When the two were finished and Turner left, Bill walked slowly towards McCloud.
“Jim? What did you do?”
McCloud was unapologetic, firm. “Don’t get mad, Bill. You’ve done your share for this battalion, but it’s time you move on.”
“Move on where?”
McCloud’s tone turned stricter. “England. They need competent bombing instructors to teach the new men. You know most don’t even see a hand grenade until they get to the frontlines.”
“But what about the battalion? John?”
“For Christ’s sake, Bill. You still think he’s a prisoner? He’s been dead over two years.”
Bill’s mouth went dry, his voice shook as he searched for words and forced them out. “You knew, all this time?”
“Of course I knew; I was with him. He made me promise to keep you safe, and now I can finally be true to my word.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“You’ve been lying to me for two fucking years, now you’re having me sent away, and it doesn’t matter?”
McCloud sighed. “C and D Companies had been sent out to secure a gap in the line. We held it for a day and a half, you know that. Almost every man had been hit to some degree. Finally we got the order to retire, the forty or fifty of us that were left. Your brother, myself, and Turner were in good enough shape to make a run for it. He was hit. Turner and I tried to bring him away with us; it was only another hundred yards or so. He was hit again while we were dragging him. We left him. He was never taken prisoner.”
“You let me believe.”
“What else could I do? You’d crack if you knew the truth. And after Bailey gave you a section I certainly couldn’t say anything. Everyone will be better off with you in England. Kate too.”
“What the hell has she got to do with this?”
“I know what you’re thinking. Do a few weeks in England like a good boy, make friends with a savvy clerk and come back out here with the next draft of reinforcements. But I’m willing to bet they won’t send out a newly married man.”
Bill’s face screwed up in confusion. He felt like he was in the late stages of a chess game, and losing badly.
“Kate’s been in England for nearly a month.”
“So she’s just sitting around, waiting for me?”
“Not exactly. She’s an ambulance driver with the Volunteer Aid Detachment.”
“What?”
“She’s stationed not far from where you’ll be instructing. I’ve arranged for a small house–”
“A house? Jesus, Jim, have you gone mad?”
McCloud smiled benevolently, but there was a touch of something sinister, manipulative. “There are a lot of empty houses in England right now, rent is cheap. I only want you to be happy. Put all the unpleasantness behind you.”
“What does that mean?”
“Your little indiscretion at Albert. She stopped writing you for what, two months?”
Bill turned red with anger and embarrassment. “You bastard. How do you know about it?”
“I’ve been censoring the platoon’s letters since Mister Hudson was killed. One year ago. The job fell to Bailey and he asked me to deal with it. When Mister Carter arrived, he asked Bailey to keep handling it, and Bailey asked me. I’ve been in correspondence with her since January. I know everything, Bill. About you, about Kate, about the entire platoon.”
“Everything?”
“And a few things that weren’t in the letters. In particular an episode involving you and Post.”
Bill’s heart dropped.
“Don’t worry, Bill. Like I said, I only want you to be happy.” McCloud pulled a small jewellery box from his pocket. “There are three rings in there: a nice engagement ring, and two wedding bands; courtesy of Mister Carter. You should thank him before you leave.”
Bill didn’t.
*
“I can’t believe we’re saying goodbye,” Post said sadly. “I know we haven’t seen as much of each other over the past few months, but I’m really gonna miss you.”
Bill lit two cigarettes and handed one to Post. “Might be the last time we share a nail.”
“Let’s not talk about that,” Post replied, grasping for anything other than the inevitable. “That was some parade, huh?”
“Pointless.”
“That’s not true, Bill. If we can’t take a moment to remember the ones we lost, and to honour the ones who deserve it, what’s the meaning of it all? Sooner or later we’ll pass into history. We need to make our own way, tell our own story so it isn’t lost forever.”
“A parade passes by,” Bill said.
“Marches past,” Post corrected. “Besides, you got some stripes. That’s something, what’s a word you would use... tangible.”
“I like the ones I have.”
“Sew ‘em on top of the old ones; crooked too, you owe me that much.”
“Yeah.”
They stood smoking in silence for a long time, lighting new cigarettes, sharing them when they ran low, until both men had none left.
“Why don’t you want to go to England? You don’t want to face Kate?”
“No, I can do that. I just don’t want to leave the battalion. This is what I know now, Gary. Before I enlisted I never imagined anything like this could ever happen to me. I read about things like this, but now it’s my life. Or at least it was. How can I go from school, to war, to normal life?”
“With a smile, and a prayer.”
“You know I don’t pray.”
Post grinned. “Fine. Say one for me then. We’re not all bombproof.”
THE END
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
While I consider BOMBPROOF a deeply personal achievement, it is not one that I accomplished alone. The love and support of my family, especially my father, provided important feedback and encouragement. There have been too many notes, drafts, and marathon telephone calls to remember, but each one brought BOMBPROOF one step closer to completion.
Several of the characters are loosely based on the incredible friends that I made during my time in the army reserve. For their friendship and inspiration, I owe them my most sincere gratitude. Some will even recognize their namesakes.
Although BOMBPROOF contains a few historical errors that were necessary for dramatic purposes, a great deal of research was conducted. The Queen’s Own Rifles of Canada museum and their war diaries transcription project made this research much easier.
Special thanks go to Mr. Gary Switzer. When it comes to the Third Battalion, I believe he is the most knowledgeable man alive. As a mentor and as a friend, he has dedicated much time and effort to enlightening me. Any mistakes contained within the novel are my own.
Three poems that I greatly admire appear in BOMBPROOF. They were written by two British soldier-poets, Wilfred Owen and Leslie Coulson, who died in the war.
Lieutenant Wilfred Owen is widely considered one of the greatest poets of the First World War. On November 4th, 1918, just one week before hostilities ended, he was killed in action during the crossing of the Sambre-Oise Canal. At the time, he belonged to the 2nd Battalion of the Manchester Regiment. His parents were informed of his death one week later, on November 11th, 1918, as church bells across England were ringing out in recognition of the war’s end. His poems “With An Identity Disc”
and “Futility” were reproduced from “Wilfred Owen: The War Poems,” published in London by Chatto & Windus in 1994, and edited by Jon Stallworthy. These poems were used with the kind permission of the Wilfred Owen Association.
Leslie Coulson was a sergeant with the 12th Battalion of the London Regiment when he was wounded on October 7th, 1916. He died at a dressing station the next day. A hand-written copy of his latest poem, “Who Made The Law?” was found amongst his possessions. The poem was published by E. MacDonald of London in 1917 in a short collection: “From an Outpost and Other Poems.”
Finally, I would like to acknowledge the service and sacrifice of the members of the Third Battalion, Canadian Expeditionary Force. From 1914-1919, over six thousand men served with the Third. Well over one thousand lost their lives. Thousands more were wounded, but an exact figure is impossible to determine. It is to these men that I respectfully dedicate BOMBPROOF. I hope that I have accurately reflected their courage as well as their flaws, their inspirations and obligations, and above all, the spirit of comradery that bound them together. They belonged to one of the finest infantry battalions ever assembled, and deserve our respect, love, and remembrance.
HISTORICAL NOTE
BOMBPROOF is a work of fiction, but draws heavily upon the history of the Third Battalion (Toronto Regiment). Below is a brief history of the Third.
When Canada went to war in August 1914, volunteers were plentiful. Soldiers from dozens of Canadian militia regiments were hastily reorganized into overseas service battalions. This allowed for a new, integrated administrative system, as well as a new sense of belonging. This was imminently important, as thousands of British-born men, many with military experience or even serving members of the Canadian militia, formed the majority of the First Contingent.
The volunteers were looking for adventure, a chance to do something meaningful, steady work, or a free ticket back home. Some already knew their way around a barracks or parade ground. Others had been made tough by hard living. Some were naive and unfit. One thing that they all had in common was that few imagined the war would last longer than a year, and none knew what exactly they were getting themselves into.
The Third Battalion (Toronto Regiment) was formed out of volunteers from three pre-war militia units: The Queen’s Own Rifles of Canada, The Royal Grenadiers, and The Governor General’s Body Guard. Some members had years of service. Others volunteered with these units soon after the outbreak of war, often assisted by serving friends or family, or by false claims of previous time with the British army. In October 1914, over one thousand men went overseas as members of the Third.