Bill choked down a big gulp of whiskey and forced a smile. “Could’ve been worse.”
An hour later Bill was still the only man in La Boot. The rare bottle of whiskey was empty, his wallet nearly was too. Green, Hal, and the void were finally off his mind. But Kate had been steadily taking their place. First it was her eyes, her face, her hair. Then her body.
Bill licked his lips and leaned over the bar.
“We have no whiskey left,” La Fille said with her perfect accent.
Bill locked his eyes to hers as his breathing slowed and deepened. “You know, you’re a very pretty girl.”
It wasn’t the exhaustion or the alcohol. It wasn’t even the thought of dying a virgin. Bill just wanted to. Gently he pressed his lips to hers. She didn’t hesitate or pull back as his hands fondled her breasts, delicately at first, then with increasing urgency, as if she might change her mind and run off; or he might wake up from what was only a dream. Another minute and she was lying on the bar. Bill was tearing away his uniform with one hand, sliding the other up her skirt. La Fille had one hand on Bill’s back, the other on his cheek as they continued to kiss wildly.
The front door opened. A tall man, clean-shaven and wearing a fresh uniform, cap in hand, with a shock of reddish-blond hair stepped into La Boot.
“Fuck off!”
The man left immediately.
Bill climbed off of La Fille, finished his drink and pulled out his last fifteen francs. A pang of guilt shot through him as he realized he had subconsciously saved just enough for a session with La Fille; it passed just as quickly. “Go lock the door.”
*
“I understand his popularity, Sir,” Second Lieutenant Carter said. “But he is simply not fit to lead. Just because the men like him doesn’t mean I need to let his... antics, go unpunished. A court martial is the only sensible way to proceed.”
Captain Reid paced about the cellar that served as company headquarters, startlingly empty. The officers, signallers, and runners had not been exempt from the heavy casualties.
“Lance Corporal Post is your man, Mister Carter, and I respect your zeal. But as you say, he is a popular NCO, and, despite your misgivings, one of the best we have left. I think the battalion has been through enough in the past few days.”
As Carter opened his mouth to protest, the company commander raised a hand, silencing him pre-emptively. “What has Sergeant Bailey said about the matter?”
Carter waited a moment, ensuring his superior was finished speaking. “Well, Sir, he and Lance Corporal Post are friends. The sergeant believes I’m being vindictive, though he won’t say it to my face. Bailey’s an old man, Sir, capable, but sometimes unreasonable. And Six Platoon is mine, not his.”
“Nobody is debating who is in command of Six Platoon, but B Company, including your platoon, is mine. I am aware of Sergeant Bailey’s supposed shortcomings, Mister Carter. I am also aware of the need for men like Lance Corporal Post. So here’s what’s going to happen: you will not request to lay charges against Post, I would deny them anyway, and in exchange, I will transfer him out of your platoon. As far as the men, and the lance corporal are concerned, it’s an innocent transfer and promotion. Yes, it’s about time he earned another stripe, and he would make a fine addition to the battalion’s scout section. Are we understanding each other?”
“Yes, Sir, it is understood.”
“Good, that settles that. Thank you, Mister Carter. Now, I need nominations. You’ll be short three section commanders, maybe four. I want the names of a few privates you think can step up. Also, I need names for gallantry awards; nothing posthumous. I need living heroes, not martyrs, better for the men that way, yes? Perhaps one of the privates in line for a promotion: two birds with one stone.”
Carter shifted a little, unsure if he should speak.
“Yes, Mister Carter, let’s have it.”
“Well, Sir, about the medals. There’s been a lot of talk about one man, Private Hallicks, but he was accidently killed returning from the German lines.”
“The only name I’ve heard tossed around the company is Sergeant Bailey’s, and the man is overdue for some recognition. Besides, Private Hallicks is out of the question.”
“May I ask why, Sir?”
“The circumstances of Private Hallicks’ death are... unclear, as I’m sure you are aware. Recommending him for a medal would of course require a full citation, witnesses, and so forth. You see, that would only mean unseemly questions regarding the details of his death.”
“You mean the imbecile Lewis gunner who shot my man might be punished?” snapped Carter, taking a step towards the company commander. “Hallicks stayed behind and covered our last retreat with a few lousy hand grenades. For God’s sake, the man even collected identity discs from our dead on his way back in. Just because someone else fucked up, pardon my language, Sir, and you don’t want to deal with it, doesn’t mean we can just ignore what he did.”
As the captain began to speak, Carter steadied himself and raised a hand to silence his superior officer. “If you won’t accept a nomination for Private Hallicks, for the Distinguished Conduct Medal, then I’ll go ahead with my charges against Post, straight to the commanding officer if I need to. And I’ll get to the bottom of whoever killed my man, and see him court-martialled, maybe even kill him myself.”
For the first time that day Captain Reid smiled slightly. “I’m glad to see you feel so strongly about your platoon, Mister Carter. Very well, write up a citation and I’ll see what I can do. And if I recall he was killed by a German sniper, you know, the single shot through the heart routine. But be warned, the CO can only approve so many medals from each platoon. If you insist on nominating Private Hallicks, don’t bother nominating Sergeant Bailey. Understand?”
“Yes, Sir. Post gets off scot-free, Bailey is ignored, and I need to barter with my company commander in order to have the bravest man in the battalion receive the recognition he deserves. I understand.”
“That’s all. Send in your man Corporal McCloud on your way out, I’d like a word with him.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“One more thing, Mister Carter. Don’t ever raise your voice to me, or threaten me again. It’s been a long couple of days, and I can see that you are very tired. Go to bed, Mister Carter.”
Carter saluted and made his way to the cellar steps but something inside him demanded a more dignified end to the conversation. “I’ll talk to Bailey about replacements for Miller, Burns, and Post, Sir. But you said maybe a fourth?”
“Send in Corporal McCloud.”
*
In a few minutes it was all over. Bill and La Fille were lying naked under the sheets. A box of matches and a half-empty pack of stale-smelling cigarettes sat on a little side table. He struck one as she began to get up. Bill laid an arm on hers and dragged her over to him. She was tired and he was drunk, probably more drunk than he had ever been before. Silently they shared the cigarette, Bill’s hands taking a final pass over her body, his eyes trying to cement the image for future reference.
Too soon La Fille was dressing herself and gathering Bill’s clothes together. It was the nicest bed Bill had laid in since his leave in England, nearly a year before. Suddenly it occurred to him that he was up for another two-week furlough soon. He had completely forgotten about it over the past few days. La Fille piled Bill’s uniform on the bed where she had laid only a moment before. Taking the cue, he snubbed out his cigarette and snatched the pack. He dressed in silence and stumbled away from La Boot.
Dreamlike, the ruins of Albert swirled around Bill as he made his way towards the brickfields. Beneath the wrecked basilica, he stopped to light another cigarette. Remembering what Post had told him a few days before about prostitutes, and La Fille in particular, he was glad that he had opted for a condom. It was the only sensible decision he had made all night.
Wishing he could turn back time, Bill slunk to the ground against the wall of the basilica. The Leaning Virgin seemed to watch over him disapp
rovingly. He began to cry quietly, and think of Katherine. She was four thousand miles away, waiting for him, wanting him. And now he had betrayed her. After more than two years of faithfulness, he had ruined it all in a few minutes of drunken lust. Maybe the others were right. A bombproof job in England might be the only way to save any chance of marrying Kate, and himself for that matter, but that seemed less important. Bill shook the thought from his head. The battalion was the only thing that mattered now; it was the only thing he had left. Kate would never forgive him, and yet he would have to tell her the truth. No more lies, no more secrets.
*
“To be quite honest, Sir, Bailey isn’t the man for the job. Company sergeant majors need to be organized and dependable. Not that Bailey isn’t, but those just aren’t his strongest qualities,” Corporal McCloud said.
“Yes, Six Platoon doesn’t seem to place much confidence in Sergeant Bailey, but he is the senior man, and it’s either him or Sergeant Turner,” Captain Reid said.
“Turner’s a good soldier, Sir. I knew him before the war. Also, we were at Ypres together, in C Company.”
“The man annoys me. I think I would find Bailey easier to work with.”
“Maybe so, but Turner is, in my opinion, better suited to the position.”
“Very well. I only asked for your thoughts because it may well affect you; soon. I’ve recommended you for a commission, Corporal. Before long you might have my job. But for now, Seven Platoon needs an officer, as does Eight. The choice is yours.”
McCloud remained silent as the implications of the captain’s words sank in. Officers didn’t tend to last long; Reid himself was a replacement with less than two years in the army and already a company commander. Promotions came quickly when the man in charge got killed with regularity.
“I’m flattered, Sir, but I thought we had discussed this some time ago. I don’t want a commission.”
“I can’t force you to accept it, but we’ll see how you feel in a few days. Tell me something though. You’re an Original, and a pre-war militia man to boot. Don’t you have any desire to be promoted?”
“Well, you see, Sir, I prefer the enlisted side of things.”
“So you’d rather be a sergeant? Fine, you can have Turner’s platoon, number Five, they’ll be needing someone to step in if he’ll be taking over as CSM. Or again, Seven or Eight.”
“No, it’s not quite like that, Sir. You see, I have an obligation to one of the men in Six Platoon.”
“Oh? Perhaps we can come to an understanding, for the good of the battalion. What do you owe this man, and how can we make it right?”
“It’s personal. I’d rather not talk about it.”
“I see. And you’re certain that you don’t want a few days to consider it?”
McCloud was already considering it. He could request that Bill be given a bombproof job outside the battalion, and be done with the debt he owed John. McCloud would be beholden to Reid, however, and be obliged to take a commission. There had to be a better way.
“I’m sorry, Sir, but I think I need to stay in Six Platoon. For now.”
“Very well. Maybe you aren’t quite ready to take on the extra responsibility. Neither was I when B Company fell into my hands. Be warned, Corporal, the day will come when a promotion isn’t an option. You were very lucky that both Mister Carter and Sergeant Bailey survived the last few days, and that you’re now the only section commander Six Platoon has left.”
McCloud shook his head. “The only section commander left? Lance Corporal Post is waiting just outside, he–”
“Is being transferred and promoted, as you should be. Send him in when you leave. That’s all, Corporal.”
*
Captain Reid had been delicate, even jubilant while relaying the news to Lance Corporal Post. Despite that, and the formal response Post had managed to eke out, it still felt like a stab in the back. Post was being torn from his platoon, from his boys, and he knew the man responsible was Carter. Sure, there was a promotion in it for him: an extra stripe on his sleeve and another five cents a day, but he didn’t feel like celebrating. He needed a drink, or better yet several.
There was only one place Post could think of going after the captain’s news, but La Boot was locked up. Dejected, and once again out of cigarettes, he made his way towards the brickfields. Any other man wouldn’t have seen the little heap in the darkness, but Post’s keen eyes recognized the tiny form and hunched shoulders.
“Is that you, Bill? What are you doing out here?” There was no reply. Post crouched next to Bill and nudged him into consciousness.
“Oh, hey, dad,” Bill muttered.
Post could smell the whiskey on Bill’s breath, and pulled him to his feet in one swift motion. “Come on, it’s too Goddamned cold to be slumming it tonight. Say, you got any nails?”
Bill fumbled in his pocket and held out the pack from La Boot. “It was just sitting there by the bed.” He had been drifting in and out of consciousness for some time. Now his mind raced as he tried to determine if the past few hours had been real or a dream.
Post held an unlit cigarette in one hand, suddenly remembering where he had misplaced his spare pack several days prior. “What bed? La Boot? La Fille?”
Bill put his fingers to his mouth, rubbing his lips back and forth in drunken distress, then began to stammer hopelessly. “Oh God. No. Fuck. Post. The girl.”
The truth washed over Post; too destructive and hurtful to be allowed to be known. “It’s okay, Bill, relax. One last little secret, just between me and you.”
“Oh, Kate,” Bill whimpered, slumping to the ground.
Post lit his cigarette. “It’ll be alright. You made a mistake, lots of people have. With any luck you’re drunk enough not to remember this in the morning, so let’s get you back to billets, okay?”
Post lifted Bill to his feet once again, but after a few unsteady steps, simply hauled him over his right shoulder. He was a tiny kid really, and probably weighed as much as Post did when he was twelve years old.
Bill was unconscious again when they arrived at the Slag Heap Hotel. Lincoln was lying in the middle of the structure covered in two blankets; his own and Old Jack’s. He had laid out the remaining four blankets to either side of him, ready to receive Bill and Post. With Bill tucked in, Post crawled over to his side and bundled himself up, wondering which of his men the second blanket had belonged to. Post knew this would be his last night with Three Section. They should have been celebrating or reminiscing. Instead, he lay awake listening to the sound of Lincoln snoring and Bill whimpering.
8
The next morning the survivors were slow to rise. Already several hundred replacements were milling about, cap and collar badges in place. Cloth shoulder patches, a red rectangle designating the First Division, and just above, a green triangle indicating the Third Battalion were already affixed as well. Still, their fresh uniforms and mutual anxiety easily distinguishable from the veterans. Each company was busy administering to the needs of the new men, deciding where the fresh cogs would fit into the devastated remains of the battalion. Bailey and McCloud were waiting impatiently for Carter to deliver Six Platoon’s new draft of replacements.
“Tell me honestly, how did the Mister perform?” McCloud asked. “I only saw him after the first withdrawal, and I can’t say he impressed me much.”
“Sort of nervous, right?” Bailey replied.
“Yeah, you could call it that. He got into an argument with Post in front of everybody. I can’t be sure, but I think it was Carter who got him sent to the scout section.”
“Best not to think of that. From what I saw he did alright. Sure, nervous at first, helping to break ground one minute, yelling at exhausted men the next. Overall he got better as the day went on, as he got used to it all. Now that he’s been under fire I can start to really mould him. Anyway, I’ll worry about him. Who do you like for new section commanders?”
“I don’t mind admitting that Post’s men are th
e best in the platoon. It’s a shame Green got his, he was my first choice. Hallicks would have been fine too, if it wasn’t for his big mouth. Anyway, Lincoln for sure, I don’t know about Bill though, a little too, I don’t know, melancholy maybe. He thinks too much.”
If he hadn’t been speaking to his platoon sergeant, McCloud might have also mentioned the significantly higher mortality rates NCOs tended to suffer. In either case he didn’t mention his own personal obligation to keep Bill as safe as possible.
Bailey was tapping a pencil against a notepad. He hadn’t felt this energized for months; since Mount Sorrel. The loss of three out of four section commanders, and the imminent addition of new privates to the platoon had given him purpose again. Even with McCloud’s help, there was a lot of work to be done before the platoon would be up and running as it should.
“I’m all for Lincoln, but if not Bill, who? And we’ll need a third besides,” Bailey said. “Don’t you think he would rise to the challenge? Accept that he needs to take some more responsibility and work it out for himself?”
“Bill’s a little quiet. NCOs need to speak up, make themselves heard.”
As if on cue, a loud, familiar voice boomed from behind them. “Like this, Jimmy?”
It was Mark Blake. Though not an Original, he was an old hand and had been wounded at Mount Sorrel several months earlier. He had been a private then, but now he wore a corporal’s rank on each arm and the gold stripe wounded men were entitled to on his lower left cuff. He stood at the head of fifteen or so privates in full marching order. Carter was standing at a distance, observing his newest NCO.
“Replacements for Six Platoon reporting, Sergeant.”
The three NCOs grinned widely at each other as Bailey and McCloud rushed to meet Blake. They nearly embraced, but remembering they were now among new men, merely shook hands.
“I thought you’d lose that thing for sure,” McCloud said, indicating Blake’s left leg. “Have a limp?”
“Just a little, good as new, almost, hurts sometimes, just a little. Uh, good to be back, McCloud, Sergeant.”
“Well I’m glad you’re here, Blake. And congratulations on the promotion, that’s one less NCO I need to decide on. I assume you heard about the last couple days,” Bailey said.