“Basically.”
“Oh hell, how are we gonna get in? We don’t have tickets.”
“I guess the gentlemen callers meet the ladies here and head off to a private room. Maybe we can bluff our way in.”
“Maybe,” Post echoed, his attention being pulled towards one of the young women serving drinks.
“Can’t resist la filles, eh?”
“Think they’re for sale?”
“Some of them. The one you’re looking at, what’s she selling?” Bill asked, straining his eyes.
“Wine, beer, oranges.”
“Aha! Go buy an orange from her, and don’t expect estaminet rates. It’ll be about fifty francs I’d think.”
“Fifty? For an orange?”
“No. It’s a high society thing, you buy the orange and you get her too.”
“Oh. Classy.”
“You got enough money?”
“I’ve been saving up for my next leave to England, but they’ll be plenty of time to make my money back before then. I’ve got almost a thousand francs.”
“Before you spend it all on girls, can you loan me, let’s say, a hundred?”
“No cash, eh?” Post said, handing over a wad of paper money. “Allowment to the wife; I understand.”
“Allotment,” Bill corrected, and set off in search of bottled beer.
*
After Post’s time between the sheets, the girl he had bought the orange from brought him and Bill to an opera box that was always kept empty for unexpected but very important guests. Free food and alcohol were provided, while the girl and a few friends of hers kept Bill and Post company.
“How much did you pay for this?” Bill asked.
Post winked and grinned lecherously. “I performed long, hard physical labour for the young lady.”
When Mistinguette appeared on stage, the crowd erupted. Post leapt to his feet and began blowing kisses. She could sing, dance, act, tell jokes, and most of all, hold the eyes of every man, and woman for that matter, in the audience. Except Bill’s.
*
By the time their leave was up, both men were penniless. The hotels and expensive meals of the first few days added up quickly, and the pair had ended up taking most of their meals, and sleeping, at various servicemen’s organizations. Bill had even spent the last two days sober. Closer to the front they learned that the battalion was still in the vicinity of Orlencourt, but preparing to move back up to the line.
Reporting in at company headquarters, Bill expected a very long, very loud lecture. Technically speaking he had not only stolen another man’s identity, he had deserted as well. B Company headquarters went silent when Bill and Post entered. Clerks, signallers, runners, and officers all averted their gaze.
“Brown,” Captain Reid called softly. “Come here, please.”
Bill nervously approached Reid’s desk, came smartly to attention and rendered a crisp salute, by way of an apology. “I’m sorry, Sir, I don’t–”
Reid’s expression was enough to silence Bill: pale and sympathetic. He handed over a telegram. “This came for you early this morning.”
Telegrams were rarely sent to men in infantry battalions. It could only be bad personal news.
URGENT
GENERAL POST OFFICE, LONDON 2135
BROWN, W, 9356, 3 CAN INF, FRANCE
WIFE IN SOUTH LONDON HOSPITAL FOR WOMEN STOP MISCARRIAGE STOP COME AT ONCE FULL STOP
Bill was in his own world, oblivious to everything except the telegram. He didn’t even know that Kate had been pregnant. More papers followed: a letter from Kate dated one week earlier, a compassionate leave pass, an envelope stuffed with money. Reid laid them on the desk along with Bill’s paybook and identity discs.
“We’ve all been saying prayers for your wife, and we’ve made a collection around the company. Buy her some flowers from all of us. Sergeant McCloud has arranged for an automobile to take you directly to Calais, and convinced the CO not to charge you with desertion. The leave pass is good for two months. Corporal Post, would you please pack a bag for Mister Brown,” it was a statement, not a request. “Include some corporal’s stripes.”
Post gathered up the papers from Reid’s desk. “I’ll get Payne’s paybook back to him, Sir.”
“I know. And once Brown is on his way, we’re going to have a little chat.”
Toronto, 1921
“Poor McCreery had to take your spot at the brigade school. He was pissed,” Post said, laughing a little and pouring three glasses of water. “Not at having to instruct on the bombs, but at not getting a chance to learn the Lewis Gun. He must have gone for nearly a year before he was actually qualified on that damned thing.”
“What happened to you, Gary?” Kate asked. “Wasn’t Mister Reid angry that you orchestrated the whole thing?”
“Oh, he was mad at first. But I accused him of being jealous that he never got to see the Folies Bergere, which amused him too much to want to charge me with anything.”
“And Mister McCloud? Did you ever thank him for arranging your compassionate leave, William?”
“He did what any platoon sergeant would have done for one of his section commanders,” Bill replied.
“Any decent platoon sergeant,” Kate corrected.
“Reid and Carter went to bat for you too. So did Turner,” Post added. “It was mostly McCloud though.”
Bill ignored that. “What’s with the water, Gary? I might as well finish that drink.”
Post turned to Kate for approval. “It really was just his second drink.”
“Oh, I’m sure it was, if you count a half pint of beer mixed with a half pint of whiskey as one drink.”
“Come on, Dear, seeing McCloud really set me on edge,” Bill protested.
“Fine. I’ll see you at home.”
“Wait, wait, it’ll just take a minute.”
“If you get drunk, you’re not sleeping in bed tonight.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
CHAPTER FIVE
England, 1917
Sitting on a nightstand next to a hospital bed, Bill rubbed at his wedding ring constantly. It was just after midnight, and he was waiting for Kate to wake up. A part of him wanted to nudge her into consciousness, or hoped that she would sleep fitfully and open her eyes soon. Waiting for her was excruciating; he wanted to know how she was feeling, what she was thinking. He wanted to hear her voice, to look into her eyes, but mostly to tell her that he loved her and that everything would work out alright.
With nothing better to do, he began to dig through the bag that Post had packed for him. Sitting at the very top was Kate’s letter. Reading it would be the next best thing to sate his appetite for her companionship. But it would be the old Kate, the one writing to say that she was pregnant, that they would be a family now. It would be an illusion, a lost prospect. He shoved the letter further into his bag.
A rag and a small bottle of brass polish had been set directly beneath the letter; Post knew Bill well. Removing his cap and collar badges, he set about attempting to restore their previous shine. Two hours later, all that remained were a few stubborn green-black marks. Trying to keep himself awake, Bill stood and leaned against the wall, then slowly allowed himself to slump to the floor.
“Am I dreaming?” Kate mumbled.
Bill’s eyes snapped open, and he scrambled to his knees. Kate had the most amazing green eyes, he suddenly realized; like little perfect emeralds. “No, Kate, you’re not dreaming. I’m here.”
“William. You were here before,” Kate replied. “But it was just a dream. Is it really you?”
Bill held out his soiled rag and now-gleaming cap and collar badges. “I bet dream Bill doesn’t stink of Brasso.”
“Oh, good, it is you,” Kate whispered, before closing her eyes and falling asleep again.
Hearing Kate speak was like a lullaby for Bill, who rested his head on the edge of the bed, and fell asleep too.
*
When Bill awoke it was light out. Kate was sitting partway up in bed, slowly running her fingers through his hair and humming Daisy Bell. She hadn’t seen him smile like that for three years. “Good morning, William.”
“Your hands will get dirty,” Bill said through a yawn.
“No they won’t.”
Bill sidled up to Kate and laid a kiss on her lips. “Yes, they will.”
“It’s your breath that concerns me,” Kate replied, kissing him back.
“Guess I haven’t brushed my teeth since Paris.”
“Paris?” She asked with a big smile and a little laugh.
“It’s a long story, I’ll tell you later. And don’t worry,” Bill said, holding up his ring finger. “I was a good boy.”
Kate’s smile faded as she remembered the reason she had come to Europe in the first place. Bill had not always been faithful to her.
Bill recognized the expression and decided to change the subject, his own face contorting remorsefully. “They made me a corporal again. Would you sew my stripes back on for me? Please.”
“Of course, William.”
Toronto, 1921
Kate was true to her word, and when they returned home, Bill was condemned to a reading chair in the living room. Kate’s parents were asleep on the loveseat; baby John in a little crib. She gently lifted him up, waking him and sending him into a crying fit.
Kate’s mother woke too. “Everything okay, Kit?”
“When was the last time John was changed and fed?”
“What time is it now?”
“Just after ten o’clock.”
“About two hours ago. I gave him half a bottle, and he still had a clean nappy then.”
“He doesn’t now. I’ll give him a change and take him to bed. Thanks for staying so late, mom.”
“Oh it was wonderful. John is such a handsome boy.”
“You’re welcome,” Bill chimed in, already slumped in his chair. “It comes from my mother’s side.”
Kate’s mother hadn’t approved of Bill’s sense of humour since 1914, but attributed it to a side-effect of his time in the army. “Very funny, William. Do you want me to change him, Kit?”
“No, it’s okay. If you and dad want to stay–”
“That’s alright, Kit, it’s a short walk.”
“Night conditions!” Bill blurted out. “Extra sentries always help.”
Kate’s mother looked at her quizzically.
“I think William is saying that he’s had a bit too much to drink, and it might be nice if you and dad stayed. Why don’t you go upstairs to the guest room, we’ll be up in a few minutes,” Kate said, changing John.
Once her parents were upstairs, she slid one side of her dress down and began to feed him.
“Do I get any?” Bill asked.
“Don’t be a boor, William.”
“Oh, you love it. I’m the funniest guy in the city, and the city must have at least two or three dozen residents.”
Kate stifled a smile and shook her head in mock disapproval. “Goodnight, William.”
“You’re really gonna make me sleep down here?”
“If you sober up at some point, you can join me then. I don’t want you groping me all night.”
Bill had a habit of doing that after drinking.
“Fair play, Dear. But you know the best thing to help a man sober up is a little milk.”
“Goodnight, William.”
Bill couldn’t sleep. He was still lightheaded from the whiskey, and wanted nothing more than to join Kate in bed. He stumbled to his desk and began sorting through his “war junk” drawer; looking for a photograph that Kate had sent to him in late 1916. Old postcards, citations, and letters crowded the drawer, medals and badges scattered throughout. Bill removed the entire drawer and laid it on the desk.
Kate’s letter was still unopened, “S.W.A.K.” – sealed with a kiss – blissfully scribbled in pencil on the flap. He kissed the seal in turn, then opened it.
August 27th, 1917
Dearest darling William,
I have joyful news: I am pregnant. I wanted to wait until I was certain to write you, although I had a feeling just after you left that I might be. What will we name the baby? I was thinking David if he’s a boy, Ruth if she’s a girl. What do you think?
I know you’ll return to your instructor’s job and join me in England again. Soon we’ll be a real family.
I have a lot more letters to write, so I must be off. More later.
All my love,
Katherine
XOXOXO
Bill returned the letter to the envelope and went upstairs. Kate was still awake, John lying on her chest, somewhere between still feeding and fast asleep.
“Don’t tell me you sobered up that quickly,” Kate whispered.
“I’ll prove it,” Bill replied, carefully lying in bed next to her, not wanting to disturb the baby.
The whiskey, beer, and smoke were still easily detectable on his lips and tongue. But when he kissed her it was soft and sweet; loyal love, not drunken lust.
“Sober enough?” Bill asked after a long kiss.
Kate said nothing; she had fallen asleep. When John woke and began to fuss, Bill carried him downstairs so he wouldn’t wake Kate. “Let mommy sleep, John. I’ll tell you a story. It’s about a very brave soldier that we named you after.”
END OF PART I
PART II
DIED OF WOUNDS
But when the dreaded moment’s there
He’ll face us all, a soldier yet,
Watch his bared wounds with unmoved air,
(Though tell-tale lashes still are wet),
And smoke his woodbine cigarette.
–Eva Dobell
CHAPTER SIX
Toronto, 1923
The family had requested that veterans not wear their medals or association badges. Bill and Post had worn matching black armbands. For the first time on Armistice Day, the Leaf and Crown was closed. Both men sat at a little table, pints of beer and cigarettes quickly disappearing. A funeral card lay between them.
In Loving Memory of Robert Leonard Carter
who died suddenly on Tuesday November 6th, 1923
in his thirtieth year
May his soul rest in peace
“We have loved him in life, let us not forget him in death.”
- St. Ambrose
“I think his parents were glad we came after all,” Bill managed. “Just to know that we still care.”
Post had one elbow on the table, his head resting in his hand. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “Even without medals our boys stood out, I think. It must make his folks feel worse, seeing how many of us are doing just fine.”
“‘Died suddenly,’” Bill mused slowly, handling the little white card. “Not quite a lie. I guess a bullet through the heart is sudden.”
“It wasn’t sudden; he was six years in dying,” Post replied. “He chose that day for a reason.”
“Passchendaele,” Bill said, the word oozing from his lips. “But he made it; he was a survivor.”
“Sure, when there was a war to fight still. When the people around him understood what a little brass stripe, or an inch of ribbon meant to a man; what it tells you about him. Civilians just don’t understand that. I always invited him, you know, to any of our little get-togethers here. I thought it would be good if he talked about it with some other veterans. I guess he wanted to be done with it.”
“We talk a lot about the war, and we’re doing okay, aren’t we?”
“I think so.”
“‘May his soul rest in peace.’ If only he had talked a little more with us, it just might.”
“Too late for that.”
“No.” Bill stood and marched to a wall covered in wartime studio portraits. He pulled down a photograph of Carter and brought it back to the table, placing it on top of the funeral card.
“Too early for a drink, Sir?” Bill asked.
“Of course not,” Post
replied. “But the Mister needs some good stuff; let me see if I have any.”
Post went to the bar and retrieved a bottle of his best whiskey, poured a glass, then returned to the table, setting it next to the photo. “Sorry I don’t have any cognac or fancy stuff, but hey, it’s free.”
“And we’re drinking to you,” Bill added. “Sante.”
“Here’s at you,” Post said, a strange smile coming over his face. “Hey, Bob, do you remember back when we first met?”
“You two hated each other,” Bill said. “You were gonna get Post court-martialled!”
“But Reid wouldn’t let you,” Post went on. “And if he hadn’t turned me into a scout, I wouldn’t have been there to save your sorry ass.”
“And if you hadn’t saved his sorry ass, we wouldn’t be sitting here today, would we?”
“Look at that, Bob. Bill is trying to tell the story.”
“My apologies,” Bill said, lighting a cigarette. “I’ll let the two of you tell it; I’ll just listen.”
France, 1917
On the third day, the men had begun to grumble. It was mid-October, and the battalion had left behind the towns around Lens, heading north on foot. Everybody knew their destination was Passchendaele; a battlefield that had turned hardened veterans into quivering, mumbling derelicts. But it was the twenty-nine miles they had marched in full equipment that had caused their discontent.
Each day the names of the little villages they passed by had steadily turned from French to Flemish. Haillicourt, Haut Rieuz, and Berguette; then Steenbecque, Wallen, and finally Terdeghem.
Terdeghem, though well-behind the current frontline, was just five miles west of the Belgian border. Belgium was a country which most of the men had never been to. It had been over a year since the battalion left it for the Somme. Since their disastrous defeat at Regina Trench, their glorious triumph at Vimy Ridge, their pyrrhic victory at Fresnoy, and their futile stalemate north of Lens, few old soldiers remained.
For the next two weeks the men prepared themselves for the upcoming assault. It was an old ritual by now: cleaning gear, practicing moving forward under fire, and rekindling their intimate relationships with machine-guns, rifles, bombs, and bayonets. Baseball games lightened the mood and acted as enjoyable physical training, while formal inspections instilled discipline and pride. Altogether, the most important attributes of any infantry unit were being bolstered: capability, confidence, and cohesion.