Bombproof Read online

  “Yeah, I had a few numbers thrown my way, looks like more than two thirds of the battalion got crocked. How about my old section though, who’s left?”

  “Just Lincoln and Bill,” McCloud replied.

  Blake exhaled heavily, his lips forming a little “O.” “Jesus. The others, killed, wounded?”

  “Green and Old Jack are okay, but you won’t be seeing them again.” McCloud sighed. “Hal was killed.”

  “What about the Lance?” Blake asked eagerly.

  “Promoted out, he’s a full corporal with the scout section now,” Bailey announced. “But we can talk about all this later. Tell me, how are these new men you’ve brought me?”

  “Mostly pretty damn keen. One of them even knows Bill.”

  “Oh yeah?” McCloud asked. “It’ll be nice for Bill to see an old friend. Who is it?”

  “I’m not sure how well they really know each other, or if they’ve even met before. The man’s name is Tom Payne. He’s engaged to be married to Bill’s sister. Mister Carter helped me pull some strings to get him into Six Platoon, but he’s the good sort. If you don’t mind, I’d take Bill and Lincoln in my section, Payne too.”

  “Sorry Mark,” Bailey said. “I need Lincoln and Bill for NCOs. And Bill’s gonna need all the help he can get. Who are the best three?”

  “Well there’s the little guy on the end, Stinson, the older fellow next to him is McCreery, they’re pals by the way, and, you see the young lookin’ one with the idiotic grin? That’s Roy,” Corporal Blake explained, pointing out each man. “I’ve only known most of this lot a few days, but I think they’re among the best.”

  “And Payne makes four. I think Bill can handle four,” Sergeant Bailey said.

  “Jim, you can take three of these replacements, that’ll put you up to six in your section. Mark, you’ll take over Miller’s section, that’s number two, there’s only one man left, so pick another four or five men for yourself. Lincoln will take Burns’ leftovers and whoever is left of the new men; should all even out roughly. Feel free to trade amongst yourselves, but I want a full platoon roster by the end of the day, that’ll be on you, Jim. Okay?”

  McCloud smiled; the old Bailey was back. “Yes, Sergeant.”

  *

  “Wake up, Bill.” It was Lincoln, freshly shaved and with an air of professionalism about him.

  Bill was hungover again, even worse than he had been the day the battalion moved into the trenches. “Oh God, what?”

  “Well first off, you missed breakfast. I figured you could use the rest, and I know you don’t normally eat the morning after imbibing.”

  Bill rolled over and buried his face in his blanket. “Well that’s very thoughtful of you. And yet, you’re waking me up. Tell Post to give me a few more minutes, okay?”

  “Uh, well, that’s the thing. Post has been transferred to the scout section.”

  Bill sat up, nearly vomited, and swallowed deeply. “What?”

  “I know, it’s hard to believe.”

  “So I guess they put you in charge of me, eh?”

  “Actually, I’m taking over Four Section from Burns.”

  Bill could feel goose bumps breaking out all over his body. “But that just leaves me.”

  “That’s right, Lance.”

  Bill propped his head up with both hands, elbows to his knees. “You’re kidding me.”

  “No. Three Section is yours.”

  “Bombproof,” Bill whispered to himself.

  Lincoln nodded, not quite sure what Bill meant, but determined to encourage him in any way possible. “I brought along a few things for you also, from Hal’s pack. He wrote a little note in his paybook that he wanted you to have his personal things. There wasn’t much.” Lincoln produced Hal’s scarf, along with a half-empty bottle of HP sauce. “There’s one more thing.”

  Bill fought back tears as Lincoln laid an identity disc in his hand.

  “The other day you said there were some Originals whose name you couldn’t remember. Don’t forget Hal. He’s watching over you.”

  Bill removed the cord from around his neck that his own identity discs were attached to, and began to sob. “Will you tie it on for me?”

  Lincoln affixed Hal’s disc to the flimsy length of white twine, placed it back around Bill’s neck, tucked it under his shirt, and left.

  Bill sat alone in the little shack that a few days before had contained his five closest companions. After two years of transfers, promotions, casualties, and replacements, he was the last man standing.

  Whether it had been God’s will, dumb luck, or the watchful eyes and supportive hands of his old section members, Bill didn’t know. But for the first time since he had left Canada, he knew in his heart and in his mind that he would survive the purgatory of war. Bill’s headache didn’t disappear, but it seemed to dull as he reminded himself that waiting just outside his shack were the members of a reincarnated Three Section; one that he was responsible for.

  The four new privates were already in line for inspection, and came to attention when they saw their new section commander. Lance Corporal Brown had to admit that they looked not only clean and competent, but eager and intelligent. He would have been happy with his section, if he didn’t recognize the tall blonde-haired man from the night before among them. Seeing his face up close, it was easy to recognize his sister’s fiancée from a photo postcard he’d received a few months before. The only question Bill had was if Tom had gotten a good look at him in La Boot. It was one thing to admit infidelity to Kate privately; it was another for his future brother-in-law to know.

  “Ditch your kit.”

  The new men stood still for a moment, then all at once removed their equipment and laid it out neatly in front of them, helmets and gas masks on top of each pile, rifles just to the right. Obviously, these were well-trained soldiers, at least when it came to parade ground etiquette.

  Bill sat down on the ground in front of them. “Form a little semi-circle, or sit on your gear if you want. Now, I need to tell you all something from the get-go. When I woke up a few minutes ago, I was a private. As you can see, I’ve yet to be formalized,” Bill said, indicating his plain sleeve, where a lance corporal’s stripe should be. “Now I’m not one to stand on formality, so unless we’re on parade or speaking to an officer, I’m Bill. If someone fancy is about, you’ll call me Lance. If someone really fancy is about, call me Lance Corporal.”

  The men laughed a little, and Bill relaxed his posture, allowing his shoulders to hunch. The new men began to slouch as well, talked quietly amongst themselves as Bill tried to think of what to say next.

  “See here,” Bill said, removing his cap and showing off his fresh scar. The section went quiet. “I got this two days ago from a bomb fragment. The man next to me, a friend of mine, lost his arm, for all I know he’s bled to death by now.” For a moment, Green appeared in Bill’s mind, grinning as usual. Then came Hallicks, Old Jack. Bill pushed them away; they were ghosts of the old Three Section. “The same day, another fellow broke his leg, another was killed, and the last two were promoted out. Three Section is mine because I’m the only one left. In case you lost count, there were six of us a few days ago. Now, with all of you, we’re just five. Between the men we’ve just lost, this section had over ten years wartime service, probably twenty or thirty more if you count time in the militia.”

  Bill paused and the men remained silent, all eyes locked to his. “I’m an Original. That means that when I talk, you listen. Not one of us is guaranteed to make it back home, especially not in one piece.” Bill touched his scar unconsciously and replaced his cap. “My job’s to try to keep you alive, remember that. Any questions?”

  “Lance,” it was the young kid, Roy. “How many notches do you have in your rifle?”

  “What?”

  “How many Huns have you killed?”

  Bill had no idea. He had shot at plenty, but had never been sure. It might have been none. “Any other questions?”

 
; “No offence, but aren’t you a little young to be an NCO?” It was the older man, about in his mid-thirties, McCreery.

  “Well I think you’re a little old for a replacement,” Bill shot back instantly as the others, all looking in their late teens or early twenties chuckled. “You see age doesn’t count for anything here, it’s time with the battalion that matters, and I think I’m about two and a half years up on you.”

  “Uh, Bill?” It was Stinson, the half-pint. “I’ve been having trouble getting a uniform that fits properly, is there a battalion tailor?”

  “At last, a real question. There is, and I’ll get in touch with him and figure out a time for you to meet up.”

  “Any good place to get a drink around here?” Payne asked.

  Bill paused. He must have seen him in La Boot. “Sure. That reminds me of a tradition. New men always buy their section commander a drink. Then we all talk real civilized and get to know each other.”

  *

  That night Bill was glad to finally get some rest. Four complimentary beers, and a congratulatory bottle of wine from Lincoln, had settled his stomach and eased his conscience. The Slag Heap Hotel was crowded with the new men of Three Section, so Corporal Post grabbed a hold of Bill’s foot and shook it until he woke him.

  “Hey, wake up, Lance,” Post said.

  “Oh Christ. What goes on?” Bill said, sitting upright, then recognizing Post’s face. “Oh, hi, hello. How are you?”

  “Come on outside a moment, Bill, and bring your nails. Oh, and a pencil and paper.”

  “Don’t I always?”

  In the cool fresh air of the moonlit night, the two men settled on a makeshift bench constructed of empty wooden crates. Bill’s boots were undone, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other clutching a cigarette.

  Post was already savouring a moment of informality away from company headquarters; his tunic mostly unbuttoned and the collar flipped upwards. “So, I heard you made lance corporal, finally,” Post said, lighting a cigarette, as Bill leaned in and lit his own off the same match. “Congratulations, I guess.”

  “You too, apparently you finally broke lance.”

  For a long moment both men stared at the ground in front of them, smoking silently and contemplating the massive change in position each one had undergone in the last day.

  “Hard to imagine you leaving the platoon, even harder to think that you’re a full corporal now.”

  “Yeah. Doesn’t help that I can’t get my hands on a set of new stripes, so you can call me ‘Lance’ if you like, unless we’re on parade, or there’s an officer or someone fancy about.”

  Bill chuckled and pawed the other man’s stripes covetously. “Seems to be a shortage of these. Guess they tend to get buried someplace, well here and there really.”

  Post removed his tunic and pulled a jackknife from his trouser pocket, knelt and carefully cut away his old rank insignia. “I know one set of stripes that didn’t get buried. These’ll be good luck, Bill. Besides, I can’t go about impersonating a lance. Sew ‘em on a little crooked though, just for fun.”

  Bill held the faded stripes in his hand with a sense of awe. Such a talisman seemed to justify his earlier realization of invincibility.

  “So,” Post said, pulling his tunic back on, “did you get around to that citation for Hal?”

  “Yeah. Just needs Carter’s signature and up the chain it goes.”

  “Read it to me, Bill.”

  Sir,

  It is with great pleasure that I recommend Private George Hallicks for the Distinguished Conduct Medal for actions during operations against Regina Trench, the day and night of October 8th-9th, 1916. This man displayed great skill and determination during the attack, successfully engaging many enemy with rifle and bayonet. Upon the order to retire being given, Private Hallicks stayed behind with a small number of hand grenades and covered the retreat of the battalion. Having been stranded in no-man’s land, he, under cover of darkness, gathered identity discs from his fallen comrades and was just returning to our lines when he was killed by an enemy sniper, dying instantly. The courage, skill and devotion to duty displayed by this man reflect highly upon the Third Battalion, The First Division, and the Canadian Corps.

  “So, what do you think?”

  “Nicest lie I ever heard; maybe second.”

  “You know, there was something else I was supposed to write, couldn’t really get around to it. I was thinking maybe you could dictate, and I’ll write it out.”

  “My letter to Laura.”

  “Oh. No actually. I forgot about that. I need to write one to Kate, tell her about– oh hell I haven’t even told you yet. Last night I got drunk, went to La Boot and, well I made a mistake. A big one.”

  “Guess you don’t remember me carrying you back, huh? Well you ran your mouth a little. I know what happened. Forget about that letter, Bill, it would do more harm than good. By which I mean plenty of harm and no good.”

  “Listen, I need to send her a letter, tell her what happened, and beg her to forgive me. For Christ, Post, I couldn’t live with a lie like that.”

  Post looked at the citation Bill held in his hands, shifted his lips around his cigarette, bringing it from one side of his mouth to the other. “Plenty of blokes have made a mistake or two over here, Bill. You don’t need to let her know every dirty detail. She might not take it too well. You know sometimes a nice little lie is better than an ugly truth.”

  “I know,” Bill said, pocketing the citation. “But I feel guilty. I’ve got to tell her. And you need to help me, please.”

  “Okay, Bill. Got your pencil? Good, here goes. Oh, and you’ve got to write me one for Laura after.”

  *

  By the time Post was done speaking, Bill’s hands were sore and cramping from writing and rewriting two long letters. It was also nearly dawn.

  Payne emerged from the little shack. “Morning,” he said politely, a fresh cigarette already lit, undoing his trouser front and urinating a short distance away.

  “This is my brother-in-law-to-be,” Bill said. “Tom Payne.”

  Post leaned in close, whispered. “The one who saw you with La Fille?”

  “Shut up, I don’t know if he saw my face or not. Say hello,” Bill whispered back.

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Corporal Post.”

  Payne finished with his piss and extended a hand towards Post, who shook it without a second thought. “Nice to meet you, Corporal. I’ve heard a bit about ya’.”

  “All good I hope?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Say, you got any nails? Bill and I were up early doing NCO stuff, you know, paperwork. We seem to have smoked the lot,” he said, tapping his boot on the ground next to an improbably large pile of cigarette butts.

  “Oh sure. Here.”

  Post happily took a cigarette. “It’s nice being on the receiving end. Well, I’ve got to be off. See you folks around. Oh, one last thing, Bill. What was that word, uh, allowment?”

  “Allotment.”

  “Sure it’s not allowment?” Tom asked through his cigarette. “Sounds better, makes more sense.”

  Post nodded his agreement. “This one’s a keeper. Nails to spare and agrees with me. Hey, you wanna be in the scout section?”

  “Trust me,” Bill said. “Allotment. And no, you can’t have him.”

  Post smiled, stood and laid a hand on Bill’s shoulder. “He’ll take good care of ya’. He’s an Original, you know, and as near to bombproof as I’ve ever seen, at least when it comes to the infantry. See you fellows around.”

  Tom took a seat next to Bill. “There’s something I should tell you.”

  “Sure, go on,” Bill said nervously, wondering if he was about to get a lecture on infidelity.

  “I’ve been waiting ‘til it was just you and me. You see, I just got a letter from Anne a few days ago. She’s pregnant.”

  Bill breathed a sigh of relief, which he tried to play off as one of deep thought. “Alright. What do you
plan to do?”

  “Get special leave, meet her in England, marry her, I mean, with your blessing, of course.”

  “Mine? What about my father?”

  “He’s not the man I need to be dealing with right now.”

  Bill laughed a little. “Well, I seem to be short on cigars at the moment. Better just break out another nail.”

  Tom smiled as he handed Bill a cigarette, lit it.

  “Special leave isn’t as easy to get as you might think. I’ll write a request, but for a new man it isn’t likely to happen. I could ask to transfer my leave to you.”

  “No, you’ve been out here too long. Isn’t there some other way?”

  “Volunteer for a suicide job, that might do it, but I’d rather my niece or nephew doesn’t grow up fatherless. Don’t worry; I’ll talk it over with Mister Carter.”

  Toronto, 1927

  By the time Bill and Gary arrived at Missus Hallicks’ house, it was nearly two in the morning. A heavy snow had been falling for the past several hours, glimmering as it descended in the glow of the streetlights. Gary’s children would be asleep by now; they always were when he came to pick them up. Missus Hallicks didn’t mind though. She loved having the boys, even if it was only for a few hours.

  “Jeez. Tell Missus Hal I’m sorry we were so late, tell her it was my fault, she likes me, she’ll forgive me,” Bill slurred, toying with the identity disc he still wore around his neck. “I’d come in and say hello, but I might let something slip. Too many memories tonight. That and beer.”

  “Don’t worry. Look, Bill, you were telling me something earlier. About that day you were almost killed, when Green saved your life. You thought you were going to die. There was nothing. But then you thought of Kate, and marrying her.”

  “Yeah. So what?”

  Gary’s voice choked up a little. “Did you ever tell her that?”

  “Nah. Guess I didn’t. Guess I should, huh?”

  “Yeah, you should. Now run along, I don’t want your face scaring my kids.”

  “Hey, Lance, got a nail for the road?”

  “Goddamned privates, always begging a fucking nail. This is the last damn one you get. Unless you really need one.”

  *

  Gary Jr. had walked, while Paul remained asleep the entire time, and had been carried back to the Leaf and Crown by his father. When Post saw a woman waiting by the locked door, it was already too clear that Laura had finally returned. That other girl from earlier, Clare, must have been sent ahead to reconnoitre. Now, returning with the children late on a cold, snowy night, and having spent the last few hours reminiscing with Bill, he was ripe for ambush.