Bombproof Page 11

  “Mom!” Gary Jr. screamed, running to Laura and hugging her tightly. Paul awakened; as Post set him down he scrambled towards his mother at full speed. It had been nearly three years since she had left.

  It was clear that the boys had forgiven their mother, or maybe didn’t realize there was anything to forgive, but Gary Post hadn’t. He unlocked the door. “Go to bed boys.”

  “But Daddy–” Gary Jr. began.

  “Now! Take your brother. Brush your teeth and tuck yourselves in. I want to see lights out in less than five minutes.”

  Paul began to cry as Gary Jr. held him by the hand and led him inside. “It’s okay, Daddy needs to do NCO stuff.”

  Post held back his tears until the boys were well inside. “Why did you come back? Why couldn’t you just leave us alone?”

  Laura laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. She looked rough, used up. It was easy to tell that the last three years had been more of a binge than the “time alone” she had written to him about after she had first left. She was still beautiful though.

  “I’m sorry, Gary. I’m so sorry.”

  Post pulled her hand away and firmed up his voice. “It’s too late for ‘sorry’. You broke the boys’ hearts when you left, and now you think you can just show up and come back into their lives? To my life? I can’t allow it.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Don’t play the fool. You sent that girl earlier tonight, didn’t you? To try to seduce me, so you could divorce me for adultery and take me for every penny you could. When that didn’t work you changed tactics. Well I beat you to it, dear. Desertion is grounds for divorce too. We haven’t been man and wife for a year and a half. You don’t get a cent, and the boys are mine. Your mother has a copy of all the documents. You’re not a part of this family anymore. The boys and I will be better off without you.”

  The facade of sorrow and longing washed away, replaced with anger. “You can’t do that,” Laura screamed. “Gary Jr. isn’t even yours.”

  “He’s been mine since nineteen-sixteen. If I hadn’t sent you all that allotment money you would have had to put him in a Goddamned orphanage. I gave you everything, but you didn’t want to be part of a family. You saw your chance to drink and whore around with those flapper women and rich playboy friends of yours. Well I’m not taking you back.”

  She was beaten. There was nothing left to do but beg for forgiveness. Laura began to sob and threw herself into the snow at Post’s feet. “Oh please, Gary! For the family!”

  Post stepped away and stood in the doorway of the Leaf and Crown. “You don’t know the meaning of that word. I don’t remember coming to Canada, but I remember hoping that one day my real parents would suddenly show up and take me back to England with them. I know better now. Family doesn’t turn its back, family doesn’t hurt each other; family has nothing to do with bloodlines. You might be their mother, but you’re not family.”

  He could still hear her crying on the sidewalk as he entered the Leaf and Crown, closed the door, and turned the lock.

  9

  England, 1916

  Mid-December found Bill far from the battalion: England. He had still received no letter from Kate, and was anxious to return to France to see if any mail for him had arrived since he’d left. It had been just three days.

  Bill wasn’t alone. Tom had indeed managed to get special leave from Captain Reid in order to marry Anne. It had helped that he had volunteered for a dangerous and successful trench raid at the start of the month; one which the commanding officer had insisted was a “no married men show.” Being only engaged, Tom was able to take part.

  Bill’s annual two-week furlough was near enough that he managed to tag along in order to act as best man, or give away the bride; or both. What remained of Three Section had been left in the hands of Private McCreery, who was now a temporary lance corporal, but would revert in rank upon Bill’s return.

  Bill wore Hal’s scarf underneath his leather jerkin. Despite the poor quality of army scarves and the many homemade ones sent overseas, mixing military and civilian clothing was not allowed, at least not officially. A winter cap with oversized ear flaps sat at a severe angle on his head. The cap, although army issue, was not authorized for use in England; only Belgium and France due to its outlandish appearance. Bill’s tunic, while a British style one, had an altered collar to more closely resemble the early-war Canadian style jackets the Originals had gone overseas with. Altogether, Bill stood out conspicuously amongst the standard-issue uniforms of England. In the frontlines such indiscretions went unnoticed, or at least unpunished, but Bill had already received a half-dozen empty threats from officers in pristine uniforms.

  He was not, however, without a few redeeming qualities. Bill’s brass battalion badges shone proudly, as did the wound stripe that marked him as a real veteran. His combat boots resembled black mirrors.

  He had considered buying himself some civilian clothes, but decided that would be a waste of money. He had begun saving up again, just in case a reply from Kate ever came, and he needed to buy a ring. He promised himself it would be a very expensive one. Besides, he didn’t know which was worse: saluting officers who had never seen a shot fired in anger, or taking the insults and white feathers that overzealous English women were handing out so readily these days. In England, every man in civilian clothes was presumed to be a cripple or a coward.

  The crowded docks at Southampton were thick with British soldiers milling about and heavy equipment being loaded. It looked like half of England was standing-by to depart for France. Everyone was shivering and cursing; complaining loudly or muttering to friends.

  “They don’t look too happy,” Tom said.

  “Conscripts, I’d bet,” Bill responded.

  “Serves them right. The war would be over by now if they’d stepped up earlier.”

  “Maybe. The more men you put in the field, the more you lose to shellfire and snipers. ‘Wastage’. And they already tried one big push; didn’t work so well. Slow and steady might be the way to go.”

  “Hey, I think that’s her ship,” Tom said, not wanting to argue. He disagreed with the notion that armies had to be worn down to nothing before a decisive blow could be made. Bill would have too, a year earlier.

  “She’ll have a tough time recognizing us in this mob. Take your cap off, you tall bastard, that hair of yours will act like a Goddamned flare.”

  A year earlier Tom would have been offended by such language, but the army had a way of degrading a man’s speech. As such, he didn’t think twice about Bill’s abrasive choice of words.

  She barely seemed pregnant at first glance, though she was now eight months along. Bill stood aside as Anne and Tom held each other. After a long embrace, Anne stood next to Bill, holding him by the shoulders and looking him over.

  “My goodness, Bill, you’re all grown up!”

  Anne was two years younger than Bill. He grinned. “I’m an old man now.”

  “Here,” Anne said, reaching into a pocket. “I’ve got two letters for you.”

  Bill took the envelopes in his hand, trembling with uncertain anticipation. The first was from Missus Hallicks, the second from Kate. “Why do you have these?”

  “I’ll tell you later, Bill. Is there someplace to eat around here? I’m absolutely famished.”

  “Yeah, up the way we come,” Tom said. “Saw a nice lookin’ place, not too crowded or othing’.”

  It was a lot nicer than La Boot. No holes in the walls or ceilings, no dirty soldiers; civilized, at least by comparison. Bill was busy with his letters as Tom and Anne decided what to order. Too paralyzed to open Kate’s letter, he opted for Missus Hallicks’ instead. The handwriting was unsophisticated, but somehow the shape of each letter struck Bill as proud and traditional.

  Dear Mister Brown,

  I am writing to express my deep gratitude for your letter of condolence and for your friendship to my boy. It gives me great pride to know that George was in the company of such f
ine men. My son wrote often of you and I am glad he had such fond companions and was able to conduct himself so splendidly in his last hours. You will be interested to learn that he was posthumously awarded the Croix de Guerre.

  Bill stopped reading, tried to keep from screaming. It was an insult, a worthless French cross. Hal’s mother might think highly of it, might even think it justified her son’s death; but it didn’t come with a cash gratuity, not like the Distinguished Conduct Medal Bill had intended his friend to be awarded, and had robbed Lance Corporal Burns of.

  Someone in a brigade office must have decided that the citation Bill had written just wasn’t good enough for the DCM. After all, there were only so many that could be awarded. No. The citation was perfect. Somebody in the battalion was avoiding having questions asked about Hal’s death. Why a foreign award with no official citation? Why no Military Medal at least? Something was wrong.

  I take solace in knowing that my boy is with God now. May they both watch over you, and bless you, Mister Brown. Yours sincerely,

  Missus Charles Hallicks

  There was nothing to be done now, except break the news to Lincoln and Post. Medals, once awarded were never upgraded.

  Bill shifted his focus to the next letter. As he opened the envelope a photo became visible. It was Kate, looking just like he remembered her, and somehow not at all. She was beautiful as always, but even more so. There was a letter too, but he was shaking too badly to even try to read it. Bill couldn’t help but interrupt the others’ conversation.

  “Hey, look at her. Look at her. That’s my girl.”

  “I know, Bill. I guess you haven’t seen a recent photo,” Anne replied with a gentle smile.

  Tom didn’t seem interested in the photo, after all, his sweetheart was sitting next to him, not four thousand miles away.

  “Say, you never told me how you got these,” Bill said.

  “The regimental association,” Anne replied. “Missus Hallicks had wanted to write a letter but kept putting it off; you know how hard it must be for her. But when I told her I was going to England, she decided to write you a personal note; of course you can share it with the platoon or anyone who knew Mister Hallicks. She was very proud that he received the Croix de Guerre.”

  Bill held up the letter from Kate. “How about this one?”

  “When you wrote to me that Kate had stopped writing, I went to see her. I brought along that helmet you sent home, the one you wore the day Mister Hallicks was killed. I told her about what had happened to your friend, Mister Green, and, how you were nearly killed.” Her voice was giving out, as if she would break down and cry at any moment.

  “Alright,” Bill said. “I get the picture. Don’t worry about me, Anne, or Tom. I’m bombproof, and so’s he by association, being in my section and all.”

  “It’s true,” Tom said. “How do you think I got special leave? They needed volunteers for a big raid. Well I was lucky to–”

  Bill was shaking his head.

  “You were lucky to what?” Anne asked.

  “Lucky that, I mean, lucky that not a single man was killed or wounded. Not a one.”

  “I’ll get us some drinks,” Bill said. “You two figure out what you want to order, and get me something simple. Egg and chips maybe. Or wait, no, fish and chips. With HP sauce.”

  Bill went to the bar and unfolded Kate’s letter.

  William,

  When I received your letter, I wasn’t sure I would ever write to you again. I could not understand the temptations and demands you and the others face on a daily basis until your sister showed me the helmet that saved your life. Why have you not written to me of these things before? The nearness to death is frightful. Every letter you’ve sent me has been full of cheerful weather and fast friends. I am afraid for you.

  I know there are times when you cannot see even a single ray of light. But somewhere there is a candle burning for us. It will always be burning for us. Remember that I will always be with you, for when you left so long ago, I gave my heart to you. When you cry, I will be holding you. When you are hurting, I will share that pain with you. When you are lonely, I will make you whole. I will be there with you so that we can love and laugh and live again.

  I will wait for you, William, and still wish for us to be wed, even if this terrible war parts us forever. Please, stay safe and try to find a nice job behind the lines, or in England. There should be more than enough for men who have done their bit.

  William, I am enclosing a bit of scripture to let you know that my heart is, always has been, and always will be yours. I pray for peace every day, you must too, dear.

  All my love,

  Katherine

  Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonour others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

  Elation washed over Bill. He already knew he would survive the war, but now he had someone to survive for. Maybe it was the same feeling that Post had known when he first received the letter from Laura, two months earlier about the birth of his “son.”

  *

  As luck would have it, Green and Old Jack were recovering in the same Southampton hospital. It had taken a few different conversations with the other wounded soldiers around the city to finally locate them, but Bill had managed to learn of their whereabouts two days before his leave was up. Tom and Anne had left on their honeymoon and would be meeting him again when it was time for the two men to return to the battalion.

  The hospital ward reeked of disinfectant, but looked spotless; white sheets, clean floors, and matching nightstands. The patients even had special uniforms: a blue jacket with an open lapel, a white shirt, and a red tie.

  It was easy to spot Green and Jack. They were playing cards with two British soldiers; one was missing a leg, the other’s face was badly burned.

  “Hey, Green! Jack!” Bill called, as he suddenly lost all self-control and began running down the ward at top speed towards them.

  As they met, Green crouched a little, wrapped his remaining arm around Bill’s torso, then stood, lifting him off the ground. “Still light as a feather, huh, Bill? Oh, nice stripe, Lance; hey, you got any nails?”

  Bill’s feet touched the ground as Jack finally began to stand, and with the help of a cane, made his way towards the two younger men.

  “Bill! I missed you. How’re things with the platoon?” Jack asked.

  Bill froze. Did they know Miller and Burns, along with most of their sections were dead? That Post was transferred out of the platoon? Did they even know Hal had been killed?

  “We heard what happened,” Jack said. “I mean, how are things now? With you and Lincoln being lances? Exciting, I’m sure.”

  “Yeah, it’s alright. And you know who came back? Mark Blake, a corporal now.”

  “Oh, what I wouldn’t give to be back there with you,” Jack said.

  “He just might be soon,” Green said.

  “Your leg good enough to route march and stand-to all day?” Bill asked.

  “No,” Jack replied. “Probably never will be, but that’s alright, I’m old you know. I’m trying for a quartermaster’s posting, around England at first, but hopefully back with the battalion one day. I used to be a sergeant you know. And all that time at Eaton’s–”

  Bill was already annoyed with Jack. “Yeah, I know. Hats and scarves, beans and bullets, it’s all logistics right?”

  “Right,” Green echoed.

  “And the boy,” Jack said, patting Green on the shoulder just above his empty, pinned up sleeve, “he’ll be going home soon they say. I just might have a salesman’s job lined up for him. Tell him, Green.”

  “Madam, I can tell you’re a lady who knows class and quality,” Green said, fussing over Bill as if he were a customer at the Eaton’s store. “Fur is in this winter, an
d there’s no substitute for genuine American mink. And you, Sir,” he said, turning to Jack, “have you considered a cravat? This blue one here would go smartly with your moustache; this is pure oriental silk. Ah, and for the children, you’ve children of course? Oh, the joy they bring! Have a look at these colourful numbers; fun to wear, easy to wash, and sturdy. That’s the Eaton’s guarantee!”

  Bill was in tears laughing. Not that Green’s routine was all that funny, but it was good to see his friend again and to know he was going to be okay. “Green, I hope they pay you on commission. You could sell hay to a farmer. Say, are you allowed to step out for a few hours, get a pint, or ten?”

  Jack shook his head sorrowfully. “Couldn’t do it, Bill, I can’t take stairs for another week or two they say. And I’ve been very sore. It’s getting a little better, but I fell a few days ago, really knackered my back, and hip, and legs, and when I try to stand I feel it in the ankles.”

  “You don’t mind if we step out, huh, Jack?” Green asked.

  “Of course not. Boys need beer, and you better be buying for Bill. I can still get you a deal on that dress, but a good ring is gonna set you back a year’s pay I’m sure. And a good wedding ain’t cheap.”

  They may have heard of the battalion’s casualties, but they certainly hadn’t heard of Bill’s last visit to La Boot. “Well, once I’ve saved up enough, you’re both invited.”

  *

  “Put your wallet away,” Bill said as a serving girl appeared with two beers. “I never got the chance to thank you for saving my life.”

  Green grinned; sometimes it seemed that was all his mouth was capable of. “Didn’t save yours, Bill. Mine had priority; you just got in the way.”

  “That works for the bomb, but if you hadn’t killed that Hun, hell, I don’t even want to think of it.”