Bombproof Read online

  Green’s cheeks scrunched up a little as a distorted half-grin spread and twisted from one side of his mouth, his head was shaking back and forth with disconcerting speed. “What Hun?”

  “The one you defaced.”

  “What?”

  “Green, come on. Just after the bomb went off. The Hun who was trying to send me west.”

  Green settled, sipped his beer.

  “The one with the stinking breath; you stabbed him in the fucking face. Quit fooling with me.”

  Green’s features resumed their former carefree nature. “You must be mixed up, Bill. Anyway, it’ll take a lot more than a few beers to make us even. Maybe a country estate or an automobile, that is, once you pay off that ring and wedding.”

  Bill was watching Green closely now. He really seemed to have no recollection of killing the German soldier. Bill felt an urge to correct him and set the record straight, but decided that if Green really had forgotten, or was somehow blocking the memory, there was no reason to play historian.

  “There isn’t going to be a ring or a wedding for a long time. I sort of spent my savings. You know being a lance means buying a lot of cigarettes for a lot of privates,” Bill said.

  “So then let me buy. And like I say, you owe me a heck of a lot more than a beer,” Green said, laying a few coins on the table.

  “I wanted to ask you something. Since that day, the bomb, do you get headaches? I mean, really bad ones that you never got before.”

  “Had headaches for weeks after Sorrel, went away in July,” Green replied. “But no, not since that day. You?”

  Bill nodded. “It’s bad. I think that bomb knocked my brain around, you know?”

  “Well that explains why you can’t remember it properly.”

  “It’s more than that.”

  “Shell shock? You need to get past that, Bill. I’ve seen the mental ward. It’s full of men who never moved past a certain day, a certain event that’s taken hold of them. Men who stopped growing, stopped learning; they just shake and mutter to themselves all day. You can’t end up like that, Bill, you’ve got to bury any doubt, any fear, anything that will keep you from doing your job. You’re a lance now; don’t let your section down. And don’t let Kate down either.”

  It was the most serious Bill had ever heard Green. The tone was almost accusatory, but essentially sincere, honest.

  “Alright, Green. I’ll sort it out.” Bill raised his glass. “Sante.”

  “Gesundheit! Hoch der Kaiser!” Green replied, doing his best imitation of Hal.

  “Here’s at ya’,” both men said.

  Toronto, 1927

  Before Bill could slide the key into the door, Kate had opened it. He stumbled inside and kissed her on the cheek. “Hello, dear.”

  “I thought we agreed you’d be home by midnight. Have you been smoking? William, you know I hate that.”

  “Oh, let’s not fight. Listen,” Bill said, making his way towards the liquor cabinet. “I gotta tell you something I never did. Never did tell you I mean. D’you remember when you stopped writing me, during the war?” He asked, pouring himself a glass of whiskey and taking a large swig.

  Kate sighed. “Yes of course.”

  “And this?” He said, showing off his scar for the second time that night. “Y’know how I got this? You remember right?”

  Kate nodded. The smashed helmet was displayed above the fireplace; almost the only war souvenir Bill had not donated to the Leaf and Crown for a decoration.

  “I thought I was dead. I couldn’t breathe or nothing, it was all dark.” Bill emptied half the glass in a big gulp, then took Kate in his arms, eyes not quite meeting hers. “All I could think of was you. All I had to live for was you. I just want you to know that I’ve always loved you, and I always will. I’m the luckiest man in the world.”

  Kate took the glass from his hands and set it down. “I love you too, William, you know that. But sometimes I feel as if you would rather drink and talk about the war all night than be with me and the children.”

  Bill ignored that. “You wrote me a letter. You gave it to my sister to bring to me, and you sent a photo with it. I never knew how beautiful you were until I went so long without seeing you. I feel like that right now. I still have that photo, you know the one.”

  Kate nodded, smiled. “I know the one. I spent all day making myself pretty.”

  “It’s in with all my medals and war junk,” Bill said. “I should get it framed.”

  Bill’s eyes watered and Kate held his face in her hands. Gently, she forced his eyes to hers. “It’s okay, William. Come on, let’s go to bed.”

  Bill reached for his glass, but Kate stayed his hand.

  “That won’t help you sleep. I know what will.” The whiskey burned Kate’s lips as she kissed him softly. “Let’s take our time tonight.”

  END OF PART I

  PART II

  ZERO HOUR

  Move him into the sun –

  Gently its touch awoke him once,

  At home, whispering of fields half-sown.

  Always it woke him, even in France,

  Until this morning and this snow.

  If anything might rouse him now

  The kind old sun will know.

  - Wilfred Owen, MC†

  1

  Toronto, 1930

  Kate had already gone to work. “Fashion never goes out of style,” she had told Bill; a line usually reserved for her customers with more money than brains. “Print is old, tired. But every season there’s a new trend in colours, shapes, accessories, and hats to compliment whatever hairstyle is in vogue. Not to mention matching handbags and shoes.”

  Kate worked as a saleswoman at Eaton’s. With Old Jack gone, it had been Green, now manager of hats and scarves, who had secured the job for her. At first Bill thought it was cute, now it was essential. He had been unemployed since February, five months ago. If it wasn’t for Bill’s bleak outlook and blunt manner of speech, Green could have gotten him a job too.

  Mister Pembleton, the owner of the used book store Bill had managed for him for some years, had broken the news gently. “I’m sorry,” he had said, “but who wants to buy books anymore? Between the noisebox,” here, he had pointed to a radio turned low in a corner of the shop, “talking pictures, and now this recession... it’s a crazy world we live in. I can’t afford to keep you on, Bill. I’ll sell whatever I can wholesale, and that’s it.”

  Bill sat alone at the kitchen table, thumbing through a copy of The Star. As usual, the classifieds didn’t have much to offer. Nobody wanted an ex-soldier turned ex-bookstore clerk. The crossword puzzle proved briefly amusing, but ultimately predictable. At last Bill turned to the obituaries. One entry caught his eye immediately.

  Third Battalion Original to be Laid to Rest Sunday

  David L. Turner, DCM, MM passed away Wednesday at his home on Yonge Street. Mister Turner was fifty-two years old and is believed to have died due to wounds sustained during the war. He is survived by his wife, Leslie, and children, Andrew and Louise. A pre-war member of the Queen’s Own Rifles and one of the old Originals of the First Contingent, Sergeant Major Turner served four years in France and Flanders with the Third Battalion (Toronto Regiment). A public ceremony is to be held at St. Paul’s Anglican Church this Sunday at eleven o’clock. An honour guard will be provided by the Toronto Regiment. The procession will then proceed to Mount Pleasant Cemetery. Following the interment, family, friends, and former members of the Third Battalion are invited to a reception at the Leaf and Crown veterans club.

  Bill hadn’t given a thought to Turner in years. Strange fragments flooded his memory. He remembered the Company Sergeant Major’s pace stick, an instrument of formal parades, strapped to Turner’s combat equipment even in the frontlines. There was the monotonous drone Turner had spoken in, usually ending with a lame rhetorical question. Of course there was the struggle, especially during the winter of 1916/1917, between himself and the CSM. At issue was Bill’s cold
weather cap, crowned with massive earflaps that looked anything but military. It had, however, been issued to him by the army, and so Bill had ducked and dodged the CSM at every turn, promising to dispose of the old cap without ever going through with it. Even in the summer heat, Bill shivered a little thinking about that winter, and the spring that followed; both bitterly cold. That had been just before Vimy.

  France, 1917

  Almost ten miles behind the frontline, Cambligneul was a tiny village. The population had remained steady at about three hundred since anyone could remember. The Battalion had spent most of March in the village, and now, in early April, it was obvious that the men wouldn’t be here much longer. The past several weeks had been spent in preparation for a big attack against a German stronghold: Vimy Ridge.

  Preparations for the coming battle had turned from generic to precise. The past few months had been spent specializing each section of each infantry platoon across the entire Canadian Corps. Bill’s section had been selected to act as the platoon’s bombers, and while other men carried grenades as well, his men were trusted with the bulk of them, and were expected to be able to use them better than anybody else. Corporal McCloud commanded a section of men with additional rifle and bayonet training. Lance Corporal Lincoln was in charge of rifle grenades; these were ejected from a small cup discharger that clamped onto the end of a rifle and used the pressure from blank rounds as a method of propulsion. Corporal Blake’s section was responsible for the platoon’s Lewis machine-gun, a weapon that could provide as much fire as three-dozen rifles.

  Six Platoon looked a lot different than it had in October. This was not a herd of riflemen, but a collection of experts. With the arsenal Carter and Bailey now had at their disposal, they were expected to be able to overcome nearly any tactical problem.

  The current stage of training involved learning to work with a new technique called a “creeping barrage.” Rather than one preliminary bombardment that ended just as the attack began, the creeping barrage included a number of “lifts.” On schedule, anywhere between ten and ninety minutes depending on the situation, the Canadian artillery would direct its fire forward towards the next objective. For this method to be effective, the advancing infantry would have to arrive at each objective just as their own barrage lifted and carried on. This way, the German defenders would be forced to take shelter in their deep dugouts as long as possible, while the men at the leading edge of the attack would be able to assault their trenches by surprise.

  The training was becoming annoyingly exact. The battalion’s scouts were responsible for teaching the men a pacing technique called the “Vimy Glide.” The men were learning to advance at one hundred yards every three minutes; no faster, no slower. Each stage of the attack would be timed so that when the men left the safety of one objective for the next, this pace would bring them to it just as their own barrage lifted. Everything had to be on schedule, right down to the men’s footsteps.

  The NCOs of B Company were glad to be receiving a lecture from Company Sergeant Major Turner, rather than going through yet another rehearsal in full combat gear. While Turner was hardly entertaining, his monotonous drone made him easy to ignore. Afterwards the men would all have a good laugh about the CSM’s mannerisms. A giant of a man, and a pre-war member of the militia, Turner cut an imposing figure. His posture and bearing would have put a member of the King’s Guard to shame.

  Almost every sergeant, corporal, and lance was staring at the ground near Turner’s feet. The newer NCOs earnestly maintained eye contact, while some of the older men made a game of seeing who could look Turner in the face longest without bursting out into laughter.

  Turner’s eyes were glazed, as usual, his mouth hanging partly open throughout. “Timings, okay? That’s your job. The scouts can only set the pace; you need to make sure your men keep it, alright? It’s very simple: just keep the men in line, understand?”

  A hundred yards away, B Company, minus their section and platoon commanders was shambling forward once again. White cotton tape was strung out every hundred yards, and served to indicate how out of synch the men were with the scouts.

  “You see that, okay?” Turner began again. “That is not acceptable. Your men look like a gang of rowdy hobos, you see? They’re getting worse, they can do better, you know?”

  The NCOs of B Company saw. They also knew that when they had been leading the rehearsals the lines had been straighter, and each one hundred yard marker had been hit nearly to the second.

  Turner held out his pace stick and let it fall on Bill. “We’re going to run through it again. Is that okay with you, Lance Corporal Brown?”

  Bill shot his eyes upwards. “Yes, Sergeant Major.”

  Turner had a habit of picking out a single man and asking him questions that had only one answer. At least he knew all of his NCOs by name. Now the pace stick passed from left to right across the entire group, occasionally pausing or bobbing up and down for emphasis. “I know you all think rehearsals are boring. You’d rather be guzzling beer or sleeping late, I understand that, alright? But we need to do this properly. When we hit a snag, and we will, because Fritz isn’t stupid, all we’ll have to go on is this training, okay? Let’s go over the signals again, would that be acceptable?”

  Turner held his pace stick horizontally in his right hand. “Corporal Blake, what’s this signal?”

  “Hold your position, provide covering fire,” Blake shot back.

  Turner shifted the stick, now holding it vertically. “Corporal McCloud.”

  “Advance, Sergeant Major.”

  “Lance Corporal Lincoln, how about this one?” Turner said, his pace stick held at a forty-five degree angle.”

  “Mind the flank, Sir.”

  “Good work, Six Platoon, looks like Sergeant Bailey has been keeping you sharp. I hope the rest of you were listening.” Turner now held the stick high above his head, and nodded his head to the company.

  “Charge,” the NCOs mumbled collectively.

  “Let’s use our battlefield voice.”

  “Charge!”

  “Again.”

  “Charge!”

  “Better. Now get over to the jumping off line and when your men get back, take control of them, understand? Let’s see some initiative this time. If we get it right three times in a row, it’ll be early dismissal.

  *

  B Company didn’t get it right three times in a row, or at least Turner didn’t think so. It was nearly time for supper before the men were allowed to lose their equipment and wash up. The officers, meanwhile, had spent the day in a series of meetings and lectures. Little details were always changing, but the basic plan remained the same.

  The Battalion wouldn’t be attacking Vimy Ridge itself; their route lay over the flat ground to south of the ridge. Their job was to advance farther than any other battalion and secure the newly-won positions from counterattacks to the right flank. To do this, the battalion would leapfrog beyond the first wave and carry on the attack. The men wouldn’t move until seven-thirty, two hours after the assault commenced. They would have two lines of German trenches to pass over, codenamed the Black and Red Lines, before taking their objectives, the Blue and Brown Lines.

  Nobody knew for sure when the big attack would take place, but every man knew their platoon’s objectives and obstacles. They were tired of rehearsing and preparing, but there was nothing to do but wait. Every day the Canadian Corps came closer to Zero Hour: the moment when the big attack would finally begin.

  After supper, the NCOs of Six Platoon were gathered around a coffee urn at battalion headquarters. They were waiting for Lieutenant Carter, who had been promoted in December, to finish a meeting with Captain Reid, and ensure that their men could be released for the night.

  “So much for ‘Spring’ huh?” Blake said.

  Though winter was technically over, the days had yet to warm up much. The nights still came early, and still required a second blanket.

  “I swear I was pissing
ice last night, no lie, ice,” Bill replied.

  “Bullshit.”

  “It’s true. Well it turned to ice in the air. Left a little yellow arc just sitting there.”

  “It would freeze right up into you though.”

  “Body heat,” Bill replied, mock disingenuously. “You ever hear of physics?”

  “Could happen,” Lincoln chimed in. “What do you say, Jim?”

  “Sure, ice piss, great, thank you,” McCloud replied.

  Sergeant Bailey kept quiet, a little smile on his lips. He could certainly have worse NCOs. Sure, his section commanders could be a little more serious, but where was the fun in that? And of course they could be a little more efficient, but then they wouldn’t need him.

  When Lieutenant Carter appeared, it was with a document folder marked and underlined “SECRET” across the top. He put a thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. “No major changes you need to know about just yet. Sections are dismissed for the evening. Sergeant, I need to go over some things with you.”

  While Carter and Bailey began discussing minute and sometimes unimportant details, the remaining four men began to make their way back to their billets: a little house crowded with other B Company NCOs.

  “Glad we waited around to hear that,” Blake said.

  “Gather ‘round, listen, then spread the word,” Bill said, making gestures like a carnival pitchman, then letting his arms fall limply to his side. “No major changes. Fuck.”

  None of the other men laughed, although Blake forced a slight smile. Bill suddenly realized how much he missed Hal and Green. They would have laughed. It had been nearly six months since he lost both of them over the course of a few hours. It worried him. He had long since accepted his new role as a section commander, but that wasn’t his frame of reference. In his daydreams and internal discourses, he was still a private in Post’s section, his old friends still with him. Sure he was going through the motions of being an NCO: writing up lists, inspecting the men, keeping his section on task and on time. But it was only an act. For this reason, he had stopped sharing billets with his men behind the lines, instead spending more time with the other section commanders.