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  Missus Turner teared up, and nodded. “When the number of soldiers in a formation is not devisable by the number of ranks, the second last file will have one or two empty spaces, this is known as a blank file. The width of one blank file is twenty-four inches. This allows any number of soldiers to march in proper formation–”

  She couldn’t go on. Gary did. “–Even when a man is absent. Today your husband is our blank file. He holds us together even though he is not with us.”

  Missus Turner wiped her eyes and stiffened up. “I have something else for you. It’s from our family photo album, but I think that you should have it.”

  Post felt thirteen years younger when he saw it. The photo was double-exposed, a German artillery platoon posing for a group picture forming a ghostly image. Turner and Post, standing proudly in a captured German trench in the Brown Line, seemed to overrule the original negative. Post was holding the flag taut, smiling widely. Turner wore a superior smirk, his pace stick tucked under his right arm. Incredibly, the sergeant major was wearing a German officer’s helmet, showboating for the camera. Both men were smoking a cigarette.

  “Thank you, Missus Turner.”

  “You are welcome, Mister Post. Now I need to go and thank everybody for attending. I also have a few more bequests for the men.”

  *

  Bill had tended the bar the entire time. He had promised Kate he would hold himself to one drink, and despite his tiny sips, his glass ran empty far too soon. Not long after the reception began, Kate insisted on running the kitchen alone. It allowed her to keep a close eye on Bill, and for Margaret to be free to chat with Gary. With the cooking complete, she stood next to Bill, who was standing-by to refill glasses.

  “Playing matchmaker, eh?” Bill asked. “I heard you two yakking away in there.”

  “Somebody’s got to. If it hadn’t been for your sister and that helmet of yours, I might have ended up with Reggie Parker,” Kate replied playfully.

  “First of all: ‘tin hat’. Secondly, Reggie Parker, that clown? He was in the damn Forestry Corps.”

  “Well he liked me. And he never visited estaminets.”

  Bill chose to ignore that. “Women. Nothing but gossip and conspiracies. Of course we would have been together without my sister sticking her nose into things. She just helped to bring you around a little quicker.”

  “Maybe. But there was also Mister Mc–”

  Bill laid his left hand on Kate’s shoulder, pointed to her firmly with his right index finger. “Don’t say that bastard’s name. Please.”

  “Okay, but it’s true.”

  “And don’t push Margaret too hard. If they get off on the wrong foot, do things too quickly, it could foul everything up.”

  Kate chose to ignore that. “There’s a sink full of dishes. If you take care of them, you can have a second beer, once you’re done.”

  “You’re a cruel woman, dear. Ah, fair play, I suppose.”

  Kate gave Bill a kiss on the cheek. “Hearts are trump, William.”

  “They always are.”

  Missus Turner arrived at the bar with an envelope. “Mister Brown, I have something for you.”

  It was simply marked ‘Bill’, which struck him as unusual, especially if it was, as it appeared to be, from Turner, who had never referred to him without using a rank.

  Kate knew Missus Turner well from the regimental association, and knowing that she would appreciate a conversation that didn’t revolve around condolences, broke into idle chatter. Last season’s winter coats were on special, a summer clear-out. She could get a good price on shoes for her children, too. Was there anything in particular she was looking for?

  Bill opened the envelope and could barely believe what he was reading. It was a letter of recommendation. According to Turner, Bill had been one of the best NCOs in the battalion. He was a quick learner, had a positive attitude, and was always ready to lend a hand. It ended by ensuring any potential employers that Bill had never let him down, and wouldn’t let down any man who hired him.

  When midnight came, Bill and Kate were the last ones left in the Leaf and Crown, cleaning up. Gary had gone to drop off Margaret at home, and pick up his children from Missus Hallicks, who had watched them all day. Missus Hallicks was happy to help any way she could. She had been invited to the reception, but preferred to keep her distance from veterans. She had lost too much to the battalion.

  When Gary returned, another nail had been put into the wall, just below Turner’s pace stick. Bill’s winter cap, complete with Toronto Regiment badge sat in the middle of the twenty-four inch gap. The blank file had been filled.

  END OF PART II

  PART III

  WALKING, STRETCHER, SANDBAG

  Who made the Law that men should die in meadows?

  Who spake the word that blood should splash in lanes?

  Who gave it forth that gardens should be bone-yards?

  Who spread the hills with flesh, and blood, and brains?

  Who made the Law?

  Who made the Law that Death should stalk the village?

  Who spake the word to kill among the sheaves,

  Who gave it forth that death should lurk in hedgerows,

  Who flung the dead among the fallen leaves?

  Who made the Law?

  - Leslie Coulson†

  1

  Toronto, 1932

  By the time Bill left the theatre it was late, dark. It was nearly two years since he had come to the office of The Star, cap in one hand, Turner’s letter in the other. The editor-in-chief, a man who had often gone to Turner for advice on military articles, was clearly impressed. After an hour-long conversation, Bill’s literary knowledge, cynicism, and willingness to work had earned him a new job: motion picture critic. While he was only assigned so many films a week, the money was almost as good as his old job.

  Bill never carried a notepad to the theatre; if you took your eyes off the screen, even for a moment, you might miss a critical action. With talkies it mattered less, but a good director still challenged his audience to pay attention. As a result, Bill’s mind was working hard on the walk home. Each film review he wrote was grounded in a few key phrases. Scarface: ‘underworld savages’, ‘intelligent directing’, ‘above average acting’. There always had to be a little alliteration; editors and readers both liked that. The rest would be a summary that didn’t give away too much of the plot.

  He had fallen asleep during part eight of The Airmail Mystery, and would have to ask the film fanatics in the office what they thought of it. The second feature had been Night World: ‘a slew of corpses that keeps the whole thing interesting’, ‘one especially titillating song and dance routine’, ‘snappy, scintillating dialogue’. Bill frowned to himself. Titillating, scintillating; it sounded like a poorly written bawdy limerick, which was essentially what the film was, but not something that he wanted to attach his name to. Titillating could be removed; ‘lots of leg’ was just as apt and had a good ring to it. Bill was working on a substitute for scintillating when he crossed the street at Bay and Queen. He never saw the automobile that struck him and sent him to the pavement.

  The automobile reversed haphazardly, turned and sped away back the way it had came. Bill was lying in the middle of the street in the darkness. He was almost unaware of the pain running through his body; his thoughts were focused on the oncoming traffic that would certainly fail to see him. Bill tried to crawl to the nearest sidewalk, but his arms and legs seemed to slip out from under him; the attempt at movement only made him dizzy.

  As more automobiles came closer to the intersection, a streetcar bell dinged. A man leapt from the back of it and ran towards Bill, waving frantically for traffic to halt. Soon he was standing over him, pulling him back to the sidewalk. Bill attempted to kick his feet a little, trying to help. It didn’t work, and he could see two unbroken drag marks where his heels had disrupted the snow and slush.

  “Just stay still pal, trust me. Try not to move. You’ll be okay.
You made it this far, let me do the work.”

  Bill’s jaw fell open. He had heard that voice before. And those exact words.

  France, 1917

  After the scrap at Vimy the battalion had spent several days in divisional reserve, occupying the old frontlines in case the Germans pushed hard and counterattacked. One week at a rest camp had passed quickly, and now the men were a few hours from returning to the frontline.

  “Even God had a seventh day to rest,” Lincoln grumbled, rolling up a pair of clean but not quite dry socks and shoving them into his haversack.

  “If you count the night we got in, and the hour or two we have left, that makes seven days,” Blake replied.

  “Who’s going to round up the fellows?” The platoon’s newest NCO asked. Lance Corporal Fyles had been a member of McCloud’s section. With McCloud promoted to sergeant and taking over for Bailey, Fyles, being the most competent man, found himself a one-striper.

  “That would be you,” Blake said. “Consider it training.”

  “They won’t take it well,” Fyles replied.

  Blake smiled. “That’s why you’ll be telling them. And be sure to hassle them. You know, check to see their canteens are full, puttees wrapped nice and neat, gear tidy. And you better get started now. If McCloud finds anything wrong he won’t take it well. Bailey was soft on us compared to what McCloud will be like, believe me. Except Bill, he’s always going easy on him for some reason, babysitting him. Where is he anyway?”

  Bill’s gear lay in disarray on a folding cot. Lincoln finished with his own belongings, then began to pack up his friend’s things. “I think he went to see Post. Got another letter from his girl yesterday; he’ll be seeking some romantic advice for sure.”

  “He should be asking me for advice. I know how to talk to women. How do you think I got the clap, twice, and never spent a franc?”

  “What was it then, pounds or dollars?” Fyles chimed in, passing a rag over his boots to ensure his men not find any faults; that was his job now.

  “Funny, Lance. I bet she’s on about marriage again, am I right, Linc?”

  “Sounds like it.”

  Fyles finished with his boots and removed his cap, inspecting the badge. “I must be missing something. If Bill is so obsessed with this girl, why doesn’t he want to marry her?”

  “Don’t ask me,” Blake said. “I can’t figure him out. What is it, Linc? You must know.”

  “Don’t go running your mouth, but yeah, I know. He’s afraid Kate isn’t really sure she wants to. He wants to wait until after the war and give her a chance to change her mind once things are back to normal.”

  “Well he needs to realize that things aren’t going to go back to normal. Hopefully Post can talk some sense into him. Alright, enough gossip. Fyles, get the men ready. Linc and I will be by in another hour.”

  *

  Arleux was about five miles east of Vimy Ridge. It was like any other little village in this part of France, except that it had just been captured by the 2nd Canadian Infantry Brigade. The Third Battalion had a good view of the battle, and even with the knowledge that their turn would come to carry the attack forward in a few days time, it was like watching a stage show. After the attacking troops had cleared the village, a group of men from the Third formed stretcher parties to collect the wounded. Sprawled out across five hundred yards of field that had been no-man’s land, they were relatively close to their own jumping off trenches. The old German frontline and the village of Arleux beyond, were off limits to the unarmed stretcher parties. The wounded men closer to the fighting would have to rely on their own battalion’s stretcher-bearers.

  Bill, Payne, and Roy were teamed with a corporal who played the bass drum in the battalion’s band. Of course the band didn’t bring their instruments to the front, but stretchers. The musicians, having little opportunity to perform their original function, had soon been turned into pseudo-medics. While the other men practiced with rifles, bayonets, and grenades, the bandsmen-come-stretcher-bearers rotated between their music and medical training.

  Corporal Goodall, who had been with the battalion nearly two years, had learned both his trades since enlisting. He had joined the army back when there was a surplus of volunteers. The only thing most units lacked then was a band, and a place could always be found for any competent musician. Goodall wasn’t competent, but had already lied his way into the Thirty-Fifth Battalion and promised the bandmaster that he would do his best to learn. Not having a natural talent for music, Goodall was given the easiest job there was: playing the bass drum, which amounted to pounding it with a large mallet every other step while on the march. The Thirty-Fifth, like most infantry battalions had been broken up in England to provide reinforcements, and Goodall found himself in the Third.

  Payne spotted a Lee Enfield rifle, bayonet stuck into the ground, a khaki-clad form lying next to it. “There’s one here.”

  Goodall made a quick inspection of the wounded man. Someone, presumably whoever stuck the rifle into the ground, had applied a field dressing to the man’s chest. He was barely conscious, and Goodall only lit a cigarette and stuck it in the man’s mouth.

  “You’re in good shape, pal. We need to tend to the guys who are hit real bad first though, okay? We’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

  The man didn’t bother to speak or even nod. He was fighting back tears. Goodall made his way towards another rifle stuck in the ground.

  “He won’t last twenty minutes alone,” Payne protested.

  “I know. His number’s up. I think he knows it too.”

  “So we just leave him?” Roy asked in disgust.

  “No point wasting our time. We’ll try to find someone capable of being helped, and come back for his cold meat ticket later.”

  The second rifle proved to be a disappointment. Goodall took the dead man’s helmet and placed it on the butt of the rifle, not as an act of sentimentality, but as an indicator to the other stretcher parties that the man had already died of his wounds, and therefore was not a priority. Then he removed one of the two identity discs each soldier wore around his neck and placed it in his pocket; the other would stay with the body.

  Calls came from a third rifle as a soldier struggled to pull himself into a sitting position. He had been shot through both legs with a single bullet, and by the poor state of his bandages, had obviously been left to fend for himself.

  “Cut away his trousers around the wounds,” Goodall said cooly, taking two fresh bandages from his haversack. Payne and Roy pulled their jackknives from their pockets and got to work. The wounded man shifted and tried to help, but Goodall spoke to him as if reciting a line from a play. “Just stay still pal, trust me. Try not to move. You’ll be okay. You made it this far, let me do the work.”

  A quarter mile back, Bill’s group passed the man off to another team, whose job it would be take him farther down the road to an aid station. Then they turned back in search of more wounded. Once it was clear that there were none to be found, they returned to the man with the chest wound. As predicted he was dead, and two streaks on his face evinced that he had not been able to hold back his tears near the end. Goodall again removed a single identity disc, and placed the dead man’s helmet on top of his rifle.

  “Alright, spread out and take a look around. If you see someone call it out, you’d be surprised how still a wounded man can lie, so don’t assume anyone is dead until I have a look.”

  Other stretcher parties were searching about too, but, having gone half an hour without finding anyone, had begun to carry in the dead. Roy had strayed towards Arleux. While dozens of sets of footprints cluttered the dirt road, the track of two heels being dragged stood out clearly.

  “Hey, Roy!” Bill called. “Get back here, we’re taking in the stiffs.”

  Roy ignored Bill and followed the drag marks to a small cow shed. Long abandoned as a home for cattle, it was apparent that the German defenders of Arleux had made billets of it. Blankets, mess kits, and odd bits
of clothing were scattered about, abandoned as the battle began in the early hours of the morning.

  A soft whimpering brought his attention to a stall. Lying on a bed of hay was a soldier of the Eighth battalion, his right leg mangled.

  Bill appeared in the doorway. “Roy, we’re out of bounds. Let’s go.”

  “I got one, go get the stretcher.”

  Without another word Bill left and promptly returned with Goodall and Payne. Goodall deftly applied new bandages, and noting the condition of the wounded leg, which would certainly need to be amputated, decided to give the man a small dose of morphine. The blood loss wasn’t too severe, but intense pain could induce fatal shock just as easily; keeping the man in an altered state for as long as possible was the best thing to do.

  It only took a moment for his eyes to go impossibly wide, a strange uncomprehending stare coming over his face. It was as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. As they loaded him onto the stretcher, Bill wondered what exactly it was that the poor bastard was having so much trouble understanding. After all, it was just a battlefield.

  “Just stay still pal, trust me. Try not to move. You’ll be okay. You made it this far, let me do the work.”

  Toronto, 1932

  “You’re Doug Goodall, aren’t you? It’s me, Bill Brown.”

  Goodall didn’t respond. He spent another minute checking over Bill for broken bones, without finding a single one, before speaking. “Still bombproof I see. You’ll have a nasty bruise where your head hit the street though. Wait a moment, your ears are bleeding.”

  Bill waved Goodall off. “That’s fine, they do that when it’s cold. And the theatre was a little louder than usual. Lots of gunfire.”

  “Pardon?”

  Bill pulled himself to his feet, supported by Goodall. “I was watching a film. Nevermind.”

  “Here, put your arm over my shoulder, I’ll walk you home.”

  “But your streetcar was going the other way, I think.”

  “That’s fine. How far away do you live?”

  “Just over a mile.”