Bombproof Read online

  “Normally I’d agree with you, but the big CO in the sky gave me a pass,” Hallicks said, going through his pockets looking for it. “Guess I lost it. Ah well, there’s no military police up there anyway. They go to the other place.”

  “I must have gone mad.”

  “I think that happened back when you first enlisted. ‘Great War’, that’s a damned stupid thing to sign up for. And don’t you dare call me a hypocrite; you know I had my reasons,” Hallicks said, getting serious.

  “Why are you here?”

  “You were about to walk away. I had a good view of the battle from up there, Fritz has a counterattack brewing. This mess,” Hallicks paused and indicated the remains of Roy, Blake, and McNeil, “is gonna end up soaked in gasoline and burned. That is if the artillery doesn’t vaporize them. By the way I saw that close call you had, I thought you handled it very well, Lance. Anyway, I’m here to make sure you do the right thing.”

  “I need to do them a favour, just like you did at Mount Sorrel and Regina Trench.”

  Hallicks’ grin returned. “That’s the idea. You know what to do. I’m just reminding you to do it. Also, tell the kid’s mom it was sudden heart failure; that’s no lie.”

  “Hal, I need to talk to you about some things.”

  “Sorry, Bill, it’s a five minute pass, I need to start getting back.”

  “Wait.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It was really good seeing you. I miss you. Visit again if you get the chance, okay? Maybe after the war.”

  Hallicks pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes playfully. “Oh, stop it, Bill, you’re making me get all weepy. Now get to work, and don’t worry, the big man and I will keep you bombproof.”

  Bill blinked, and Hallicks was gone. He touched his identity discs, and, on the verge of saying a prayer, decided that he didn’t have the time. There was a more important matter to attend to.

  He reached for the two sandbags tucked into the back of his waistbelt, and filled the first with personal items. The Luger pistol Roy had wanted to send home, fished out from his haversack. The brass wound stripe that marked Blake as a battle-hardened veteran, removed from his left cuff. The Lewis Gun patch, only bestowed upon gunners and Number Twos, ripped from McNeil’s tunic sleeve. Identity discs were not forthcoming; either burnt up or indistinguishable in the mass of broken gear and human wreckage.

  The second sandbag was for his three comrades. Of course there was too much left of them to fit everything, but one part from each man would do. Communal graves were far from rare. In 1915, Bill had helped shovel up what was left of a mortar crew after a bomb had exploded prematurely. There had been no way of distinguishing who was who, so the entire mass had been bundled up, and five names written on a single cross.

  McNeil was the easiest to deal with; a pile of spilled innards lay on the ground at his feet. Using his entrenching tool, Bill scooped up a half pound of intestines and dumped it into the sandbag. Unable to face Roy, he went towards Blake. Several fingers had been severed by the explosion. Bill’s attempts to scoop them up only rolled them further away. Wishing he brought a pair of gloves with him that morning, Bill picked up as many fingers as he could find, three, and gently dropped them into the sandbag. A chunk of scalp, burnt hair and all, was also forthcoming. Returning to Roy, Bill could find nothing to collect; asides from the missing arm, which was nowhere in sight, his body had miraculously remained mostly intact.

  Clouds were beginning to roll in and the full moon was disappearing quickly. Bill listened for the company, but heard nothing. Even the wind had stopped; darkness and silence were enveloping him. Bill tied the sandbag closed and turned towards the Canadian lines.

  “Sorry, Roy. I have to go.”

  *

  Bill was lost. It might have been ten minutes, or an hour. He might have been travelling in a straight line, or going in circles. The little thuds he heard might have been rocks shifting under his own boots, or rifle bolts chambering cartridges. Tree branches turned to monstrous outstretched arms, threatening to reach out and devour him. After awhile, birds began to chirp, or was it distant machine-gun fire?

  Bill was certain he could hear hushed voices, speaking in German. He ducked low and held his breath, afraid that even inhaling would draw their attention. At once the clouds above him shifted, and a ray of moonlight shone down around him. He stayed perfectly still, silently cursing the light. Luckily the Germans were also afraid of being seen. Bill could hear the clanking of their gear as they too took cover, and went quiet.

  As the moonlight disappeared, Bill caught a glimpse of something. He moved towards it slowly, and by the time he reached it, the night had reasserted itself. Bill felt the ground around him, and in an instant it was clear. A severed hand, cold and stiff, clenched tight with the index finger firmly pointing ahead and to the right. Bill could feel a cold strip of metal wrapped around one finger: Roy’s iron cross ring. Bill removed the ring from the hand, placed each in their respective sandbags, then started off in the direction the finger had been pointing, certain of finding his own men. “Thanks, Roy.”

  Before long Bill could hear movement. “Toronto. Don’t shoot, I’m Canadian.”

  “Shut up.” It was Corporal Post; both men recognized each other’s voices easily. “Come over here.”

  “I can’t see you.”

  Post made his way quietly towards Bill, and took a hold of his arm. “Follow me .”

  “For a minute there I was lost.”

  “You still are. The Germans are fifty yards from here. Our lines are another few hundred away.”

  Post led him past dead bodies, through barbed wire obstacles, and around massive craters created by shellfire. At last they arrived where the new trenches were being dug.

  “I need to see a stretcher-bearer, also the Lewis Gun team,” Bill said.

  “Are you hit?”

  “No.” Bill raised the sandbag full of remains. “I have what’s left of three men, also the spare parts bag for the Lewis.”

  Post took the sandbag. “Who’s in here?”

  “Roy, Blake, and McNeil.”

  “So that’s why you were wandering around. Well, fair play. You didn’t need to do it, but it was the right thing. Sorry about your man Roy.”

  “It was my fault he got killed.”

  Post lit two cigarettes and handed one to Bill. “No. We all lose men, that doesn’t make it our fault.”

  Bill smoked half the cigarette before speaking again. “I sent him up there with the wire-cutters, and two bags full of bombs. I should have known it was too dangerous. The Lewis Gun had just spent five or six drums in that same position, every German in the area was focused on that spot, waiting for the fire to die down. I shouldn’t have sent him. Or at least I should have told him to leave the bombs before he went. I made it worse, Gary. I got all three of them killed. I don’t know if I’m fit to be an NCO.”

  “You can’t blame yourself for that, Bill. Have you forgotten how many men were killed or crippled under my watch, especially in the early days? You and Lincoln are the only two left. Three Section was mine for two years, and with all the reinforcements we must have had twenty or so men pass through it. I think you’re doing just fine.”

  “I don’t.”

  Post finished his cigarette and dropped it the ground. “Have you given any more thought to a bombproof job? Now that you’re a bomber, and an NCO, you’d have no problem instructing. I hear it’s very cushy in England. You might even get posted back to Canada and teach the new fellows. You could see Kate every night.”

  “I don’t know about her anymore.”

  “You don’t know about her? You’ve lost it Bill, you know that? You’re batty.”

  “Well I know I’m batty. Hell, who volunteers for a ‘Great War’?”

  Post ignored that. “When was the last time you wrote her?”

  “A while ago.”

  “I know you’re not in the mood to talk about it right now, but whe
n we get back, I’ll find you; we’ll write her a letter. The Lewis Gun is fifty yards to your right. I’ll go take our friends to the stretcher-bearers.”

  Toronto, 1932

  The Leaf and Crown was closer than Bill’s home. Goodall walked him there and led him in. A handful of patrons were present, but Gary ignored their calls for drinks when he saw Bill enter, supported by a man he didn’t recognize.

  “What’s wrong? What happened?” Gary asked.

  “He was hit by an auto,” Goodall responded, as Gary scooped Bill up and carried him upstairs.

  “You can put me down, Gary, I’m not drunk, and I’m not hit too bad.”

  “Quiet. Don’t strain yourself.”

  Gary brought Bill into his bedroom, where Margaret was mending some tiny clothing. “What’s happened?”

  “Bill was hit by an automobile. Could you please put some tea on, throw a little whiskey in it too. Actually, make it half and half. Also, could you ring the bell and make sure everyone settles up?”

  “Of course dear,” Margaret said, springing to her feet and disappearing.

  “Kate doesn’t like it when I drink,” Bill grumbled as Post laid him on his own bed.

  “Sleep is the best thing for you. I ain’t no ignoramus. I know you sleep better with a little of the good stuff in you. Or a little of you in the good stuff. Speaking of Kate, I’ll go pick her up and bring her over here. You should spend the night.”

  “What about my kids?”

  “What about ‘em? I can fit them all in my auto. And Gary Jr. is great with kids; even with Pauline. I have him changing and washing diapers.”

  “Gary, calm down. I’ll take a strong tea, but there’s no need to turn this place into a family shelter. Give me a few minutes and I’ll be on my way. The Leaf was just a good place to stop and rest on my way home.”

  “You could have been killed. You should stay in bed. Kate should be here with you. The kids can’t be alone. And this ain’t no shelter, it’s a billet.” Bill went to stand, but Gary forced him back onto the bed. “Come on, Bill, let me go pick them up.”

  A few minutes more and Margaret returned with a strong cup of tea. “Everybody has paid up and is on their way out now.”

  “Dear, would you stay with Bill? I’m going to drive his friend home and pick up Katherine.”

  “Oh, the gentleman he came in with already left.”

  “Who was that, Bill?”

  Bill thought hard. His mind was so filled with the events of fifteen years ago that he could barely remember what had happened that night. The present seemed like a distant blur, while the past forced itself into pre-eminence. “I can’t remember. I knew him, I think. Maybe in the war.”

  5

  France, 1917

  Two days later the battalion was ten miles behind the lines in a little village that had been turned into a rest camp: Petit Servins. ‘Rest camp’ was somewhat of a misnomer. If lucky, the men would only need to perform a few hours of simple training or camp upkeep each day. Busier days were spent on the rifle ranges, parade grounds, and marching routes that ran through the village and its surroundings.

  Petit Servins was much like the other villages in this part of France: two or three main streets, a half-dozen smaller ones, the houses mostly abandoned and used as billets, farmer’s fields on the outskirts, and a church at the centre of it all. Of course, there were also several estaminets.

  The first order of business was turning in the equipment that had been issued just before the attack: flares, shovels, and the like. Sergeant McCloud was surprised, but mostly annoyed, to see his new company quartermaster.

  “I thought you were out of it?” He half-asked.

  “You can’t keep a good man down,” Old Jack Lloyd replied, grinning broadly and shaking his hand, a sergeant’s rank insignia on his tunic. “Your old quarter-bloke got a bombproof job at one of the brigade dumps, I think, perhaps a divisional depot, or maybe it was in England. Yes, I seem to think it was in England after all. Or Canada. I see you made sergeant, congratulations. Did I tell you I used to be a sergeant in the Queen’s Own? Back in nineteen–”

  “Great,” McCloud cut in impatiently. “Nice to have you back. So, is my platoon all accounted for?”

  “Oh, not quite. According to my list, you’re missing a pair of wire-cutters,” Jack responded gravely. “I’ll need to speak with Mister Carter about this.”

  “They were lost in the attack.”

  “Lost? What do you mean? How? Where? When? Lost?”

  “Yes, lost. What do you think I mean? We used to have them, we don’t have them anymore, I don’t know where they are. They are lost.”

  “Well you’ve got to get them.”

  “Just mark them as lost,” McCloud replied, flustered. “Or can I just pay you for them or sign something?”

  Jack shook his head in exasperation. “I have them marked as being issued out to Three Section. Is Bill still in charge?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good, would you send him over?”

  In a moment Bill was standing where McCloud had been. While he was genuinely glad to see an old familiar face, he knew he would be held responsible for the cutters. Like McCloud, he wouldn’t have cared if he lost a few days pay over the matter, as would be the case with personal equipment. But these tools belonged to the company, and in turn the battalion, and replacing them evidently required some ritual of paperwork, perhaps at the brigade level, that terrified even Old Jack. The company wouldn’t be allowed to wash up, eat, or rest until the quartermaster was happy.

  “Hey Jack! So good to see you again. How’s the leg?”

  “Hurts when it rains, but that’s old bones for you,” Jack replied. “And I have this new assistant, doesn’t speak a word of English. He’s heir to a Russian dukedom, or so the rumour goes. He just barely escaped the Reds. Come here, Kellowitz. How am I supposed to be company quartermaster without any real help? It’s shameful having nobody to talk to.”

  Bill didn’t bother to ask how any rumours could circulate about a man who spoke no English, or point out the unlikelihood of a Russian noble serving as a private in the Canadian infantry.

  A tough-looking, middle-aged private came and stood by Jack, who ignored him entirely. Jack had turned his attention to the hand-written notes of his predecessor, and was just about to remember the wire-cutters. Seven Platoon was beginning to assemble nearby, tools and supplies ready to be turned in.

  Bill decided to try a simple ruse. “Hey, I wanted to talk to you about something. Some of the other Originals, fellows who had been in the Queen’s Own, were telling me about their drill. Apparently they do it much differently than any other regiment, not surprising considering the way Sergeant Bailey used to play euchre with us. So my question is this: your son in the artillery, was he from Montreal too, like Lincoln?”

  Jack, barely following the stream of non-sequiturs, let his notes drop to the ground. “No, no, that’s my son-in-law. He’s from Toronto. He lives on Spadina, a few blocks from where I grew up. Now my parents, they didn’t grow up there, no they were both born in England.”

  “So you never got that wedding dress and suit I wrote you about?” Bill asked, all faux disappointment.

  “What?”

  “From Eaton’s, you said you would give me a great discount.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s okay. Well, looks like Seven Platoon is up next. I’ll talk to you later, Jack.”

  Jack became aware of his notes on the ground and scrambled for them, in the slow, noisy scramble of old, sore men. “Wait, wait a moment. Ooh, oh, my back, my Lord. Ah, oh.”

  It had been worth a shot. “Yes?”

  Jack was standing again, short of breath and recovering. “Your section is short one pair of wire-cutters.”

  “Must have gotten lost in the battle, you know how it goes.”

  Jack’s eyes turned crystal clear for a moment. He was remembering something he hadn’t thought anything of at the time. Someth
ing from seven months ago. “You and Post lost all of your equipment, and your rifles too.”

  Bill’s heart stopped, breath hung in his throat; he could see recollection in Jack’s eyes. When Bill and Post had brought Jack in after the disaster at Regina Trench in October, they had already abandoned their gear. If Jack put one and one together, he’d know that Bill and Post had fled the fighting before the rest of the battalion.

  “No, no. Look,” Bill said, passing a hand over his equipment and touching two fingers to his rifle. “It’s all here, my same old gear from years ago. I’m an Original, remember?” Bill mentioned again by way of a distraction. “We were privates together, now I’m just a lance corporal, and you’re a sergeant. We never argued over bits of kit when we were friends.

  “I’m sorry, Bill,” Jack replied, forgetting his sudden, incriminating memory. “We’re still friends.”

  Bill felt bad for trying to trick the old man. “I know. But what can I do? I just don’t have the cutters.”

  “Remember the story about the French-Canadian woman from northern Ontario? She always got the catalogue numbers mixed up, then complained so ferociously that I had to send her replacement items for free. Well I’ve always regretted that, it just wasn’t correct. These aren’t hats and scarves, Bill, these are the tools we need to win a war. Here’s what I’ll do: I’ll mark them as being turned in, but you really need to look hard to find them, okay?”

  Good enough. “Thanks, Jack. I promise I’ll find them.”

  *

  The second order of business was getting the men cleaned up. While each man tried to keep himself somewhat sanitary, especially around the face, feet, and ‘short arm’, proper ablutions were a rarity. At Petit Servins, an open shower house could accommodate an entire platoon at a time, though only a few minutes were allotted for each group.

  When B Company’s turn came, the NCOs waited as each platoon filed in. It was always the same, whether for food, rum, or hot water. The officers and CSM would take their turn much later, or much earlier, in solitude, but the sergeants and corporals would always allow their men to go first. Depending on how long the rations, booze, or hot water lasted, it was either a privilege or a sacrifice of rank to take whatever was leftover.

  It was a nice day, and the NCOs sat around in only their underwear while waiting their turn. Fresh cuts and bruises were the norm after a battle, even for those who had made it through without being hit at all. They joked about scars, vaccination marks, and tattoos.