Bombproof Page 3

  Post took a gulp of wine and made a wry face. “For the time being, although I may have just caused a relapse.”

  As if on cue, La Fille appeared with a glass of whiskey, a rare delicacy usually reserved for officers, and a big smile for Post. It was all Bill could do to keep his jaw from dropping. She was a real beauty.

  “For my brave soldier,” the girl said with a wonderful accent. “This one I pay for.”

  *

  An hour later the bottles and glasses were all empty. The estaminet was getting quiet too. Madame and La Fille were busy cleaning up.

  “Alright fellas, time for bed,” Post said.

  “Aw, come on, Lance,” Lincoln said, imitating his own children.

  “Yeah, come on, Lance,” Green added, imitating Lincoln.

  “Kevin, Francis, beddy-bye time.”

  Lincoln and Green stumbled to their feet and tugged at Bill, who had been passed out for some time.

  “Oh, leave Bill, I’ll sort him out. You two just get some sleep, big day and all that.”

  The two privates laid a few francs each on the table.

  “Bill was a little loose with his cash tonight, make sure he accepts this,” Lincoln said. “He was talking about saving up for something big a little while ago, but he didn’t say what.”

  Post nodded. “Fair play. I think it’s a ring.”

  “He finally settling for one of my sisters?” Green slurred hopefully.

  “Nah, sorry,” Post said. “It’s that girl, Kate. Bill got a letter. I’ll let him tell you if he wants, but she’s talking about coming to England, maybe getting married the next time Bill has leave. Only he doesn’t figure on surviving much longer, you know being an Original. He don’t want to die a married man and leave her a widow. Now get on with it, I may have said a little too much.”

  “Just a touch too much. That’s alright though; I’ll force it out of Bill sometime soon anyway,” Green said. “Oh, Lance, before we go, got a nail?”

  As Post reached into his pocket, Lincoln’s eyes went suddenly wide.

  “Goddamn privates, always begging a nail,” Post said, lighting three cigarettes off one match all at once, then holding out two. “These are the last nails you guys get. Unless you really need one, okay? I thought I had another pack but I seem to have misplaced it.”

  “Thanks, Lance,” Lincoln said, nodding his head.

  “Yeah, thanks, Lance,” Green repeated in a goofy imitation of Lincoln’s voice.

  “I think I see what Hal was talking about,” Lincoln said as both men made their way to the door.

  Post waved to La Fille, made a pouring motion, then brought his hands apart to indicate a large glass. A minute later she placed another big glass of whiskey on the table. Bill snapped awake, perhaps at the smell of La Fille.

  “Oh, Lance, hello, thanks,” Bill said, plucking the cigarette from between his section commander’s lips and taking a long drag.

  “Keep it,” Post said, lighting a new one, and pushing the francs towards him. “From Green and Linc; take it.”

  Bill fumbled with the coins. “You know a smoking private is a happy private, and a happy private is, well, whatever you want him to be. Besides, they don’t pay you that extra five cents a day for nothing.”

  Post shook his head. He probably gave away ten cents worth of cigarettes each day. He didn’t mind spending the money; it was running short of nails for himself that annoyed him. In the past he had tried giving his men an emergency pack each week, but they had only smoked the whole lot in a day and came back begging for more.

  “So, looks like you and La Fille have gotten better acquainted. You’re lucky you’re still allowed in this joint. The old lady looks mad; jealous, I guess. And since when do whores pass out free whiskey? I mean I know you’re a handsome man,” Bill said, playfully grabbing at his section commander’s chest and arms, finally caressing the marksman badge on Post’s lower left cuff. “But skilled with the short arm too, eh? I guess you’ve earned those crossed rifles after all.”

  “Jesus, Bill,” Post said, pulling his chair away. “Don’t do that. It’s weird.”

  “Nah sense ah humour,” Bill responded. “Christ, I’ve probably seen the little lance more than she has.”

  It was true. After two years of communal baths, open latrines, and hot summer days, they had seen plenty of each other. Of course there were also the routine venereal disease inspections, performed, like everything else in the army, en masse.

  “Come on, dirty details,” Bill said.

  Post grinned a little. “After initial probing operations up cock alley, resulting in deep, successful penetration, it was strictly hand-to-hotbox.”

  Bill laughed out loud and rendered a jaunty salute. Lance corporals, as non-commissioned officers were never saluted, but this was a cheap estaminet, not a parade square. Looking down, he realized that a half-empty bottle of red wine was still sitting between his thighs. “Look what I found,” he announced joyously, bringing the bottle to his lips.

  Post took another drink and set down the glass. “Listen, I need you to read something for me. From Laura, it’s serious, I think.”

  Bill nodded as he gulped back a few more mouthfuls of wine, swayed a little, as if to pass out, then set down the bottle and returned to his cigarette.

  Post reached into his pocket and removed a letter. “I got this a few days ago. I read it myself. Pretty sure I got the meaning, but I want you to double check.”

  Lance Corporal Post could read, but had never been comfortable with it. Somehow the words on the page seemed to get all jumbled up in his head. His poor performance at school had played a large part in his leaving home when he was very young, and ending up in the militia. Bill on the other hand had been an avid reader since childhood, and had been studying for university when the war broke out. Bill took the letter and skimmed it, stopped midway through, and read again from the beginning, carefully.

  First there were the standard clichéd sentiments about true love. Next came a vague reference to finding a new job, possibly in a munitions plant. The big finale was the announcement of a son being born, some year and a half ago. Lance Corporal Post, the letter concluded, was the father. A few unlikely explanations were given for keeping the child a secret, and for finally revealing him.

  “Gary, don’t tell me you’re being taken in by this. She got herself pregnant by some lout and thinks you’re dumb enough to be fooled by this trick.”

  “No, I’m not being fooled. But it made me think.”

  “About what? Telling her to stop writing? That lying whore–”

  “Come on, Bill, we’re all selling our bodies whether it’s in an alley, a farm, a factory, or a battalion. And who’s never told a lie before? You know she’s a good girl. Sorry she has to work for a living, sorry she wasn’t born into high society, but I wasn’t either. I’m twenty-six years old. Who knows how old I’ll be when I get back. Hell, she’s the closest thing I’ve got to a sweetheart, and who doesn’t want a son? I want someone to go home to. I need someone to be there for me; a family.”

  Bill dropped his smug expression. He’d been writing letters for his barely literate section commander since basic training at Valcartier. Of course Post supplied the content, Bill simply transcribed. Post had been a homechild – a British-born orphan raised from a young age by a Canadian couple in rural Ontario. At fourteen he had left for Toronto and barely written a letter to his adoptive parents since. Laura, however, he had written to steadily since coming overseas, and more so recently.

  Post’s voice firmed up. “I love her Bill, you know that. And she could love me, now that she has a reason to settle down.”

  Bill forced back tears as he thought of Kate, wondered how long she would keep waiting for him. She had wanted to meet him in England to be married, but Bill was reluctant; there were too few Originals left to ensure a happy ending for the two of them. Her last letter to him had suggested that he had done more than his bit, and should transfer to a
safer position: a clerk or instructor; he could write better and had more experience than most men. But Kate didn’t understand the way it was in an infantry battalion. A man didn’t go around asking for a bombproof job; it just wasn’t done.

  Bill handed the letter back to Post. “Alright, Gary, we’ll write a letter tonight.”

  “We really do have a big couple of days ahead of us. I want to write her after it’s all over.”

  “And what makes you think we’ll be around to write that letter after this scrap?”

  Post finished his whiskey and laid the glass on the table. “Because we’ll still have a letter to write, and she’ll still be waiting. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  “You’re not gonna leave a little shrapnel for the girl?”

  “I left her everything I had already. No point keeping my wallet full when all I do is spend it on nails for you and the others.”

  Bill reached into his pocket. “You can’t let that girl pay for whiskey; that’s expensive stuff.”

  “No,” Post said again, grabbing Bill’s hand with his own. “You keep it, put it towards that ring. I gave her more than enough, really.”

  Bill giggled, dropping what was left of his cigarette into his now-empty bottle. “Yeah, I’m sure you gave her plenty. Was it worth it though? I mean, she is a very good looking girl, but uh, can she perform as well as you?”

  “Please, Bill, I’ve already kissed and telled,” Post said, completely unaware of his poor grammar. “I’m warning you though, whatever I’ve got, which is whatever Laura had, among others, she’s got now, that is, if she didn’t have it before. She’s a veteran, and with all the filthy Cockneys and Aussies I’ve seen in this place I’m sure I’ve got something new too.”

  Bill tried in vain to hold back his laughter.

  “I’m serious, Bill. Don’t mess around with whores. You do it once and you’re not clean... ever. But if you do, get yourself a condom. I didn’t know about them when I first, well, when I became unclean. From that point on its useless anyway.”

  Bill blushed a little. “You know I’m saving myself for Katherine, I’ve told you that before.”

  “Right, good boy,” Post said. “Then you’ve got nothing to worry about. Now, let’s get back to billets, we’ve got a long march in a couple hours. That’s an order, by the way.”

  “Yes, Lance Corporal,” Bill said sarcastically.

  Post took Bill by the arm. “You’re a lucky man, you know. I wish I was young again with a good girl waiting for me. Don’t slip up, that girl of yours is special. You understand?”

  Bill smiled warmly. “I know.”

  2

  Six Platoon was alone outside the smashed basilica. The rest of the company was either late or, more likely, elsewhere. The orders must have changed and someone must have forgotten to tell Second Lieutenant Carter.

  “Fucking fuck. Another Goddamned cock-up for Six Platoon,” Private Hallicks grumbled, loud enough that the rest of his section could hear. “It didn’t used to be like this with Mister Hudson. Nope.”

  Hal was pacing back and forth along the cobblestone street. Most of the men had made pillows of their equipment, frustrated but not surprised to have mustered so early only to be left waiting. Each little pile was the same: a thick waistbelt, two shoulder straps, two ammunition pouches, a twenty-two inch bayonet, entrenching tool, one quart canteen, and a small haversack for personal items; mess tin and canvas groundsheet strapped to the outside.

  Hal flipped his collar upwards as the pre-dawn winds began to chill his throat with each breath, and tucked his hands underneath his armpits. It was an unusually cold morning and the sun wouldn’t be up for another hour at least. The weather had no business being this cruel at this time of year. He wished he had brought along the scarf his mother had knit for him the previous year. Though it was red and yellow, and entirely conspicuous among the drab khaki scarves that the army issued, few dared comment on it and incur the scorn of Hal.

  “What time is it?” Hal asked, getting no response. “Time gentlemen, please!”

  “Time to get a watch,” Green responded, checking his own timepiece before replacing it in his pocket.

  “Well?” Hal asked.

  Green only smirked.

  “Filthy fucker.”

  “Oh for Christ, stop playing with him,” Bill said, head pounding and stomach burning, still slightly drunk. “Five fifteen,” he said, then buried his head in his gear again.

  “Hey, can we leave Christ out of this ‘til at least noon? It’s a little early for blasphemy,” Lincoln said.

  “Yeah, Bill,” Hal agreed. “Can’t you keep to secular swears? You stupid bastard. That’ll learn ‘em, Linc.”

  Both men laughed at that. If Bill and Hal had only one thing in common, it was their adoration of swears. In civilian life the two would have gone to great pains to avoid meeting each other, but two years in the same section had formed a special kind of friendship neither quite understood: trench love. With it came a shared coping mechanism: foul language.

  “You woke me from a dream, Hal,” Green said. “The one where our platoon commander is a gorgeous suffragette lady. All she ever wears is a belt, holster, boots, and a peaked cap; all strictly leather.”

  “Does she wear her hair up?” Bill asked.

  “Only in the frontlines,” Green replied. “On parade it’s just below her nipples.”

  “And how does she enforce discipline?”

  “Well you see she has this riding crop–” Green began.

  “Alright, that’s enough,” Lincoln interrupted. “No wonder you lot aren’t married. You better fix that attitude before you get back home. Wine and women are all you think about.”

  “Jeez,” Green said. “Well now I don’t know if I want my sister marrying your son; such a puritan. Hal will have to take them both. Besides, it’s not my fault the army’s rotted my brain. I used to be a good Catholic boy.”

  “There’s your problem,” Lincoln joked. “Anglican, that’s the way to go.”

  In the centre of the street Second Lieutenant Carter and his four section commanders huddled. Carter checked his wristwatch several times a minute, as if by sheer force of will he could turn back time, or transport his men to wherever they were supposed to be. A few of the newer privates had been sent in various directions to find the rest of B Company. Noticeably absent was Sergeant Bailey, Six Platoon’s top non-commissioned officer.

  “Are you quite certain this is the spot?” Carter asked his NCOs once more.

  They nodded their agreement, tired of talking in circles. Carter was a great platoon commander when everything was running smoothly, but sometimes a little hiccup sent him into a panic.

  “Where is Sergeant Bailey?” the officer asked nobody in particular, craning his neck in all directions. The corporals shrugged in turn, again not bothering to verbalize. “And where are those privates I sent out?” Without waiting for an answer, the platoon commander turned to Corporal James McCloud. “I’m going to see if I can find some officers. Stay here and if you learn anything come get me.”

  “Yes, Sir,” McCloud replied as Carter left.

  Corporal Miller reached into his pocket for a cigarette. “Strike three for old Sergeant Bailey, or is it four now? Ah, maybe five.”

  “And what’s your total?” Post asked.

  “You tell me, Gary,” Miller replied curtly.

  “I haven’t been keeping track, and neither should you. Besides, you missed out on a few years, remember?”

  A tense silence gripped the NCOs. Miller’s match was still burning and the unlit cigarette was frozen an inch from the flame. Miller had outranked Post and McCloud before the war, when all three had been members of the Queen’s Own Rifles in Toronto. But Miller had spent the first two years of the war at recruitment rallies and training camps. “Blood-spitters” like Miller did well in Canada, but often brought the wrong attitude overseas. He had joined the platoon in June, after Mount Sorrel, along with Lan
ce Corporal Burns, one of the many men he had trained. Miller blinked and lit his cigarette.

  “Bailey’s done alright by this platoon. He’s just been so busy breaking in that puppy Carter is all,” Post said. “Tell him, Jim.”

  McCloud nodded. “No need to pick on Bailey.”

  “You know he was with the Royal Grenadiers before the war,” Miller said. “Not the Queen’s Own.”

  “That explains it,” Lance Corporal Burns chimed in.

  “And what the hell do you know about it? How long have you even been in the army?” Post asked, waving a dismissive hand. “Ten months? Maybe a year? In case you haven’t noticed we’re all in the Third Battalion. You’re so fucking stupid, how do you even manage to breathe?”

  Burns stood still, stunned for a few seconds. “That’s no way for one NCO to speak to another.”

  “Then what were you just saying about your platoon sergeant?”

  “Lance Corporal Burns, why don’t you go see to your section,” McCloud said. “Mister Carter will probably be back soon.”

  Miller scratched his forehead thoughtfully as Burns left the group. “Okay, Post, what’s the issue? You can’t see that Sergeant Bailey is inept? You don’t like replacements? Or are you just a malcontent, still?”

  “I don’t like soldiers who can’t tell the difference between a parade square and a firing trench,” Post said. “I don’t like hearing about a peacetime regimental rivalry from some stupid kid who doesn’t know the first thing about it. And I don’t like you judging a man you barely know.”

  McCloud raised a hand to pre-emptively silence Miller, and turned to face Post. “Gary, why don’t you see to your section as well.”

  “Is that an order, Jim?” Post asked.

  “It’s a request,” McCloud replied. “I noticed Bill Brown looking under the weather, and you know I promised his brother I’d keep an eye on him. Maybe you could convince him to drink some water.” McCloud leaned in closer. “I’m afraid he may crack soon, and you know once a man cracks it’s already too late to really save him.”

  “The best eyes in the battalion are watching him like a hawk,” Post replied.

  “Thanks. With a little luck that girl of his might convince him to take a bombproof job yet. I’ll talk to you about it later.”