Bombproof Read online

  “I guess you could say I’m unarmed altogether,” Green said to himself as he struggled for a cigarette with his remaining hand.

  Bill was deaf to his comments as a second pair of hands appeared over his own, and Lance Corporal Post took over bandaging Green’s arm.

  “For God’s sake, Bill, get the man a nail,” Post said, breathing through his mouth; his nose too broken and clogged with blood to accept air.

  Bill produced three cigarettes, lit them.

  Green snickered deliriously. “Careful, Bill, don’t burn yourself.”

  Bill passed off a cigarette to Green’s left hand, sticking the second into one side of his busy section commander’s mouth. Post smoked mechanically, in cadence with his breathing.

  “Hold that,” Post said.

  Both Bill’s hands, and Green’s remaining one gripped the already soaking bandage as Post took out his own.

  “What if you get hit?” Green asked. “You’d best keep it...huh, heh, handy.”

  Post let out an unbelieving gasp in response to the wounded private’s commitment to bad jokes. “Well I don’t plan on getting hit, now do I?”

  Even after the second bandage had been applied, blood ran down the exposed bone, spattering the other men’s boots. Post took hold of Green’s rifle and retrieved the pull-through cord from inside the butt plate, wrapping it tightly just above the bandages as a makeshift tourniquet. “You’ll have to make your own way back, Green. Sorry, but I can’t spare a man.”

  Post stripped off Green’s battle equipment, leaving only the helmet and gas mask. “When you get back, let them know we need ammunition, grenades, and every man they can spare, okay?”

  Green nodded. “I’ll tell ‘em we’re down to a handful of ammo and bombs, and that we can’t hold this line single-handed. Ha, and Bill, you thought you had a lone hand,” Green said, trying to think of one last bad pun. Shrugging, he turned back towards the Canadian lines and disappeared down a traverse.

  “Bye, Green,” Bill called after him, too softly to be heard.

  “Come on, Bill, let’s see how the others are.”

  It was like a patriotic postcard image, tinted red. A heap of dead or dying Germans was piled knee-high around Hallicks, who was steadily cramming rounds into his rifle despite shaking hands. Lincoln stood perched on a firing step, overseeing no-man’s land and letting the occasional well-aimed shot ring out. Both men were speckled with blood.

  “And I was worried about you fellas,” Post said, laughing a little with relief. “You look like a bunch of Goddamned heroes.”

  Lincoln swapped out his own empty rifle with the one Hal had loaded and continued firing. “That’s because we are,” he said between shots.

  “Fucking fuckers!” Hal screamed, kicking at the limp grey-clad forms at his feet, confirming their demise.

  Post counted the German dead: seven. He knew he had trained his men well, but it was almost unbelievable.

  A German rifle, bayonet sunk deep into the back of the trench wall hung suspended a few feet off the ground at a forty-five degree angle. Lincoln dismounted the firing step as the few remaining targets disappeared into their own trenches, and turned to face his awed section commander.

  “One of ‘em jumped in and nearly skewered our good friend Hal. You should have seem him dodge that blade – by a hair. But he blew the Hun bastard’s head off, that one there,” Lincoln said, pointing to the rifle, then to a body on the ground near it.

  Post looked down and sure enough, there laid a headless corpse amongst the human wreckage, the missing appendage, badly damaged, some feet away. Even for Post the scene was revolting.

  “Shouldn’t have fucking tried to fucking kill me, fucker!” Hal stuttered, clenching his rifle tightly, teeth gritted. “Well,” he said, regaining composure, “it was mostly Lincoln.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short pal,” Lincoln said. “The third, or fourth, whatever he was, almost had me. You know, the one you skewered in the back.”

  Hal nodded as a deranged smile came over him. “Yeah, yeah, got him real good. Shouldn’t have tried to get you. Shouldn’t have fucking tried it, eh?” Hal kicked at another limp figure. “That lot on the ground there doesn’t tell the whole story.”

  Post heaved himself over the parapet for a quick look. There were more dead Germans in front of this stretch of trench than anywhere else he could see. It was an impressive and frightening display of Lincoln’s marksmanship and Hal’s rapid-fire.

  “There’ll be medals,” Post said, “for the both of you.”

  “Where’s Green?” Lincoln asked.

  “Got his arm blown off, but he should make it,” Post replied.

  “For He wounds, but He binds up; He shatters, but His hands heal,” Lincoln whispered to himself, the necessary bloodlust of a few moments ago gone completely.

  “Christ, Bill!” Hal removed his friend’s helmet and inspected it, but soon turned his attention to the other man’s head wound. A little trickle of blood was running down his left ear as well. “You okay?”

  “Sure, I’m fine,” Bill said, raising a hand to his head. “Just a scratch I’m sure.”

  “Don’t pick at it,” Lincoln cautioned. “You’ll only make it worse.”

  “It’s kind of deep,” Post said. “If you want you can go catch up with Green. You’ve done your part.”

  Bill’s eyes shifted from one man to the next. Expectation was the last thing he saw in them. Concern, hope, love. “I’ll stay.”

  “Wish we still had Green’s helmet,” Post said. “Here, take mine.”

  “No thanks, Lance, this is lucky as far I see it,” Bill said, placing the battered helmet back on his head and tapping it.

  “You sure you feel alright?” Hal asked.

  Bill nodded. “Bit of a headache, that’s all. Guess I’ll have a bald streak, huh?”

  Toronto, 1927

  Bill removed his flat cap and traced a finger along the scar at the side of his head. “See?”

  Clare was well into her fourth drink. She had been listening intently through the first half of the story, but after a while her eyes began to wander, she sighed loudly and her fingers tapped against the table. She, Bill, and Post were the last three still in the bar. It was a little past one o’clock.

  “What’s wrong?” Bill asked.

  She put a hand on his upper leg, giving his thigh a squeeze. “Is there a room upstairs?” She asked with a grin that reminded Bill of Green more than La Fille. “You can come too,” Clare said, indicating Gary. “I’ll only charge an extra dollar; I’ve heard you’re a lot of fun.”

  Bill’s face went white with embarrassment, as Post’s went red with anger. “This is a Veterans Club, not a Goddamned Cat House!”

  The girl stood at once, surprised at their apparent naiveté. “I’m sorry, I thought I was understood. Thanks for the drinks anyway, and dear,” she said, looking at Bill, “it’s a neat bit of fiction, but not the sort of thing a girl wants to hear. Maybe you should be a pilot, or a cavalryman next time. It’s more romantic than that infantry tale.” A few brisk steps and she was at the door. “By the way, you don’t really look that young.”

  Bill looked at his old friend silently, trying to form words but instead contorting his mouth awkwardly.

  “Drink your beer, Bill. Forget about her. Help me clean up and I’ll get on with the story. We’d have to lie about how it ends anyway if she were listening.”

  Bill shook his head and laughed sardonically at that. “Don’t we always lie about how it ends?”

  France, 1916

  It would be another few hours before the Germans tried another attack, it was always that way. Once more their artillery was focused to the rear of the battalion, separating the exhausted soldiers from fresh supplies.

  Corporal McCloud, seeing the relatively intact state that Three Section was in, passed by to check up on Four before returning to speak with Post. “It’s real bad, Gary. Seven and Eight Platoons have lost almost every
one with any rank. Carter and Bailey have taken charge of the survivors, so Six Platoon is mine for now. How’s Bill?”

  “Hit but he’s fine. Burns and Miller?”

  “Burns is okay, though his section is shot to pieces,” McCloud averted his eyes from Post’s. “Miller is dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “It wasn’t pretty. He was run through a half-dozen times. He put up one hell of a fight though, died on top of a pile of Huns. Most of his section is still in good shape. I guess all that blood-spitting wasn’t just an act after all. Well, sit tight and I’ll let you know if anything changes. Might as well get the men fed while you have the chance.”

  When McCloud left, Post called his section together and told them in his own words what he had just been told.

  “Christ fuck,” Hal muttered, by way of a calmative.

  “Well what do they expect?” Lincoln asked. “We can’t hold off the whole frackin’ Hun army. And we haven’t seen a single round of ammunition brought forward since we got here. Even with Green’s leftovers we’re running low.”

  “Yes, I know, the situation is bloody fantastic,” Post said. “But look on the bright side; I’m gonna allow you all a nice long lunch break. In fact, as long as Fritz keeps his distance, you can consider yourself on leave.”

  Post hauled away the man Green had killed, piling the body next to his own fallen foes. With the centre bit of the trench now clear, what was left of Three Section settled down into a tight circle. Post, Lincoln, and Hallicks dug through their gear for mess tins, camp stoves, and rations. Bill watched them, taking small sips from his canteen, hoping this moment of relative peace and safety could last forever.

  Hallicks was by no means a connoisseur of fine food, but his hash was famous within the battalion. Tasting it was a privilege reserved only for Three Section on special occasions spent in the frontlines such as birthdays or anniversaries, and for those who had done Hal some favour. The remarkable thing about it was that it consisted entirely of the most basic army rations, and one special, secret ingredient. Tins of corned beef and packets of biscuits were placed in front of him as he got to work.

  Hallicks began breaking apart biscuits in the lid of one of the mess tins. “Start on boiling that water, first thing Linc. Any booze around? Be honest now, Lance.”

  Post pulled a flask from his tunic. “Whiskey. Just so you know, I was going to share it with you all tomorrow morning, but I can’t say no to chef Hal. Bill should have a swig though, hair of the dog.”

  Bill shook his head slowly.

  “That’s right. Dump it all in there,” Hal said, holding out the lid to Post. “It’ll soften up the biscuits. Tip it upside down, Lance, don’t hold out on me. Lincoln, you’ve got some tea leaves, right? Well don’t wait for that water to boil, might as well give the flavour plenty of time to sink in. A little sugar wouldn’t hurt too, if you’ve got any. Bill, nail.”

  Automatically, Bill lit a cigarette, took one long drag, then handed it to Hallicks. Hal puffed away happily, pulled the key free from a tin of corned beef, and twisted it open. Next he shovelled the entire brick of meat into a mess tin and began working it out with his spoon. “The trick is to tenderize it. The spoon must be an extension of your hand. Or in Green’s case, a replacement.”

  Lincoln sighed heavily.

  “Oh that little bastard would be making the same stupid jokes. Let’s just ask him once his arm grows back. In the meantime, who wouldn’t want a spoon, haha, handy, see, at all times? Now, are you all ready for the secret ingredient?”

  Every man in the section knew what it was. In fact, it was one of the most common gifts sent to soldiers at the front. Still, Hallicks thought he was sharing something special. Post and Lincoln, deciding that Hal sharing anything that wasn’t army issue was indeed special, stared in awe. Carefully, he removed a glass bottle from his haversack: HP sauce. “My mother sends me a bottle every three months. Don’t get used to it though; remember it’s mine.”

  At this point Hal began to work furiously, dolling out globs of sauce into the meat, biscuits, and even the tea, which turned red and viscous. A few more adjustments with his spoon, and Hal settled just as quickly. “It needs to sit a while. Once that tea comes to a boil, you’ll have to turn your back while I make the final, secret preparations. I’m gonna go check out those dead Huns, maybe one of them will have some chopped onions, or just a few truffles with caviar would be okay too. Don’t nobody touch my HP sauce.”

  Hal stood, took one step away from the group, then turned around and collected his bottle, tucked it into his tunic pocket, and began to walk towards the men Post had killed.

  Lincoln leaned forward and dabbed around Post’s eyes and mouth. When he was done, he held the bloody rag to the other man’s nose. “Now blow.”

  Out came blood and mucus as Post balled up the handkerchief and flung it out of the trench into no-man’s land. “Thanks, dad.”

  “It’s your lucky day, Lance,” Hal called over, holding up a few packs of cigarettes. “This’ll keep us going another few minutes, yes?”

  Post gritted his teeth and cracked his nose back into place. “But they’re Hun nails. You aren’t going to charge me some outlandish rate are you?”

  “Of course not. Two francs for the whole lot. That’s a bargain.”

  “Fine, but they better not be all bloody,” Post said. “What else they got, maybe a little candy for Bill? He doesn’t look too excited for your hash.”

  “Let’s see. Steel helmets; no good for souvenirs, too damn heavy, and hardly worth a bottle of beer. I wish they still wore the old pointy hats. Occupation money, Hun marks; worthless. Not a single real franc or Iron Cross. Huh, pocket watches... cheap ones. I can always sell a wristwatch, but I guess these fellers were old fashioned.” Hallicks returned to the section with German canteens and handkerchiefs, soaked them, and handed them out. “We gotta wash up proper before eating, shame on you, Lincoln. What would your kids say?”

  “Very funny, Hal, you trying to replace Green?”

  “Nah, I’d rather keep both my arms,” Hal said, handing Post a pack of cigarettes and wiping his fingers one by one like a greasy mechanic. “It’s time,” he said, adding the corned beef and biscuits to the tea. “You have to stir it all in carefully, keeps it from getting all gloppy.”

  “Gloppy?” Post asked.

  “It’s a technical cooking term. I wouldn’t expect a peasant like you to understand.”

  “A culinary idiom,” Bill said, forcing himself to speak. “One which our ignoramus friend and section commander is unfamiliar with.”

  “Good boy, Bill. Always side with the cook. Here, you can stir while I go see what those other Fritzies have.”

  Once Bill established a rhythm to his stirring, Lincoln turned his attention to him and began pulling stray hairs out of his head wound. Everybody knew that simple repetitive tasks were the best cure for what Bill was going through. After a minute, Lincoln decided it was time to move on to the next stage: light conversation. “How’re you feeling?”

  “I really thought I was done for there,” Bill said quietly. “It was all black, nothing. Who’d have thought there could be so much nothing? But somehow I came back from it. All I could think of was Kate, marrying her. You know I might almost have enough money for a ring.”

  “Life’s too short–” Lincoln said. “Well, there’s no need to wait I mean. I’m sure you could get special leave if she could meet you in England.”

  “You know, Bill,” Post said, “I could probably get you a nice safe job in England for a few months, maybe even longer. Issuing boots, typing up orders, stabling horses; plenty of bombproof jobs for men who’ve done their bit. Originals especially.”

  “England ain’t bombproof,” Hallicks chimed in from the far end of the trench, now inspecting his own victims. “Zeps, zeps, everywhere, lousy Hun bastards. BANG! From a thousand miles above, and you’re done; never see it coming neither.”

  “Bah, to heck with Zeppelin
s,” Post replied. “I’d take my chances in England, sleeping in a real bed every night. Besides, who wants to see it coming?” Post changed his tone; speaking to Bill like a child. “What do you say, buddy? Would you like to go to England?”

  “It’s not that simple,” Bill said. “When I left Canada I knew there was a chance, a small one I thought then, that I wouldn’t come back. No, I won’t leave the battalion. I can’t marry her until this is all over, and yet she insists. Can you imagine being a widow at eighteen?”

  “Better’n being cold meat at nineteen,” Hal said, cutting away some unusual tunic buttons and snatching a wound badge from one of the corpses. “Besides, if you stopped a bullet now, Kate wouldn’t get a widow’s pension.”

  “I’m almost twenty,” Bill replied, ignoring the truth of Hal’s latter statement.

  “Okay,” Lincoln said, “so why not the bombproof job? And you too, Hal, for that matter.”

  “Danger pay,” Hal shot back instantly.

  “Well of course there’s John,” Bill said. “I can’t help but feel I’ve got to keep going, for him. He’d want it that way, and the sooner the war ends, the sooner he can come home.”

  The section always kept quiet when it came to Bill’s older brother. John had disappeared, along with half the battalion, in April 1915. Among those five hundred or so men who had been overrun by a German assault, about half had been confirmed to be alive in various German prisoner-of-war camps. John was not among them. Despite the official report of “Missing, presumed dead,” Bill remained optimistic.

  “But then there’s you all,” Bill said, cheering up. “I can’t imagine never having met you, and Old Jack, and Green. If it hadn’t been for the war, you’d all be strangers, and that’d be a damn shame, wouldn’t it? I can’t help but think that if I left the battalion, I’d never really be able to come back again. Sometimes I think about the other Originals, and I can barely even remember their names. But the battalion, whatever it was then, or is now, or will be; it’ll always be there. And nothing will ever matter as much as it does. At least not ‘til the war is done with. And when this is all done, what will we do then? Go back to being bookkeepers, and salesmen, and farmers? I sometimes wonder if anything we do once we get back home will even mean anything, will even matter. I guess I don’t go someplace bombproof because I like being here, with my friends.”