 
### BOMBPROOF

### P.L. WYTKA

### Copyright 2015 by P.L. Wytka

### This novel is respectfully

### dedicated to the soldiers of the

### Third Battalion (Toronto Regiment),

### Canadian Expeditionary Force

### 1914-1919

### The Canadian Corps and the characters' place within it

### 1st Division 2nd Division 3rd Division 4th Division

### 1st Brigade 2nd Brigade 3rd Brigade

### 1st Battalion 2nd Battalion 3rd Battalion 4th Battalion

### A Company B Company C Company D Company

### Five Platoon Six Platoon Seven Platoon Eight Platoon

### One Section Two Section Three Section Four Section

### Ranks (simplified) of the Canadian Expeditionary Force

### Commissioned Ranks (Officers)

### General

### Colonel

### Lieutenant Colonel

### Major

### Captain

### Lieutenant

### Second Lieutenant

### Enlisted Ranks (Men)

### Regimental Sergeant Major

### Company Sergeant Major

### Sergeant

### Corporal

### Lance Corporal

### Private

### Thanks Dad

PROLOGUE

Belgium, 1916

The air after an attack was always thick and unpleasant. Even at the top of Mount Sorrel with a cool June breeze blowing, tonight was no exception. Sweat, burnt gunpowder, the lingering vapour of poison gas, and the dead in their early state of decay all vied for preeminence. Private Bill Brown was enjoying the starlit sky and waiting for his shift on watch to end. It had been a long day and, while the casualty lists were still being double checked, everybody knew that the battalion was in rough shape.

Anyone who had made it through the past twenty-four hours unscathed owed it less to skill or determination, and more to luck or divine intervention. Bill didn't believe in the last two. Over a year in Europe had taught him that anything could happen to anyone. A man could never guarantee his safety, though he could tip the odds in his favour, a little.

Through the darkness, he could hear someone coming towards him. A wounded man returning? A patrol nobody bothered to tell him about? A German raiding party? Bill slowly pushed the safety catch on his rifle forward with his left thumb, raised the butt to his shoulder, and peered out into the darkness. He had never had the best night vision, and aside from the vague shapes and shadows of the mostly destroyed barbed wire entanglements, he saw nothing. The noise persisted.

"Halt!"

Private Hallicks climbed down into the trench. "Relax, Bill; it's me."

Bill let his rifle fall from his shoulder and breathed a sigh of relief. "You're supposed to announce yourself before you tumble into a trench, Hal. We're being relieved in a few hours; you want to get yourself killed after all we came through today?"

"First of all, I was coming from our own lines; you're looking the wrong way, sentry."

"Sentry is about listening, not seeing. I heard you, didn't I?"

"Well I wasn't sneaking up on you. If I had been I could have skewered you easy."

"Sure, Hal. What were you doing out there anyway?"

Hallicks rummaged through his pockets and held out a little package tied in brown paper. "You weren't feeling up to eating anything earlier, so I brought you a little something I knew you couldn't resist."

As Bill unwrapped the package his eyes went wide and his mouth began to water: toffee. Bite marks were still present on the half-eaten bar, but he didn't care. "It's good, real good. Must be homemade."

"And I got a few packs of cigarettes for the Lance."

"Free of charge?"

"This time."

Bill stopped chewing, focused his eyes on Hal's. They seemed to glimmer roguishly in the moonlight. "I know you didn't go out there just to thieve a few nails and some candy. So, how much money did the company go into action with?"

Hallicks sighed dismissively. "They weren't using it. I can."

"Cigarettes are one thing, but don't you think their families–"

"Could use the money? No. They'll get a nice little pension. Besides, you think the burial companies don't check for wallets? That is, if those poor bastards aren't blown to hell by shellfire or heaped up and burned by Fritz once he retakes this place. I did them a favour."

"A favour?"

"Jesus, Bill, you don't think much of me, do you?" Hallicks reached into another pocket and pulled out a long twine cord with identity discs, wedding rings, lucky pendants, and even a pair of medals from the South African War tied to it. "You got the toffee, the Lance will get the cigarettes, I get the money, and the families will get the personal stuff. Better than going through the whole 'Missing In Action' drama."

Bill said nothing. Hallicks knew he had accidently touched a nerve. His brother, John, had been reported missing over a year earlier. While Bill clung to the hope that he was still alive somewhere in a German prisoner of war camp, most others struggled to even humour him. The battalion had lost about five hundred men over a weekend, and most of those listed as 'missing' had either been confirmed killed or taken prisoner long since. John was a rare exception; nobody seemed to know for sure what had happened to him.

"Sorry. But we know these guys aren't missing, I've got the cold meat tickets to prove it. Anyway, you know how it is, Bill, I'm sending the money home."

"Who've you got there?" Bill asked timidly, afraid but curious.

"Bracknell, HG. Rogers, G. Fisher, DW. Eastman, GL. Maultby, R," Hallicks paused a moment. "Hudson, AP."

Bill went pale. "I heard he was hit. He's really dead then?"

"'Fraid so. It's gonna be hell for Sergeant Bailey to break in a new platoon commander," Hal said, putting the identity discs and trinkets back into his pocket.

"What'll you do with those?"

"Dump 'em at company headquarters when no one is looking; let an officer or a clerk deal with it. Less questions, less attention that way. I guess you and I are the only two who don't carry a lucky piece, eh? What's it been, sixteen months? And the Germans still can't get us."

Bill wasn't interested in reminiscing. "Have you done this before? The money?"

Hallicks put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Why don't you get a few winks, I'll finish up your shift. And, Bill, you won't tell anyone about this, will you?"

"Our little secret, Hal."

Gentle raindrops began to ding off the men's helmets. Hallicks flipped up the collar of his khaki wool tunic; his classic defence against all varieties of weather. "Goddamn."

Bill removed his steel helmet. Rain streaked the dirt on his face as he rubbed his head with his hand. The stench of battle was slowly being washed out of the air. He was thinking of Kate; how to tell her about everything that had happened. The fury of the German artillery, the screaming of wounded men, the sight of dead friends. He decided against it. His next letter to her would be the usual: nice weather and fresh air, card games and good food; fun.

"It's almost a nice night."

"Put your tin hat back on, Bill. Don't you know? All these things are good for is keeping the rain off you."

### PART I

### BOMBPROOF

### But let my death be memoried on this disc.

### Wear it, sweet friend. Inscribe no date nor deed.

### But let thy heart-beat kiss it night and day,

### Until the name grow vague and wear away.

### \- Wilfred Owen, MC†

### 1

Toronto, 1927

Bill bolted upright, his eyes snapping open, lungs desperately pulling in air in short gasps. He switched on the little reading lamp on the nightstand and glanced at the clock; it was two eighteen. His side of the bed was drenched in cold sweat. Kate was still asleep.

Bill's head was pounding, like it always did after that dream. Somehow the explosion that shot him back into consciousness was getting louder every time. It was certainly louder in his dreams than it had been in 1916. He stood and walked to the bookshelf in the corner and crouched low. Grabbing the little glass and the bottle of whiskey he kept on the bottom shelf for such emergencies, he poured himself a few ounces. Next, he opened the window a little and gathered a handful of snow from the outside sill, clumped it into a ball and dropped it into his glass.

Kate sat up in bed, awakened by a blast of cold air. "Are you alright, William?"

Bill took a deep breath and closed the window. He looked down at his glass. "I was there, again."

"Regina Trench?" Kate asked, already trying to ascertain just how big of a glass he had poured for himself.

He nodded, still not looking at her.

She knew all of Bill's recurring dreams by now. Mount Sorrel was suspicion, secrecy; he would pretend he was only getting up for a glass of water and insist that she go back to bed. Vimy Ridge started with euphoria and ended with a profound feeling of loss; normally that meant staring out the window for a few minutes, then crying himself back to sleep. Fresnoy was stress, then relief; half-finished projects were often completed in the middle of the night, or new projects half-started. Regina Trench was the worst for both of them. First came fear, raw and incomprehensible, that rocked him into consciousness. Next was guilt and self-doubt that he would try to wash away with whiskey. Once that failed, he would turn to Kate for intimate comfort.

Bill brought his free hand to his head, just above the left temple, and felt the little strip of scarred scalp where no hair would grow.

Kate was already changing the bed sheets. "Was it bad?"

Bill emptied his glass in one big gulp and chewed on what was left of the snowball. "Just get ready. Please."

Kate removed her nightgown.

Bill threw his nightshirt onto the reading chair and climbed back into bed. "I'm tired, so let's be quick about this, okay?"

*

Although originally intended as a veterans club, the Leaf and Crown had always been open to civilians. It didn't seem right to turn away a relative, or even a friend of an ex-soldier. And while Third Battalion veterans were given a special rate on their drinks, Gary Post, the owner and a former member of the Third himself, was happy to serve any customer.

The Leaf and Crown had become a popular spot for the young people of the city more recently. Prohibition, though waning, was still in effect; but in seven years Post's club had never been targeted for a raid. Too many veterans filled the ranks of the Toronto Police Department. Too many politicians feared offending the thousands of former Third Battalion members. And too many social reformers had bigger fish to fry. Besides, Gary Post kept a clean, quiet establishment.

The odd veteran could still be recognized by a blazer patch, lapel pin, or missing limb; and on special occasions miniature reunions were held. Wartime photographs and newspaper clippings adorned the walls, as did an assortment of war souvenirs, rifles, and pennants. The cherry oak bar top, names and regiments scratched onto it, was considered something of a holy relic.

Saturday nights, Gary sent his two sons to an old family friend, Missus Hallicks. He was expected to pick them up before one o'clock, but could already tell he would be late, for Saturday night was also when Bill Brown came to visit. Bill and Gary were both Originals; two of the few men who had left Canada in 1914 and had spent the entire war with the Third Battalion. Each Saturday Bill would stumble in sober but already looking drunk. He would complain that the music was too loud, that it was giving him a headache. After a few beers, he would pretend he was young again; sing and dance, turn the radio up, but mostly smoke and drink. For the past seven years, Bill's diet on Saturdays consisted almost entirely of beer and cigarettes. Tonight was no different.

Bill held an empty glass to his mouth. "Gary, send up the SOS; my beer supply has been depleted!"

It was the ninth such SOS call in three hours. When it came to beer, Bill was determined and predictable. Gary took the empty glass and refilled it, while the younger man began scanning the club.

Soon Bill's eyes settled on a young woman sitting alone. She was the flapper type; hair cut short, dress barely meeting her knees, arms bare. Gaudy necklaces overlapped each other while even gaudier rings adorned her long fingers. A cigarette dangled in her right hand.

"She reminds me of someone. I can't figure out who," Bill said.

Gary's eyes, sharp as ever, had already made the connection the moment she had walked in. "I don't know," he lied.

Bill snapped his fingers and stuttered excitedly. "La Fille! The girl from Albert! Back in Sixteen!"

"Oh, I guess she looks a little like her," Gary said, desperate to change the conversation. "But you know what I remember most about Albert? That letter Green wrote to the King."

Bill nearly spit his beer out as he broke into unrestrained laughter. Once he settled, a nostalgic smile came over his face. "Oh Green, damn he was funny, eh? How did that letter go again?"

France, 1916

Two years of shellfire had destroyed most of Albert. During the past several months, British, Australian, and Canadian advances in the area had turned the city into a relatively safe place. The German artillery was more concerned with the new frontline positions, four miles northeast of the city. Albert was now a site where battalions performed the final preparations before going into the trenches, then licked their wounds afterwards before moving on to the rear areas. It was a place for cleaning rifles, bandaging sore feet, and having a hot meal from a cook wagon.

The nicer buildings in Albert had been used as temporary headquarters, quartermaster's stores, and officer's billets nearly since the war began, passing hands from one battalion to another every few days. The old brickfields on the outskirts were home to the enlisted men. The quality of the living quarters varied depending on how long they had been standing and how much effort each group of occupants was willing or able to put in to their upkeep. How adept the temporary tenants were at thieving lumber, broken gear, and abandoned furniture certainly factored in as well.

Lance Corporal Post's section was proud of its hovel: "The Slag Heap Hotel." Four feet high, twenty feet across and eight feet deep, its three walls were cobbled together with sandbags, bricks, sheet metal, and empty wooden crates. Across the top, waterproof tarps provided shelter from sun and rain with only a few cracks. The front end was completely open, allowing all six men of the section easy access. It would have been comfortable if it weren't for the constant snoring, coughing, and flatulence that all soldiers seemed to suffer from; symptoms of the busy days, unsanitary conditions, and what the army misleadingly called "food."

While most non-commissioned officers preferred to distance themselves slightly from the rabble, Post and the privates of Three Section ate, slept, and drank together. He was one of the few NCOs in the battalion who preferred the company of his own men to that of the other corporals and sergeants. Post wasn't a bad or unpopular NCO, but he didn't care for any of the pomp that came with rank. This was readily evinced by the single crooked, faded lance corporal stripe sewn onto either sleeve of his tunic.

Presently, Post was helping Private Green draft a letter. Post himself could barely write, but pitched in the odd idea as Green scribbled away. Both men sat on the outside of the long sandbag wall, while the rest of the section lazed in the afternoon sun experimenting with a form of three-player euchre.

"It's done, Lance," Green said with a grin, looking over the gridded notepad one last time and clearing his throat.

October 6th, 1916

Albert, France

My Dear Majesty Fellow King Chap,

As a member of the 1st Canadian Division, and veteran of over a year's fighting, I wish to bring to your attention a few details that require most urgent action.

The fighting soldier's battle equipment or "webbing" is dreadfully heavy and ugly. I recommend the belt, straps, ammunition pouches, canteen, packs, etc. be replaced at once with a stylish handbag, no more than eight by six by four inches, and weighing no more than one pound when fully packed. The Lee Enfield rifle has proved most inefficient in the rough conditions of the trenches; I recommend a Derringer single shot pocket pistol, as this is all that is required for self-defence purposes. The bayonet ought to be ground down and re-issued as a nail file, as the condition of the men's cuticles is simply deplorable. Entrenching tools are a redundancy in trench warfare, and should be melted down to form a cast statue of your majesty.

Many "old soldiers" have tired of the same iron rations of bully beef and hard biscuits; apple cores and bones would be a welcome replacement. Lastly, I recommend that half of the enlisted men's pay should be donated to a special Armenian refugee relief fund. Officer's pay need not be deducted, as the cost of moustache wax and boot black have increased greatly in the past two years, and only on rare occasions can a suitable product be found that does both jobs. I remain your humble servant,

Private Francis Green

Third Canadian Infantry Battalion

(Toronto Regiment)

p.s. Please inquire to Princess Mary on my behalf. She is a saucy tart.

CC:

Artie "Guts and Gaiters" Currie

Sammy "Sham Shoes" Hughes

Bobby "Trade Tax" Borden

"I like it," Post said. "Short, eloquent, and with just a hint of treason. What did you think, Bill?"

"Needs more swears," Bill replied.

Private Hallicks rubbed his chin and nodded his head seriously, all the while tapping two fingers against his left chest. He was trying to get Bill to call hearts trump. "Yeah, more fucking swears."

"You heard them," Post said. "Let's start working on another draft."

"What about Lincoln and Jack? We haven't heard their assessment," Green said.

"Jack's asleep, but I thought it was mostly funny," Private Lincoln replied. "Take out the 'saucy tart' bit though, that's rude. And remember, you too Hal, that people who use bad language do so only because of their poor vocabulary."

### *

The pre-breakfast rumours of an upcoming action had been proven false a few minutes before lunch, and of course revived with greater detail a few minutes after. By dinner it was clear: the battalion was moving up the line tomorrow morning, a big show in the offing. The orders were simple enough: five o'clock in the morning, full battle equipment, formed up by companies outside the half-destroyed basilica in the centre of the ruined city of Albert.

It was an obvious meeting point. The basilica tower stood ninety yards tall, or at least it had when it was built. The gilded statue of the Virgin Mary and Child, six yards tall, that once crowned the structure, had been knocked over nearly two years before. Now held in place with rebar and chains, the statue leaned at a precarious angle below the horizontal. Every soldier who passed through Albert remembered the "Leaning Virgin." Most said a silent prayer while crossing beneath it. Bill didn't.

Although flooded with French, British, Australian, and most recently Canadian soldiers, Albert had lost the vast majority of its civilian population. The few civilians who remained were mostly operators of estaminets: cafes where soldiers could indulge in a night of home-cooked food, wine, and beer. Although not brothels, women could sometimes be had at estaminets as well.

Six Platoon had been lucky to be dismissed early. Their new officer, Second Lieutenant Carter, had only been with them a few months, but acted like a real veteran. No big speeches, no unnecessary drill and marching, no endless back-and-forth of useless question and unsure answer. As a result, the men of Six Platoon had been able to secure a few tables at the city's best estaminet: La Bouteille.

According to Lincoln, La Bouteille translated into "a bad play on words having to do with a nearby region." He did admit, however, that "France French," which he was slowly learning was different from "Canadian French," which was in turn different from "Montreal French," of which he had only a working knowledge. With most of the men having hailed from Toronto, "Lincoln French" was the best the platoon could offer, and was even sought after on occasion.

Like most estaminets, "La Boot" was family owned and operated, in this case by a mother and daughter. It had been a little corner café before the war, with bedrooms on the second floor. With the men of the family away in the French army, the spare rooms were put to a new use.

Madame's daughter was young, but no amateur; Post would know. She was clearly pleased to have an experienced client, rather than a boring married man, or an incompetent kid. Post had met her during his first night in Albert, six weeks earlier. And while this was only their eighth night together, La Fille had taken a deep liking to him. It certainly helped that he was good with his hands.

Post loved to hear her little moans and squeaks of pleasure; even better were the wild screams. "Maybe you should be paying me."

"Non non, vingt francs," the girl replied with a flirty laugh.

La Fille had two rates, one for men who wore a condom and one for those who didn't. Bare skin cost twenty francs. A man who agreed to wear one of the many prophylactics she kept stockpiled in her room, courtesy of a client who happened to work for the Red Cross, paid just fifteen. Of course Post had already paid the girl's mother, and, like most men, he had paid twenty: about four Canadian dollars. As lance corporals made a dollar and five cents a day, plus ten cents overseas pay, it was quite the investment for a few minutes of raw pleasure. La Fille was a lot more expensive than the two or three franc whores a soldier could find in the red lanterns, but much, much better looking.

"Well alright, I won't ask for a refund this time, but next time I at least expect a free bottle. Vin gratuity. Or better yet one of those bottles of whiskey you keep stashed away in case an officer ever shows up in this dump."

The girl laughed again, she knew how men loved her laugh, and pulled him on top of her. "D'accord. Entrer en moi."

### *

On the main floor, at the table nearest the bar sat the privates of Three Section. Watery beer and tart wine were in good supply. Green had ordered the ubiquitous eggs and chips; the most common, and often only food to be had at such estaminets. Hallicks was picking at the other man's meal.

"You could order your own, you know," Lincoln said.

"I'm not that hungry," Hallicks replied. "I just want a few bites."

Green smiled his trademark thin grin, laid down his fork on the half-empty plate and lit a cigarette. "You finish it up, Hal. I've got to watch my figure. Maybe you ought to as well."

Hallicks pulled the plate towards himself covetously.

"I thought you just wanted a few bites," Lincoln said.

Hallicks looked up from the plate, wiping the fork on his trousers. "A man's gotta eat. Besides, I can't let it go to waste. It's like your bible says, 'waste not... ought not... to get... any more food, again.'"

"He's got you there," Green said, exhaling a lungful of smoke, adding to the already thick screen of it that blanketed the estaminet. "Even if he could stand to lose a pound or two... or ten."

"Fuck off, you stupid fuck," Hal replied through a mouthful of food.

"Where I come from we just say, 'Thanks for the free meal', but your gratitude certainly shines through," Green replied.

Whenever the conversation went quiet, the occasional lusty cry from Madame's daughter could be heard. Lance Corporal Post was a very thorough lover, and most of the revellers on the main floor didn't seem to mind. Lewd comments and raucous laughter were being tossed about amicably.

Private Lloyd, whom the others called Old Jack, grimaced slightly as the cries of passion built towards and then hit their crescendo. "So, fellas, did I tell you about my son?"

"Yeah, sure, with the big guns," Bill replied, straining an ear upwards. "You told us a few weeks ago. He's in England now, should be crossing the channel soon, siege howitzers."

"He better watch it or he'll go deaf," Lincoln said, also hoping to drown out La Fille's cries. "I had a friend in the artillery who lost most of his hearing, had to be sent back to Canada. Tell him to get some wax earplugs, you know, like Odysseus."

Bill turned and nodded his approval to Lincoln for making such an obscure reference. Both men were avid readers, rarities in an infantry battalion if one discounted trashy dime magazines. "I can hear the Siren's song now, listen."

"What?" Hallicks asked. "Nobody actually wears earplugs, and what the hell is a 'Siren song?'"

"It's from Greek myth; never mind," Bill said. "Just be quiet, and listen to that wonderful racket."

Old Jack looked from one man to the next, hoping for an explanation, but received none. "So, Linc, what about your daughters? What are their men up to?"

"They're a little young for sweethearts," Lincoln replied.

"How about the boys?"

"Eager. My older boy Carlyle tried to enlist in August. They must be getting desperate back home to take a seventeen year old. They let him sign the papers and everything. Thank goodness my wife caught wind of it."

He was quite sure he had already told Jack the story, but Jack loved to talk, even if it was in circles.

Green perked up like an excited dog. "Seventeen, huh? My youngest sister is fifteen; do you think she'd like Montreal? I'm sure she'd like your boy."

"I thought you were pawning your sister off on Hal," Bill said.

"Hal gets my older one, there's a younger one too," Green said.

Hallicks looked up from his plate for a moment at the mention of his name. "For the last time, I can't afford another woman," he said quickly, then returned his attention to sopping up runny eggs with burnt chips.

"I'll convince you yet, Hal," Green said. "I don't want to be looking after spinsters when I get home; there'll be a shortage of men I reckon. So what do you say, Linc, Montreal, yes?"

"Montreal's a fine city," Lincoln replied. "I'm sure she'd love it. The old part reminds me of France actually, sans the shellfire and roadside crucifixes everywhere."

"You know I've been to Montreal," Jack said unable to resist hijacking the conversation. "Oh, back in '05, no, '06, yeah, '06. '05, certainly '05. I was there on a buying trip for Eaton's; did I ever tell you I was in charge of hats and scarves at the big store in Toronto? This was just after, no, just before I retired from the militia; you know I was a sergeant then? '06 for sure. Well there was a little shop, maybe on, that big street, the main street there in Montreal, what street is that Linc?"

It had been nearly two years since Lincoln had seen Montreal. A wistful smile played on his lips. "Rue St. Catherine."

"Yes, that's the one, Rue St. Catherine. Hey, Bill, that's your girl's name!"

"Katherine's a common name," Bill conceded, taking a big gulp of wine and hoping the old man was done telling stories for the moment. He preferred beer, but it would have taken about a gallon of it to get him drunk.

Jack wasn't done talking; he rarely was until his voice was hoarse. "You're going to marry her right? Well I bet I can get you a discount on a nice suit, and a dress for her. A nice, long, white wedding dress. When it comes to quality, Eaton's has never been on the short end."

Lincoln, Hallicks, and Green shifted slightly towards each other and leaned in. Bill, seated closest to Jack, had no polite way of leaving the old man's one-sided conversation.

"That's his mess now," Lincoln said to the other two men. "We can carry on; Jack will focus in on Bill."

"And Bill'll focus in on his bottle," Hallicks said.

Green nodded, not to anyone in particular, as he turned his attention from one conversation to the next. He wasn't really interested in Jack's ramblings or Bill's drinking, but enjoyed observing. And for Green, observation went hand in hand with commentary.

"Well, again, that's his mess. What were we talking about?" Lincoln asked.

Green turned back momentarily. "My older sister. You'd like her, Hal. Stop being so cheap, you miserly pinchpenny."

"Shut up, Green. A family as ugly as yours shouldn't even be allowed to breed, you fuckin' Mick," Hal replied.

"Ouch," Lincoln said. "That's a bit much, Hal."

Green grinned and nodded his approval. "Good one Hal, but the difference between a plain insult and a witty retort is truthfulness. Sure I'm Irish, but you can't deny my good looks. You're learning though; I'm proud of you."

"Remember, Hal, vocabulary," Lincoln cut in before Hallicks could unleash another flood of expletives.

"Smart Aleck," Hal mumbled harshly at Green, who had already rejoined Bill and Jack's conversation.

"Smart Francis, actually," Green shot back one last time.

"Never mind him," Lincoln said. "You two are too alike for your own good, you know that? Big mouths, the both of you."

"Alike? Don't think so. Sure I grouse, but I've been around. When I make a comment it isn't just to poke fun, it's to make things better, or prove a point. Problem is no one will listen," Hal replied.

"Get promoted," Green said, turning back to Bill and Jack before Hallicks could respond.

Lincoln shrugged. "He's right, you can't complain if you don't want to give it a go yourself."

"They wouldn't take me. I've stepped on too many toes, you know, my 'big mouth'. But you, Linc, why don't you get a couple of stripes? You play by the rules, even seem to understand 'em too. Must've learned that at the bank, or from the wife."

Lincoln smiled, set down his bottle of wine, and turned playfully contemplative. "I couldn't stand to order around such fine young privates as myself. Oh, and Green, and Bill, and Jack." He took up his bottle, taking a long swig as Hallicks sighed, annoyed. "Oh, and you, Hal. But of course that goes without saying, being an Original and all."

"Then why'd you say it?" Green asked, again returning to Bill and Jack without waiting for an answer.

"Hey," Hal called across the table, as the other conversation carried on. "Hey!" Hal repeated, stretching across to tap Jack on the shoulder with one hand, his other pointed squarely at Green. "Does he do this to you too?"

"Does he do what?" Jack replied, deeply confused at having been pulled back into reality from his fond reminiscences of the hats and scarves department of the Toronto Eaton's store. In particular, he had been relating the story of a French-Canadian woman from northern Ontario who always got the catalogue numbers mixed up, and complained so ferociously that Jack had been compelled to simply give her the replacement items for free; something he regretted to this day. It was one of Jack's favourite stories and was being told for the third time this week, ostensibly for the benefit of the listeners.

"Green. Does Green interrupt your conversations with little smart comments every thirty seconds?" Hallicks asked, exasperated.

"Green's a good kid. He pays attention to the story," Jack responded, giving Green a broad smile, which Green passed along to Hallicks.

Hal shook his head. "Unbelievable."

Jack went back to telling his story as the rest of the section smirked. They liked Hallicks, but sometimes it was fun to wind him up a little.

"Honestly though," Lincoln said, facing Hallicks again, "would you want to be in any other section? Sure, I wouldn't mind a little rank, but not if it means leaving Three Section. Post's done a damn fine job of keeping us alive; you'd know better than me."

"Yeah," Hallicks agreed. "Between me, Bill, and Post, Three Section has more Originals, maybe than any other in the company."

"Probably the battalion; just a matter of time though..." Green said, smiling darkly.

"Jesus, Green, you sick fuck," Bill said, turning away from Jack. "I'm sitting right here. Thanks for the bright imagery."

"Yeah, thanks, Green," Hallicks said. "A good luck toast, Bill, just the Originals."

Hal raised a finger only to point it towards the table, indicating the others to lay down their drinks. Bill smiled as the two men touched the necks of their bottles together.

"Je suis j'mappelle Santé," Bill said in an intentionally disastrous French accent.

"Gesundheit! Hoch der Kaiser! Schnell!" Hal replied in a crazy voice, clicking his heels and slamming a fist on the table as both men took a long gulp.

"Better have another, for Post, you know, just to be safe," Bill said.

"Here's at ya'," they said together, taking another drink.

"Gentlemen," Bill said to the remainder of the section, "you may resume."

"I think I'll call it a night now," Jack said, his grey moustache sopping with beer. He was the only man in the estaminet wearing his overcoat, his bald head now covered with a wool cap. "My back hasn't been the same since South Africa, you know. Sitting too long really hurts my legs. And my arms are just deadweight since those carrying parties last month. Ooh, aw, oh," Jack groaned, standing slowly and placing one hand on his lower left back, the other on his upper right thigh. "You kids are lucky. Don't get old, that's my advice."

"Fantastic advice, but we hadn't planned on getting a whole lot older anyway," Green said.

"Sick fuck," Bill repeated, shaking his head.

Hal stood. "I think I ought to turn in too. Thanks for the drinks Bill; I'll owe you for next time."

"Sounds good," Bill said with a knowing smile.

Hallicks hadn't bought a drink for anyone, including himself, the entire time Bill had known him: twenty-six months. Hal may have been cheap behind the lines, but when the rations were late or the nights bitterly cold, he was the first man to offer up a tin of corned beef or a pair of gloves to the hungry and frozen. After all, anything army issue was free.

"You're welcome for the free dinner too," Green said.

"Fuck yourself, you quick-witted handsome devil," Hal replied.

Green smirked. "Better, much better."

As Jack and Hal began to leave, Lance Corporal Post descended the staircase. He ducked back for a moment until the old man and the malcontent had left, then joined the men on the main floor, assured he wouldn't be ambushed with a semi-senile story or caustic rant about army life.

The clapping of hands greeted him as he made his way towards the table his section was seated at. Madame's daughter didn't usually take customers after ten o'clock, but Post was the exception, and therefore the envy of every man in the estaminet. La Fille followed a minute later to whistles and catcalls, as Madame motioned for her to tend to a table of Canadians awaiting fresh drinks.

"Boys, I'm heartbroken," Post said, triumph stamped on his weary but attractive features as he indicated the half-empty wine bottles around the table. "You started drinking without me."

"Apologies," Green said with a flourish, offering up a bottle.

"Good man. I see a promotion in your future."

"It's a dowry. Now you have to marry one of my sisters. You've gotten over that dose of chaude-pisse, right?"

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. "Thanks, Past-Bill."

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 something 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. That someone was almost certainly Sergeant Bailey.

"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 waterproof 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 earthly 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 perverse 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.

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

They nodded their agreement, tired of repeating themselves. 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 in search of his top NCO. 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 the battle at Mount Sorrel, along with Lance 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, Burns, 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."

Miller waited until Post had left. "You do agree, don't you? About Sergeant Bailey?"

"Bailey's a good man," McCloud said. "He just needs some time to get over the last show. You know Mount Sorrel was a real hellhole; easily the worst bombardment the battalion has ever been under. When we lost our old lieutenant, not to mention two corporals and a dozen privates, it hit him pretty hard. He felt responsible even though there was nothing he could have done differently."

"I know you think I don't care about the men, that I treat them like toys and only think about promotions," Miller said. "I hear what goes around, and it isn't true. Still, Bailey has got to go. Look at us, separated from the rest of the battalion and with no idea where we're supposed to be. Back here it's an annoyance, and more embarrassing than anything else. When we're in the frontlines it could mean the difference between life and death. I'm sure you know that as well as I do."

"I'll talk to Bailey, maybe he just needs a little wake-up call. But in the meantime tell Burns to ease up, and I'll make sure Post plays nice. We can't have our lances at odds with each other; it'll look bad in front of the privates."

"Agreed."

"Speaking of which, we should probably get back to our sections. The men get nervous when they see corporals plotting."

Burns already had his section on their feet, lined up for an impromptu inspection. Another minute and Miller and McCloud's men were donning their battle gear wearily. Post would have liked to let his men doze until Carter's return, but the other corporals would look bad, and for infantry NCOs image was very important. Slowly, Post placed his own equipment over his shoulders and hoisted his rifle.

"On your feet, you lazy brigands, haven't you heard the war is waiting for us? Those rifles better be spotless, bayonets sharp, canteens full, and most importantly, buttons fucking gleaming," Post said.

If Lance Corporal Post had one thing in common with Bill and Hal, it was their mutual love of swears. He knew he was responsible for tainting the younger men's vocabulary, but considering the high likelihood of his last two Original privates ending up dead soon, it didn't seem awfully important. And considering the even higher likelihood of his own death, he didn't feel awfully guilty.

"Good news, Lance." Green said. "I had that dream again, you know–"

"The Lady Lieutenant! Do tell. She almost makes me want to take a commission."

### *

Although formed up and ready to march around seven o'clock, it was now well after noon, and the battalion had yet to move. It was a typical case of "hurry up and wait." Once more, the men settled into their gear for a nap, or broke out decks of playing cards to pass the time. Six Platoon's temporary absence had been noticed by the three other platoon commanders in B Company, but Captain Reid hadn't said anything. Second Lieutenant Carter decided not to confront Sergeant Bailey about the apparent miscommunication that had left rest of Six Platoon absent from most of breakfast and scrambling for leftovers. Bailey hadn't said a word to anyone all morning, and while each man's stomach growled, no private could manage an unfriendly glance in their sergeant's direction. He had taught them everything they knew and led them through each battle; he just hadn't been himself recently.

### 3

The march to the trenches was uneventful, more so than usual. The regular joking, boasting, and singing were absent. Everybody knew that Regina Trench, the longest and perhaps best defended stretch of the German line, was the battalion's objective. Just a few days earlier another group of Canadians had failed to take it. Like all failures, it had been a costly one. Battalions were being reduced to platoons for the gain of a few hundred yards, or sometimes none at all, with increasing regularity.

The road between Albert and Pozieres was littered with the debris of the past few months of fighting. Abandoned gear, broken down vehicles and wagons, dead horses and mules filled the ditches and fields. Dead soldiers were usually cleared away within a few days. Pre-war churchyards doubled or tripled their size. First-aid stations behind the lines were always accompanied by ever-expanding cemeteries hastily scratched into the earth.

But not all of the dead were content with such lacklustre endings. Halfway down the road stood a pair of Canadians, men of the Twenty-Fourth battalion, who had been killed a few days earlier. Both leaned on their rifles, forming a macabre tepee. They had been chatting at the side of the road and, judging by the state of their uniforms and equipment, had been survivors of the earlier fighting for Regina Trench. The two had been on their way back to Albert and had paused, perhaps for a cigarette or a drink of water. One man had a hand on the other's shoulder, an open smile still plastered on his face; killed instantly in mid-conversation. The other man had been less lucky. His face was distorted in surprise and agony, his body half-twisted, evidently killed a moment after the blast. Their steel helmets were pockmarked like a tin roof after a hailstorm from the indentations of shrapnel balls, while their bodies were peppered with little entry and exit wounds.

Green had thought of a few clever comments to make as the platoon passed by the two dead men, but decided that some things were above mockery. Hallicks carried Bill's equipment most of the way as Bill rubbed at his temples trying hopelessly to dull a smashing headache, the result of too much cheap wine the night before.

"I feel like I died, and heaven didn't take me," Bill mumbled.

Lincoln and Jack were keeping each other's spirits up with stories about their children. Post was making his cigarettes last, lighting one, taking a few puffs, then snuffing it out between his thumb and forefinger before lighting it again a few minutes later.

At Pozieres the men were issued with ammunition, grenades, shovels, wire-cutters, and all the other sundry items required for a successful attack. The plan, which had been changing constantly over the past few days, was explained once more; though not in any great detail. Officers and senior NCOs were privy to map coordinates and information about timings, tasks, support, re-supplies, and relief. The privates and corporals were given simpler explanations.

Bill couldn't focus on what Second Lieutenant Carter was saying. His head still ached, while his stomach, only capable of keeping down small amounts of water at a time, gurgled violently. A crude model made of twigs and stones lay on the ground as Carter did his best to explain the plan of attack. Bill looked to Post, who was visibly unimpressed with the plan, and with Carter. Post caught Bill's glance and tapped the lance corporal chevron on his right shoulder. It was an inside joke of theirs: "Follow the Lance."

### *

Once dusk fell the battalion made its way north. The road to the frontline was uneven and pitted with shellholes; too treacherous for vehicles, though good enough for men and supply mules laden with heavy crates of ammunition, tins of water, and sacks of fresh vegetables and bread. On either side of the road, sheets of burlap cloth, badly torn from shellfire, were draped between long metal stakes to conceal the movement of men and materials from German observers. A few sandbagged dugouts, mostly first-aid stations, were the closest thing to civilization; while dead trees, blasted into all manner of ominous forms were the closest thing to nature.

Eventually the road faded beneath their feet as the ground achieved its ultimate state of bleakness. At a tall, man-made berm, the battalion entered the warrens of criss-crossing trenches. Communication trenches, which ran east and west were basic affairs, and simply provided a safe passage for soldiers making their way through the lines of reserve, support, and firing trenches. These latter were much more complicated.

Eight feet deep, four feet wide, sandbagged parapets, reinforced sides, drainage pumps, wooden duckboards, interlocking fields of fire, bombproof dugouts; it was all very scientific on paper. But in the harsh conditions of the frontlines few of these regulations were realized. Redoubts that took weeks to construct were smashed beyond recognition after a few minutes of heavy shellfire. Old trenches were pilfered for corrugated tin and scraps of firewood. Some areas were too dangerous for work parties, and remained in a half-finished state. Above all, the men who occupied the frontline were often too tired or busy just staying alive to worry about repairing collapsed walls, fixing wrecked barbed wire, or digging new latrines. Only trenches constructed at training camps conformed to the precise blueprints of the generals.

Of all the specifications, just two were universally followed. A trench deep enough to provide any real protection necessitated an elevated firing step to allow the defenders to place their heads and rifles at ground level in order to repel attacks. Ideally these were two or three feet high continuous ledges reinforced to prevent them from being washed away in the rain. Often times, mounds of sandbags were an adequate substitute.

The other rule that was observed religiously was the inclusion of traverses. Every fifteen or so yards, trenches terminated at a thick wall of earth, curved about in a c-shape, then carried on. In this way, each stretch of trench was separated by a traverse. This allowed for captured areas to be sealed-off and systematically retaken, while preventing a few plucky attackers from capturing a large portion of the line all at once. Further, with each bit of trench isolated by a traverse on either side, the effects of shellfire and grenades was minimized.

Around midnight the battalion finally settled into its new positions. The attack would begin in five hours.

### *

"Hey, Jim, don't you think you should get some sleep?" It was Sergeant Bailey, equipment and rifle slung haphazardly over his right shoulder.

Corporal McCloud was sitting on a firing step, carefully applying a thin coat of oil to his rifle. "Soon enough, I'm almost through here. Care to join me, Sarnt'?"

Bailey heaved his load to the ground next to McCloud and sat on it. "The only reason I carry this junk around," he said, indicating the heap. "It keeps my ass from freezing to the ground."

McCloud couldn't help but notice that his sergeant's rifle and gear were covered in mud; half the ammunition pouches were obviously empty, the canteen probably was too. Grimacing, he prepared himself for the unavoidable. "What's wrong?"

Bailey could have pretended not to understand, but he'd been expecting this for some time. A great sadness filled his face, devoid of self-pity, but not of self-doubt. "I should have been born a decade later. I'm starting to think I'm too old for this."

"What about Old Jack? He's got to have ten or fifteen years on you."

"Jack's losing it. I'm getting him transferred to the transport section once we get some new men. Besides, he's a private," Bailey's posture straightened as he forced his neck into the back of his collar. "I'm a sergeant. I've been one since '07, you know that?"

McCloud nodded.

Bailey pointed to the younger man's Distinguished Conduct Medal ribbon. "Everyone else is getting promotions and medals. Don't get me wrong, you've earned what you've got, and more. But no other sergeant has more time at the front than me."

"It won't be long 'til you're company sergeant major, you know that. Once Flynn gets–" McCloud stopped himself from stating the obvious. Flynn was, after all, their fifth CSM in the twenty months since the battalion had come to France. "Promoted, posted somewhere bombproof, you'll be next in line. And I'm sure there's a citation floating around some brigade office just waiting for a signature. You know how they are with medals."

Bailey was stone-faced. "I told Carter you should take over when I leave, whenever that is."

McCloud wasn't surprised. He knew he was the best choice, but hoped a little false humility would change the subject; it was sad to see Bailey picking at himself. "What about Miller? He was a corporal before me."

"Don't be foolish. I'd take a private with six months overseas over an NCO straight from Canada. You would too. Besides, you're both Queen's Own from before the war; you're on a level playing field."

"What do you mean by that?"

"You know."

It was easy to forget that Bailey was one of the few Originals, or replacements for that matter, who had joined the Third Battalion through the Royal Grenadiers, not the Queen's Own Rifles. For the men who had joined since the beginning of the war it was an unimportant detail. For those who had belonged to either militia regiment before the war began, old rivalries and politics were still alive and well. Company Sergeant Major Flynn, along with all of B Company's previous top NCOs had been pre-war members of the Queen's Own Rifles.

"I know you think you're being treated unfairly, and maybe you are, but we need the old Bailey back, the one who never frowned and was always encouraging us," McCloud said, reassembling his rifle. "Here, hand me yours."

"Don't bother, it'll only get dirty again," Bailey replied, collecting his gear and walking into the darkness.

"Sergeant McCloud," he whispered to himself. "I don't like the sound of it."

### *

Hallicks was tired, but he couldn't sleep. Knowing that he should at least rest his body, he had wedged himself into a one-man dugout cut into the side of the trench wall. Like shelves in catacombs, soldiers were neatly tucked away a few feet off the ground. Safe from rainwater when the trenches inevitably flooded, these dugouts also guaranteed a man wouldn't be stepped on in the darkness by a pacing sentry, exhausted ration party, or a wandering man seeking to relieve himself.

Next to Hal's space a small nook was indented into the side of the trench, just long enough to seat three men, and topped with a sheet of corrugated tin. Old Jack sat in the middle while Bill and Green faced each other; Lincoln crouched in the trench itself. A little piece of wood was placed on the knees of the three seated men, forming a makeshift table. Even Old Jack wasn't in the mood for sleep.

"What's trump?" Jack asked as his partner, Lincoln, was still shuffling.

"We'll soon find out," Lincoln said.

"Oh. Right of course."

The queen of hearts was turned up. Green passed silently with a wave of his hand. A long moment passed; longer for Bill, who was staring at a lone hand of clubs. "It's your turn, Jack, you can either order Linc up, or pass."

"Oh, I pass," Jack replied.

"Pass. It's on you, Lincoln," Bill said.

Lincoln's hand wasn't great, but he could tell when Bill was excited, impatient. "Well, I guess we'll try it."

"What's that? A spade?" Jack asked.

"Hearts are trump," Lincoln corrected. "We've got this Jack."

Bill couldn't take it any longer. Being polite to Old Jack was one thing, but sitting around with a handful of now-useless cards was too much. "Hearts are always fuckin' trump. Hey, Hal, I've gotta piss, wanna take my hand?"

"Can't work those trouser buttons, huh?" Green asked. "Besides, he's already got two hands. Oh, oh, let's see, ah: but how will you read your watch?"

"'Take my hand.' Real funny Green, but your jokes get worse as you go on."

Jack looked from one man to the next waiting for someone to explain, then settled on Lincoln.

"It's just a joke, Jack. Wordplay."

Hallicks wriggled his way into the alcove and snatched Bill's cards. "I hope the old men are ready to get trounced."

"Try not to table-talk this time," Lincoln said. "There's a reason we hate playing cards with you. So before you ask: if you order up your partner you have to go alone."

"I do not table-talk," Hal said, frowning, biting his lip and sighing in disappointment as he reviewed the cards. "And you don't hate playing cards with me. I'm lots of fun."

"Useless hand, eh, Hal?" Green said. "That's alright, we'll make do. Just don't trump my aces."

Lance Corporal Post had ducked around the nearest traverse a minute earlier for a cigarette. Not that the others would mind the smoke, but they'd probably beg him for a puff until he ran out; not something he intended to do the night before a scrap.

As Bill turned the corner Post threw one hand in the air. "Okay, okay, I'll share this one with you, but I'm not giving you any for later."

"No it's alright; I've got some of my own. I just wanted to get out of that game."

"Old Jack taking too long to call again?"

"Yeah," Bill said, lighting a cigarette. "And I had a lone hand that I didn't get to make trump."

"Shame. But it's a game of chance you know."

"And skill. Every now and then there's a tough call that separates the men from the boys. Don't want to get yourself euchred, and sometimes going alone is worth the risk for the extra points."

Post shrugged. "Mostly chance. Gotta have the cards before you can play them. That Jack though," he flicked the stub of his cigarette to the ground, lit another. "Yes, Sir, I'll have to talk to Bailey about the old man. He's just not fit anymore. I don't mind the stories, but he's so slow, and always complaining about a sore something or other. But we've been short-handed since, I don't know, a long time. And when it comes to sleep-walking through army routine he does a damn fine job; just too damn slow."

"It's dangerous, Gary. For him and us. I mean, I know I'm useless after a few bottles of wine, but you've got to admit, I didn't last this long on good looks."

Post nodded his head in weary agreement, disregarding all the times Hal had helped Bill in one way or another. "I know that, Bill. But like I say it's a matter of manpower. We'll be getting reinforced for sure in a few days. I'm gonna try to stick Jack in with the casualties, or switch him up with a younger man from headquarters. In any case we've just got to get along with him a little while longer."

A few minutes later, the entire section stood in a circle, leaning against the corrugated tin sheets that kept the walls of the trench from collapsing in on themselves through damp days and earth-shaking shellfire. A light rain was drizzling, dinging off the men's helmets. It always seemed to rain before and after a battle. Hallicks would have preferred shells to rain. He was one of the few who would rather die quickly than live miserably.

"We've got sentry from two to four, Bloor through College," Lance Corporal Post said. "That'll be the last shift of the night. We're jumping off at five o'clock, so try to eat and get yourselves ready during sentry; we're standing-to at four."

Almost every trench and ditch had names and street signs. To the newer men it seemed like a bad joke. After a few days in the winding maze of trenches, some newly dug, some long ago abandoned, the system made sense for the same reason it did in a big city. For the Third Battalion, imposing Toronto city streets and boundaries over a stretch of frontline trenches made perfect sense. Yonge was the frontline trench, facing east and running generally north-south. Bloor, College, and others ran back towards the support and reserve lines: University and Spadina.

"Other than that, all I have to tell you is that it'll be a big day tomorrow. Is there any questions?" Post glanced from one soldier to another, hoping that Jack or Green wouldn't waste time with a pointless story, or snide comment, but giving them the opportunity nevertheless. Bill even refrained from correcting his grammar.

Green flossed his teeth with a piece of khaki thread, at least there would be no smart remarks, Post thought. Hallicks sighed audibly. Old Jack's eyelids were finally beginning to droop. Bill and Lincoln were whispering something: apparently Green and Hal had pulled off a euchre.

"Good," Post said. "Try to get some sleep, and I'll wake you when it's time for sentry."

### *

When the final orders group wrapped up, Second Lieutenant Carter was in no mood to receive the friendly advice and veiled criticisms the other platoon commanders had been dishing out since he joined the battalion. Stories about the man he had replaced, Lieutenant Hudson, were spoken as tactical parables. While the other officers of the company inspected their platoons or went over maps and reconnaissance sketches one last time, Carter balled himself up on a wire bunk and waited, stomach grumbling and mouth dry, for the morning.

### 4

Toronto, 1927

"I don't think I've seen you here before, I'm Bill," he said, taking a seat next to the young woman and sliding some fancy cocktail towards her.

In a moment her glass was empty and she shot him a coy, seductive glance. The girl looked him over approvingly and offered her hand. "Clare."

"Hey Gary, how about another drink over here?"

A more genuine interest came over her features. "So that's him, huh?"

"Yeah, that's Gary Post. He owns the place, you know."

"I've heard a lot about him from a friend of mine."

Bill smiled; it was an easy opening. "So maybe you've heard that Gary and I were in the big war together?"

"I seem to remember a fellow named Bill. Aren't you a little young to be a war hero?" Clare asked, all coquettish charm.

Bill tried not to blush. "I was young then, I suppose. I was an Original though, same as Gary."

Post arrived with a second "between the sheets" cocktail for Clare. The woman was obviously only looking to secure a few free drinks, and Drunk-Bill did enjoy harmless flirtation."

"Hey, Gary, why don't you tell this young lady about that time I saved your life?" Bill said with an open smile and a quick wink.

"Oh jeez, which one? You know Bill must have saved me a dozen times."

"Is that true?" The girl asked, biting her lip and sliding her chair a little closer to Bill.

Bill breathed deeply and tried to keep his cool. "I'll tell you all about it."

France, 1916

Somehow in the darkness it all seemed so much less terrifying. Six Platoon was about one hundred yards behind the first wave. A sick sense of relief was palpable as two waves of D Company men absorbed the initial German response; light rifle fire for the most part, although the odd machine-gun chattered away. In the darkness the men groped their way through wire obstacles, shellholes, broken equipment, and the occasional corpse left behind from the previous fighting. No-man's land was part trash heap, part boneyard. Friendly voices called out, indicating breaks in the German barbed wire as the remaining waves of Canadians began to pour into the first trench. It was as if the battle had not yet begun.

Rum helped. In the frontlines it was usually issued out just after breakfast and the morning stand-to. Before an attack it was critical in soothing the men's nerves. Each section commander had their own view on the two ounce, one hundred and eighty-six proof rum issue. Too many soldiers had gotten drunk and carelessly stumbled to their deaths; others had taken stupid risks that ended well and earned them medals. Sergeant Bailey, whose job it was to distribute the stuff had his own ideas and gave each man as much as he thought necessary based on the soldier's age, size, lineage, time in the frontline, and consumption of alcohol behind the lines. As a middle-aged, well-built, Irish Original, the sergeant allowed himself a double ration. Of course the men had the right to refuse rum, which they seldom did. The morning of an attack, however, Bailey informally revoked that right.

The German frontline had been abandoned hastily. A few dead sentries lay strewn about, but for the most part the occupants had fallen back in order to reorganize.

"I think I saw Jack get hit," Lincoln whispered to Post. There was no need for lowered voices, but instinct dictated subtlety. "Back near our own lines."

"Too bad. Anyone else?" Post asked, raising his voice slightly.

"Not that I could see. I know for sure Bill and Green are around here somewhere. I just heard them."

Post squeezed up against the side of the trench allowing other soldiers to pass through while he rounded up his own section. "Six Platoon, Three Section," he called repeatedly into the darkness.

"Here," a voice replied: Green.

Bill had always had trouble seeing in the dark. He kept one hand firmly on Green's shoulder as they tumbled into the trench and made their way towards Post's voice. "I'm here too."

"Hal, you around here?" Post called out.

"Here, Lance, I'm with ya'," Hallicks hollered back.

"Alright, Three Section, stick close we're gonna move. Follow me single file, fingers off your triggers. Our boys might be mixed in with Fritz," Post commanded.

The little group collectively took a deep breath, and pushed down a German communication trench towards the sounds of rifle and more distant machine-gun fire. Hobnailed boots clattered on wooden floor mats as the sounds of fighting grew louder. Flares were going up a few hundred yards forward in the German support lines. The Hun artillery would soon be active.

"Third Battalion here, B Company," an authoritative voice made itself known: Company Sergeant Major Flynn. Flynn had positioned himself, along with a Lewis machine-gun team, just ahead of a four-way junction that marked the boundary of the main advance. "Welcome to the final objective lads, second line of Hun trenches. Start digging in; firing steps are top priority, then parapet and parados. Who's in charge here?"

"Me, Sir, Lance Post."

"God help us," Flynn said with a laugh. "The rest of your platoon is on your left, about forty yards down, just call for Six and I'm sure they'll hear. Now get going, you're late."

Post was surprised to see that the CSM had gone forward ahead of his own company, rather than following behind. He also wondered how much longer Flynn would be around for.

### *

Bill had stuck close to Green all through the early hours of the day. Once he realized the sun had been out for some time, he appraised the situation. Post had organized the men into groups of two, ranged out over about twenty yards of trench, a traverse at either end blinding the section to the goings on of the remainder of the platoon. Both British and German trenches were built that way in order to isolate an enemy breakthrough. Hal and Lincoln were on the far right, Post the far left, alone, while Bill and Green were in-between.

It was the old German game: the counterattack. The battalion had such an easy time taking two lines of well-fortified positions that the less experienced men were in a celebratory mood. Post's section was too knowledgeable to be under any such illusion. The German artillery was falling well behind them, but it was no accident. No orders, no reinforcements, no additional ammunition had been brought forward. The battalion was trapped in their newly-gained positions. Birds in a not-so-gilded cage.

"So, won't be long now I guess," Bill said.

"'Til what?" Green asked, playing dumb.

"Fritz's counterattack."

Green let out a false chuckle. "Oh, that."

Bill's voice cracked a little with frustration. "What the hell did you think I meant?"

"Your wedding. Heard a rumour your girl is getting impatient. You better marry her while you still can."

"Oh fuck, not this morbid shit again."

"No, no, I just mean that there are a lot of wealthy profiteers and handsome shirkers back home. A woman can only wait so long for her soldier boy."

"Uh huh."

"I also heard she wants to meet you in England. Better get yourself bombproof fast. If you want, I can ask Fritz to turn off the shellfire for a few minutes. You can desert real quick."

Bill pulled a cigarette from his pocket and shot Green a fierce glance that made it clear he wasn't sharing. He fumbled to light it and burnt himself on the match, letting out a little curse.

"Careful," Green grinned, "that'll be hot."

"Fuck sake, Green," Bill replied. "Hey, Linc, you wanna switch up? I'll trade you Green for Hal. You prefer Green, don't you, all his little jokes and things? Linc?"

"You're stuck with him," Hallicks said. "Sorry, Bill, but Lincoln's talking to God, and hopefully a little divine some-such will rub off on me. Maybe even a free billet in heaven."

Bill stared at the ground while he finished his cigarette. He was thinking of Kate. He usually did a pretty good job of shutting her out of his thoughts whenever he was in the frontline, but now she was all he could think of. Maybe Post, Green, and all the others were right about getting a safe position in England.

Before long the bombardment had shifted. High Explosive shells smashed into the ground around Six Platoon, creating blasts of concussive force that knocked the men to the ground and sent vibrations through their entire bodies. Sandbags and revetments flew about the trench, as each man found what little cover he could. All the noise was giving Bill another headache, just as his two-day hangover had finally passed.

Lance Corporal Post was growing weary of waiting; bombardments didn't faze him anymore. He steadied himself against the side of the trench and peered over, hoping to catch a glimpse of the coming attack before it bore down on them. It wasn't an awfully dangerous thing to do, after all a man was just as likely to be killed hugging the ground as standing in the open. It all came down to dumb luck.

Post laughed and murmured to himself. "A game of chance." He even ventured slightly into no-man's land, but a few well-aimed shots from the next line of German positions sent him scurrying back into the trench. "And skill," he reminded himself.

Suddenly the shellfire slackened, a few seconds more and the German guns were silent altogether, only to begin again a hundred yards behind the front trench. Again, the battalion would be cut off from reinforcements and supplies. The call of "Stand-to!" went out across the line, although it was entirely unnecessary. Having spent the last hour or so being helplessly torn to pieces by shellfire, the battalion was eager for a chance to fight back, and mounted their hastily built firing steps.

The first few lines of advancing German soldiers were cut down in short order, Lee Enfield rifles burning through ammunition, as NCOs reminded their men to aim each shot carefully. The remaining Germans went to ground, abandoning the charge and clawing forward towards their old trench. Once the attackers had gotten within fifty yards, the Canadians again taking shelter under an impressive base of German rifle and machine-gun fire.

Post stuck his head up once more; bullets instantly greeted him and struck the parados behind him. Bill mumbled gibberish to himself and glanced at Green, whose jaw was set with anticipation, his trademark grin disquietingly absent. Hallicks scowled as his entire body shook. Lincoln stood calmly, rifle and bayonet poised upwards.

A flurry of grenades sent the section scrambling as bombs detonated all around them. Metal fragments, some the size of peas, others like clenched fists, whizzed around the men or embedded themselves in the trench wall.

Bill looked skywards, as if in slow motion, a German bomb sailed through the air towards him. Green stuck his right hand out, deftly catching it by the wooden handle most Hun grenades had; the head of the bomb resting mere inches from Bill's steel helmet. With a flick of the wrist the grenade went flying back towards the advancing Germans.

He didn't scream, didn't even move, as the bomb exploded just beyond his hand. Exposed bone extended well past the elbow, one side of the forearm still nearly intact, while the other was an indiscernible muddle of bone, flesh, muscle, and dark blood. The hand was gone altogether. Green looked down at what was left of his arm, mouth open and quivering, eyes wide and incredulous.

A piece of shrapnel from the bomb had sheared the side of Bill's helmet, tearing a thin stretch of scalp from just above his left temple to the back of his head. The jagged piece of metal had ricocheted inside his helmet, shredding the leather liner, before dropping to the ground. Bill blinked and the world turned to darkness for what seemed like an eternity as the first wave of German soldiers, bayonets fixed and screaming wildly, entered the trench.

Before Post understood what was happening he had an enemy soldier impaled on the end of his bayonet. Three clean punctures through the stomach, just like he'd trained for a hundred times before. It didn't require any thought. He didn't even take notice of the man's death rattle as he glanced to his right, seeing Bill and Green standing helplessly as if entranced. Three German soldiers were in the trench near them. The jumble of bodies blocked Post's view of Hallicks and Lincoln. Post withdrew his bloodied blade and quickly closed the short gap between him and the enemy. In his loudest parade ground voice he shouted, "Hey, look here you Hun bastards!"

The nearest German turned to face Post, rifle held up cautiously. It was almost too easy. When it came to bayonet fighting, Post had been taught, and had seen for himself that a defensive opponent always lost. He ran forward at full speed, parried the other man's bayonet to the ground, quickly pulled his own upwards, and rammed it into his opponent's chest. It wasn't the proper technique, and his blade became jammed in the man's ribs, but Post was too enraged at the prospect of losing his men to bother with technique. Brute force proved to be enough as he twisted the blade, loudly cracking several ribs and sending splinters of bone into the German's heart and lungs. Blood poured forth from the man's mouth as he convulsed and fell to the ground.

As a second German stepped forward, Post regained his composure. His latest opponent stumbled clumsily over the body of his previous one, crashing into Post and sending both men to the ground, too close for rifles and bayonets. Huge fists smashed into Post's face, breaking his nose for the third, or maybe fourth time in his life, he wasn't sure, though the first time since the war began.

Post responded by clutching his hands tightly around the German's neck, and sinking his teeth deeply into his cheek. The pain proved to be too much as Post's opponent, yelping and gasping for air, ceased his attack and pulled at Post's hands. It was the moment he needed to turn the other man's body over and come out on top.

Post let go altogether, grabbed the German's steel helmet and wrenched it from his head. Using it like a club on the now unprotected face and skull, he swung it high above his own head by the leather chinstrap and brought the helmet down with devastating force. The German tried to shield himself, but only ended up with broken fingers and wrists as Post continued his assault. His hands were thick and sticky with blood; his opponent's face a pulpy mess, the skull caved in. As Post struck the fifth blow, he knew the other man was dead and let the helmet fall to the ground. His face was still contorted with primitive rage when at last he got a full view of his section.

The third German had disregarded Green, at once seeing the destroyed limb. Bill was instinctively pulled from his daze and dodged an approaching bayonet. The Mauser rifle turned, the wooden stock slamming into Bill's throat and cutting off his airway as a hateful, ugly face grimaced with purpose. Bill could smell the Erbswurst on the other man's breath. His eyes closed as he prepared for oblivion.

An infinite, inconceivable nothingness overwhelmed him. No bright light, no pearly gates, no heavenly choir or booming voice of God. He was floating in inexplicable emptiness, thinking only that he must be dead, and unable to carry on believing in his own existence. Just as the darkness became too terrible to bear any longer, an image of Kate emerged before his eyes. Little details filled themselves in, defying the awful void. A white dress, the Eaton's label still attached. Two golden rings, one simple, one adorned with a small but perfect diamond. St. James Cathedral in Toronto. A Sunday morning sky. His eyes were locked on hers, as she smiled with such innocent joy, whispering "I love you."

A sickening sound forced Bill's eyes, full of shock and terror, wide open. A moment later the pressure on his throat lifted and he gasped in a lungful of air, eyes watering as he sank to his knees and began coughing.

Green stood above him, breathing deeply and steadily, a step behind Bill's assailant, his trench knife through the German's face. Green withdrew the blade with a quick pull and forced it into the side of the dying man's neck. Bill squinted in horror as his would-be killer sank to the ground next to him and entered the same void he had barely escaped.

Bill's head was pounding now, much worse than before, as if his skull would crack and fall to pieces at any moment. Vomiting, he struggled to catch his breath and come to his feet.

"What's a' matter, Bill? Weak stomach?" Green said. Dropping his bloody knife and retrieving a field dressing from his tunic pocket, he motioned calmly to what was left of his arm. "Give me a hand. I'd bind it up myself, but you know, I'm a little shorthanded."

Bill began to fumble with the dressing, trying vainly to wrap it around the shattered limb.

"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, and pouring water over Green's stump in a sad attempt at disinfection.

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.

"Green!" Post yelled. "You're not as handsome as me anymore!"

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

Green re-emerged for a moment. "Ah well, thumb things are out of your hands."

Post could only shake his head. "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 seen 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 mostly-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 everyone 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 with a handkerchief. 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 hell with Zeppelins," 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. "Plus all the souvenirs I can... and this one is for Green... get my hands on."

"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" on Army Form B.2090c (Acceptance of Death for Official Purposes) 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."

The section remained silent a few moments more to ensure Bill was done. The silence soon became so obvious that Hal decided to break it. "Keep stirring that stuff. Two more minutes on the cooker."

"Okay, Hal. Talk guys, I wanna listen."

Post became thoughtful, searched for the right words, then spoke. "Whenever I was late for work it didn't matter. Hell, even if I showed up an hour late, what would they do? Make me stay an extra hour? You're almost right, Bill; this war, no, this battalion, is more honest and important than anything else. Except family. And you can start one anytime you like. Kate's waiting for you."

Hal stormed back to the group. "Stir, stir! A steady job and you act like a jerk, eh, Lance? If I could get decent work, especially at a place that let me show up late, I sure as hell wouldn't have left it."

Lincoln's face screwed up in confusion. "Did you join the army for employment?"

"Food, shelter, and clothing helps, not that I think much of the quality of any," Hal replied. "But still, the pay is alright. And why'd you join, Linc? King and Empire and stuff? Keep your family safe from the Godless Huns?"

"Don't make fun," Lincoln replied. "This is serious. You think the Germans will stop at France and Belgium? They want the world, and they'll get it if we don't bring their dirty empire to an end. Post is right, family should always come first, and for me that meant leaving them, to sit in a filthy ditch with a bunch of kids from Toronto. Don't get me wrong, you're pretty good for a second family, but I have a real one back home."

Post nodded his approval.

Hal shrugged apathetically and took the spoon from Bill's hand. "It's ready," he said, dishing it out into Post's and Lincoln's mess tins.

"Come on, Bill, have some."

"No thanks, I don't like HP sauce."

"Oh for fuck, Bill. You've never even tried it. Will you just try it?"

"I'm not hungry."

### 5

Three Section was finishing lunch when a weak cry from over the parapet caught their attention. "Kamerad."

Post motioned for silence, stood, and grabbed his rifle.

"Kamerad," the cry came again.

Post trod lightly towards the sound. Was it a lost German expecting to tumble into a friendly trench? Could it be a wounded man seeking mercy? Was it a trick, a prelude to a raid?

Before he reached the source of the noise, a German soldier, without rifle or equipment, rolled into the trench. He groaned in pain on impact. A soiled bandage was wrapped around his left thigh, while a smaller wound in his right chest soaked his tunic with blood.

He attempted to raise his arms in capitulation while barely managing to kneel. The fear in his eyes was obvious. Without medical attention he would bleed to death in another hour or so. "Kamerad?"

German shells were still landing between the battalion's newly-won positions and their own trenches. It would be suicide to try bringing a prisoner back through that bombardment, especially one in such rough shape. Lance Corporal Post glanced at his section knowingly. There were too many ways a prisoner, even a barely mobile one, could sabotage his captors. Post refused to take any chances with what was left of his section just to help a man who had been shooting at them a few hours earlier.

"Well I'm not gonna do it," Lincoln said. "I'll try to bring him back if you want, but I won't murder a wounded man."

Bill's mind turned once more to John. If he was alive, it was because of a German soldier observing the rules of war.

The wounded German shifted nervously as Post steadied himself and clenched his rifle tighter.

"I'll do it, Lance," Hallicks said. "Wouldn't be the first time. Besides, he'll take over the whole damn world if we don't stop him, ain't that right, Linc? Time for me to do my bit for King and stuff."

Post breathed a disgusted sigh of relief. "Thanks, Hal."

"Fifty francs."

"Fuck you fifty, I'll just do it. It ain't worth a week's pay."

"Woah, hold up, Lance. You're not even trying to negotiate. How about forty?"

"Ten."

"Now where's that 'fair play' you're always on about? Twenty-five, and that's final. And I'll throw in those Hun nails for free," Hal said, then turned to the German soldier, smiled and motioned for patience.

"You're a thief, Hal. But alright, twenty-five. Just don't botch it."

"Botch a Bosche? It'll be simple. Wir gehen, Kamrad, los, los," Hal said, smiling and pointing towards the traverse at the end of the trench.

The German didn't move and was clearly regretting leaving no-man's land. The heaped up bodies of his comrades made him wild-eyed.

Hal lit two of the German cigarettes, handing one to the prisoner. "Here, here, ein zigaretten, taken zee."

"Danke," the German said, then turned his back to Hal, and began to trudge towards the traverse.

Hallicks didn't even bother to move. After the German had taken just two steps, he slowly squeezed the trigger of his rifle, and the prisoner tumbled to the ground, face to the sky, cigarette still smoking.

"Twenty-five francs," Hal reminded Post, as he went forward to inspect the dead man's belongings. "I would have done it for fifteen, you should have negotiated more. Blah, these nails taste like garbage, you want it?"

"Put it out, I'll have it later. Give me his too," Post replied.

"Hey a wristwatch!" Hallicks said, strapping it on triumphantly. "I can get ten francs for this, easy. Plus your twenty-five; this guy was a gold mine."

"What's a Hun identity disc worth?" Post asked.

"Not much, besides, some things are sacred. Pay up."

"I'm short right now, but I'll pay you once we get back to Albert."

"Okay, I won't even charge you any interest."

"Fair play."

*

About an hour later the next wave of Germans was advancing through no-man's land. They were met with paltry volleys of rifle fire and only a few grenades. The carrying parties hadn't succeeded in bringing forward much ammunition since the initial attack. It might not have been hopeless, but the odds were certainly against the depleted, exhausted Canadians. Working their rifles with a mix of desperate haste and deliberate precision, Three Section did their best to hold back the attack.

"Forget this," Post muttered to himself as the enemy moved cautiously but steadily closer. He was down to a dozen or so bullets and could only assume the others were too. "Hal, Lincoln," Post yelled pointing right, "fall back, let Burns know."

Without a word he grabbed Bill by the arm and began running to the left. Within earshot of McCloud's section, Post simply called "Retreat!"

Post stood on the old German firing step, which faced the Canadian lines, and cupped his hands together. "Up, up, now."

Bill placed one boot on Post's hands and shot the other upwards, awkwardly straddling the parados. Outside of the trench, he turned back and offered Post his hands.

"Just go," Post said, hauling himself up.

Every step was like the moment in a nightmare when the terror becomes so unbearable it awakens even the most exhausted man. Bill was sure that at any moment he would be shot from behind, or suddenly realize that the company was surrounded.

Before long, Post had caught up to him and grabbed his hand, soon overtaking him and tightening his grip, dragging him along. "Faster, keep up!"

Finally they arrived at the first line of German trenches, and Post let go of Bill's hand, levelling his rifle to his shoulder. Looking left and right, he saw nothing but empty stretches of trench.

Bill had slumped to the ground. "Do we keep going? Back to our lines? Maybe they're all dead. It could just be us."

Post turned back the bolt of his rifle and began to shove in his last few rounds. "Load up," he said curtly, poking his head over the parapet.

After a few tense seconds he could see khaki-clad figures coming towards them at full speed; men of B Company. Moments later the mud-stained Canadians had taken up defensive positions, rifles emerging cautiously around each approach. Between sporadic artillery fire, the jeers and shouts of German soldiers were clearly audible. Carefully thrown hand grenades hemmed the Canadians in further with each passing minute.

Second Lieutenant Carter was pacing quickly down the line, furiously demanding to know who had ordered the retreat. He had stormed by Post before he could even respond.

"I did, Sir," Post said, as Carter wheeled on him. "We wouldn't have stood a chance down there. Odds are the rest of the battalion is pulling back too, I think–"

Carter laid one hand on his revolver, the other gripped Post's epaulette and pulled him in close. "I don't give a damn what you think!"

For the first time Post could see clearly the deep lines in the young officer's face, the bloodshot eyes and dirty cheeks. He was still a stupid kid, but Post felt a grudging respect for him.

"You called a platoon retreat, you! A fucking lance? There'll be charges. Insubordination, cowardice, conduct un–"

"And where were you anyway?" Post screamed back at him, placing one hand on top of the officer's and keeping the revolver holstered, while the other formed a fist and pulled back, the arm taut, like a cord about to snap.

McCloud stepped between Carter and Post, and shot fierce glances to any private who had turned their attention to the pissing match that was unfolding. His voice was calm and steady. "Sir, the rest of the company has withdrawn as well. We need to reorganize for a defence. Now."

Intermittent shots rang out as German advances were broken up with ever-diminishing rifle fire. Ammunition was running short.

"Post, take a man back towards our lines, fifty yards at most. Scrounge every bullet you can in five minutes or less. Go now."

"Sir," McCloud said, waiting until Post had left, "I need you to speak with the captain. We have to organize an evacuation of the wounded. We need to be resupplied. Ask him to give the order for an SOS barrage. If there are any reserves left; clerks, stretcher-bearers, whoever, we need them here with a rifle. We need to identify the weak spots in our line and reinforce them; I'll get on that while you see the captain. If our flanks are turned, it's all over. If he asks for our platoon strength, we're at sixteen privates, three NCOs and yourself. Got that, Sir?"

Carter stared dumbly for a moment, then left in search of Captain Reid.

Only a handful of Canadians had been killed before reaching the German wire, but they proved to be a treasure trove of ordnance. Bill removed his damaged steel helmet and loaded it with ammunition from a dead soldier who bore a peaceful, but somewhat inquisitive expression on his face. At least it had been clean for him; one round through the heart. Just like the men always lied to the families about whenever a member of the platoon suffered a particularly agonizing death. As a matter of fact, it was the first time Bill had seen such a pristine body. Noticing a dead bomber, Bill crawled towards him. A half-dozen hand grenades – who could ask for more?

"Bill, let's get back!" Post yelled from a few yards away.

It hadn't been five minutes, but the German artillery fire had died down now, which could only mean another counterattack was coming.

When Bill re-entered the trench he was met by Lance Corporal Burns, who gruffly demanded to know what ammunition he had recovered. A moment later all but a few rounds had been stripped from him for redistribution.

"Give me those bombs," Burns said, noticing Bill's bulging tunic pockets. "I'll make sure they don't get wasted." It was half-insult, half-promise.

Post had carefully avoided the other NCOs and made his way directly towards Hallicks and Lincoln, handing out ammunition along the way, his helmet also turned into a basket for bullets. The two men were crouching miserably where a trench ran back towards the second German line, bayonets poised defensively for lack of ammunition, a deathly pallor in their faces. Resolute, but not enthusiastic.

"Still feeling heroic, I see," Post said, placing his helmet on the ground between the two men and kneeling, rifle at the ready.

"Hullo Lance," Hal said, already cramming rounds into his rifle.

"I've still got two or three," Lincoln said, not moving. "I'll load up once he's full."

As Hal's bolt slammed forward, Lincoln took his turn and began loading his own rifle. "So what's the word, Lance? We staying or going?"

"For now we're staying, but to be honest I don't think we can for much longer."

As if on cue, two German soldiers poked around a traverse in the trench about twenty yards away. Hallicks sent five rounds towards them in as many seconds, dropping one and prompting the other to withdraw without firing a shot.

"If they get serious," Post went on, "you'd better make a run for it. Consider that an order, just so you don't feel bad. Clear as mud?"

Both men nodded without looking at their section commander.

"Remember," Post said, making his way towards another group of Canadians that looked desperate for ammunition, "medals, for the both of you."

"How about two weeks leave?" Lincoln asked.

"Or a few extra days pay?" Hal chimed in.

"I'd just take the damned medal," Post called back. "Come on fellas, where's your sense of pride?"

### *

Just twenty minutes later the survivors of the battalion had been forced out of the German trenches by a steady flow of rifle fire and grenades. Now they were hunkered down in no-man's land, unsure whether to attack once more, run, or wait until night to slip away. Another ten minutes went by as officers and sergeants crawled the length of no-man's land, trying to discern how many soldiers were left and what to do next. Nobody came by the shellhole Bill and Post were sharing.

"Looks like we're further back than the rest," Post said. "Might as well have a moment." He lit a cigarette, sinking further down into the cover of the shellhole. "Best we sit tight, get going after dark. Unless some idiot decides to have another go at their lines; that'll end in a rout for sure."

Bill held his canteen above his open mouth, shaking out the last drops.

"Sorry," Post said, taking a quick, deep drag. "I'm out too. But if you want to put a nail in your coffin, seeing how we're likely to be killed soon, I'll share, but this is the last time."

"No thanks," Bill rasped.

"Probably a good idea. Hal was right, these Hun nails are rotten."

A decisive cheer went up suddenly as men began to leave their shellholes. Bill and Post peeked over the lip of the crater cautiously. There was an officer out front, revolver in the air, a handful of soldiers reforming for a counterattack. Mere seconds separated the nearest Canadians from the first line of trenches. As Bill gripped his rifle and prepared to go forward, Post grabbed his shoulder. He could see a glimmer of something in the other man's eyes, or maybe it was a reflection from his own. Hope.

"It's a euchre. They're as good as dead," Post said, his mind racing between practicality and principle. "But they're giving us a chance to live. Ditch your equipment, rifle too.

Cautious relief and shame washed over Bill. For the first time he saw Post throw a fresh cigarette to the ground, along with his gear and rifle. As the remainder of the battalion surged forward, the two men slipped away.

It was no easy, or safe proposition. Just two months earlier, two members of the battalion had been executed for two separate incidents of desertion. If a signaller carrying a message or a wounded man returning saw them, it could mean a court martial. As a result, Bill and Post moved slowly, carefully, even though the threat of German artillery and rifle fire was almost nonexistent for the moment. They were only getting a head-start on the battalion, waiting until the others finally withdrew before re-entering their own lines along with the survivors.

"How about a bombproof job now?" Post whispered as the two men played dead, allowing a runner to pass them by.

"I have to piss," Bill whispered back. "But if a stretcher-bearer sees me moving around he might mistake me for being wounded."

"Well you are. Anyway, just go in your pants."

"And ruin my clean underwear?"

"Jesus, Bill, are you saying you haven't messed yourself yet today? Even when that bomb almost killed you? You must be too stupid to even know when to be scared, pant-pissing scared. I'm still damp from earlier."

"I wasn't raised in a barn, and I ain't messed myself for years. Now if we end up in front of a firing squad, that'll be the day."

"Bah. If you get caught you can blame it on that wound of yours. And of course the fact that I ordered our little strategic withdrawal. You've got nothing to worry about."

"Not for long anyway," Bill said, unbuttoning his trousers and shifting to one side.

*

The Canadian bayonet charge smashed into the recently victorious Germans with such unexpected ferocity it sent them reeling backwards. Not to their last line of trenches, but around the nearest traverses and halfway down the communication lines. German rifles could be seen sticking out from every alcove and around each corner. Even the most optimistic soldier, glancing left and right at the devastated remnants of the battalion could tell it had been a thoughtless, fruitless endeavour. There weren't enough men left to hold the trench, never mind carry the attack forward. And at least half the men who had reclaimed this tiny stretch of trench were already wounded to varying degrees. It wasn't long before the Germans reformed and attacked once more.

Lincoln could see it was hopeless. Hallicks was already scrambling back out of the trench as the remaining Canadians grouped together tighter, either being shot down or abandoning the battle at full speed. Soon Lance Corporal Burns was the only other man in sight, his rifle slung across his back, a hand grenade at the ready.

"Come on Burns, we've–"

"Move you dumb bastard!" Burns screamed as he threw the first bomb.

"It's over. You'll be killed."

Burns ripped the pin from another grenade and let it fly. "I'm ordering you to leave now, Private."

Lincoln frowned as he put one foot on the firing step. Pulling rank during a rout; it would have been hilarious if the two men weren't moments away from being overrun.

"Burns, listen–"

"No, you listen. I'd rather go out leading a bayonet charge, but I'll be damned if I run from my first and only battle. Get yourself to safety, you've done your bit, I need to do mine."

"But it's useless!"

"Go. And tell them what I did."

There was no arguing with him; he was arrogant, proud, and bull-headed, but also the bravest man in the battalion. Lincoln pulled himself over the parapet and joined the shattered, pathetic ranks of exhausted soldiers. The men moved at a snail's pace, while intermittent explosions rang out behind them, became fainter, then finally stopped. A fearful battle cry, cut short by gunshots, left the battlefield temporarily silent. The Canadians weren't even halfway back to their lines when vengeful volleys of rifle fire began to thin their numbers, bringing down the slow, wounded, and unlucky.

"That's it, they're on the move," Post said, as Canadians made their way towards them. "Let's get going."

Post pulled Bill to his feet and they began to make the last desperate dash to relative safety. The bark of a German machine-gun caused the two men to dive for cover behind a little mound of dirt that had inexplicably formed about fifty yards from the Canadian lines. They weren't the only ones seeking cover there. Facedown and motionless, Old Jack lay sprawled across the ground, entrenching tool still gripped tightly in his right hand. Too tired for emotion, Post lay next to him, catching his breath.

"They didn't get you did they, Gary?" Old Jack asked, raising himself to a sitting position and surveying no-man's land.

Post's heart skipped a beat as he rolled over towards the old man who he had assumed was dead, and shoved him prone again. "Stay down, Jack."

Old Jack yawned. "What's wrong, haven't we won yet?"

"Not exactly, in fact the whole show was a– wait, have you been sleeping this whole time?"

"Well, not the whole time, I waited a few hours, maybe until around noon, twelve-thirty? I'm not sure exactly, but no one came for me so I must have dozed off."

Bill pulled the canteen from Jack's side and, finding it empty, slapped it dejectedly back into the other man's gear.

"No one came for you? You got plugged?" Post asked, looking for a wound but not seeing any.

"Well, not exactly 'plugged.'"

"Where? What happened?"

"My leg, I think it's broken. Can't put any weight on it so I dug-in and waited for someone to come and get me, but nobody did. Hardly anyone came or went, just signallers, and they wouldn't stop and help me."

"I don't see any blood; shot or shrapnel?" Post asked, inspecting both legs.

"Neither, I tripped and fell on that damned thing," Jack replied, indicating a rock barely larger than a brick a few feet away.

Bill and Post burst into laughter as fleeing Canadians rushed past them. Jack, confused for the first few seconds soon decided that laughter was indeed contagious, and joined in.

"Here, Jack," Post said, taking the old man's equipment and rifle. "You won't be needing this."

"Hey, what about me?" Bill asked.

"Don't worry, Bill, I'll carry it back for you, then it's all yours. I'll scare up some gear for myself later. Now give me a hand with the old man."

### 6

Just before dusk Post was shaken awake. It was Sergeant Bailey, looking exhausted but hopeful, and most importantly, alive. Bandoliers of ammunition were slung over both his shoulders. "Come on, Gary, help me get this lot up; stand-to."

Post looked around. Sleeping privates, some with half-eaten tins of food next to them or still grasped in their hands, others crumpled up into balls, littered the trench. All had their rifles and equipment within arm's reach. Post stumbled to his feet and slipped on the equipment he had taken off a wounded man. It didn't fit him properly and he had fallen asleep without bothering to adjust it, the result being that his ammunition pouches sat too high, and his belt hung unbuckled, too short to wrap around his torso.

"Glad you made it through, Bailey. Hun nail?" Post asked, lighting two without waiting for a reply and handing one off to his sergeant.

"Thanks. Mmm, tastes like Kultur."

"I heard you were with Eight Platoon, I was afraid you might have gotten hit. It's good to see you, I mean really good."

"You too, guess we were just lucky today. You know those guys in Eight are alright. Lots of new privates, but they really came together when their NCOs got hit. I told a few they were acting lances; probably be officers by the end of the month," Bailey said, handing off several bandoliers to Post and gently kicking Corporal McCloud awake, the way only an old friend could. "Come on Jimmy; get your section on their feet, stand-to and all that."

McCloud's eyes snapped open, in a moment he was standing and reaching for the bandoliers. "Okay, Sarnt', I assume these are for me?"

"Yeah, take a few, I'm gonna go hand the rest out to Miller and Burns."

Post and McCloud shared a knowing look; one that Bailey was far too familiar with.

"Miller got skewered, bad. Most of his section was killed too. Nobody's seen Burns since we fell back, but it's safe to say he's gone," McCloud said.

Bailey took a deep breath as his mind raced. "Lincoln and Bill Brown are acting lances."

Post nodded his head in approval, proud that his men were considered the most capable.

McCloud shook his head. "We don't have enough men left to command; we don't need to appoint anyone just yet. Carter's been playing corporal with the other two sections; just leave it at that for now."

"One of these days I'll just give you these damned stripes and we can cut the charade," Bailey said.

"Better yet, Carter's pips," Post added.

"Hey, Gary, did Bill make it through alright?" McCloud asked hopefully.

"Did he make it through alright? Jimmy, the boy is fuckin' bombproof!"

### *

Bill leaned his rifle against the parapet, retrieved his canteen and slopped back a few mouthfuls of water, hoping a little hydration would relieve the headache he'd had since the explosion that had nearly killed him. It didn't. "I wouldn't put it past them for a night attack, they know we're shorthanded."

"But why would they bother?" Lincoln asked. "They saw how much of a fight we put up out there. I really doubt they want to risk another scrap. My Lord, you should have seen Burns, rest his soul. Stayed behind with a couple of hand grenades and covered the retreat. Anyone left alive probably owes it to him."

"Still, what if they do attack?"

"No use chatting about it," Hal mumbled into his sleeve, his head resting on his arms against the side of the trench. "If they come, they come, and we deal with them. If they don't, we get to have a few hours sleep. So quit talkin', and holler at me if I'm about to get killed." He let out a long half-yawn half-sigh intended to end the conversation. "Fuuu-uck."

Bill stretched, repositioning his body to imitate Hal's relaxed pose, face buried in his arms. The men had been awake for less than five minutes and, although standing, were already asleep again. It had been a very long day.

### *

A burst of machine-gun fire set the entire company into motion once more. It was a Lewis Gun; even in the pitch blackness that much was obvious from the familiar crack-crack-crack of .303 rounds. Another burst followed, then another. Calls for flares went out as the battalion stood-to-parapet once again, peering into the darkness, some firing their rifles at vague shapes, others shooting at nothing in particular. Ricochets sent sparks flying along the barbed wire, or else rebounded upwards, sizzled red hot for a moment, then went dark.

There were no muzzle flashes coming from no-man's land. After a minute the firing died down, then stopped altogether. No shelling, no mortars, not even a lousy hand grenade; not much of an attack.

The darkness was unbroken as the first flare to go up began to whistle. Reaching its highest point the flare lit with the usual pop-whoosh, then began to descend, shining silently on the unbearable scene just yards from the Canadian trenches. It was Hallicks, his back across a belt of barbed wire, face lolling towards his stunned comrades, smoke drifting off the bright red holes in his khaki tunic, eyes wide but vacant. There wasn't a German soldier in sight.

Bill never thought he would see the day Hal was killed. He was tough and practical: a survivor. Both men had become accustomed to seeing others dying and watching replacements join the battalion. It was their mutual survival that had made them such close friends, and as the reality of Hal's death began to take hold of him, that bond of friendship grew stronger. Bill rubbed his face impotently, he wanted to scream but no sound came out; there was nothing to be done to remedy so great a tragedy.

The bright light fizzled out sooner than expected as Lincoln gave a quiet prayer. "Grant him light, happiness, and peace. Let him pass in safety through the gates of death, and live forever with–"

"Kevin, Bill," Post said into the darkness, his section reduced to himself and two men. "Help me bring him in."

Officially no soldier was authorized to go into no-man's land without being ordered to do so by an officer. However, Lance Corporal Post wasn't about to let an Original rot on the wire a few yards away. "Stand down, party going out," he growled fiercely as the men departed.

Luckily the Germans didn't seem interested in the debacle. Fatigue or perhaps compassion had kept them from sending up flares of their own, or firing blindly at the Canadian trenches.

For a few bursts of fire into the darkness, it had been astonishingly accurate. Hallicks was rife with gunshot wounds and blood ran freely to the ground as his comrades pulled him off the wire.

"Grab a leg each," Post said.

Bill and Lincoln complied, grunting with exertion. It was a struggle to pull Hal off the wire, his uniform becoming ensnared each time his body shifted. Post wrapped his arms under Hal's and across his chest, the dead man's head against his stomach.

"Party coming in," Post called, as what was left of his section returned to the Canadian lines.

They laid him on the bottom of the trench gently, not that it mattered, but when a body was still warm it was hard to treat it like a sack of potatoes.

Lincoln made the sign of the cross. "Why was he out there?"

"Maybe he heard a cry for help," Bill offered, his voice absent of emotion, but ready to breakdown into rage or grief, whichever got hold of him first. He tried to convince himself that in the darkness the dead man had been misidentified, or that Hal was playing an elaborate joke; but each passing second only confirmed the awful truth.

"But why didn't he wake us up? Or call out? Why didn't he just say 'Don't shoot'?"

Post knelt next to Hal. "Maybe he did and no one heard him."

It seemed unlikely; wounded and stranded men had been trickling in without incident since before dusk. A Canadian accent was usually enough to convince a sentry, or failing that, the name of a well-known officer, or even just the battalion's running password of "Toronto."

"Whatever the reason, you know what happens next."

A dead man's personal belongings were always sent home to his family. Of course anything the other men could use was kept: cigarettes, lighters, clean socks, and the like. Bill was already considering thieving his best friend's scarf, no doubt tucked away in a kit bag somewhere behind the lines.

Lance Corporal Post sifted through Hal's pockets and dumped the contents into the dead man's steel helmet. From one pocket came identity discs, some with wedding bands and good luck talismans tied to them. Crumpled French banknotes and coins appeared from another.

"Hal. You poor dumb bastard," Post whispered slowly.

It was probably two or three months pay altogether, collected no doubt from the same bodies the discs had come from.

"What is it?" Lincoln asked.

"Money. And cold meat tickets. Walsh WJ, Hodges DH, Schofield W, Wesley FJ, Anderson JS," Post said aloud as he gently handled each disc. "Flynn M, Burns CR. A few more families that won't have to go through the 'Missing In Action' routine. They'll know their boy is dead. No false hope."

Bill sniffled and wiped his face with the sleeve of his tunic. Lincoln laid an arm on his shoulder; he knew it wasn't just Hal that Bill was mourning.

Post flipped through the dead man's paybook, a few family photographs shoved within. "What's 'al-lot-ment'?"

"It means his pay was being sent home," Lincoln replied. "How much?"

"Thirty dollars a month, plus three dollars danger pay, that's his wages," Post replied. "Oh, here, twenty-five dollars every month."

As a family man, Lincoln knew the rules of allotment. "That's the most they'll let you send. But why? He wasn't married, didn't have kids. I didn't think so anyway."

Post flipped back to the photos. A much younger, happier looking Hal was surrounded by an elderly couple, a middle-aged woman and two even younger children, a boy and a girl. "Looks like Hal was the man of the house. He never mentioned it."

"He did to me," Bill said. "And he pulled this same stunt at Sorrel, but swore me to secrecy. The money he sent home to his folks; said he won it playing Crown and Anchor. The identity discs he ditched at company headquarters."

Post gathered Bill and Lincoln in close. "Nobody needs to know about this, and Bailey ain't called the roll yet. We'll say he was only returning from the attack now, the last man to come back. We heard him call out, but whoever was on that Lewis Gun got scared, opened fire anyway. I'll make sure the money makes it to his family."

"What about all this?" Bill asked, touching the jumble of identity discs and trinkets.

"It'll go to their folks, like Hal intended," Post said, then turned back to Hal's lifeless body. "Fair play."

"What about those medals you promised us, Post?" Lincoln asked. "The Military Medal doesn't come with a cash gratuity, but the Distinguished Conduct Medal does. I think I can guarantee Hal one, if Bill will write the citation, and we embellish your story about why he was out there."

"Okay, let's have it," Post said.

"Hal and I were the only ones who saw Burns, just before he died; really I was the last one to see him. He stayed behind with a few grenades, covered our retirement. But we could say it was Hallicks; give him the credit. Say he was the last man to return, even had all those identity discs as proof. He waited until night, and gathered them up on his way back. I'll be a witness, or maybe we can convince Carter to say he saw it all."

"What do you say, Bill, can you write a citation?" Post asked.

"What about Burns? It sounds like he only did what he did to prove himself to us, and we're going to take away what he deserves?" Bill asked.

"A posthumous medal won't do him any good. It would for Hal's family," Post replied.

Bill wanted what was best for Hal's family, but Burns deserved recognition too. "It's your idea, Lincoln. Are you sure about this?"

Lincoln's face was creased with agonizing contemplation. "Your lamb shall be without blemish, a male of the first year: ye shall take it out from the sheep, or from the goats."

"A sacrificial lamb," Bill said.

Lincoln nodded.

"Alright, but before I write a citation, we better start spreading our story; gossip goes a long way. One more thing: after this, no more lies, no more secrets."

The three men shook hands, committing themselves to one final falsehood.

Post emptied the money and identity discs into his own pockets and placed Hal's helmet on Bill's head. "Send yours home as a souvenir, Bill. The Germans never could get Hal, his tin hat is even luckier than yours, as long as you don't do anything stupid."

Gently, he removed the cord from around Hal's neck. "Hallicks, G." There was no wedding ring or special trinket, not even a lousy souvenir pin. Post detached the dead man's battalion collar badges and tied them to the discs. "I'm sorry it's not more personal, but this'll have to do. I'll sell that watch and send the money home, plus that twenty-five I owe you, okay, Hal?"

Lincoln took the hand of his dead comrade in his own. "Save us some billets in heaven, Hal. God bless you."

### 7

The next night the battalion lurched back into Albert, shoulders hunched, faces dirty, and spirits all but broken. In size it resembled an under-strength company. Sweat-soaked, mud-stained uniforms hung off the men as they wordlessly dispersed and headed towards their hovels in the brickfields just outside of the city. There would be no crowded sleeping quarters tonight. Carter, McCloud, and Post had all been ordered to report to B Company headquarters.

Bill had stumbled towards La Boot instead. His head was still hurting from the noise and concussion of the hand grenade that had nearly killed him. And not a second had gone by since Hal's death that he didn't wonder about and worry for him, alone in the void. He wanted nothing more than to forget the past few days, or better yet, wake up and find that they had only been a nightmare. But first he was going to get falling-down drunk.

The estaminet was empty, its most recent customers, men of the Eighth Battalion, having been sent forward to relieve the Third. Bill sat at the bar, tapping his boot against his stool. "Hey," he called after a minute.

Madame's daughter emerged from a backroom, surprised and happy to have customers, though soon disappointed to find the lone, dirty, stinking Canadian slouched over the bar.

"Whiskey, sil vous plaiz."

La Fille hesitiated. "Bière ou de vin?"

Bill set a handful of French coins on the counter. "Come on, you remember me. Post's friend, Bill. I know you have whiskey."

La Fille counted up the money eagerly, then poured Bill a glass of whiskey. "How is Monsieur Lance Post?"

"Alive. And in one piece."

"That is a great relief. Was it bad?"

Bill choked down a big gulp and forced a smile. "Could've been worse."

An hour later Bill was still the only man in La Boot. The rare bottle of whiskey was empty, his wallet nearly was too. Green, Hal, and the void were finally off his mind. But Kate had been steadily taking their place. First it was her eyes, her face, her hair. Then her body.

Bill licked his lips and leaned over the bar.

"We have no whiskey left," La Fille said with her perfect accent.

Bill locked his eyes to hers as his breathing slowed and deepened. "You know, you're a very pretty girl."

It wasn't the exhaustion or the alcohol. It wasn't even the thought of dying a virgin. Bill just wanted to. Gently he pressed his lips to hers. She didn't hesitate or pull back as his hands fondled her breasts, delicately at first, then with increasing urgency, as if she might change her mind and run off; or he might wake up from what was only a dream. Another minute and she was lying on the bar. Bill was tearing away his uniform with one hand, sliding the other up her skirt. La Fille had one hand on Bill's back, the other on his cheek as they continued to kiss wildly.

The front door opened. A tall man, clean-shaven and wearing a fresh uniform, cap in hand, with a shock of reddish-blond hair stepped into La Boot.

"Fuck off!"

The man left immediately.

Bill climbed off of La Fille, finished his drink and pulled out his last fifteen francs. A pang of guilt shot through him as he realized he had subconsciously saved just enough for a session with La Fille; it passed just as quickly. "Go lock the door."

### *

"I understand his popularity, Sir," Second Lieutenant Carter said. "But he is simply not fit to lead. Just because the men like him doesn't mean I need to let his... antics, go unpunished. A court martial is the only sensible way to proceed."

Captain Reid paced about the cellar that served as company headquarters, startlingly empty. The officers, signallers, and runners had not been exempt from the heavy casualties.

"Lance Corporal Post is your man, Mister Carter, and I respect your zeal. But as you say, he is a popular NCO, and, despite your misgivings, one of the best we have left. I think the battalion has been through enough in the past few days."

As Carter opened his mouth to protest, the company commander raised a hand, silencing him pre-emptively. "What has Sergeant Bailey said about the matter?"

Carter waited a moment, ensuring his superior was finished speaking. "Well, Sir, he and Lance Corporal Post are friends. The sergeant believes I'm being vindictive, though he won't say it to my face. Bailey's an old man, Sir; capable, but sometimes unreasonable. And Six Platoon is mine, not his."

"Nobody is debating who is in command of Six Platoon, but B Company, including your platoon, is, in turn, mine. I am aware of Sergeant Bailey's supposed shortcomings, Mister Carter. I am also aware of the need for men like Lance Corporal Post. So here's what's going to happen: you will not request to lay charges against Post, I would deny them anyway, and in exchange, I will transfer him out of your platoon. As far as the men, and the lance corporal are concerned, it's an innocent transfer and promotion. Yes, it's about time he earned another stripe, and he would make a fine addition to the battalion's scout section. Are we understanding each other?"

"Yes, Sir, it is understood."

"Good, that settles that. Thank you, Mister Carter. Now, I need nominations. You'll be short three section commanders, maybe all four. I want the names of a few privates you think can step up. Also, I need names for gallantry awards; nothing posthumous. I need living heroes, not dead martyrs, better for the men that way, yes? Perhaps one of the privates in line for a promotion: two birds with one stone."

Carter shifted a little, unsure if he should speak.

"Yes, Mister Carter, let's have it."

"Well, Sir, about the medals. There's been a lot of talk about one man: Private Hallicks. But he was accidently killed returning from the German lines."

"The only name I've heard tossed around the company is Sergeant Bailey's, and the man is overdue for some recognition. Besides, Private Hallicks is out of the question."

"May I ask why, Sir?"

"The circumstances of Private Hallicks' death are... unclear, as I'm sure you are aware. Recommending him for a medal would of course require a full citation; witnesses, and so forth. You see, that would only mean unseemly questions regarding the details of his death."

"You mean the imbecile Lewis gunner who shot my man might be punished?" snapped Carter, taking a step towards the company commander. "Hallicks stayed behind and covered our last retreat with a few lousy hand grenades. For God's sake, the man even collected identity discs from our dead on his way back in. Just because someone else fucked up, pardon my language, Sir, and you don't want to deal with it, doesn't mean we can just ignore what he did."

As the captain began to speak, Carter steadied himself and raised a hand to silence his superior officer. "If you won't accept a nomination for Private Hallicks, for the Distinguished Conduct Medal, then I'll go ahead with my charges against Post, straight to the commanding officer if I need to. And I'll get to the bottom of whoever killed my man, and see him court-martialled, maybe even kill him myself."

For the first time that day Captain Reid smiled slightly. "I'm glad to see you feel so strongly about your platoon, Mister Carter. Very well, write up a citation and I'll see what I can do. And if I recall he was killed by a German sniper, you know, the single shot through the heart routine. But be warned, the CO can only approve so many medals from each platoon. If you insist on nominating Private Hallicks, don't bother nominating Sergeant Bailey. Understand?"

"Yes, Sir. Post gets off scot-free, Bailey is ignored, and I need to barter with my company commander in order to have the bravest man in the battalion receive the recognition he deserves. I understand."

"That's all. Send in your man Corporal McCloud on your way out, I'd like a word with him."

"Yes, Sir."

"One more thing, Mister Carter. Don't ever raise your voice to me, or threaten me again. It's been a long couple of days, and I can see that you are very tired. Go to bed, Mister Carter."

Carter saluted and made his way to the cellar steps but something inside him demanded a more dignified end to the conversation. "I'll talk to Bailey about replacements for Miller, Burns, and Post, Sir. But you said maybe a fourth?"

"Send in Corporal McCloud."

### *

In a few minutes it was all over. Bill and La Fille were lying naked under the sheets. A box of matches and a half-empty pack of stale-smelling cigarettes sat on a little side table. He lit one as she began to get up. Bill laid an arm on hers and dragged her over to him. She was tired and he was drunk, probably more drunk than he had ever been before. Silently they shared the cigarette, Bill's hands taking a final pass over her body, his eyes trying to cement the image for future reference.

Too soon La Fille was dressing herself and gathering Bill's clothes together. It was the nicest bed Bill had laid in since his last time in England, nearly a year before. Suddenly it occurred to him that he was up for another two-week furlough soon. He had completely forgotten about it over the past few days. La Fille piled Bill's uniform on the bed where she had laid only a moment before. Taking the cue, he snubbed out his cigarette and snatched the pack. He dressed in silence and stumbled away from La Boot.

The ruins of Albert swirled surreally around Bill as he made his way towards the brickfields. Beneath the wrecked basilica, he stopped to light another cigarette. Remembering what Post had told him a few days before about prostitutes, and La Fille in particular, he was glad that he had opted for a condom. It was the only sensible decision he had made all night.

Wishing he could turn back time, Bill slunk to the ground against the wall of the basilica. The Leaning Virgin seemed to watch over him disapprovingly. He began to cry quietly, and think of Katherine. She was four thousand miles away, waiting for him, wanting him. And now he had betrayed her. After more than two years of faithfulness, he had ruined it all in a few minutes of drunken lust. Maybe the others were right. A bombproof job in England might be the only way to save any chance of marrying Kate, and himself for that matter, but that seemed less important. Bill shook the thought from his head. The battalion was the only thing that mattered now; it was the only thing he had left. Kate would never forgive him, and yet he would have to tell her the truth. No more lies, no more secrets.

### *

"To be quite honest, Sir, Bailey isn't the man for the job. Company sergeant majors need to be organized and dependable. Not that Bailey isn't, but those just aren't his strongest qualities," Corporal McCloud said.

"Yes, Six Platoon doesn't seem to place much confidence in Sergeant Bailey, but he is the senior man, and it's either him or Sergeant Turner," Captain Reid said.

"Turner's a good soldier, Sir. I knew him before the war. Also, we were at Ypres together, in C Company."

"The man annoys me. I think I would find Bailey easier to work with."

"Maybe so, but Turner is, in my opinion, better suited to the position."

"Very well. I only asked for your thoughts because it may well affect you; soon. I've recommended you for a field commission, Corporal. Before long you might have my job. But for now, Seven Platoon needs an officer, as does Eight. The choice is yours."

McCloud remained silent as the implications of the captain's words sank in. Officers didn't tend to last long; Reid himself was a replacement with less than two years in the army and already a company commander. Promotions came quickly when the man in charge got killed with regularity.

"I'm flattered, Sir, but I thought we had discussed this some time ago. I don't want a commission."

"I can't force you to accept it, but we'll see how you feel in a few days. Tell me something though. You're an Original, and a pre-war militia man to boot. Don't you have any desire to be promoted?"

"Well, you see, Sir, I prefer the enlisted side of things."

"So you'd rather be a sergeant? Fine, you can have Turner's platoon, number Five, they'll be needing someone to step in if he'll be taking over as CSM. Or again, Seven or Eight."

"No, it's not quite like that, Sir. You see, I have an obligation to one of the men in Six Platoon."

"Oh? Perhaps we can come to an understanding, for the good of the battalion. What do you owe this man, and how can we make it right?"

"It's personal. I'd rather not talk about it."

"I see. And you're certain that you don't want a few days to consider it?"

McCloud was already considering it. He could request that Bill be given a bombproof job outside the battalion, and be done with the debt he owed John. McCloud would be beholden to Reid, however, and be obliged to take a commission. There had to be a better way.

"I'm sorry, Sir, but I think I need to stay in Six Platoon. For now."

"Very well. Maybe you aren't quite ready to take on the extra responsibility. Neither was I when B Company fell into my hands. Be warned, Corporal, the day will come when a promotion isn't an option. You were very lucky that both Mister Carter and Sergeant Bailey survived the last few days, and that you're now the only section commander Six Platoon has left."

McCloud shook his head. "The only section commander left? Lance Corporal Post is waiting just outside, he–"

"Is being transferred and promoted, as you should be. Send him in when you leave. That's all, Corporal."

### *

Captain Reid had been delicate, even jubilant while relaying the news to Lance Corporal Post. Despite that, and the formal response Post had managed to eke out, it still felt like a stab in the back. Post was being torn from his platoon, from his boys, and he knew the man responsible was Carter. Sure, there was a promotion in it for him: an extra stripe on his sleeve and another five cents a day, but he didn't feel like celebrating. He needed a drink, or better yet several.

There was only one place Post could think of going after the captain's news, but La Boot was locked up. Dejected, and once again out of cigarettes, he made his way towards the brickfields. Any other man wouldn't have seen the little heap in the darkness, but Post's keen eyes recognized the tiny form and hunched shoulders.

"Is that you, Bill? What are you doing out here?" There was no reply. Post crouched next to Bill and nudged him into consciousness.

"Oh, hey, Dad," Bill muttered.

Post could smell the whiskey on Bill's breath, and pulled him to his feet in one swift motion. "Come on, it's too Goddamned cold to be slumming it tonight. Say, you got any nails?"

Bill fumbled in his pocket and held out the pack from La Boot. "It was just sitting there by the bed." He had been drifting in and out of consciousness for some time. Now his mind raced as he tried to determine if the past few hours had been real or a dream.

Post held an unlit cigarette in one hand, suddenly remembering where he had misplaced his spare pack several days prior. "What bed? La Boot? La Fille?"

Bill put his fingers to his mouth, rubbing his lips back and forth in drunken distress, then began to stammer hopelessly. "Oh God. No. Fuck. Post. The girl."

The truth washed over Post; too destructive and hurtful to be allowed to be known. "It's okay, Bill, relax. One last little secret, just between me and you."

"Oh, Kate," Bill whimpered, slumping to the ground.

Post lit his cigarette. "It'll be alright. You made a mistake, lots of people have. With any luck you're drunk enough not to remember this in the morning, so let's get you back to billets, okay?"

Post lifted Bill to his feet once again, but after a few unsteady steps, simply hauled him over his right shoulder. He was a tiny kid really, and probably weighed as much as Post did when he was twelve years old.

Bill was unconscious again when they arrived at the Slag Heap Hotel. Lincoln was lying in the middle of the structure covered in two blankets; his own and Old Jack's. He had laid out the remaining four blankets to either side of him, ready to receive Bill and Post. With Bill tucked in, Post crawled over to his side and bundled himself up, wondering which of his men the second blanket had belonged to. Post knew this would be his last night with Three Section. They should have been celebrating or reminiscing. Instead, he lay awake listening to the sound of Lincoln snoring and Bill whimpering. When Bill suddenly burst into tears, waking Lincoln, both men placed an arm around him until he fell back to sleep.

### 8

The next morning the survivors were slow to rise. Already several hundred replacements were milling about, cap and collar badges in place. Cloth shoulder patches, a red rectangle designating the First Division, and just above, a green triangle indicating the Third Battalion were already affixed as well. Still, their fresh uniforms and mutual anxiety easily distinguished them from the veterans. Each company was busy administering to the needs of the new men, deciding where the fresh cogs would fit into the devastated remains of the battalion. Bailey and McCloud were waiting impatiently for Carter to deliver Six Platoon's new draft of replacements.

"Tell me honestly, how did the Mister perform?" McCloud asked. "I only saw him after the first withdrawal, and I can't say he impressed me much."

"Sort of nervous, right?" Bailey replied.

"Yeah, you could call it that. He got into an argument with Post in front of everybody. I can't be sure, but I think it was Carter who got him sent to the scout section."

"Best not to think of that. From what I saw he did alright. Sure, nervous at first, helping to break ground one minute, yelling at exhausted men the next. Overall he got better as the day went on, as he got used to it all. Now that he's been under fire I can start to really mould him. Anyway, I'll worry about him. Who do you like for new section commanders?"

"I don't mind admitting that Post's men are the best in the platoon. It's a shame Green got his, he was my first choice. Hallicks would have been fine too, if it wasn't for his big mouth. Anyway, Lincoln for sure, I don't know about Bill though, a little too, I don't know, melancholy maybe. He thinks too much."

If he hadn't been speaking to his platoon sergeant, McCloud might have also mentioned the significantly higher mortality rates NCOs tended to suffer. In either case he didn't mention his own personal obligation to keep Bill as safe as possible.

Bailey was tapping a pencil against a notepad. He hadn't felt this energized for months; since Mount Sorrel. The loss of three out of four section commanders, and the imminent addition of new privates to the platoon had given him purpose again. Even with McCloud's help, there was a lot of work to be done before the platoon would be up and running as it should.

"I'm all for Lincoln, but if not Bill, who? And we'll need a third besides," Bailey said. "Don't you think he would rise to the challenge? Accept that he needs to take some more responsibility and work it out for himself?"

"Bill's a little quiet. NCOs need to speak up, make themselves heard."

As if on cue, a loud, familiar voice boomed from behind them. "Like this, Jimmy?"

It was Mark Blake. Though not an Original, he was an old hand and had been wounded at Mount Sorrel several months earlier. He had been a private then, but now he wore a corporal's rank on each arm and the gold stripe wounded men were entitled to on his lower left cuff. He stood at the head of fifteen or so privates in full marching order. Carter was standing at a distance, observing his newest NCO.

"Replacements for Six Platoon reporting, Sergeant."

The three NCOs grinned widely at each other as Bailey and McCloud rushed to meet Blake. They nearly embraced, but remembering they were now among new men, merely shook hands.

"I thought you'd lose that thing for sure," McCloud said, indicating Blake's left leg. "Have a limp?"

"Just a little, good as new, almost, hurts sometimes, just a little. Uh, good to be back, McCloud, Sergeant."

"Well I'm glad you're here, Blake. And congratulations on the promotion, that's one less NCO I need to decide on. I assume you heard about the last couple days," Bailey said.

"Yeah, I had a few numbers thrown my way, looks like more than two thirds of the battalion got crocked. How about my old section though, who's left?"

"Just Lincoln and Bill," McCloud replied.

Blake exhaled heavily, his lips forming a little "O." "Jesus. The others – killed, wounded?"

"Green and Old Jack are okay, but you won't be seeing them again." McCloud sighed. "Hal was killed."

"What about the Lance?" Blake asked eagerly.

"Promoted out, he's a full corporal with the scout section now," Bailey announced. "But we can talk about all this later. Tell me, how are these new men you've brought me?"

"Mostly pretty damn keen. One of them even knows Bill."

"Oh yeah?" McCloud asked. "It'll be nice for Bill to see an old friend. Who is it?"

"I'm not sure how well they really know each other, or if they've even met before. The man's name is Tom Payne. He's engaged to be married to Bill's sister. Mister Carter helped me pull some strings to get him into Six Platoon, but he's the good sort. If you don't mind, I'd take Bill and Lincoln in my section, Payne too."

"Sorry, Mark," Bailey said. "I need Lincoln and Bill for NCOs. And Bill's gonna need all the help he can get. Who are the best three?"

"Well there's the little guy on the end, Stinson, the older fellow next to him is McCreery, they're pals by the way, and, you see the young lookin' one with the idiotic grin? That's Roy," Corporal Blake explained, pointing out each man. "I've only known most of this lot a few days, but I think they're among the best."

"And Payne makes four. I think Bill can handle four," Sergeant Bailey said.

"Jim, you can take three of these replacements, that'll put you up to six in your section. Mark, you'll take over Miller's section, that's number two, there's only one man left, so pick another four or five men for yourself. Lincoln will take Burns' leftovers and whoever is left of the new men; should all even out roughly. Feel free to trade amongst yourselves, but I want a full platoon roster by the end of the day, that'll be on you, Jim. Okay?"

McCloud smiled; the old Bailey was back. "Yes, Sergeant."

### *

"Wake up, Bill." It was Lincoln, freshly shaved and with an air of professionalism about him.

Bill was hungover again, even worse than he had been the day the battalion moved into the trenches. "Oh God, what?"

"Well first off, you missed breakfast. I figured you could use the rest, and I know you don't normally eat the morning after imbibing."

Bill rolled over and buried his face in his blanket. "Well that's very thoughtful of you. And yet, you're waking me up. Tell Post to give me a few more minutes, okay?"

"Uh, well, that's the thing. Post has been transferred to the scout section."

Bill sat up, nearly vomited, and swallowed deeply. "What?"

"I know, it's hard to believe."

"So I guess they put you in charge of me, eh?"

"Actually, I'm taking over Four Section from Burns."

Bill could feel goose bumps breaking out all over his body. "But that just leaves me."

"That's right, Lance."

Bill propped his head up with both hands, elbows to his knees. "You're kidding me."

"No. Three Section is yours."

"Bombproof," Bill whispered to himself.

Lincoln nodded, not quite sure what Bill meant, but determined to encourage him in any way possible. "I brought along a few things for you also, from Hal's pack. He wrote a little note in his paybook that he wanted you to have his personal things. There wasn't much." Lincoln produced Hal's scarf, along with a half-empty bottle of HP sauce. "There's one more thing."

Bill fought back tears as Lincoln laid an identity disc in his hand.

"The other day you said there were some Originals whose name you couldn't remember. Don't forget Hal. He's watching over you."

Bill removed the cord from around his neck that his own identity discs were attached to, and began to sob. "Will you tie it on for me?"

Lincoln affixed Hal's disc to the flimsy length of white twine, placed it back around Bill's neck, tucked it under his shirt, and left.

Bill sat alone in the little shack that a few days before had contained his five closest companions. After two years of transfers, promotions, casualties, and replacements, he was the last one.

Whether it had been God's will, dumb luck, or the watchful eyes and supportive hands of his old section members, Bill didn't know. But for the first time since he had left Canada, he knew in his heart and in his mind that he would survive the purgatory of war. Bill's headache didn't disappear, but it seemed to dull as he reminded himself that waiting just outside his shack were the members of a reincarnated Three Section; one that he was responsible for.

The four new privates were already in line for inspection, and came to attention when they saw their new section commander. Lance Corporal Brown had to admit that they looked not only clean and competent, but eager and intelligent. He would have been happy with his section, if he didn't recognize the tall blonde-haired man from the night before among them. Seeing his face up close, it was easy to recognize his sister's fiancée from a photo postcard he'd received a few months before. The only question Bill had was if Tom had gotten a good look at him in La Boot. It was one thing to admit infidelity to Kate privately; it was another for his future brother-in-law to know.

"Ditch your kit."

The new men stood still for a moment, confused at the informal order, then all at once removed their equipment and laid it out neatly in front of them, helmets and gas masks on top of each pile, rifles just to the right. Obviously, these were well-trained soldiers, at least when it came to parade ground etiquette.

Bill sat down on the ground in front of them. "Form a little semi-circle, or sit on your gear if you want. Now, I need to tell you all something from the get-go. When I woke up a few minutes ago, I was a private. As you can see, I've yet to be formalized," Bill said, indicating his plain sleeve, where a lance corporal's stripe should be. "Now I'm not one to stand on formality, so unless we're on parade or speaking to an officer, I'm Bill. If someone fancy is about, you'll call me Lance. If someone really fancy is about, call me Lance Corporal."

The men laughed a little, and Bill relaxed his posture, allowing his shoulders to hunch. The new men began to slouch as well, talked quietly amongst themselves as Bill tried to think of what to say next.

"If I get killed, I'm Brown, 9356." The section went quiet. "See here," Bill said, removing his cap and showing off his fresh scar. "I got this two days ago from a bomb fragment. The man next to me, a friend of mine, lost his arm, for all I know he's bled to death by now." For a moment, Green appeared in Bill's mind, grinning like an idiot as usual. Then came Hallicks, Old Jack. Bill pushed them away; they were ghosts of the old Three Section. "The same day, another fellow broke his leg, another was killed; and the last two have been promoted out since. Three Section is mine because I'm the only one left. In case you lost count, there were six of us a few days ago. Now, with all of you, we're just five. Between the men we've just lost, this section had nearly ten years wartime service, probably ten or twenty more if you count time in the militia."

Bill paused and the men remained silent, all eyes locked to his. "I'm an Original. That means that when I talk, you listen. Not one of us is guaranteed to make it back home, especially not in one piece." Bill touched his scar unconsciously and replaced his cap. "My job's to try to keep you alive, remember that. Any questions?"

"Lance," it was the young kid, Roy. "How many notches do you have in your rifle?"

"What?"

"How many Huns have you killed?"

Bill had no idea. He had shot at plenty, but had never been sure. It might have been none. "Any other questions?"

"No offence, but aren't you a little young to be an NCO?" It was the older man, about in his mid-thirties, McCreery.

"Well I think you're a little old for a replacement," Bill shot back instantly as the others, all looking in their late teens or early twenties chuckled. "You see age doesn't count for anything here, it's time with the battalion that matters; and I think I'm about two and a half years up on you."

"Uh, Bill?" It was Stinson, the half-pint. "I've been having trouble getting a uniform that fits properly, is there a battalion tailor?"

"At last, a real question. There is, and I'll get in touch with him and figure out a time for you to meet up."

"Any good place to get a drink around here?" Payne asked.

Bill paused. He must have seen him in La Boot. "Sure. That reminds me of a tradition. New men always buy their section commander a drink. Then we all talk real civilized and get to know each other. It is, I must admit, a newer tradition – one that I'm establishing now."

### *

That night Bill was glad to finally get some rest. Four complimentary beers, and a congratulatory bottle of wine from Lincoln, had settled his stomach and eased his conscience. The Slag Heap Hotel was crowded with the new men of Three Section, so Corporal Post grabbed a hold of Bill's foot and shook it until he woke him.

"Hey, wake up, Lance," Post said.

"Oh Christ. What goes on?" Bill said, sitting upright, then recognizing Post's face. "Oh, hi, hello. How are you?"

"Come on outside a moment, Bill, and bring your nails. Oh, and a pencil and paper."

"Don't I always?"

In the cool fresh air of the moonlit night, the two men settled on a makeshift bench constructed of empty wooden crates. Bill's boots were undone, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other clutching a cigarette.

Post was already savouring a moment of informality away from company headquarters; his tunic mostly unbuttoned and the collar flipped upwards. "So, I heard you made lance corporal, finally," Post said, lighting a cigarette, as Bill leaned in and lit his own off the same match. "Congratulations, I guess."

"You too; apparently you finally broke lance."

For a long moment both men stared at the ground in front of them, smoking silently and contemplating the massive change in position each one had undergone in the last day.

"Hard to imagine you leaving the platoon; even harder to think that you're a full corporal now."

"Yeah. Doesn't help that I can't get my hands on a set of new stripes, so you can call me 'Lance' if you like, unless we're on parade, or there's an officer or someone fancy about."

Bill let out an empty chuckle and pawed the other man's stripes covetously. "Seems to be a shortage of these. Guess they tend to get buried someplace, well here and there really."

Post removed his tunic and pulled a jackknife from his trouser pocket, knelt and carefully cut away his old rank insignia. "I know one set of stripes that didn't get buried; and it won't. These'll be good luck, Bill. Besides, I can't go about impersonating a lance. Sew 'em on a little crooked though, just for fun."

Bill held the faded stripes in his hand with a sense of awe. Such a talisman seemed to justify his earlier realization of invincibility.

Post didn't like the look on Bill's face; confidence was important for an NCO, but overconfidence could prove fatal to the men in his care. "How much do you think those stripes weigh?"

"About an ounce," Bill replied. "Why?"

"It's a heavy ounce. Heavier than all the gear, and bullets, and weapons put together. It's the ounce that makes you responsible for other people's lives. It's the ounce that forces you to make the most difficult decisions you'll ever have to make. It's the ounce that marks you as the link between the voiceless crowd and the lunatic leaders."

Post turned away, embarrassed at his sudden poetic outburst.

"A theme, a rule-of-three, and some alliteration," Bill said, impressed. "You must've been paying attention to me after all." Breaking into laughter he added, "Just wait 'til I tell Hal I turned you into the next Shakespeare."

Post faced Bill, who was struck freshly with the fact that his best friend was gone forever. Bill went quiet and instinctively reached for Hal's identity disc, his other hand still holding the heavy ounce.

"So," Post said, pulling his tunic back on, "did you get around to that citation for Hal?"

"Yeah. Just needs Carter's signature and up the chain it goes."

"Read it to me, Bill."

Sir,

It is with great pleasure that I recommend Private George Hallicks for the Distinguished Conduct Medal for actions during operations against Regina Trench, the day and night of October 8th-9th, 1916. This man displayed great skill and determination during the attack, successfully engaging many of the enemy with rifle and bayonet. Upon the order to retire being given, Private Hallicks stayed behind with a small number of hand grenades and covered the retreat of the battalion. Having been stranded in no-man's land, he, under cover of darkness, gathered identity discs from his fallen comrades and was just returning to our lines when he was killed by an enemy sniper, dying instantly. The courage, skill and devotion to duty displayed by this man reflect highly upon the Third Battalion, The First Division, and the entire Canadian Corps.

"So, what do you think?"

"Nicest lie I ever heard; maybe second."

"You know, there was something else I was supposed to write, couldn't really get around to it. I was thinking maybe you could dictate, and I'll write it out," Bill said.

"My letter to Laura?"

"Oh. No actually. I forgot about that. I need to write one to Kate, tell her about – oh hell I haven't even told you yet. Last night I got drunk, went to La Boot and, well I made a mistake. A big one."

"Guess you don't remember me carrying you back, huh? Well you ran your mouth a little. I know what happened. Forget about that letter, Bill, it would do more harm than good. By which I mean plenty of harm and no good."

"Listen, I need to send her a letter; tell her what happened, and beg her to forgive me. For Christ, Post, I couldn't live with a lie like that."

Post looked at the citation Bill held in his hands, shifted his lips around his cigarette, bringing it from one side of his mouth to the other. "Plenty of blokes have made a mistake or two over here, Bill. You don't need to let her know every dirty detail. She might not take it too well. You know sometimes a nice little lie is better than an ugly truth."

"I know," Bill said, pocketing the citation. "But I feel guilty. I've got to tell her. And you need to help me, please."

"Okay, Bill. Got your pencil? Good, here goes. Oh, and you've got to write me one for Laura afterwards."

### *

By the time Post was done speaking, Bill's hands were sore and cramping from writing and rewriting two long letters. It was also nearly dawn.

Payne emerged from the little shack. "Morning," he said politely, a fresh cigarette already lit, undoing his trouser front and urinating a short distance away.

"This is my brother-in-law-to-be," Bill said. "Tom Payne."

Post leaned in close, whispered. "The one who saw you with La Fille?"

"Shut up, I don't know if he saw my face or not. Say hello," Bill whispered back.

"Nice to meet you. I'm Corporal Post."

Payne finished with his piss and extended a hand towards Post, who shook it without a second thought. "Nice to meet you, Corporal. I've heard a bit about ya'."

"All good I hope?"

"Oh yeah."

"Say, you got any nails? Bill and I were up early doing NCO stuff, you know, paperwork. We seem to have smoked the lot," he said, tapping his boot on the ground next to an improbably large pile of butts.

"Oh sure. Here."

Post happily took a cigarette. "Thanks. It's nice being on the receiving end. Well, I've got to be off. See you folks around. Oh, one last thing, Bill. What was that word, uh, allowment?"

"Allotment."

"Sure it's not allowment?" Tom asked through his cigarette. "Sounds better, makes more sense."

Post nodded his agreement. "This one's a keeper. Nails to spare and agrees with me. Hey, you wanna be in the scout section?"

"Trust me," Bill said. "Allotment. And no, you can't have him."

Post smiled, stood and laid a hand on Bill's shoulder. "He'll take good care of ya'. He's an Original, you know, and as near to bombproof as I've ever seen, at least when it comes to the infantry. See you fellows around."

Tom took a seat next to Bill. "There's something I should tell you."

"Sure, go on," Bill said nervously, wondering if he was about to get a lecture on infidelity.

"I've been waiting 'til it was just you and me. You see, I got a letter from Anne just before I left England. She's pregnant."

Bill breathed a sigh of relief, which he tried to play off as one of deep thought. "Alright. What do you plan to do?"

"Get special leave, meet her in England, marry her, I mean, with your blessing, of course."

"Mine? What about my father?"

"He's not the man I need to be dealing with right now."

Bill laughed a little. "Well, I seem to be short on cigars at the moment. Better just break out another nail."

Tom smiled as he handed Bill a cigarette, lit it.

"Special leave isn't as easy to get as you might think. I'll write a request, but for a new man it isn't likely to happen. I could ask to transfer my leave to you."

"No, you've been out here too long. Isn't there some other way?"

"Volunteer for a suicide job, that might do it, but I'd rather my niece or nephew doesn't grow up fatherless. Don't worry; I'll talk it over with Mister Carter."

Toronto, 1927

By the time Bill and Gary arrived at Missus Hallicks' house, it was nearly two in the morning. A heavy snow had been falling for the past several hours, glimmering as it descended in the glow of the streetlights. Gary's children would be asleep by now; they always were when he came to pick them up. Missus Hallicks didn't mind though. She loved having the boys, even if it was only for a few hours.

"Jeez. Tell Missus Hal I'm sorry we were so late, tell her it was my fault, she likes me, she'll forgive me," Bill slurred, toying with the identity disc he still wore around his neck. "I'd come in and say hello, but I might let something slip. Too many memories tonight. That and beer."

"Don't worry. Look, Bill, you were telling me something earlier. About that day you were almost killed, when Green saved your life. You thought you were going to die. There was nothing. But then you thought of Kate, and marrying her."

"Yeah. So what?"

Gary's voice choked up a little. "Did you ever tell her that?"

"Nah. Guess I didn't. Guess I should, huh?"

"Yeah, you should. Now run along, I don't want your face scaring my kids."

"Hey, Lance, got a nail for the road?"

"Goddamned privates, always begging a fucking nail. This is the last damn one you get. Unless you really need another."

### *

Gary Jr. had walked, while Paul remained asleep the entire time, and had been carried back to the Leaf and Crown by his father. When Post saw a woman waiting by the locked door, it was already too clear that Laura had finally returned. That other girl from earlier, Clare, must have been sent ahead to reconnoitre. Now, returning with the children late on a cold, snowy night, and having spent the last few hours reminiscing with Bill, he was ripe for ambush.

"Mom!" Gary Jr. screamed, running to Laura and hugging her tightly. Paul awakened; as Post set him down he scrambled towards his mother at full speed. It had been nearly three years since she had left.

It was clear that the children had forgiven their mother, or maybe didn't realize there was anything to forgive, but Gary Post hadn't. He unlocked the door. "Go to bed boys."

"But Daddy–" Gary Jr. began.

"Now! Take your brother. Brush your teeth and tuck yourselves in. I want to see lights out in less than five minutes."

Paul began to cry as Gary Jr. held him by the hand and led him inside. "It's okay, Daddy needs to do NCO stuff."

Post held back his tears until the boys were well inside. "Why did you come back? Why couldn't you just leave us alone?"

Laura laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. She looked rough, used up. It was easy to tell that the last three years had been more of a binge than the "time alone" she had written to him about after she had first left. She was still beautiful though.

"I'm sorry, Gary. I'm so sorry."

Post pulled her hand away and firmed up his voice. "It's too late for 'sorry'. You broke the boys' hearts when you left, and now you think you can just show up and come back into their lives? To my life? I can't allow it."

"What are you saying?"

"Don't play the fool. You sent that girl earlier tonight, didn't you? To try to seduce me, so you could divorce me for adultery and take me for every penny you could. When that didn't work you changed tactics. Well I beat you to it, Dear. Desertion is grounds for divorce too. We haven't been man and wife for a year and a half. You don't get a cent, and the boys are mine. Your mother has a copy of all the documents. You're not a part of this family anymore. The boys and I will be better off without you."

The facade of sorrow and longing washed away, replaced with anger. "You can't do that," Laura screamed. "Gary Jr. isn't even yours."

"He's been mine since nineteen-sixteen. If I hadn't sent you all that allotment money you would have had to put him in a Goddamned orphanage. I gave you everything, but you didn't want to be part of a family. You saw your chance to drink and whore around with those flapper women and rich playboy friends of yours. Well I'm not taking you back."

She was beaten. There was nothing left to do but beg for forgiveness. Laura began to sob and threw herself into the snow at Post's feet. "Oh please, Gary! For the family!"

Post stepped away and stood in the doorway of the Leaf and Crown. "You don't even know the meaning of that word. I don't remember coming to Canada, but I remember hoping that one day my real parents would suddenly show up and take me back to England with them. I know better now. Family doesn't turn its back, family doesn't hurt each other; family has nothing to do with bloodlines. You might be their mother, but you're not family."

He could still hear her crying on the sidewalk as he entered the Leaf and Crown, closed the door, and turned the lock.

### 9

England, 1916

Mid-December found Bill far from the battalion: England. He had still received no letter from Kate, and was anxious to return to France to see if any mail for him had arrived since he'd left. It had been just three days.

Bill wasn't alone. Tom had indeed managed to get special leave from Captain Reid in order to marry Anne. It had helped that he had volunteered for a dangerous and successful trench raid at the start of the month; one which the commanding officer had insisted was a "no married men show." Being only engaged, Tom was able to take part.

Bill's annual two-week furlough was near enough that he managed to tag along in order to act as best man, or give away the bride; or both. What remained of Three Section had been left in the hands of Private McCreery, who was now a temporary lance corporal, but would revert in rank upon Bill's return.

Bill wore Hal's scarf underneath his leather jerkin. Despite the poor quality of army scarves and the many homemade ones sent overseas, mixing military and civilian clothing was not allowed, at least not officially. A winter cap with oversized ear flaps sat at a severe angle on his head. The cap, although army issue, was not authorized for use in England; only Belgium and France due to its outlandish appearance. Bill's tunic, while a British style one, had an altered collar to more closely resemble the early-war Canadian style jackets the Originals had gone overseas with. He had even added leather elbow patches. Altogether, Bill stood out conspicuously amongst the standard-issue uniforms of England. In the frontlines such indiscretions went unnoticed, or at least unpunished, but Bill had already received a half-dozen empty threats from officers in pristine uniforms.

He was not, however, without a few redeeming qualities. Bill's brass battalion badges shone proudly, as did the wound stripe that marked him as a real veteran. His combat boots resembled black mirrors.

He had considered buying himself some civilian clothes, but decided that would be a waste of money. He had begun saving up again, just in case a reply from Kate ever came, and he needed to buy a ring. He promised himself it would be a very expensive one. Besides, he didn't know which was worse: saluting officers who had never seen a shot fired in anger, or taking the insults and white feathers that overzealous English women were handing out so readily these days. In England, every man in civilian clothes was presumed to be a cripple or a coward.

The crowded docks at Southampton were thick with British soldiers milling about, and heavy equipment being loaded. It looked like half of England was standing-by to depart for France. Everyone was shivering and cursing; complaining loudly or muttering to friends.

"They don't look too happy," Tom said.

"Conscripts, I'd bet," Bill responded.

"Serves them right. The war would be over by now if they'd stepped up earlier."

"Maybe. The more men you put in the field, the more you lose to shellfire and snipers. 'Wastage'. And they already tried one big push; didn't work so well. Slow and steady might be the way to go."

"Hey, I think that's her ship," Tom said, not wanting to argue. He disagreed with the notion that armies had to be worn down to nothing before a decisive blow could be made. Bill would have too, a year earlier.

"She'll have a tough time recognizing us in this mob. Take your cap off, you tall bastard, that hair of yours will act like a Goddamned flare."

A year earlier Tom would have been offended by such language, but the army had a way of degrading a man's speech. As such, he didn't think twice about Bill's abrasive choice of words.

She barely seemed pregnant at first glance, though she was now eight months along. Bill stood aside as Anne and Tom held each other. After a long embrace, Anne stood next to Bill, holding him by the shoulders and looking him over.

"My goodness, Bill, you're all grown up!"

Anne was two years younger than Bill. He grinned. "I'm an old man now. And you've gotten fat."

"Here," Anne said, reaching into a pocket and ignoring her brother's attempt at humour. "I've got two letters for you."

Bill took the envelopes in his hand, trembling with uncertain anticipation. The first was from Missus Hallicks, the second from Kate. "Why do you have these?"

"I'll tell you later, Bill. Is there someplace to eat around here? I'm absolutely famished."

"Yeah, up the way we come," Tom said. "Saw a nice lookin' place, not too crowded or nothing."

It was a lot nicer than La Boot. No holes in the walls or ceilings, no dirty soldiers; civilized, at least by comparison. Bill was busy with his letters as Tom and Anne decided what to order. Too paralyzed to open Kate's letter, he opted for Missus Hallicks' instead. The handwriting was unsophisticated, but somehow the shape of each letter struck Bill as proud and traditional.

Dear Mister Brown,

I am writing to express my deep gratitude for your letter of condolence and for your friendship to my boy. It gives me great pride to know that George was in the company of such fine men. My son wrote often of you and I am glad he had such fond companions and was able to conduct himself so splendidly in his last hours. You will be interested to learn that he was posthumously awarded the Croix de Guerre.

Bill stopped reading, tried to keep from screaming. It was an insult, a worthless French cross. Hal's mother might think highly of it, might even think it justified her son's death; but it didn't come with a cash gratuity, not like the Distinguished Conduct Medal Bill had intended his friend to be awarded, and had robbed Lance Corporal Burns of.

Someone in a brigade office must have decided that the citation Bill had written just wasn't good enough for the DCM. After all, there were only so many that could be awarded. No. The citation was perfect. Somebody in the battalion was avoiding having questions asked about Hal's death. Why a foreign award with no official citation? Why no Military Medal at least? Something was wrong.

I take solace in knowing that my boy is with God now. May they both watch over you, and bless you, Mister Brown. Yours sincerely,

Missus Charles Hallicks

There was nothing to be done now, except break the news to Lincoln and Post. Medals, once awarded were never upgraded.

Bill shifted his focus to the next letter. As he opened the envelope a photo became visible. It was Kate, looking just like he remembered her, and somehow not at all. She was beautiful as always, but even more so. There was a letter too, but he was shaking too badly to even try to read it. Bill couldn't help but interrupt the others' conversation.

"Hey, look at her. Look at her. That's my girl."

"I know, Bill. I guess you haven't seen a recent photo," Anne replied with a gentle smile.

Tom didn't seem interested in the photo, after all, his sweetheart was sitting next to him, not four thousand miles away.

"Say, you never told me how you got these," Bill said.

"The regimental association," Anne replied. "Missus Hallicks had wanted to write a letter but kept putting it off; you know how hard it must be for her. But when I told her I was going to England, she decided to write you a personal note; of course you can share it with the platoon or anyone who knew Mister Hallicks. She was very proud that he received the Croix de Guerre."

Bill held up the letter from Kate. "How about this one?"

"When you wrote to me that Kate had stopped writing, I went to see her. I brought along that helmet you sent home, the one you wore the day Mister Hallicks was killed. I told her about what had happened to your friend, Mister Green, and, how you were nearly killed." Her voice was giving out, as if she would break down and cry at any moment.

"Alright," Bill said. "I get the picture. Don't worry about me, Anne, or Tom. I'm bombproof, and so's he by association, being in my section and all."

"It's true," Tom said. "How do you think I got special leave? They needed volunteers for a big raid. Well I was lucky to–"

Bill was shaking his head.

"You were lucky to what?" Anne asked.

"Lucky that, I mean, lucky that not a single man was killed or wounded. Not a one."

"I'll get us some drinks," Bill said. "You two figure out what you want to order, and get me something simple. Egg and chips maybe. Or wait, no, fish and chips. With HP sauce."

Bill went to the bar and unfolded Kate's letter.

William,

When I received your letter, I wasn't sure I would ever write to you again. I could not understand the temptations and demands you and the others face on a daily basis until your sister showed me the helmet that saved your life. Why have you not written to me of these things before? The nearness to death is frightful. Every letter you've sent me has been full of cheerful weather and fast friends. I am afraid for you.

I know there are times when you cannot see even a single ray of light. But somewhere there is a candle burning for us. It will always be burning for us. Remember that I will always be with you, for when you left so long ago, I gave my heart to you. When you cry, I will be holding you. When you are hurting, I will share that pain with you. When you are lonely, I will make you whole. I will be there with you so that we can love and laugh and live again.

I will wait for you, William, and still wish for us to be wed, even if this terrible war parts us forever. Please, stay safe and try to find a nice job behind the lines, or in England. There should be more than enough for men who have done their bit.

William, I am enclosing a bit of scripture to let you know that my heart is, always has been, and always will be yours. I pray for peace every day, you must too, Dear.

All my love,

Katherine

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonour others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

Elation washed over Bill. He already knew he would survive the war, but now he had someone to survive for. Maybe it was the same feeling that Post had known when he first received the letter from Laura, two months earlier about the birth of his "son."

### *

As luck would have it, Green and Old Jack were recovering in the same Southampton hospital. It had taken a few different conversations with the other wounded soldiers around the city to finally locate them, but Bill had managed to learn of their whereabouts two days before his leave was up. Tom and Anne had left on their honeymoon and would be meeting him again when it was time for the two men to return to the battalion.

The hospital ward reeked of disinfectant, but looked spotless; white sheets, clean floors, and matching nightstands. The patients even had special uniforms: a blue jacket with an open lapel and matching trousers, a white collared shirt, and a red tie; though any man who had managed to retain his battalion's headdress wore it proudly.

It was easy to spot Green and Jack. They were playing cards with two British soldiers; one was missing a leg, the other's face was badly burned.

"Hey, Green! Jack!" Bill called, as he suddenly lost all self-control and began running down the ward at top speed towards them.

As they met, Green crouched a little, wrapped his remaining arm around Bill's torso, then stood, lifting him off the ground. "Still light as a feather, huh, Bill? Oh, nice stripe, Lance; hey, you got any nails?"

Bill's feet touched the ground as Jack finally began to stand, and with the help of a cane, made his way towards the two younger men.

"Bill! I missed you. How're things with the platoon?" Jack asked.

Bill froze. Did they know Miller and Burns, along with most of their sections were dead? That Post was transferred out of the platoon? Did they even know Hal had been killed?

"We heard what happened," Jack said. "I mean, how are things now? With you and Lincoln being lances? Exciting, I'm sure."

"Yeah, it's alright. And you know who came back? Mark Blake; a corporal now."

"Oh, what I wouldn't give to be back there with you," Jack said.

"He just might be soon," Green said.

"Your leg good enough to route march and stand-to all day?" Bill asked.

"No," Jack replied. "Probably never will be, but that's alright, I'm old you know. I'm trying for a quartermaster's posting, around England at first, but hopefully back with the battalion one day. I used to be a sergeant you know. And all that time at Eaton's–"

Bill was already annoyed with Jack. "Yeah, I know. Hats and scarves, beans and bullets, it's all logistics right?"

"Right," Green echoed.

"And the boy," Jack said, patting Green on the shoulder just above his empty, pinned up sleeve, "he'll be going home soon they say. I just might have a salesman's job lined up for him. Tell him, Green."

"Madam, I can tell you're a lady who knows class and quality," Green said, fussing over Bill as if he were a customer at the Eaton's store. "Fur is in this winter, and there's no substitute for genuine American mink. And you, Sir," he said, turning to Jack, "have you considered a cravat? This blue one here would go smartly with your moustache; this is pure oriental silk. Ah, and for the children, you've children of course? Oh, the joy they bring! Have a look at these colourful numbers; fun to wear, easy to wash, and sturdy. That's the Eaton's guarantee!"

Bill was in tears laughing. Not that Green's routine was all that funny, but it was good to see his friend again and to know he was going to be okay. "Green, I hope they pay you on commission. You could sell hay to a farmer. Say, are you allowed to step out for a few hours, get a pint, or ten?"

Jack shook his head sorrowfully. "Couldn't do it, Bill, I can't take stairs for another week or two they say. And I've been very sore. It's getting a little better, but I fell a few days ago, really knackered my back, and hip, and legs, and when I try to stand I feel it in the ankles."

"You don't mind if we step out, huh, Jack?" Green asked.

"Of course not. Boys need beer, and you better be buying for Bill. I can still get you a deal on that dress, but a good ring is gonna set you back a year's pay I'm sure. And a good wedding ain't cheap."

They may have heard of the battalion's casualties, but they certainly hadn't heard of Bill's last visit to La Boot. "Well, once I've saved up enough, you're both invited."

### *

"Put your wallet away," Bill said as a serving girl appeared with two beers. "I never got the chance to thank you for saving my life."

Green grinned; sometimes it seemed that was all his mouth was capable of. "Didn't save yours, Bill. Mine had priority; you just got in the way."

"That works for the bomb, but if you hadn't killed that Hun, hell, I don't even want to think of it."

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 tall 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 their fireplace; a daily reminder of the emotional distress and insecurities the war had visited upon them both over a decade ago – and which continued to unsettle their relationship. At least, that's how Kate felt about the despised object that represented all of the damage – physical, mental, emotional – the two had suffered through together.

"I thought I was dead. I couldn't breathe or anything; it was all dark." Glancing towards the helmet, Bill nearly emptied the remaining half of the glass in another 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."

"Rubbish," Bill replied. "All it takes is your smile, and you're the most Goddamned pretty girl in the world. It's in with all my medals and war junk; I should get it framed."

"You could put it above the fireplace," Kate suggested. "I'm sure Gary would gladly take your tin hat. Let's try to leave the war at the Leaf and Crown from now on."

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. "No more nightmares, William. 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 already nicknamed 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 sergeants, corporals, and lances 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; though his gut wasn't exactly knightly.

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, can't they? See?"

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, previously directed at the ground near Turner's feet; he had lost the laughing game and didn't want to be caught by the CSM. "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, CSM" 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, straight up and into the air, and nodded his head to the company.

"Charge," the NCOs mumbled collectively.

"Let's use our battlefield voice, shall we?"

"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. 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 – in the empty hope that he would start truly believing that he was one too.

### 2

Being a lance corporal certainly had its perks. For Bill it meant a lot less heavy lifting; that was reserved for the privates of his section. He didn't feel bad about letting his men do the manual labour; after all, he had spent over two years as a private himself. He did however, have to be aware of tasks, timings, and locations. Today it was a carrying party, eight in the morning, bringing supplies from the terminus of a light rail track that passed through Cambligneul, to a forward equipment dump. As the immediate vicinity around the frontline was too difficult for trucks or trains, the last stage of the journey always had to be done by men and mules. Almost all of A and B Companies would be along for the fun.

For every day a man spent in the frontlines he'd spend a dozen carrying forward supplies. The front was a wasteland, devoid of vegetation, firewood, clean water, and imposed a constant strain upon the soldiers who occupied it. Ammunition, fuel, food, water, barbed wire, tools, and weapons all had to be replenished with regularity in order for the line to hold. Even at the quietest of times, the men in the front trenches required never-ending resupply. On top of all this, extra quantities of every variety were needed in preparation for the coming attack.

Hundreds of miles of light rail honeycombed the fields west of Vimy Ridge, where one hundred thousand Canadian soldiers had spent the winter. These trains had been especially active recently, keeping all calibres of artillery abundant with shells in what was rumoured to be the most intense barrage ever executed; over one million shells were to be fired in a single week.

The ride down was crowded and slow. Luckily the men had been allowed to leave their rifles and combat equipment back in billets; taking only their canteens, helmets, and gas masks. They would be close enough to the front to encounter some stray shellfire, but not enemy soldiers. The men stood in what few open carts were not loaded with shells, or crouched on the heaps of gear they would be responsible for moving once the ride was over. It took just over an hour to cover the seven miles from the village to the railhead. Even before the train had rocked to a halt, soldiers were already dismounting, desperate to stretch their legs.

The train's cargo was hastily unloaded and piled on the ground next to the narrow track. Soon the carts were full again, this time with another work party on their way back to Cambligneul, having spent the night preparing jumping-off trenches for the upcoming attack. Some carried wrecked bits of gear, to be taken back and repaired at the brigade workshops. A few lightly wounded men from a nearby dressing station joined them. Before long the train was moving again, looping around, then switching back to its previous track; the broken equipment and broken men beginning their slow journey.

Shells were the priority, and each man helped to load them onto the waiting ammunition mules under the direction of an artillery officer. Each mule had a kind of blanket strapped to it with a dozen large pockets on either side for eighteen-pounders. With the officer satisfied, the animals began to make their way down the road, and B Company finally began their task.

Bill stood aside patiently as his two biggest men, Payne and McCreery, were assisted by his two smallest, Stinson and Roy, in donning a tumpline. A Native American device, it consisted of several leather straps secured to a load, with one wide band running across the bearer's forehead. The bigger men carried four large tins of water each, totalling just over one hundred pounds. The smaller men, assisted by Bill with their tumplines, carried a dozen picks each, weighing close to eighty pounds. His beasts of burden were ready. "Okay, Three Section, let's get going," he said, setting a light pace, and taking hold of four short-handled shovels, weighing about twenty pounds altogether.

A few inches of stubborn snow remained on the ground; just enough to make the journey a little more difficult and slow. B Company's Quartermaster had established himself in a large dugout two miles down the road.

"Bill, you forgot your helmet," McCreery said.

"Tin hat," Bill corrected. "And just because I'm not wearing it doesn't mean I forgot it."

Bill's helmet was slung lazily across his gas mask carrier, which was in turn slung lazily over his right shoulder. An old wool peaked cap, complete with oversized earflaps crowned Bill's head. The other men each wore a toque underneath their steel helmets.

McCreery didn't bother arguing. It was a damned stupid thing not to wear a helmet, and one that greatly diminished his respect for the young lance corporal. That was the strange thing about Bill: he didn't take the basic precautions. It was as if he was so sure of his own eventual demise, or perhaps continual divine protection, that he rarely wore a helmet. Usually only a hard rain could convince Bill to don his "tin hat." Still, McCreery was a replacement, and more importantly, just a private. It wasn't his place to argue with his section commander, even if he was right.

When Three Section arrived at the Quartermaster's dugout, Company Sergeant Major Turner was waiting, paper and pencil in hand. "Lance Corporal Brown," the CSM said monotonously, as if the man had never experienced an emotion in his life. Without another word, he tapped his hand against his own steel helmet. Eyes nearly glazed over, mouth barely closed, and head slightly tilted, he waited for Bill to clue in.

Bill took his time. "Yes, Sergeant Major?" He asked stupidly, holding back a smirk.

"Let's see that steel helmet, alright? Let's set a good example for the troops, okay?"

Bill folded up his cap and shoved it into his tunic pocket. "Yes, Sergeant Major," he said, pulling on his helmet with insincere urgency.

"And what did I tell you about those old flappy caps, Lance Corporal Brown? Turn it in to the Quartermaster; those aren't on issue anymore, are they?"

"No, they are not, Sir," Bill replied. "Can't remember where I got this darned thing to begin with."

It was the fifth time he had promised to get rid of his cap. Being the only one of eight hundred or so men in the battalion who still wore it, he took rebellious pride in knowing that the CSM would never bother to enforce his own rule. He was a softy, deep down, and must have known how much Bill cherished his ragged, absurd cap. Besides, Bill kept his cap badge shinier than most men, a fact that pleased the CSM. On top of all that, it had been Turner himself who pawned off the ridiculous cap to Bill as an excuse to not have to wear it a year and a half earlier.

"Alright, let's not hold up the war, okay? Drop that stuff and get a move on, alright? Understand?"

"Alright, uh, yes, Sergeant Major."

"Brown," Turner called, just as Bill was leaving. "When is Zero Hour?"

Zero Hour was a codeword. It didn't refer to any particular time of day, but rather when the big attack would begin. In this way schedules could be arranged without particular timings being involved, as each timing was dependant on when exactly Zero Hour occurred. Bill didn't know what to say. Zero Hour could be three in the morning, or nine at night; only the highest ranking officers and the clerks who typed up documents with a "TOP SECRET" stamp on the cover page knew when the mythical moment would arrive.

"I don't know, Sergeant Major; the brass hats will let us know later, I suppose."

"And what time is it now?"

"Five fifteen," Bill replied, only checking his watch, and not thinking about it. Immediately, he realized that he had failed to wind the device, and probably hadn't done so for several days.

"Are you certain?" Turner asked. "Might it be nine forty-seven?" He asked again, tapping the pocketwatch that sat on his wrist, modified with a leather strap, and cranking the crown. "An NCO should wind his watch twice a day. I've gotten into the habit of winding mine every time I check it. Don't you think that's a good idea?"

"Yes, CSM."

"What do you think would happen if you missed a timing during the big show?"

"It would be bad, CSM."

"That's right," Turner replied, still grasping the crown of his watch.

Realizing his meaning, Bill wound his own watch until the spring was tight. An expectant glance from Turner resulted in him setting it to nine thirty-seven.

The moment he was out of the CSM's vision, Bill immediately replaced his helmet with his wool cap.

"Alright, Lance Corporal Brown, this is the last time. Give me that damned cap!" A voice boomed from behind Bill.

The privates of Three Section went wide-eyed and stood motionless.

Bill recognized the speaker without even seeing him. "That's a pretty poor impression, Corporal Post, isn't it? You need to remember to ask a lot of questions, okay? Questions you aren't really expecting an answer to, understand? Don't you know that's what being a company sergeant major is all about? Well, don't you?"

"You've been practicing, I can tell. You oughta' be CSM with a drone like that." Post now wore the fleur-de-lys insignia reserved for scouts on his lower right cuff, which neatly complimented the marksman's badge on his left cuff, and two crooked chevrons further up on each sleeve.

"Take five," Bill told his men. "The war can wait for us." The privates shambled to the side of the road, all but McCreery using their helmets at seats, while Bill made his way to Post, hand outstretched. "It's been what, three days? Far too long."

Post lit two cigarettes, handing one to Bill. "So how are the new boys treating you?"

"Great, except they smoke all my damn nails. Now I know what we all put you through."

"Well I forgive you, but only since you're wearing my stripes proper," Post said, indicating Bill's crooked and faded lance corporal chevrons. Above the right stripe, a red and brown cloth bomber's patch was stitched in place. "The bombproof bomber. I like it. I think I'll spread that around; you should have a nickname."

Bill allowed a conceited smirk to cross his lips, and felt instantly embarrassed. Post had seen Bill at his best and worst for two years, and was the last man he needed to brag to about a qualification badge. "Well the throwers get one too."

"Who're they?"

"McCreery and Stinson. Payne and Roy carry the extra bombs."

"Two throwers and two carriers. Huh. So what do you do, Lance?"

"I'm the lance! I lance about, lancing things."

Both men laughed at that. "Well let's hope you learned a thing or two from me."

Bill suddenly turned serious. "I keep seeing Hal. Or maybe expecting to see him."

"I understand."

"Sometimes I dream he's still here."

"Maybe he's visiting you."

"But sometimes it isn't really him – it's some kind of doppelganger."

"A what?"

"He looks just like Hal, but he isn't. He doesn't know me, and I don't know him, but we recognize each other. He's an imposter though. Sometimes I know that he's dead, even though he's walking around, and other times it's like I had only thought he was killed, but he wasn't really, or he came back to life somehow. But it's still not him. You ever have a dream where you think you're awake?"

Post nodded.

"So I wake up, in the dream, and see this fake Hal. And then I wake up again, and I'm not sure whether to expect Hal, or fake Hal, or nobody."

Post didn't know what to say; he had never seen Bill this agitated before. It was as if he was only now realizing what had happened nearly six months earlier. But why now?

"All these new faces," Bill said, motioning to his section, "they just don't seem right. But neither do the old ones."

"What about me?"

"I'm glad I still have you."

"I'm glad I still have me too," Post said with a grin. Bill smiled at that, and Post continued, desperate to change the tone of the conversation. "The big scrap is going to be on, soon."

"Good. I'm getting sick of going through the motions. Turner's a real bastard when it comes to battle rehearsals."

"Maybe if we'd gone through the motions before Regina Trench things would have turned out differently." So much for changing the tone of the conversation. "Anyway, as long as the big guns can do their job when the time comes, we'll smash 'em good."

"Well they've been giving Fritz hell the past few days. It's murder on my ears."

"You're still having trouble, huh?"

"Yeah. They bleed when it gets cold or when the guns are real active. Plenty of both recently."

"You should see the medical officer, but I know you won't."

"He won't do anything."

"I'd also tell you to put your bucket on, but you won't. Bad example for the men," Post said, his own helmet hanging from his belt.

"Look who's talking. I should wear my tin hat? Hell, you're probably not even wearing underwear."

"I never wear it, no scout does. Makes it harder to move around."

"Helmet or underwear?"

Post grinned. "Well, it's been nice talking to you, Bill, but I have a working party to guide to the front. Talk to you later; but let's not wait three whole days again. Good luck with the lancing."

### *

Two trips later, and with more than half of the equipment yet to be brought forward, a late lunch was being served at the railhead, directly from the open carts of the train. A and B Companies were supposed to have returned to town in time for lunch, but were running late. Wooden crates, large pots of meat and vegetable stew stored within, and packed firm with hay for insulation, were a welcome sight to the exhausted members of the carrying party. And while the men had left their mess tins back at the billets in Cambligneul, they were lucky to have a diligent friend in the rear. Corporal Wells, B Company's cook, had taken the liberty of gathering up the vital metal dishes from each man's gear, and bringing them up along with the rations.

Roy was sorting through the mountain of mess tins which included A Company's, about two hundred in total, looking for his own.

"Just grab one," Bill advised, as soldiers filed by doing just that.

"I scratched my name on mine. I take care of it, unlike most people. If someone loses their own and steals it, I'll be able to catch them."

"Fine, just don't hold up the others."

While Stinson and McCreery had readily grabbed a tin at random, Payne had tried to find the cleanest one he could, and was now scrubbing it furiously with his dirty handkerchief.

"Oh come on, Roy, Payne, just eat."

"This thing is fucking filthy," Payne replied, as Roy, oblivious to Bill's comment, continued searching through the ever-diminishing pile, fearful that another soldier had already taken his mess tin.

It was only when every other private was seated in the snow and happily slopping down stew, and the NCOs were waiting impatiently for their turn, that Roy and Payne at last abandoned their efforts, and sulked over to the last full pot. Bill stood back as the other corporals and sergeants were served, embarrassed at his men's obnoxious behaviour, and well aware that he ate faster than most. When at last Bill received his share of stew, he sat on one of the rail carts with Corporal Wells and the other NCOs.

Wells was an old friend of Bill's, and a fellow Original. He had been wounded in 1915, and upon his return from hospital, was assigned the job of company cook.

"I just can't convince you, can I? There's nothing wrong with a bombproof job. Company cook is no position for a shirker: three meals a day for almost two hundred men, and with what they give me to work with? I never get any sleep, or help – unlike the quartermaster."

Not all of what Wells said was strictly true, but everybody in the army thought that they were single-handedly doing all the work. The transport section brought Wells everything he needed in terms of food, fuel, and equipment; soldiers not on working parties were seconded to assist him in preparing meals; and sometimes the men fed themselves straight from cans.

"Sounds like you're trying to steal my section away," Bill said, already finished eating and now smoking a cigarette. "I don't think I want to trade jobs."

"No, no, I'm still carrying a few pieces of shrapnel in me. I think Reid would give me an assistant though, if I asked nicely."

"Thanks, but no thanks. I've still got plenty of wisdom to impart."

"Well the offer stands. Let me know if you change your mind."

### *

"For heaven's sake, how much longer are we gonna be at this?" Roy asked.

Night had fallen and the men could barely see each other. Bill had been taking turns giving each man a break since dusk. Darkness had always made him uncomfortable, nervous. It was worse now that he was a section commander and had to at least appear to know what was going on. That was a lot harder to do when he could barely see his own feet.

"Why, you got some place to be?" Bill replied, dodging the question.

"Sleeping."

"Sleeping isn't a place," Stinson said.

"You know what I mean," Roy replied.

"Seriously, Bill," McCreery said. "Don't they tell you anything? My old bones aren't what they used to be. And Roy is too young to be staying up this late."

"Oh they tell me plenty. But orders and timings don't haul gear. We do."

"So, uh, you don't know when we're going to be done?" Roy asked.

"I know when we were supposed to be done. But we seem to be running late. If you want you can head back to billets when we're done this load and we'll finish up without you. You too, McCreery. But it can't be too much longer now."

"I was just asking," Roy said. "I'm no shirker."

"No need getting upset, Bill," McCreery added. "The kid's tired, we all are. Isn't it our right to grouse a little?"

Bill said nothing. He was tired too and if he wasn't the only man holding any rank in the conversation, would have been complaining as well. It went quiet for a few minutes.

"So how about the United States?" Stinson said, bored with the silence. "Between the Mexico conspiracy and the submarines, it can't be long until the Yanks get involved in the war. They're the wildcard the Germans didn't count on."

"If you know anything about the Yanks," Payne interjected, "you'll know they make poor soldiers. Couldn't even chase down a few Mexican bandits. Pathetic."

"Nah, Stinson's right," Roy said. "America's huge. And they all know how to shoot. Once they bring the Wild West act out here, Fritz will be running back to Berlin in a week."

"But how long will that take?" McCreery joined in. "A month, a year, a decade? It's been almost two years since the Lusitania went down. Wilson won his re-election based on keeping America out of the war. They're happy to sit back and profiteer. That's politics."

"Things are different now," Stinson offered. "The Russian Empire is gone, and the new government won't last long. We might see the biggest country in the whole world break apart. And if that happens, the Germans won't only get everything they want in the east, but they'll be bringing soldiers over here by the millions; German veterans, freed Austrian prisoners, maybe Russian conscripts. We wouldn't be able to take it. America needs to get involved in this thing, soon. And it will; any day now."

With that the conversation went dead again. Bill hadn't given much thought to whether or when the United States would enter the war. It was the kind of thing he would have kept up to date on and argued about before he became a section commander. Since October though, he had bigger things to worry about, like making sure his men kept their rifles oiled, canteens full, and socks dry. Talking politics seemed like a frivolous luxury.

Arriving back at the railhead, Three Section was relieved to discover there was no remaining gear to be carried forward. Little groups of men were huddled together in tight circles, fending off the wind as best they could. Before long the last members of the carrying party returned. It was nearly another hour, however, before the train appeared again. A and B Companies stood aside as men in full battle equipment dismounted and formed up on the road: a frontline working party that would be making use of the picks, shovels, and barbed wire that had been brought up for them earlier in the day.

### 3

After a day of rest which had brought the news of America's entry into the war, and won Stinson a prophet's reputation, the battalion was holding the frontline once again. The western slope of Vimy Ridge was one of the worst spots the men had been in. While below ground, a vast tunnel system safely sheltered thousands of soldiers and large stockpiles of equipment and supplies, the above ground situation was less ideal. A few communication trenches connected the tunnels with the forward positions but there was little cover for the men at the very front, what was known as the Crater Line.

The previous fighting for Vimy had left the ground pockmarked with cavernous fissures formed by the detonation of underground mines. Being much deeper than shellholes they provided decent cover, but were mostly isolated and only safely accessible under the cover of darkness. During the day, each section was essentially alone.

As usual, the Germans occupied higher ground, an after-effect of their aggressive 1914 campaign that allowed them plenty of ground to choose from. The Germans could afford to lose a few hundred yards of French soil if it meant giving their soldiers a local tactical advantage. Vimy Ridge was the epitome of this strategy, and after two years of fortification, resembled a citadel of earth and steel. Worse still, owing to the improvised nature of the Canadian lines, there was an uncomfortably small gap between adversaries. No-man's land was at places a mere fifty yards wide. This meant that the smoke from a cigarette, or even a loud cough could be punished with a sniper's bullet or well-calculated mortar round.

While shifts changed every day at midnight, the twenty-four hour periods spent in the crater line were always tense. The line was never held by more than the bare minimum to reduce casualties from shellfire. If the Germans chose to attack, the first line of defence wouldn't stand a chance. However, the Canadian artillery bombardment, which had been firing without fail for nearly a week now, was enough to keep the men feeling relatively safe.

Corporal Blake stooped at the bottom of a crater with the rest of Two Section as the men took time for lunch: cans of corned beef, hard biscuits, chewing tobacco. "Well this is just a pleasant picnic, huh, boys?"

"Can't remember a nicer day," Private Thompson replied dreamily. "The shells are buzzing so romantically, my feet are all cozy and frostbitten, with a little luck the Germans will send over my favourite perfume: chlorine gas. Truly God's country."

Thompson had only been with the battalion since the previous June, but was known for his dark sense of humour. It was a trait usually reserved for battle-hardened veterans, but one which all machine-gunners also seemed to acquire. Thompson was "Number One" on the Lewis Gun, which meant that he carried and fired it. Keeping the gun supplied with ammunition and clean was a job that each man in the section had a hand in, especially Private McNeil, the "Number Two." It was McNeil who knew the gun better than anyone, except Thompson, whose side he never left. It was also McNeil who carried the precious canvas bag that contained the gun's spare parts and cleaning kit. Among the Lewis Gun section it was said that Thompson and McNeil were the most important men in the platoon; never mind Mister Carter and Sergeant Bailey. And while the remainder of the section functioned as riflemen, albeit with an extra load of Lewis drum magazines to feed the ever-hungry gun, they still proudly considered themselves members of the most important section in the platoon. They were.

"Sounds like we'll be getting into it in another day or two," Blake said, glancing at the Lewis Gun. "Or at least that's the chatter from Three Section."

"Once it gets dark we should break Louise down and give her a once over, inside and out," Thompson replied.

"Well, I was about to order that, but since you volunteered I needn't feel like a taskmaster."

"Taskmaster? We love cleaning the lady. Right fellas?"

Two Section responded with mixed grumbles. Caring for the Lewis Gun, which Thompson insisted on calling Louise, was important. Each man helped disassemble, clean, and reassemble the over one hundred and thirty intricate pieces. But it was a long and tedious job.

"At any rate we'll oil her a little tonight," Blake said. "It's good practice to do it in the dark; you get a real feel for her. You have to get her just wet enough without making a mess."

Thompson couldn't help but let out a little chuckle. "Don't talk about Louise like that!"

### *

As night fell, Sergeant Bailey prepared to make his rounds. He had spent most of the day with One Section, Corporal McCloud's men. Not that McCloud needed the help, but Bailey had been overcome with an obsession to be certain that Six Platoon fell into good hands once he was gone, as he had a feeling he would be soon. While there was little left he could teach the young corporal, it gave Bailey great satisfaction to observe him at work. Whether ensuring his men's equipment was in good shape, or keeping a watchful eye on the German lines without being seen by enemy snipers in broad daylight, McCloud was proving every moment that he had what it took to be a platoon sergeant. Bailey, blissfully ignorant, thought he was angling for a promotion.

"Make sure Bill's wearing his helmet," McCloud whispered as Bailey prepared to leave. "And tell Blake not to let Thompson clean that gun when it's dark out, he's liable to lose a piece."

"What about Lincoln?" Bailey asked.

"Tell him I said a prayer for him. All that man needs is faith."

Sure enough when the sergeant arrived at Two Section's crater, the knocks and clicks of a machine-gun being broken down were audible. Bailey pulled close to Blake so the privates couldn't hear; no competent sergeant berated a corporal in front of his men.

"Blake, have them put that damned gun back together."

"But they're just about to start oiling her. They haven't even got their fingers in her yet."

Bailey wasn't amused, though was somehow happy that one of his men had been so careless, and required correction. "Why didn't you do that during the day?"

"The Huns won't make a move at night; they're scared, they know our scouts and patrols are out for blood. Besides, we'll be moving back in a few hours right? Might as well let the oil do its job, it'll be easier on her later when we do the real work."

"Just get it together. If it doesn't absolutely require cleaning I want it ready for firing."

"Sorry, fellas," Blake began once Bailey had gone, "make her whole again."

"But we just broke her down," Thompson said.

"Relief is supposed to come a little early," Blake lied, trying to save face. "So we need to be ready to move when it does."

In the moonlight, Bailey could easily tell that of Bill's section, only McCreery and Roy were wearing their helmets. Bill approached Bailey, knowing a lecture was in his near future and that his superior wouldn't deliver it with his entire section listening in.

"Lovely night, huh, Sergeant?" Bill said, shivering in the cold, the earflaps of his out-of-style cap deployed around his cheeks and chin.

"I can't believe Turner lets you keep that thing," Bailey said with genuine astonishment. Of course, while a company sergeant major cared about such things as obsolete headgear, a platoon sergeant was more interested in keeping his men happy. And safe. "Put your helmet on, Bill, that goes for the rest of your section too."

Bill wanted to argue the point that, as an NCO, he had to remain extra aware at all times and that a steel helmet only lessened his vision and hearing. Considering his excessive wool cap, however, he knew such an argument would gain no traction. "Alright, sorry, Sarnt'."

"No problem, Bill, just remember that you're setting an example to these men, especially the newer ones. Set a good one. Stay bombproof," Bailey concluded cheerfully.

"Payne, Stinson, tin hats on," Bill said once Bailey had left, pulling on his own helmet awkwardly over the massive cap. "The Sergeants' Almanac is forecasting a high chance of mortar fire tonight. Let's be prepared."

Finally Bailey arrived at Four Section's position. Three privates were grouped together sleeping, the other two, and Lance Corporal Lincoln were lying quietly, listening for movement coming from no-man's land. The entire section, including the sleeping men, were wearing their steel helmets and had their gas masks in the "ready" position, slung like feedbags around their necks. Lincoln heard Bailey coming and shuffled silently towards him.

"Good evening," Lincoln whispered.

"A sergeant's blessing upon thee, my faithful lance corporal," Bailey replied.

Lincoln smiled in the darkness and decided to humour Bailey. "Praise be to the Lord my rock, who trains my hands for war, and my fingers for battle. And praise be to my platoon sergeant too, just not as much, but for pretty much the same thing."

"So you reckon the Lord a higher authority than a three-striper?"

"Absolutely. Especially a Catholic three-striper," Lincoln said lightly so as to ensure his sergeant knew he meant no offense.

In the Canadian Corps, Anglican was the prevailing denomination, followed by Catholic, Presbyterian, and Methodist; any other religion was considered an oddity.

"You know my wife wanted to raise our girls Protestant."

"Anglican I hope, it's the only way to go."

"Wesleyan, or Methodist, whatever they call themselves; but I suppose she didn't take it too seriously. I guess she realized there was no point fussing over fakes when she could have the real thing."

Lincoln ignored that. He was certain that under less trying circumstances he could sway Bailey's faith with practical theological arguments. But with a big battle on the horizon, he decided to tactfully change the subject. "How old are your children now?"

"Mary is fourteen, Margaret is twelve."

"Very traditional."

"You mean very Catholic?"

"Irish."

Bailey summoned up what little was left of his Irish accent after three decades in Canada. "Don't you know laddy, Irish and Catholic – 'tis ta' same 'ting."

Lincoln allowed himself a suppressed laugh. It was good to hear Bailey joking. "Fourteen and twelve, that's nice."

"Yours?"

"Carlyle's the oldest, seventeen now. Allan is fifteen, and Linda is thirteen."

"I'm glad I've only got girls. They'll never have to be soldiers."

"Well hopefully my boys won't either, isn't that the whole point of all this? As long as we can get the job done within, oh I don't know, another year or so. Think we can pull it off?"

"I don't know. But I don't think I'll be around to see it."

Lincoln knew the feeling, and knew that nothing he could say would comfort Bailey. "At the worst we'll be looking down on it."

"At the worst we'll be looking up," Bailey corrected. "Don't worry though; I'll put in a good word for you with Saint Pete. I'm sure a handful of Protties are let in."

### *

Just after midnight the platoon was relieved and returned to the tunnels and caves beneath the foot of Vimy Ridge. Vacant corners and lesser-used passageways were crammed with sleeping soldiers. The "subways" had become a second home to the men of the Third Battalion. Not a very comfortable second home, having been built with the utmost expediency and practicality, but compared to the Crater Line, a welcome one nevertheless.

Lieutenant Carter was there to meet the platoon on its arrival. He and Bailey took turns taking the men on their shifts in the frontline.

"Evening, Sir."

"Evening, Sergeant. How was it?"

"Fine. Any news?"

"Plenty. Lots of little changes to the routes, timings, kit lists, and all that. If you're not too tired we should go over them. If you want to catch a few winks you can, but we have a meeting at Company Headquarters in forty minutes."

Bailey motioned for McCloud to take over with a wave of his hand. "Sounds fun."

"Oh, and Lance Brown has special duty: brigade bomb dump," Carter added.

"Huzzah and hurrah," Bill mumbled to himself.

"But, Sir, Bill just came off a twenty-four hour shift in the line," Bailey quietly protested.

"Tell that to the five thousand unarmed bombs and five thousand fuses that arrived an hour ago. It was a surprise to me too."

"I'll send along McCreery and Stinson with him."

"No, Paul, this is an NCOs only job. Besides, there's enough menial work to keep the privates busy. This is, of course, in addition to his regular duties; don't let him forget he's one of my section commanders."

"Yes, Sir."

When the platoon began to disperse, Bill headed towards Bailey. "I heard him, Sarnt'."

"Do you know where the brigade bomb dump is?"

"No fuckin' clue. But I do love a nice stroll amongst the troglodytes," Bill sighed, too tired to add a sarcastic smile.

"Good luck finding it. Don't stay more than two hours; you're still a section commander and you're still responsible for your men. And if they give you trouble, tell them you're in charge of bringing up the next shipment of bombs and that you're expected by some high muck-a-muck, then make your way back here and get some damned sleep: forced rest. Give my your gear."

"Thanks, Bailey," Bill said, handing off his webbing and rifle, then began to make his way – at random – through the subways beneath Vimy Ridge.

Electric lighting was strung for miles, and while visibility was not an issue, the winding tunnels and only occasional signage was. Passing by a room full of NCOs and their Lewis Guns being inspected by an officer, Bill thought he saw a corporal wave to him; he waved back, unsure of the identity of the sociable stranger.

As a ration party approached, Bill tucked himself into a small alcove to allow them to pass by. A private, who didn't even look up to acknowledge him, was carelessly wiping down a mountain of Verey pistols; rubbing the outer body of each flare gun without touching the inner-workings, then tossing the "clean" ones in a separate pile. No doubt it was a kind of defaulter's duty for laziness or slovenly behaviour.

Asking for directions mostly yielded indifferent shrugs or sincere apologies for not knowing the way to the brigade bomb dump. Finally, a man with a bomber's patch was able to point Bill in the right direction. There was one more obstacle to pass: two sergeants from different battalions stood in the middle of the pathway, their platoons lined up behind them, arguing over which group of men would take possession of a lovely blind alley that both groups had bumbled upon at the same time, and both had intended to use as lodging for the night. Bill boldly squeezed between the two NCOs, who temporarily stopped fighting – overcome with disbelief that a lance corporal had interrupted their private little war.

"Thank you, fuck you, bye," Bill said, just loud enough to be heard as he finished passing through.

At last Bill arrived at a room with a grey blanket tacked next to the opening. A red rectangle and a green horizontal line were clumsily painted on it, along with the words: "1 CAN BDE BOMB DUMP."

The moment Bill entered the room a sergeant motioned to him, then indicated a small bench upon which a corporal from the Fourth Battalion sat. The corporal, wrapped in two greatcoats and still shivering, was unscrewing the base plugs from unarmed bombs and piling them into an empty wooden box. Bill took his seat next the man, and the sergeant brought him a box of detonators. Bill grabbed one.

"You any good?" the sergeant asked.

Bill nodded. "Good enough."

"Okay. No smoking allowed."

For a few minutes Bill armed the bombs in silence. When another lance, this one from the First Battalion, arrived in the room he was placed next to Bill. The other lance was tasked with replacing the base plugs on the armed bombs. It was a strange and silent little production line. Bill had his excuse for not wanting to engage in conversation, having just come off a shift in the Crater Line, and wondered why everybody else was equally morose. Bill soon cleared the backlog of unarmed bombs and found himself waiting around for a minute or two each time the corporal anemically removed another base plug. After an hour, he asked permission to use the latrine, and having been granted it by the sergeant in charge, disappeared towards B Company, smoking happily all the way.

*

B Company Headquarters was located in a storage room for Stokes bombs. Mortarmen regularly interrupted meetings to remove a box or two of rounds, or rummage around for a spare part. Early on, permission had been asked and salutes exchanged; now such formalities were long defunct. Mortars, as with hand grenades, were stored with the fuses separate. This allowed for the wooden crates that held them to be used as makeshift benches, footstools, tables, and cots. It could have been worse: D Company, ever-luckless, was headquartered in a room designated for the storage of kerosene. Not only did the officers need to skulk away for a cigarette, but the stench prohibited them from sleeping or even meeting for very long in the room.

Platoon commanders and sergeants were trickling in as Captain Reid pored over maps, sketches, schedules, reports, orders, and lists. Company Sergeant Major Turner sat next to Bailey. Bailey could easily restrain his contempt, but also knew how to let just enough of it show so that everyone but Turner was clear on his feelings towards the CSM. Bailey didn't hate Turner, but hated that he had been chosen for CSM over him. Bailey had been a sergeant when the battalion was formed in 1914, Turner a mere corporal. There was no question that Turner's pre-war service with the Queen's Own Rifles, an experience he shared with most of the Third Battalion's officers, was the reason for Bailey being snubbed. At least, that was the belief Bailey held.

"Up the line yesterday?" Turner droned, trying to be friendly.

"Sure was," Bailey replied. "Just got back a few minutes ago." Bailey lit a cigarette. He knew Turner was disgusted by them, but being one of the few men in the battalion who didn't smoke, he was hardly in a position to say anything. Lieutenant Carter, not caring much for CSM Turner either, though because of his bland personality, lit one in solidarity.

"How are things there? Everything alright?"

"It's sunny enough, a little cold though."

"I mean the enemy."

"Oh, Fritzy, of course. I reckon he's enjoying the sun too, and is also a little cold. Nail?"

Turner half-opened his mouth to clarify, but deciding Bailey had nothing useful to say anyway, simply fixed his gaze on Captain Reid and waited patiently. Bailey couldn't help but feel a little mean, but anyone as dense as Turner deserved to be wound up just a little. He was the only CSM in the battalion, and probably the entire division that carried a pace stick into the frontlines. The stick, which resembled an oversized architect's compass, was used on parades to determine the correct distance between ranks of soldiers. In the frontlines it was useless other than as a symbol of Turner's position as CSM, and his vanity.

What Bailey didn't know was that the CSM's mind was running like clockwork, going through the objectives and timings of the plan, figuring out what to do if something went wrong, trying to guess what changes might be made before Zero Hour and how he would react to them. Turner coughed lightly as smoke filled the little room, but said nothing. When at last Five Platoon's officer and sergeant arrived Reid stood and the room went quiet. Carter flipped over his map and prepared to take notes on the back of it; standard practice among Canadian officers.

"I know we're all tired so I'm going to keep this short. Zero Hour is still set for five-thirty, and we are still jumping off at seven-thirty. Significant changes: for us Sirs, no Sam Brown belts; either dress like an enlisted man or shove your revolver in your pocket and sling your other gear. Wire-cutters are being issued out six per platoon and each carrier will be marked with white tape on the rear right shoulder strap. Battalion flags will be carried by scouts only, so that's one less thing on your plate. Apparently brigade found a stash of flare guns, we'll have four per platoon instead of one, and each carrier will draw a dozen cartridges. I want each officer and sergeant to carry a flare gun; the other two are up to you: either a good NCO or a mule."

The officers and sergeants snickered at that. A "mule" was a big private who, on top of his own rifle and equipment, and the additional gear that every man carried into battle such as sandbags, picks, and shovels, also carried the odd bits of extra kit that ranged from hammers and nails to telephone wire and carrier pigeons.

"Plan is the word," Captain Reid announced dramatically. "We haven't spent the last four months getting ready just to muddle it all up now. I don't want any arbitrary decisions or foolhardy heroics. Every move your platoons make will be by the schedule and by the map. Most importantly, this will mean keeping a firm grip on your men. They'll be excited, curious, and scared. Don't let their instincts or feelings foul up the works. The First Battalion will be on the right flank until the Blue Line. After that it's us, so expect counterattacks. That means don't waste grenades and ammunition, and keep your eyes open. Keep each other and myself informed of all things at all times; communication is going to be the key. That's all. Questions, Gentlemen?" None. "Questions, Sergeants?" None. "Thank you," Reid said, and took his leave.

"Platoon sergeants, on me," Turner said as the officers dispersed and the sergeants groaned collectively. "Now I'm not going to name platoons, okay? But I have seen some privates and even corporals walking around without puttees, with unbuttoned jackets, and dirty caps, alright? I want to see proud soldiers, not ragamuffin vagabonds, understand?"

The platoon sergeants nodded silently.

"One last thing; whale oil on the men's feet. I know the officer's normally look after that but I want you all to take a little initiative, okay?"

Since the beginning of winter all men in the frontlines had undergone daily applications of whale oil to their feet. The idea was to prevent infection and trench foot in the constant damp and cold, and it seemed to be working.

"I'll be by each of your platoons in about a half hour to make sure it's done, okay? Nobody goes to sleep until I've seen their feet, alright? Now go."

### 4

Toronto, 1930

That Sunday Bill had inexplicably brought along his old winter cap. The church was crowded with veterans wearing medals, ribbons, and association pins. Bill thought he recognized a few faces, but couldn't be sure. Aside from Post and Payne, he hadn't seen most of his old friends in several years.

The militiamen who formed the honour guard made Bill smirk a little. They belonged to the Toronto Regiment; the peacetime reincarnation of the wartime Third Battalion. Few of them wore medals; but for this special occasion all wore scarlet tunics, blue pants, and white pith helmets. They looked about ready to embark on a route march down the Nile, or fight it out with a tribe of Zulu warriors. Other than the absurd uniforms, they looked much like Bill and the other Originals would have looked leaving Toronto in 1914: eager, proud, slightly stupid. Put them in the trenches for a few weeks, Bill thought, and they'd smarten up.

Gary Post was sitting in a pew near the front of the church. He motioned to Bill and Kate to come and sit with him. "Mademoiselle Bill," he said with a huge grin, standing and taking Kate's hand. "Still beautiful I see. And still married to that bum, huh? Well good for you, a woman needs determination. If you ever run out though, you know I'm a divorced man now, yes?"

Kate blushed, Gary always had that effect on her; on almost all women really. "Oh, Mister Post, you flatter me."

"He's just trying to get on your good side," Bill said. "He wants you to let me come out and play. You know I'm broke, Gary; the Leaf will just have to go bankrupt without my business."

The charming smile turned to a keep-your-head-up grimace. "Still no luck with a job eh, Bill? Well if you want a little part-time work maybe I could find some for you. Mopping up vomit, hawking beer, keeping the pimps and whores out."

Kate blushed again, differently this time.

"No thanks. I can't get too close to the good stuff. I've been dry what, eight months now? Good thing too; I saved up a few dollars during my sobriety, boring as it was."

"Boring, am I?" Kate said.

The slick grin returned and Gary's eyes turned playfully wolfish. "You must be doing something wrong, Bill. Kate sure doesn't look boring to me."

Bill pulled a bar of toffee from his pocket and broke off a small piece, began to chew loudly. "Would you two do me a favour and run off with each other? Take my kids too."

"Quiet," Kate said, "it's about to begin."

France, 1917

The morning had started off cold, and although unusual for April in northern France, a snowstorm was in progress. There was little accumulation on the ground, but the air was filled with white flecks that coated the uniforms, gear, and helmets of the waiting men. A strong wind was blowing eastward. Most men took the weather as a good omen, preferring snow to rain, and happy to know that it was at their backs. The Germans would be taking it head-on.

Few men wore a greatcoat into an attack; it was too heavy and bulky. If it hadn't been for all the extra equipment the men carried, they might have at least considered it; but shovels, sandbags, flares, bombs, and other sundry items added up. Instead, most men opted for a leather jerkin. Bill had also decided to leave behind his beloved winter cap for the same reason. Instead, he wore his hated tin hat, Hal's red and yellow scarf wrapped awkwardly around his head and ears, babushka style.

Bill and his two throwers had a sort of baling hook tied to their left wrists. Pulling split-pins from hand grenades got tiring under the best conditions. Sweat, mud, exhaustion, or in this case, thick gloves, made gripping and extracting the pin a strain. The bombs themselves were contained in a canvas bag that the men slung over one shoulder. Carriers had fifteen bombs, throwers five; the idea being that the carriers would instantly replenish the throwers, at the same time relieving them of the extra burden. Bill carried only four – the standard for all men in this attack.

The jumping off trenches were shallow but surprisingly comfortable. Only recently dug, they lacked the debris and stench of the more established positions. Just thirty yards ahead of the Crater Line, they were certainly less safe, but once the time came to advance, every second and every yard would count. The first wave had gone over at five-thirty in the morning. Their advance had been signalled by the detonation of two giant underground mines on the German frontline. It had taken months for the men of the Canadian Engineers to tunnel forward and lay the explosives, but judging by the noise of the blast, it had blown a massive gap in the German lines. It had also come close to driving Bill to tears, and left two bloody spots on the scarf wrapped over his ears. Also at five-thirty, the Canadian artillery began to smash their way across no-man's land, chewing up the ground over which the attack would move.

The sky was streaked with green, red, and yellow lights as German flares called for artillery support. Little came, for the bulk of the German guns had been dealt with by the Canadian artillery, located through meticulous observation and mathematical calculations.

As dawn broke the lines of khaki-clad soldiers became clear. The Third Battalion was near the southern end of the line and could see the battle unfold as Canadians climbed the ridge for miles to the north and east. If his eyes were as good as Post's, Bill thought, he could probably see the entire attack in one glance. An historic battle between blinks of an eye.

The men had a less than typical breakfast; it was always like that before a scrap. Bulky pots of porridge and huge urns of tea weren't the priority that morning. Leftovers and tins of corned beef had filled the stomachs of the few who had an appetite.

Mostly, the men crouched low and smoked, cigarette embers covered by hands or nearly buried in the earth. Those who could sleep did so fitfully, waking every few minutes only to look at their watch and realize with disappointment how little time had passed.

"Rum up, cups out, pass it down," came the call from Corporal Blake.

"Lincoln, rum up," Bill called to his right, then roused his men.

Bill had waited until the last possible moment to change his socks, and "rum up" was it. It was going to be a long day, that much was obvious, and a few less minutes of sweat before stepping off would make a big difference thirty or forty hours later, when he anticipated he would have a chance to get his boots off again. Or at least Bill hoped it would. The past few days of carrying parties had played hell with his feet. As Bill peeled off his stinking and soaking socks, a thin layer of skin came off the bottom of his feet along with them. It happened from time to time, but happening just before a big show was an annoyance. Bill balled up the flaps of skin, still slimy with whale oil, and rubbed it against his tender new skin in hopes of transferring the balm. Good enough. Then there were the blisters. The half-dozen big familiar ones that never seemed to go away didn't cause much discomfort; it was the odd little new one that drove Bill crazy.

As Bill pulled on his new pair of socks, Sergeant Bailey emerged from down the line, a yellow and white stoneware rum jar tucked under his right arm. He was one of the few soldiers wearing his heavy wool greatcoat; the older men tended to.

"Good morning, Sarnt'," Bill said, still seated and working on his boots. "A little taste of heaven before we all go to hell, eh?"

Bailey ignored Bill entirely and made his way to the first man, Roy. Privates were always given food and rum first.

"Oh, no thanks, Sergeant," Roy said. "I want a clear head for this show. Besides, I promised my mother I wouldn't imbibe."

Before Sergeant Bailey could respond, McCreery joined in. "Don't worry about me either, Sergeant. I promised my wife a long time ago I wouldn't drink spirits anymore."

"And it's too early for me," Stinson said. "After it's all said and done I wouldn't mind a big drink, though."

"I'm with Stinson," Payne added. "I only drink to celebrate, and now seems a bit soon."

As Bill was still struggling with his boots, Sergeant Bailey knelt down next to him and whispered. "You know I usually don't mind if the men don't want a drink. I understand. But today is going to be their first time going over the top, and it's a damned cold morning. I don't want them freezing up."

"Well what the hell can I do? Take their rum ration for them? I wouldn't mind but I know a certain sergeant who would. They'll be okay, Bailey."

"I'm not asking you, Brown. I'm telling you," Bailey said, raising his voice. "They're going to have their rum ration, all of them. It's for their own good. The only question is, do I need to order them to take it, or are you going to convince them?"

"If they don't want rum, that's their decision. Sorry, Sergeant, but I won't force them to do anything they don't absolutely have to do."

A strange scowl came over Bailey's face. It wasn't an expression of anger or hatred, but of frustration. Bailey respected Bill for doing what he thought was best, but he had more important things to do than argue with a kid lance corporal. Bill averted his eyes and busied himself with winding his puttees around his boots and legs. Bailey stood and laid his thumb and forefinger on the jar's cork.

"Excuse me, Sergeant," Payne began, holding out his white and blue enamel mug, the kind all soldiers were issued. "But it is getting a little cold; maybe I could have that rum after all."

"Yes," McCreery joined, before Bailey could answer. "The wind is starting to get to my joints, I'm sure my wife would forgive me if I drink medicinally."

Stinson and Roy stood too, cups out, a phony look of longing plastered on their faces.

Bailey said nothing as he distributed the rum. Roy, the youngest, and Stinson, the shortest, were given a slightly smaller dose. Payne, being the tallest, McCreery being the oldest, and lastly Bill, having grown accustomed to rum, were all given a little extra.

The section crouched down miserably again, all still cold and scared; now with a bitter taste in their mouths and a burning in their stomachs. Bill couldn't help but smile as he observed his little team. As much as he admired his sergeant, he had stood up to Bailey for his men's sake, and his men had stood up for him. After a few minutes each man agreed that the rum had done a great deal to warm them up and put their nerves at ease. Bailey had been right after all.

### *

"One minute," Captain Reid announced, standing in no-man's land ten yards ahead of the company.

The attack was two hours old, and although the battalion's first mile or two would be through already captured territory, every man knew the moment would come when they were suddenly in true combat.

Bill lit a cigarette, undid his trouser buttons and relieved himself. "This might be the last smoke and piss you get. I hate to pull rank, so I won't, but if you get shot in the guts, you'll be glad to get it all out beforehand."

Each man in the section followed suit, letting a stream flow, or shaking out droplets, as the cigarette made its way down the line.

Captain Reid had one hand raised in the air, the other held a whistle to his lips as his wristwatch ticked towards seven-thirty. He had no final words or thoughts, but rather a checklist of times, locations, formations, and objectives laid out firmly in his mind.

Bill could see his breath hanging in the air. Roy was biting his thumb and envisioning his first bayonet fight. Payne had his hands clasped together for warmth, his rifle tucked between his thighs. McCreery, in mid-yawn, seemed unfazed by what was about to unfold. Stinson wiped a runny nose against the left cuff of his tunic, a thoughtful gaze occupying his features.

The second hand on Captain Reid's watch finally reached sixty. The blast from his whistle snapped each man back into reality as B Company's four platoon commanders each blew their own whistles, forming a screeching harmony. Zero Hour.

### *

Corporal Post found himself on the far right flank of the battalion's first wave. He had been kneeling just beyond the jumping off trench waiting for the whistle. A flagpole stuck between his shoulder straps and pack bore a piece of khaki cloth with the red rectangle and green triangle that signified the Third Battalion. It fluttered stiffly, half-frozen from frost. Across his pack, normally scrawled with an upper-case "P," lower-case "o," backwards "S," and slanted "T," a similar patch was stitched, concealing the middle letters. Now he stood and began to move forward, counting his paces and comparing the distance covered to the second hand on his watch. A few yards to his right, a scout of the First Battalion caught his glance and nodded collegially. "Good luck," Post called to the other man.

"Same to you."

Usually scouts worked invisibly. They guided large bodies of men to and from the front line, often at night and only interacting with the senior officer, or other scouts. They patrolled no-man's land and sometimes raided enemy trenches. On such occasions they removed the colourful battalion patches that adorned their shoulders. Now they were literally flag-waving, for it would be their job to keep the rest of the company perfectly in step with the creeping artillery barrage; no easy task over broken ground. The artillery was still pounding some unfortunate bit of German trench in the distance, but keeping in step would be easier if the men already had a feel for it, so immediately the scouts set the pace of one hundred yards every three minutes, a pace the battalion had practiced endlessly over the previous month.

It took a few moments for B Company to shamble forward and adjust their pace, but before they reached the first line of German trenches, captured two hours earlier, they were in step. Now out of their trenches and with a full view of the ground, most men gawped at the number of German prisoners making their way towards the Canadian lines. A few wounded Canadians passed by as well with huge grins and words of encouragement. Looking north and east, khaki-coloured lumps could be seen sprawled along the western slope of Vimy Ridge. Bill thought he could even see a company somewhere in the distance being cut to pieces by a German machine-gun. He wondered how those men would possibly be able to fight to the top of Vimy, and whether if the assault failed, he and the others at the southern tip of the line would end up surrounded, or forced to retreat in disarray.

Not far from their jumping off positions, B Company easily leapt across the old German frontline. Another eight hundred yards and the company arrived at the "Black Line," the first of four German strong-points. The Black Line was nearly deserted now, the Canadians who had taken it consolidating the Red Line, another few hundred yards forward, and the German defenders either dead or prisoners.

The Black Line was a neat series of three firing trenches, separated by about thirty yards each, and connected by communication trenches. The trenches were too badly mangled, full of dead soldiers and wrecked gear to pass through, so the battalion began to pass overtop the positions. It meant a leap of three or four feet in full battle equipment. By the time Bill arrived at the third and final trench of the Black Line, he wasn't sure he could make it across the last gap. Holding his breath and taking a running start, he barely landed on the far side and continued forward instinctively.

If it wasn't for the scarf crammed under his helmet and over his ears, bleeding again from the cold and the not-too-distant artillery barrage, he might have heard the calls for help from behind him. Instead, he advanced obliviously as his entire section turned back.

Stinson was lying on the bottom of the final trench of the Black Line, pulling himself to his feet when McCreery, Payne, and Roy peered down. "Give me a hand, lads," Stinson said cheerfully, despite the pain in his legs and back from the fall. He knew that if he had been an inch taller he probably would have just barely cleared the far side of the trench.

All three men extended their arms downwards and grabbed hold of Stinson's hands, shoulders, and equipment straps. Being so short, it was difficult for the others to reach down and get a good grip on him; all three were unable to lift the lightest man in the battalion.

"Fuck, Stins, you put on weight or what?" Payne asked.

"Here, let me try," Roy said, shooing the other two away and grabbing hold of Stinson's hands, unaware that he was standing on a little patch of ice, concealed by a thin dusting of snow. Without raising Stinson an inch, Roy slipped and was flat on his back, watching the upside-down battalion carry on without them.

"Help Roy up," McCreery said to Payne, climbing down into the trench. "I'll sort this out."

It was easy to see why the three men had been unable to lift Stinson. He was loaded with as much equipment as any other man. Full battle gear plus a shovel, wire-cutters, and bomb bag.

McCreery stood behind Stinson and grabbed him around the hips, lifting him up. Roy and Payne were barely managing to pull Stinson out of the trench, and as McCreery adjusted his grip to shove Stinson's legs upwards, he caught a hobnailed boot directly on his nose, eliciting a grunted "Fuck."

"You okay?" Stinson asked, now on his hands and knees just outside the trench.

"Yeah, fine," McCreery muttered, placing one hand on the sandbag parados and extending the other upwards towards his friends.

As McCreery heaved himself out of the trench, it was Payne's turn to slip on the same patch of ice. Once Payne's grip was lost and McCreery's weight transferred to Stinson and Roy, all three tumbled to the ground, joining Payne. Now all the men were struggling to their feet and barely managing to keep their footing; leaning and pulling on each other. The whole scene resembled an amateur music hall tumbling act.

One hundred yards ahead, Bill suddenly felt a hand clamp him on the shoulder and pull him to a halt. It was Sergeant Bailey, looking mortified. "Where is your section?"

Bill glanced left and right, finally realizing that his men were gone. At once, both looked rearward.

"Go get them," Bailey said with an odd mix of anger and sympathy.

Bill ran at full speed to within shouting range of where his men were; only now continuing to advance. "Get up here!" he screamed, but could barely even hear himself.

Bill removed his helmet, folded up his scarf and tucked it into his waistbelt. At once the cold wind seemed to blow directly into his ears. The helmet he placed back on his head in hopes of keeping the snow and sleet at bay. "Come on boys, get up here!"

By the time Three Section caught up with the rest of Six Platoon, they were rubbing elbows with men of the Seventh and Tenth battalions, both from western Canada. The Red Line had been their last objective and now it was flooded with soldiers. For the Third Battalion, it was a temporary shelter; the barrage on their first objective, the Blue Line, wasn't scheduled to end for another forty minutes.

Bill lit a cigarette, shaking a little with embarrassment. Nobody in Three Section was feeling bold enough to ask for one after what had just happened. He had lost control of his section, without even realizing it, and without even coming under fire. If he couldn't properly get his men over a few deserted trenches, how could he possibly get them through the next few hours unscathed?

A corporal of the Tenth Battalion nudged Bill from his contemplation. "Hey pal, spare a nail?"

"Spare, not really," Bill said. "But I'll share this one."

The other man nodded his thanks and took a few quick puffs.

"You know, looks like you need it more than me, keep it."

"Thanks. Don't look so nervous, it was nearly a walkover, at least compared to what we've gone through before."

"I should hope so."

"The Third?" The man said, glancing at Bill's collar badges and shoulder patches. "You fellas' had it pretty bad in October, yeah?"

"Could have been worse, can always be worse."

"Well it won't be today. Fritz is scared and tired. As long as the big guns keep it up you should have a pretty easy go of it."

"I hope you're right. I better look over my kittens; make sure they haven't lost their mittens."

The corporal nearly choked with laughter. "'If it be so, ye shall not go, for ye' are naughty kittens.' Good luck to you, Lance."

Bill was glad to see that his section was in good shape. His men were fussing with their equipment, making minor adjustments and double-checking that nothing had been lost in the debacle on the Black Line. For the first time, he saw McCreery's bloodied nose.

"You hit?" Bill asked.

"Yeah, by Stinson's boot," Roy replied.

"First casualty of the platoon I reckon," Payne said.

Bill took McCreery's face in his hands, examining the man's head. "You okay?"

"Fine, Lance," McCreery said.

Bill took a step back and addressed his entire section. "Alright, we're stepping off again in about forty minutes, so if you're hungry now's the time to get something into you."

His men looked sheepishly from one to another. Finally Stinson spoke. "Got any nails, Lance?"

### *

The Blue Line was almost a disappointment. Once the bombardment lifted, B Company had rushed forward with such perfect timing that they arrived in the German trenches before the defenders could even exit the deep dugouts that had sheltered them during the artillery fire. Prisoners were quickly rounded up and lightly wounded Canadians, mostly victims of their own barrage, assigned to escort them rearwards.

Once it was obvious to the Germans that their third line of defence had fallen, a counter-barrage opened up on the men in the Blue Line. With the Canadian bombardment on the Brown Line, the final objective, not scheduled to end for another ninety minutes, B Company was stuck.

Captain Reid had walked down the line, assembling his platoon commanders until all four were gathered. He also brought along Company Sergeant Major Turner.

Reid's face was pale and his steel helmet sat on his head at an odd slant. He spoke quickly. "I've decided to move forward, we can wait out Fritz's guns in no-man's land. We can position the company between the two barrages and once ours lifts, move in on the Brown Line. Are the men all ready to go?"

The platoon commanders nodded their heads grimly.

"Sir," Turner said, "a word?"

"Get your platoons ready to move and wait for my order," Reid said.

Once the officers had dispersed, Turner allowed a superior smirk to cross his lips as his eyes seemed to turn suddenly crystal clear. "Hide between two barrages, Sir?"

"I'm in no mood, Dave, what is it?"

"Nevermind our own drop-shorts, okay? What do you think will happen once we move out into no-man's land? You think the Germans will keep shelling an empty trench? No. They'll rip us apart in the open. Just listen to the whistle of those shells, alright, Sir? You can even see their arc, see it? Those guns are very close to us; less than a mile. They're firing over open sights, and they'll see us the moment we leave this line."

"Well what are we supposed to do, just sit here and get pounded for the next ninety minutes?"

Just before Turner opened his mouth, the obvious truth washed over Reid. Between the map coordinates, the barrage timings, and everything else, it hadn't even occurred to him: the dugouts. So deep that the defenders, though exhausted and demoralized, had survived the weeklong barrage only to surrender at the first sign of Canadians.

"The dugouts," both men said at once.

"Okay, Sergeant Major. You take five and six platoons and get them into cover; I'll get seven and eight. We'll bring them up again twenty-five minutes before our barrage lifts and head straight for the Brown Line. The Germans won't have time to range in on us, and we should be hitting the final objective right on schedule."

Turner's expression turned dull and vacant again. "Good thinking, Sir."

"Correction – I'll stay above ground with Eight Platoon and make sure the rest of the company doesn't get trapped if Fritz counterattacks. And I'll ask the First to probe forward a little to make sure the way is clear of any resistance before we step off."

Climbing down into the dugouts, it was easy to see how the German defenders had failed to meet the attack in time. Forty or fifty feet deep, and only a few feet wide, the entrances didn't allow for much alacrity. The first men to reach the bottom lit candles and flicked on electric torches. The dugouts themselves were each large enough to fit a platoon, though not very comfortably. Abandoned equipment, rifles, and blankets were scattered on the ground. The defenders had planned to make a fight of it, but upon realizing the proximity of the Canadians, decided against it. Their only other options were filing out one at a time, or being bombed into submission from above. From the smell alone it was apparent that the Germans had not spent much time above ground in the past week. Body odour hung thickly in the air, but the most offensive smell came from a rusted tin bucket in a corner.

Carter and Bailey called together their section commanders. Aside from McCreery's broken nose and a few men with scratches from barbed wire or grazing shrapnel, there had been no casualties.

"Alright, good job so far," Carter said. "But our next objective, the Brown Line, isn't going to be so easy. It's the Huns' last chance to stop us from breaking him completely."

Bill, Blake, and Lincoln shot each other confident glances. Even if the Germans did mount a respectable defence, a certain amount of arrogance was required for an attack to succeed. Bailey and McCloud were more apprehensive The First Battalion would not be joining them in the next phase, but preparing a defensive position in the Blue Line. This meant that upon reaching the Brown Line, the Third Battalion would be holding the southern flank of the entire Canadian Corps, and would be further east than any other battalion. What worried everyone the most was the threat of a counterattack later in the day.

It was eleven-twenty. The barrage on the Brown Line would last another seventy minutes, which meant that in order to cross the eight hundred yard gap on time, the battalion would be leaving the Blue Line in forty-five minutes. Carter and his NCOs discussed timings, formations, and what-ifs. One and Three Sections, McCloud's and Bill's men, would lead while Two and Four, under the command of Blake and Lincoln, would keep thirty yards back – the Lewis machine-gun and rifle grenades ready to crack open a strongpoint if the riflemen and bombers couldn't. Carter would go forward with McCloud and Bill; Bailey would stay back with Blake and Lincoln.

When the time came B Company was back in the German trenches. The artillery had slackened slightly but was still sure to cause a few casualties once the men stepped off. Rifles were laid across bent knees, forming steps for the shorter men, who were ready to lead off. The taller men would have to pull themselves out. Captain Reid stood at the centre of the company, blasting his whistle, each platoon commander following suit. In moments the men were streaming out of the Blue Line, getting back into their formations and setting the correct pace again.

"Keep a few yards back," Turner said to Reid. "I'll bring the men to the next line. But if this falls to pieces, you'll have to reorganize what's left and decide whether to attack or defend."

Reid nodded and shook the sergeant major's hand. "Okay. Good luck, Sergeant Major... just a few yards though."

B Company wasn't even halfway across no-man's land when the German barrage shifted eastward to catch the battalion in the open. As the first shells crashed to the ground around them, in the middle of Six Platoon's frontage, the stutter of German machine-gun fire joined in.

The barrage on the Brown Line wasn't scheduled to end for another ten minutes, but that hadn't deterred the German defenders. They had been losing ground all morning waiting for a better time to make a proper stand. It hadn't come, and evidently they were now ready to make a fight of it, even if they were being thrashed by the Canadian barrage. As the volume of German fire increased, soldiers slowed their pace, crawled forward, then finally sought what cover could be had.

CSM Turner ran out in front of the company. He knew that if his men didn't reach the Brown Line before the barrage lifted, it would mean a more organized German defence. That could make the difference between a successful attack, and a bloody debacle.

Turning his back to the enemy, he slung his rifle and tugged his pace stick free from his combat gear. During inspections or parades, Turner would let the stick pass over each man, stopping to point out boots that weren't shiny enough for his liking, or to correct a soldier's spacing.

Now, he waved it across the men of Five and Six Platoon, and held it horizontally. Every rifle and machine-gun picked up their rate of fire. Indicating Seven and Eight Platoon, the sergeant major held the stick vertically. As half the company began to advance, Turner did too. He jogged forward with surprising speed, stopped after twenty yards and made the signal for them to hold still and provide cover fire. Pointing the stick straight back at Five and Six Platoons, he raised it again, giving the order for them to advance and catch up with the rest of the company.

Confidence shot through the men as Turner conducted them forward, like the maestro of a world-class orchestra during the crescendo of a great opera. Through the smoke and blowing snow, as bullets whizzed past him, Turner's performance couldn't do anything but inspire his men to action. Fear motivated them too, for if the attack failed and Turner survived, he would certainly subject them to weeks of practice attacks.

As the assault resumed and the platoon commanders took over again, Turner set his sights on Eight Platoon. They were on the far right flank, before them, thirty-five thousand Canadian soldiers, beyond them, only open ground. Waiting for his company to pass him by, as to stay out of their line of fire, he set off quickly towards Eight Platoon. Captain Reid would take over if the company hit another snag.

Corporal Post was surprised to see the huge figure of the CSM appear suddenly next to him. Turner tucked away his pace stick and unslung his rifle, fixing the bayonet. "Gary," he said, adjusting his pacing to the scout's, and sounding almost human. "Good to see you. How's the flank?"

Post was dumbfounded. After six years together in the militia, and another two and a half since the war broke out, the sergeant major had never called Post by his first name; even when both men were lowly privates, nearly a decade ago. "Uh, good?"

"Any sign of those fucking Scots?"

"A few of them were on our right earlier, but they've shifted south... Dave."

"All they had to do was cover our asses. Well, looks like it's you and me."

"And Eight Platoon."

"Let them worry about the Brown Line. We'll look after the flank. Hell, we're Queen's Own."

"Third Battalion," Post corrected.

Turner's face became profound and angelic as a smile conquered his lips. "Canadian."

### *

The Brown Line ran through the western edge of Farbus Wood; now mostly smashed trees. As the battalion came within two hundred yards the reason for the accurate artillery fire became apparent; a battery of German field guns, concealed in the woods and too bulky to withdraw on short notice, were rapid-firing over open sights. Turner was right, again. It was a final desperate defence, and would require a quick, determined attack to overcome it. But that would be a job for C and D Companies.

One hundred yards out, the Canadian barrage ceased and moved forward; B Company was late. The Brown Line was flickering with rifle flashes, while the machine-gun that had stopped the advance earlier was burning through rounds at an even greater rate. Bailey called his half of the platoon to a halt, and shouted for Carter to do the same.

Without another order, Blake's machine-gun began to crack. The gun was spotless and well-oiled on the inside, while the outside was covered with a thin layer of ice and snow. As the gun spat .303 rounds, frozen crystals sizzled and turned to steam, mingling with the smoke of burnt gunpowder. Thompson grimaced while McNeil held a fresh magazine above the gun, ready to reload the moment the current one ran dry. Their target was the German machine-gun, and the enemy crew responded zealously.

"Our first duel!" McNeil yelled with excitement over the barking of the Lewis Gun.

"Keep an eye on Bailey," Thompson responded coolly. He was firing short bursts, more intent on keeping the enemy gun suppressed than causing casualties. "Let me know if he gives us a signal or something."

McNeil glanced left and right. It was as if everyone had stopped moving once again and the attack had failed. Of course the rest of the platoon was merely giving the Lewis Gun a wide berth. Since October, Six Platoon had learned to give machine-guns, even friendly ones, plenty of space. A dull click sounded, and Thompson slapped the bottom of the magazine, flipping it over in the air several times and sending it to the ground. A moment later McNeil had placed a fresh drum on top of the gun, and it continued firing. The Number Two recovered the empty magazine and swapped it for a fresh one, once again ready to feed the gun.

Lincoln's section was nearby. On his order, the men knelt and placed the butts of their rifles to the ground, loading a grenade into their awkward cup dischargers. "Range for ninety-five yards," Lincoln said, knowing full well that the inaccurate vent, which allowed for more or less pressure from the blank rounds that propelled the grenades, was impossible to gauge so accurately. Still, he thought, it was good to set high expectations for his men, especially when kneeling in the open such a short distance from an enemy machine-gun. "Two each!"

Lincoln's men launched the clumsy projectiles with great effort but little effect. The distinctive whistle-crash of rifle grenades rent the air, and his section laid flat again.

"Alright, one more each, good ones, then we can quit mucking around and get in there with bayonets, sound fun?"

Once more the men knelt, reloaded their dischargers and sent another volley towards the gun. Lincoln craned his neck forward and looked skyward as the telltale thud sounded, and the bombs arced, landed, and exploded. Maybe it was luck, or the prospect of matching their bayonets to an 08/15 Maxim machine-gun, but the volley was right on target. The gun, which had already been kept fairly quiet by Thompson's fire, fell silent altogether.

At once the platoon began to move forward. "Forget the bayonets," Lincoln called to his men as they joined in the advance, "just load some real bullets."

Lincoln's section worked their bolts, chambering and ejecting the blank rounds that propelled their rifle grenades, and reloaded with proper .303 rounds. The cup dischargers attached to the end of their rifles took longer to unscrew and stow away, and so remained.

The loss of their machine-gun had disheartened the defenders, who were retreating further into the Brown Line as the platoon pushed past the battered remains of the German barbed wire and entered the first trench.

### *

What Carter's half of the platoon lacked in firepower, it made up for with speed and manoeuvrability. They had reached the trench well before Bailey's two sections and were already preparing to advance. Two communication trenches, separated by less than thirty yards, ran parallel to each other and towards the German support lines.

Before Bill knew what was happening, McCloud's section had disappeared down one of the trenches. Gunfire followed. "Check that one out, meet us up there," Carter called to Bill, then rushed off, revolver in hand to catch up with McCloud.

"Payne, Roy, give me a high-low 'round that bend," Bill said, indicating the corner of the second communication trench.

Stinson and McCreery were each clutching a hand grenade, their rifles slung across their backs. Roy moved forward at a crouch and ducked even lower at one side of the traverse. Payne edged as close as possible, his knee touching Roy's shoulder.

"Ready?" Bill asked. Both men nodded. "Go."

At once the pair flung themselves around the corner.

"Empty," Payne said, without relaxing the grip on his rifle.

Roy shifted to the other side of the trench, stood and peered forward. "Dugout up ahead on the left, twenty yards. T-junction another thirty beyond."

Now the section advanced wordlessly. It was just like they had practiced dozens of times in the past few months. Roy and Payne moved past the dugout entrance, keeping an eye on the far end of the trench. Bill, Stinson, and McCreery each ripped the pin from a hand grenade.

"Anyone in there? Raus!" Bill called into the darkness. "Last chance!"

After waiting a moment without hearing a response, all three pitched their bombs into the dugout and moved forward.

"What do we do now?" Payne asked. "Bomb both alleys?"

"No, it's probably full of our men," Bill replied. "Besides, that's kind of wasteful isn't it?"

Roy laid the butt of his rifle on the ground and fumbled in his pocket for a small mirror. "Bought this in England. Finally I'm gonna get my money's worth." The mirror slipped onto the end of his bayonet via a small slot designed for that purpose, and he angled the end of the rifle past the T-junction. "Canadians to the right." With a flick of the wrist, his rifle spun around. "Nobody's home on the left. Wonder where McCloud is."

Bill glanced towards the other group of Canadians; Seven Platoon. They looked like they were doing alright, and there were no communication trenches between them and Three Section. No need to get in touch with them just yet. "Well, let's go."

### *

Blake's men rushed past Thompson, heading for the enemy machine-gun to ensure it did not come back into action. Bailey hung back with the Lewis Gun, not wanting to risk his most valuable asset until it had been confirmed the way was clear. Thompson and his gun would move with Bailey.

Blake was the first man to reach the knocked out machine-gun. A mix of Lewis Gun fire and rifle grenades had killed every man in the gun's crew. A dead German sergeant seemed to stare at Blake with grudging approval. His right arm had been hit and a bandage hastily applied. His left hand firmly gripped a Luger pistol. His chest had a hole the size of a fist in it; a victim first of the Lewis Gun, then of the rifle grenades.

Blake blinked and forced his attention to the gun. It was too heavy to bring forward, weighing almost as much as he did if the tripod was counted. And considering the risk of a counterattack, he couldn't leave it functional. Blake flung open the feed cover and brushed aside the belt of ammunition. Knowing little about the gun and tearing at anything that would come loose, he managed to remove what appeared to be a breech block, and shoved it into his tunic pocket. Not only would the gun be useless, but if someone else claimed to have captured it, Blake would have the proof – via matching serial numbers on the block and gun itself – that his section had done the job and won the souvenir. With that, he called for Bailey to bring up the Lewis Gun.

### *

Bill led his men down the empty side of the trench, which bent and met up with another communication line. Roy offered up his mirror again.

"Forget that," Bill whispered. "It's takes too long to be certain. They may get the jump on us."

Bill poked his head around the corner. The trench angled off to the left as it ran. A block had been established halfway down; a pile of sandbags hauled down from the parapets, and whatever debris could be found were heaped into a wall about three feet high. He didn't see the six rifle barrels that were waiting for him, but heard the crack of rounds and instinctively fell backwards. He tumbled into Payne and Roy, who caught and dragged him a few feet back behind the bend in the trench.

"Bombs, fifteen yards, eleven o'clock," Bill ordered, still being manhandled by his boys.

Instantly, McCreery and Stinson tossed a grenade each over the lip of the trench towards where they supposed the Germans to be.

"One more each," Bill said, composing himself.

Another two grenades sailed through the air and detonated. Bill approached the traverse once more and began to stick his head around the corner.

"The mirror," Roy reminded him, holding it out. "They already know we're here."

"Fine, what do you see?"

"Nothing. I'll stick my head around and be sure though."

"Don't be stupid," Bill said, poking his own head around again. "You'd get it shot off. Looks clear."

"Just wait," Stinson told the others as he began to strip off his equipment, helmet, gloves, and tunic. "Could be a ruse. I'll go overland, look down on them and see if it's okay to move."

"It's too dangerous," Bill said. "Good idea though. I'll go."

"I'm the smallest man here, if anyone can slip through without being seen, it's me."

"Just don't ask me for a boost," McCreery said, touching his nose.

Bill nodded his approval. "Alright. We'll wait... three minutes. Either you holler for help, or let us know it's clear. Try to see what the rest of the platoon is up to as well, eh?"

Stinson, shoved a hand grenade into each of his cardigan's pockets and clambered over the top with the help of Payne and Roy. He stuck close to the parapet, crawling along the frozen ground and barely raising his head. Making his way under a belt of smashed barbed wire, Stinson caught his sweater and found himself discarding it, salvaging the grenades and holding one in each hand. Now only in an undershirt and shaking from the cold, he could hear the sound of hushed German voices as he approached the second line of trenches. Slowly he pulled the pins from his grenades. The pins each had a ring, which he hung on his smallest finger. The grenades' striking levers, spring-loaded and ready to ignite the fuse once they were set free, were tucked safely into Stinson's palms. He had no intention of wasting two grenades if he could take these Germans prisoner. Besides, they were people too; miserable misguided people, but probably deserving of a little mercy.

At once Stinson stood and outstretched both hands above the group of enemy soldiers. "Halt! Hand der hoch!" He stuttered in his best German. "Du bist mein, er, uh, 'prisoner!'"

All six German soldiers turned and pointed their rifles at Stinson, but seeing the precarious position of his bombs, laid down their rifles and raised their hands.

Stinson didn't turn his head, but kept his gaze on his captives. "Bill, bring everyone up, they've surrendered!"

The words had just escaped his mouth when a German machine-gun, somewhere in the distance, opened up on him and forced him to take cover in the trench. Two of the Germans immediately moved towards Stinson, hoping to seize the grenades and continue the fight. Stinson knew the rest of the section would be an easy target moving down the trench, especially if his own grenades ended up being used against them.

He was cold, angry, and deeply offended that the men he had just spared would be so ungrateful. Although a small man, Stinson was confident: being small meant learning to fight at a young age, and sometimes fighting a little bit dirty. He caught the first German with a powerful left cross, the added weight of the hand grenade clenched in his fist, resulting in a broken jaw. As the second man drew close, Stinson threw an uppercut to his chin. The man shrieked in horror as a chunk of his tongue, cut in two by his teeth meeting with such force, dropped to the ground, and blood began to spurt from his mouth. Both men crumpled and collapsed.

"Handen fuckin' hoch!" Stinson snarled.

The remaining Germans, who had been scrambling for their rifles, now reconsidered and threw their hands higher than ever. Another few seconds, which felt like hours to Stinson, and the remainder of Three Section was with him. "The bombs," he said desperately. "I can't hold them."

McCreery snatched the grenades from his hands, being careful to keep the strikers from coming loose. Bill removed the rings with their pins from Stinson's fingers and replaced them, disarming the bombs. Stinson's knuckles were bruised and swollen black and blue already, streaked red with blood.

"Roy, take this lot back, double-quick time, hand them over to the first person who can take them," Bill said, indicating the prisoners. "Then come right back. Payne, go with him and get Stinson's gear and things."

McCreery couldn't help but comment on Stinson's busted knuckles. "Poetic justice, eh?" He said, still clutching a grenade in each hand and tapping his nose again.

"You going to be okay to carry on?" Bill asked.

"Yeah, I just need a second," Stinson replied, flexing his fingers and rubbing his knuckles.

"Is this the last trench?" McCreery asked.

"Looks that way. You two stay here, keep an eye out for McCloud's boys," Bill said. "They'll be coming from the left."

Bill made his way towards the other end of the trench. He could hear Canadian voices around the bend, but decided to be certain. "Toronto! Is that Seven?"

"Toronto!" Came the reply. "Yeah, is that Six?"

"Sure as shit it's Six," Bill rhymed off. "Everything okay?"

"We're good. You?"

"Rosy."

Off to the left, one of McCloud's men stuck his head around a corner. "Toronto! Six?"

"Toronto, Six," Bill replied.

The man entered the trench along with about half of McCloud's section. "You all okay?"

"Yeah, you?"

"Fine. The Mister says to stay put for a few minutes; McCloud and him will catch you up soon. Exciting eh?"

Bill lit a cigarette. "Better than a fireworks show."

Soon Roy and Payne returned, and Bill dispersed his men in teams, one thrower and one carrier. A counterattack didn't seem likely, but preparing to repel one was the first order of business. Bill placed himself between both teams and began counting up how many bombs his section had gone through.

### *

"Bill, you're okay?" McCloud asked.

"Yes, mother. Jeez."

"You make contact with Seven Platoon yet?"

"First thing I did."

Carter, having heard that it was safe, shuffled past both men without a word to make formal contact with Seven Platoon's commander.

McCloud carried on with the administrative details. "Good. How about your men, casualties? Bombs? Ammunition?"

"No casualties, we used seven bombs. I don't think we fired a single shot. Oh, I guess when we were held up by that gun; probably one hundred or so. And we sent back six prisoners. How's the rest of the platoon?"

McCloud was adding Bill's numbers to the tally in his head. "One killed, one stretcher case, three walking wounded."

"It's too good to be true. Three miles in a few hours."

"And guns. C and D Companies captured a whole battery of artillery in the woods on our left. Story goes they're the first ones captured by any Canadian battalion."

"Hey, check that out!" Payne called over. "I'll be damned."

The men of Six Platoon mounted the firing steps of the captured trench and looked on in amazement. Three hundred yards north a squadron of Canadian cavalry was picking its way through the Brown Line and the remains of Farbus Wood. Once in the open, they reformed and drew their sabres. There were about seventy men and horses, sheltered from enemy fire by a railway embankment five hundred yards east of the Brown Line.

"Sweet Jesus, it's a charge!"

"Reconnaissance, more likely," McCloud said to himself. "Either way, they're about to get themselves killed. The Germans will butcher them the moment they crest that embankment."

"Heads down everywhere," a voice called sternly: CSM Turner, a bloody bandage poking out from the hem of his tunic. "This isn't a penny peep show, alright? Take this time to get some water in you and give your weapons a once over, not gawk at a bunch of ponies, okay? Corporal McCloud, where is Mister Carter?"

"Making contact with Seven Platoon, Sir."

"And how is Six Platoon?"

"One killed, four wounded, twelve hand bombs used, another fifteen rifle bombs, about eight hundred rounds fired, mostly from the Lewis Gun.

"About eight hundred? Do we want an exact figure, or a guess, Corporal McCloud?"

"I'm working on an exact figure."

"Well get back to work. And don't get too comfortable here; we might not be staying very long. Some mistake with the battalion on our right flank. Focus on the weapons, equipment, and men; don't bother digging in or rearranging this trench."

Turner focused his attention on Bill. "How is your section doing, Lance Corporal Brown?"

Bill hadn't quit smoking since they'd arrived in the trench. "Great, Sergeant Major. Can I offer you a cigarette?"

"No thank you, Lance Corporal."

Once Turner was gone, the men immediately remounted the firing steps and returned to observing the scene unfolding around them. The cavalry were climbing the embankment at a gallop, and disappearing on the far side. Machine-gun and rifle fire followed seconds later.

"Well that's a stupid waste," McCloud said.

"Euchre," Bill said. "Ah well, nothing we can do. Don't you have bullets to count?"

McCloud was frustrated at seeing such a useless attack being made, and at being given such a pointless task. "I just did. Eight hundred and seventy-three. Don't care."

Bill made a strange sound that blended approval with amusement. It was nice to see McCloud lighten up. "What if the CSM counts?"

"What if he actually makes you throw away that stupid cap of yours?"

"Touche. I guess he won't count, not that it would really matter anyway. I mean, nobody is going to bring up a crate of ammunition, plus or minus one hundred rounds."

McCloud nodded and hopped down from the firing step. "I've got a few things to look after. Keep your eyes out for a counterattack."

Bill looked to the northwest, the opposite direction an attack was likely to come from; he just couldn't resist the view. All along the line men were adjusting old positions, digging into new ones, and pushing out small patrols. The nearer ones could be distinguished somewhat, but those further down the line looked like ants milling about, building a hive or carrying honeydew back to their queen.

Shouts of excitement shifted Bill's vision to the east again. The survivors of the cavalry advance, about half as many as had gone over, were rushing back towards the Canadians lines at full speed. Once there was nothing left to see, the men settled and returned their attention to eating, cleaning weapons, and compulsive smoking.

### 5

In the middle of B Company's frontage, Captain Reid had assembled the officers of Five, Six and Seven Platoons. "First of all," he announced, "great job. Every man in the company has performed with the kind of skill, determination, and bravery that I've come to expect, but there will be time for speeches later. Here's the situation: we were supposed to meet up with a battalion of Scots in the Blue Line; they didn't show, barely even made it out of their own trenches. Since then we've been the right flank. As it stands, Eight Platoon is on the far end of the entire corps. They are getting set up in a sunken road that crosses the Brown Line just south of our original boundary. We will be joining them shortly to firm up the flank. A and C Companies are taking over this portion of the line, so each time a platoon is relieved, I'll bring it to where it needs to be."

A half hour later, Lieutenant Carter was kneeling behind the sunken road. Six Platoon was ranged out over seventy yards or so, each man digging in and turning the little cowpath – or perhaps it had been a drainage ditch, or a medieval estate's border marker – into a fortified, functional trench. Cutting into the half-frozen ground quickly became tiresome. Bill put down his shovel and lit a cigarette. He saw Carter's glance fall on him, so decided to turn his smoke break into a cursory inspection of his section's new positions.

He came to Stinson first. "How're your hands?"

"Fine," Stinson replied, still digging.

"Quit that," Bill said, lighting another cigarette. "Here, have a nail."

"Thanks, Lance."

"You sure you're okay?"

Stinson nodded. "Well I'm still here."

Bill pretended to point out flaws in the other man's defensive position. "See here," he said, gesticulating, "this is perfect. But Carter's watching, so nod, like I'm correcting a mistake."

Stinson complied, as if taking mental notes.

"You did good today. But why didn't you just bomb those Huns?"

"Well you're always telling us not to waste bombs."

"And it had nothing to do with not wanting to kill them?"

"I guess there's that. Don't worry though; I can do it, if I need to."

"Good boy."

Next, Bill visited McCreery, dropping what was left of his cigarette on the way and lighting another. "Nail?"

McCreery laid down his shovel. "Thanks."

"How's your nose?"

"Broken I think, but I can still breathe out of it."

"Do you want to head back?"

"No, but once we're relieved, maybe I could see someone about it."

Bill smiled. "Thanks, I appreciate it."

"I've seen a few fellows in worse shape than me still here."

"Yeah. But sometimes you don't even notice how bad someone's got it until it's too late, so I just wanted to make sure."

"Well you've made sure."

"Good; then finish that nail and keep digging."

A few yards down, and Bill came to Roy. He was digging furiously and had already constructed a very impressive one-man fortress.

"Take a break, Roy, have a nail with me," Bill said lighting yet another cigarette.

"No thanks, Lance," Roy replied, still digging. "You think Fritz'll counterattack? I still haven't got to put any notches on my rifle."

"Oh, sorry," Bill said with a smirk. "But don't worry; Fritz always counterattacks."

"Now that we've been in a real fight together, tell me."

"What?"

"How many Huns have you sent west?"

"Well technically it would be east for them. But none. At least none that I know of."

Roy let his spade land in a piece of earth and left it there. "None?"

"Again, my apologies."

"Oh I didn't mean it like that, Lance. I just figured, being an Original and all, that you'd plugged more than your fair share."

"There's a reason I'm an Original and still here. This war is different. It isn't about killing; it's about not getting killed."

Roy contemplated that for a moment, then returned to digging. "Say, I told my Dad I'd send home one of those spiked helmets, but every Hun we've seen today is wearing those stupid coal scuttles. Aren't there any of those nice ones still around?"

"Well sometimes the officers still wear them, on parade though. You don't really see them in the frontlines anymore."

Roy pouted, but didn't stop his work. "I told my Dad," he grumbled to himself.

"Well I'll make you a deal. You keep doing what you're doing, you're a damned good soldier you know, and I'll ask around and try to find one."

"Thanks, Lance, that'd be fine of you."

Finally Bill arrived where Payne was shaping his little segment of the sunken road. "Take a break. Nails."

Without a word Payne swapped his shovel for a cigarette.

"So, how'd you like your first battle?"

"It was alright," Payne mumbled through his cigarette, took it out and exhaled smoke. "Kinda boring though."

"You and Roy are real bloodspitters, eh? I'll warn you right now: if you're too eager to get in the middle of the action, you might end up regretting it. Today was good; slow and steady wins the war."

"Hey Bill!" A voice called from behind them.

Bill turned to see Corporal Post. He was wet and dirty from head to toe, like he had just crawled through a swamp.

"Gary!"

Payne leaned on his shovel and smoked while Post and Bill crouched a few yards away, tittering like schoolgirls. He was in full view of Carter, but decided that if the officer really wanted this trench dug, he could take a turn with a pick or spade.

"You're alive, good for you," Bill said.

"Took some effort; we ain't all bombproof," Post replied. "How did the Lancing go? Any questions?"

"Well all my men are okay, sans a broken nose and some busted knuckles."

Post suddenly became serious. "Close fighting, huh?"

"At times. Oh, where are my manners; nail, Corp?"

In a flash Bill was smoking his fifth cigarette. Post accepted, but noticed the nearly empty pack.

"You'll run out soon, better slow it down after this one. Thanks though."

"I have a little favour to ask."

Post rolled his eyes and made as if to give back the cigarette. "Oh fuck, okay," he said playfully, lighting it. "What?"

"One of my boys wants a souvenir. A spiked helmet."

Post turned contemplative. "There's a chance. Dave, I mean, Turner and me, captured an entire platoon. Their officer had one in his kit bag. I let Dave have it. I could ask him for it; I did save his neck after all."

Bill was more surprised by the apparent familiarity between Post and Turner than their extraordinary triumph. "Did you just call the CSM 'Dave?'"

Post smiled. "I've known him longer than you have."

"Buddies with Turner; I don't believe it."

"There's photographic evidence. The same vain prick had a camera. The film was all used up, but we had a prisoner take a snap of us both. Double exposure it's called? Anyway, he's gonna send it home and have the wife develop it. He even had a nail with me."

"I'll believe it when I see it."

### *

By nightfall a blizzard was hammering B Company worse than the German artillery. Visibility ranged from a few yards to a few inches. Of course some stray shells occasionally caused a scare, but no serious damage was done. More importantly, no counterattack came. Aside from the howling winds, it was pretty quiet.

A few hours before dawn, Sergeant Bailey was checking up on each section. As long as one man was awake, he didn't mind if the others were asleep. He walked slowly from one section to the next, offering words of encouragement to his own men, and those on either side of Six Platoon.

His last stop was Three Section. Private Roy acknowledged the sergeant's presence with a little wave of his hand. It was understood that if Roy felt himself nodding off, he would awaken another man. Bill was asleep for the first time since Bailey had begun his rounds. Teeth chattering like a machine-gun, and eyes watering from the wind, he looked like a homeless man on the verge of freezing to death. At least he was wearing his helmet, topped with a thick layer of ice and snow. Hal's scarf was frozen stiff.

"Poor bombproof bastard," Bailey said, removing his greatcoat and placing it on the young lance corporal. "You'll be here right to the end, won't you?"

Bailey gently shifted the metal hook suspended from Bill's left wrist, and hiked up his glove. "You kids and your toys. Did I ever tell you about the old days? Of course not, it'd only embarrass me. We used to go with nothing but a canteen and a bandolier. Gas masks, shovels, bombs, flares; you boys are more like porters than real soldiers. But what do I know anyway, I'm just a worn-out old man."

Bailey reached into the greatcoat, careful not to wake Bill, and pulled out his pack of cigarettes. He took one and replaced the remainder. "Goodbye, Bill. It's my Zero Hour."

### *

Once dawn had broken, the absence of Sergeant Bailey became apparent. McCloud had been the first to find him, and called the other NCOs over. His skin was cold and blue, and little chunks of snow had formed all over him. His chest was still, eyes closed with a peaceful, or perhaps relieved expression on his face. There wasn't a scratch or spot of blood anywhere on him.

Bill was wearing Bailey's greatcoat, the bottom hem nearly dragging along the ground. He couldn't manage words, but knelt next to his dead sergeant, and hugged him, like a little boy whose first dog had just died.

Lincoln crossed himself. He was trying to remember the Catholic last rites. It had to do with anointing the dying with oil; it was somewhere in The Book of James. With no better substitute, Lincoln clicked open the buttplate of his Lee Enfield rifle and removed the little tin of gun oil. Placing a drop on his right thumb and forefinger, he streaked a cross onto Bailey's forehead. "I absolve you of your sins." Finally, he pulled Bailey's identity discs free, took the little gold crucifix tied to them, and touched it to the cracked, lifeless lips.

"What happened?" Blake asked.

"He was tired," McCloud said. "Just plain tired."

"I guess this means you're in charge now?"

"Guess so. Lincoln, would you please go through Paul's things: photos, letters, anything else for the family. Also tear his gear apart and issue out anything useful to whoever needs it. Blake and Bill, back to your sections. I've got to tell Carter, and figure out who's gonna take over my section. I guess Fyles."

"You want these?" Bill asked, indicating the sergeant stripes on either side of the greatcoat.

"That's okay. I think Post would like them more than me. They were closer, and it won't be long 'til he needs a pair too."

"Post," Bill mumbled quietly, suddenly remembering that he wasn't the only one who had looked to Bailey as a surrogate father. "Originals," he said again, realizing that he and McCloud were now the only two left in the platoon.

Bill shoved his hands into the coat's pockets and found the pack of cigarettes Bailey had left for him. He lit one and stuck it in the snow next to Bailey, the smoke drifting up to the dead man's face, settling under the brim of his steel helmet for a moment, then escaping upwards and dispersing.

### *

It was nearly noon before Post returned to Six Platoon's position. He had been busy guiding relief and supply parties, as well as wounded men and prisoners, to and from the front. And ever since Carter had forced him out of Six Platoon, he had kept social calls to a minimum. So, it was only once Carter had been called away to a meeting with Captain Reid that Post appeared at the sunken road.

"I got it for you, Bill," Post announced brightly, holding in his hands a German helmet. "Turner was going to send it the Queen's Own Sergeant's Mess, but when I told him it was for you, he let me have it."

Bill stared dumbly at his old friend.

"Okay, I know it has the ball on top instead of the spike, but that's the style their artillerymen wear. In a way it's even more special because of that. Maybe that's why they surrendered so easy; they'd been sent up at the last moment, probably never been in a firing trench before."

"Gary, I have some bad news," Bill choked.

Post had seen enough men devastated by a recent loss to know what Bill was about to say. All his joy turned instantly to grief. "You're wearing his coat. What happened?"

"He just didn't wake up."

"Nail," Post said weakly.

Bill reached for the pack in Bailey's coat again, two cigarettes remaining. "Do you want his stripes?"

### *

"Where's the spike, the little brass spike? It's supposed to have a spike. It's broken, I think," Roy said, inspecting the leather helmet.

"It was an artillery officer's; they wear a ball, not a spike. It's special," Bill replied.

"Well thanks anyway. What do I owe you?"

"I told you before, just keep up the good work."

"Oh, I will. Maybe in our next scrap I can get my hands on one with a spike."

"Sure. You just had bad luck this time. I mean what good is surviving unscathed if you can't send home a souvenir or two."

"Maybe one of those pistols, a Luger. That might be easier to get my hands on, eh? I heard someone in Blake's section found one."

"Makes sense. I'm sure you'll have better luck next time."

### *

It was several more days before the battalion was relieved. The dead had been taken away and buried by one of those special units whose job it was to perform such tasks. Cemeteries always popped up after big battles; Bois-Carre was one of many. Thirty-six hundred fresh Canadian graves already made their mark on the countryside just west of Vimy. When McCloud, Post, and Bill arrived at Bailey's grave, the burial parties were still at work at the far end of the cemetery, dealing with the men who had died of their wounds in the days following the battle.

"It's a nice little spot," McCloud offered.

Bill and Post nodded. Neither man knew what to say or do, after all there really wasn't anything they could say or do, at least nothing that would matter.

"It'll be beautiful once spring really sets in. Glorious in summer I'm sure."

After a few minutes of silence McCloud glanced at his watch. "Well, time to go?"

"We'll catch up," Post managed.

McCloud laid a hand on the cross. "I'll take care of everything, Paul, don't worry."

Bill knelt next to the wooden cross. It was nearly bare. No doubt the men who had buried Bailey hadn't known him. Only the information that his identity discs provided, and his date of death, were painted in white. 'Bailey, P, 9380, Third Batt, RC, 04-10-17.'

"We should write something on it," Bill said.

"What?"

"I don't know. Something though. Maybe Shakespeare or something from the bible. 'Now cracks a noble heart, good night, sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.'"

Post shrugged. "I don't think we could fit all that. Besides, it's kind of fancy."

"How about, 'He shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever?'"

"But that doesn't say anything about him."

"Husband, Father, Soldier, Friend."

"Perfect."

### 6

Toronto, 1930

As funeral services go, it had been relatively short. A line had formed and each man was filing by Turner's open casket, taking a final glance or whispering a last goodbye. Kate sat as Bill and Post took a spot in the line.

"Who's that your wife is talking to?" Post asked.

Bill craned his head to see Kate speaking with a pretty young woman. "I don't know. Someone's wife I guess."

"Or daughter."

"You know who she looks like?"

"Yeah."

"She could be. He had two daughters. And maybe Kate knows her from the regimental association."

"She's a beauty."

"I think she's looking at you Gary."

"Don't be daft. Kate's pointing you out to her. 'Oh there's my husband that I'm so proud of, he's an unemployed junk shop clerk–'"

"Ah, unemployed used book store clerk. Come on, Gary, fair play."

"Books are junk."

"Yeah, you would say that. And she is definitely looking at you. 'Oh, brave soldier man with all your shiny medals, come sweep me off my feet and take me to your pub.'" Both men suppressed laughter. They had been getting closer to Turner's casket and it was nearly their turn to pass by.

Post went first. "Hello, Sir," he said, pausing to think of something. "You look well in that suit. Good luck in heaven or, wherever you ended up. Just kidding." Post paused again. "Thanks for everything, Sergeant Major. Dave. Rest in peace, understand?"

Bill held his old khaki cap in both hands as he approached Turner. He leaned in close. "I just wanted to say thanks for letting me keep this stupid thing. I know you hated it, but I know that you knew how it made me feel. Like I was my own person for once; like I was special. It's just a dumb hat, but, it meant something to me. I don't know why. Anyway, rest in peace, Sergeant Major. Okay?"

When Bill returned to where Kate was standing, Gary was shaking hands awkwardly with the young woman.

"Miss Bailey," Kate announced, "this is my husband, William."

"I've heard so much about you, Mister Brown."

"All good, I hope. Call me Bill."

"Of course, please call me Margaret."

Miss Bailey's gaze snapped back to Gary. It was clear she wasn't seeing his wrinkles or fledgling grey hairs. She was seeing him as he was fifteen years ago. She was seeing him standing next to her father, both men in uniform, on a photo postcard with 'My pal Post and I. Love always, Daddy' written on the reverse.

Turner's casket was closed now, and the sergeant in charge of the honour guard placed an aged but pristine pace stick on top of it. Six pallbearers from the Toronto Regiment raised the casket with such exact drill movements, Bill thought they must be afraid of the sergeant major's ghost screaming corrections at them if they made a mistake. The casket was carried towards the entrance of the church, and the crowd began to leave their pews, front rows first, then second, then third as the honour guard made their way down the aisle. Outside, a hearse received the casket, the sergeant riding along with it. The honour guard, their previous pomp and formality gone, piled into a light truck.

Margaret had barely taken her eyes off Post the whole time. It was becoming obvious, even to onlookers, that her reason for attending had less to do with any connection to the deceased, and more to do with the handsome, if somewhat older, veteran.

"Gary has an automobile, you know," Kate said. "We can ride to the cemetery together."

"An auto? Your business must be doing very well," Margaret said.

"Actually it's been quiet recently. Since they repealed prohibition there are bars popping up everywhere. And people don't have quite the money to spend they used to. I don't know why, but Missus Turner arranged for a reception afterwards at my place. Will you be joining us?"

"Of course."

### *

It was two miles between St. Paul's Anglican Church and Mount Pleasant Cemetery. Gary and Bill sat silently in the front seats, while Kate and Margaret whispered in the back. None of them wanted to attend the burial, but both men felt a commitment to Turner. And both women felt a commitment to the men.

At the cemetery, the honour guard dismounted their truck, smoothed out their tunics, and marched to the hearse in perfect step. The casket was brought to the freshly-dug plot and the honour guard disappeared briefly, only to return with wartime Lee Enfields in hand. The minister said a few final words that Bill didn't hear, as he was busy observing the unspoken conversation that Gary and Margaret were having. The crack of rifles made some of the attendees flinch, but for the veterans the blank rounds made far too little noise to disturb them. They were used to, and only scared of, the real thing. The sergeant removed the pace stick from the casket and handed it to Missus Turner. Turner's children began distributing poppies to each person as the casket was lowered.

"Civilians first, please, then the family, then veterans," the sergeant called out, loud enough to be heard but without yelling.

Each person filed past the grave and dropped their poppy on top of the casket. As Bill waited for his turn, it occurred to him how much this must have meant to Turner. Turner, the least sociable man in the battalion, the man whose role as company sergeant major forced him to alienate himself from his men. Turner, the man whose last will and testament had elevated the soldiers who had served with him above his own family.

When the veterans moved towards the burial plot, Bill slowed his pace. He wanted to be the last man to drop his poppy into the grave. And he was. For the first time in years, his back straightened fully. He forced his head high, his neck into the back of his collar, and brought his arms neatly to his side. As much as Bill hated drill and parades, he was at attention.

"Goodbye, Sergeant Major."

The honour guard swapped their rifles for shovels, which was certainly unusual. Apparently Turner had not been content with civilians putting him in the ground. Bill and Gary couldn't afford to wait around until the job was done.

### *

When they arrived at the Leaf and Crown, a handful of mourners had already assembled. Among them, Bill noticed, were veterans who had not been at the church or the cemetery. Gary unlocked the door and immediately began pouring pints of beer. "Every veteran gets one on the house," he called. "But don't drink it just yet. We'll toast to the sergeant major. Bill, help me pour."

Bill handed off his jacket, medals jangling, to Kate, and began rolling up his sleeves. "Would you mind seeing to Missus Turner, get her a tea or something?"

Kate knew the Leaf and Crown as well as anybody else. It wasn't the first social event that had been hosted there. Margaret helped Kate in the kitchen; boiling water, preparing sandwiches, and heating casseroles and soups that had been prepared the night before. Gary had also stocked up on eggs and chips, anticipating an appetite for the nostalgic dish. Fresh bottles of HP sauce were also at the ready.

"Where did Gary get all of those things?" Margaret asked.

For someone who had never been in the Leaf and Crown before, the banners, photographs, and souvenirs made it resemble a museum more than a bar.

"Mostly straight from other men who were in the battalion. Sometimes their children or widows," Kate replied.

"Gary has two children, doesn't he?"

"Two boys, Gary Jr. and Paul. Named after your father of course."

"They were so close during the war. I still have all of my father's letters. Gary must be mentioned in almost every one."

"William was the same. He could scarcely write a letter that didn't mention the latest escapades of Gary Post."

"I understand he and his wife are no longer together, is that so?"

"She ran off about seven years ago. They've been divorced for some time."

"So Gary is a bachelor again?"

"And not seeing anybody. The bar and his kids keep him busy enough."

"You don't think he's old, do you?"

"Gary's young at heart," Kate paused. "And handsome. He could use a good woman."

Gary poured his own glass last. Only once every other man in the Leaf had one did he raise his own. It went quiet. A few men came to attention, followed by a few more. Soon every old back had straightened up, civilian shoes came together at the heels, and heads, some balding, others with hair too long for army standards, were held high. In spirit, the men were back on parade, standing ready for their CSM's inspection. "Sergeant Major Turner. Here's at ya."

Before the first glasses were emptied, Missus Turner pulled Gary aside. She was holding Turner's pace stick. "Mister Post, thank you for hosting the reception. My husband was very sick before he passed. He knew he was dying, and made some things clear in his will. He wanted to bring the men he served with back together, a reunion of sorts. That's why we decided to hold the reception here. We were given some more formal options; armouries, Legion halls, but he didn't think many of the veterans would be interested in them."

"To be honest I was surprised when I got your call. Your husband never even stepped foot in the Leaf," Post said. "I thought perhaps he didn't approve of a bar acting as a shrine to the battalion."

"He wanted to come, but he was afraid of disrupting the atmosphere. Sergeant majors aren't exactly known for being chummy."

"He would have been welcome, I promise you that."

"I can see that now. The way the men came to attention during your toast; it would have made my husband very happy to see that his men could still 'steady up'." Missus Turner laid the pace stick in Gary's hands. "He wanted you to have this. Maybe you could place it on your wall."

"It would be my honour. I know just the spot for it."

Gary led Missus Turner to the battalion flag he had carried at Vimy, mounted behind an expensive frame. Two carefully placed nails later, the pace stick hung next to it, set for twenty-four inches. "Do you know what a blank file is?"

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 introduction and 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 driver reversed haphazardly, turned, and sped away back the way he 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. Almost," 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 to inspect them."

### *

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. What he was seeing was a parade of toy soldiers in Napoleonic uniforms crawling beneath him, then hoisting him above their heads, and carrying him away.

"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."

"Alright, the walk will be good for you."

"Hey, help me remember this: 'a slew of corpses that keeps the whole thing interesting.'"

"I better take another look at your head."

"I'm fine. It's for a film review, that's my job."

"Oh, I see. Well I'll try."

"And what's another word for scintillating?"

### 2

France, 1917

Early May found the Third Battalion back in the frontlines. A mile east of Arleux, another small village, Fresnoy, was the Canadian Corps' next target. Fields lay to the east and west of Fresnoy, thick woods to the north and south. The battalion had been assigned the same role as at Vimy, the right flank of the Canadian attack.

Their first task would be to cross four hundred yards of open country and enter Fresnoy Wood. Once through two hundred yards of fortified woodland, a newly dug trench, the Fresnoy Switch, lay five hundred yards beyond. After taking the switch, the battalion was to dig a new line just beyond. A quick preliminary barrage would smash the woods. A second was timed to lift off the Fresnoy Switch just as the battalion arrived.

The country here was a far cry from the Crater Line at Vimy. The fields were green still, having been turned into a battlefield only recently. Tall grass swayed and wildflowers bloomed. The Canadian trenches were freshly dug, which meant fewer safe dugouts and observation posts, but also fewer overflowing latrines and frontline burials.

It was three in the morning. Shallow jumping off trenches were crowded with grim-faced soldiers. While Fresnoy and its environs were far less intimidating than Vimy Ridge, the mood was different. The confidence that came from months of rehearsals, patrols, and briefings was absent. Of course each platoon knew where it was going, and what was expected of it, but it all seemed rushed. Only yesterday Zero Hour had been pushed back twenty minutes to three forty-five. Most felt that such a time was too late for a night operation, and too early for a daytime attack. To make things worse, a full moon had just burst through the clouds and showed no sign of abating before sunrise.

"Bill, get your men on their feet. Rum," it was Sergeant McCloud, sounding even more officious than usual.

"Rum up fellas," Bill said. "Jimmy, if they don't want it, please don't make a whole show of it."

McCloud wasn't a man who approved of alcohol generally, but he knew that a stiff drink could bring out the best in a man. After all, he had seen it for himself plenty of times. The day McCloud won his DCM two years earlier was also the first time he had accepted his rum ration. "Okay, Bill. It's your section. But if they refuse, just try once to convince them."

"Thanks, Jim."

Not a man turned down their ration. They had learned at Vimy that despite its fierce taste, the thick, dark liquor was a panacea. Though not quite enough to get a man drunk, it did provide an illusion of intoxication. Shaking hands steadied and melancholy thoughts were vanquished.

"You can have double, if you'd like," McCloud murmured to Bill after the privates had their issue.

"Sure," Bill said, a little ashamed, but glad that McCloud had offered.

"There's been a little change in plans. I'm going to take Blake and Lincoln's men straight through the wood with the rest of the company. Once we clear their first line, Mister Carter is going to take charge of you and Fyles. Your job will be to quickly mop up, then meet us at the final objective."

"Sounds fun."

"I know we haven't had as much preparation as we did for Vimy, but keep your eyes open and a firm grip on your section. We don't want Fritz shooting us in the back, so think of it like a game of hide and seek. Don't let them go unnoticed, and don't bother with prisoners."

"Don't bother with prisoners?"

"Come on, Bill, don't act so naive. Sure, if they pull the kamerad act, of course you take them prisoner. Then get a few men to take them aside and plug 'em. I don't like it either, but we can't afford any complications, not today. This thing is already a cock-up in the making."

Bill pointed an unhelpful finger upward. "The moonlight."

"Yeah. If the brass-hats had any sense they'd call this thing off, push it back a few days. But what do I know? Well I've got to get the rest of the rum issue dealt with. I'll see you later."

McCloud made his way towards Four Section as Bill and his men began to feel the warming effects of the rum. Whether it was in their stomachs or in their head, they didn't know or care. They still had a long wait ahead of them, and while smoking before the attack had been forbidden, Bill screened each man while they took turns enjoying a final cigarette.

### *

The Canadian artillery barrage was brief, but intense. The treetops of Fresnoy Wood had ignited like kindling from scorching bits of metal and now served as a guiding light for the battalion, as an eastward wind blew flecks of ash towards the advancing Canadians. The whines and blasts of high explosive shells on the German lines made it impossible for hollered orders to travel more than a few yards. Each section commander was keeping his men roughly in line and moving forward. As the battalion approached the edge of the woods, the artillery lifted and began to fall on the next line of enemy trenches. Bill motioned for his section to move in closer, shouted and hoped they would hear. In a moment the men had clustered together just outside the German barbed wire. There didn't seem to be any movement coming from the enemy positions.

"Cut us a path through that wire, Roy," Bill commanded. "Tom, you help him."

The remainder of the section strained their eyes in the darkness for signs of Germans. In less than a minute a little path had been cleared, just wide enough for the section to pass through in single file and enter the German trench.

It was clear that the previous occupants had made good use of their surroundings. Parts of the trench were covered with long branches, tied together with twine acting as little awnings. Big steps were carved into the earth to offer easy access in and out of the trench. Heavy timbers reinforced dugouts. In the distance, there were even wooden outhouses and shacks.

"Brown, over here," it was Carter.

Fyles and his men were standing guard on either side of a dugout entrance.

"They won't come out, but we can hear them. Toss a couple of those gas bombs down there."

"Stinson, McCreery," Bill said bluntly. "WP bombs, one per on my mark."

Each man stood to a side of the entrance and pulled the pin from a white phosphorus grenade. These were a new addition to the platoon's armoury, and Bill was interested to see how they would work. Rather than sending metal fragments into the air like a standard bomb, WP grenades created a thick white gas cloud. It was hot as hell, and caused exposed skin to burn and blister. For this reason it was perfect for clearing out deep dugouts, or, providing a smokescreen.

"Alright, now."

As both men extended an arm across the entrance and let a bomb fly, a single shot rang out from the bottom of the dugout. Stinson gasped in silent agony and let out several quick, shallow breaths, as he clutched his left arm.

"Raus! Raus right fucking now!" Bill called down.

"If it's less than ten, we shoot them on the spot," Carter said matter-of-factly, revolver in hand. "If it's more, then we'll have to pen them in someplace first."

Fyles was equally blasé. "Don't worry, we'll be quick about it."

The grenades were doing their work. Already, confused screams, muffled through gas masks, could be heard as the phosphorus began to smoulder. The smell of burnt skin accompanied the desperate cries of 'kamerad' as unarmed German soldiers made their way out of the dugout and into the trench.

Bill pulled Stinson aside as the others checked each prisoner for concealed weapons and began to line them up. Pulling off the little private's equipment and tunic, he spotted the wound and began applying a field dressing.

"It's not that bad," Bill said. "Looks small; probably an officer's pistol."

"It sure doesn't feel small," Stinson said, grimacing. "Am I going back then?"

Bill turned and saw what looked like thirty prisoners, lining up outside the trench and facing the Canadian lines in three files. "Afraid so. Sorry you'll have to miss out on all the fun."

"Bill, how bad is he?" Carter asked.

"He'll make it back alright on his own, Sir."

"We don't have to kill them, Mister Carter. I could take them back," Stinson said.

"No. If they figure out you're wounded and get the better of you, they'll be back for their rifles and get us from the rear. And we can't waste able-bodied men for an escort. We're half a platoon up against who knows how many Huns skulking around these woods."

"It isn't right though."

Bill's mind raced. There was nothing he detested more than the killing of prisoners, and everybody in the platoon knew it. "I've got an idea, Sir."

Finishing with the bandage, Bill pulled Stinson's tunic and gear back on. "As far as they know, you're fine. Can you point with that hand? Pointing can make anyone look like an authority figure, how do you think I keep you fellows in line?"

Stinson raised his left arm weakly, dropped it after only a second.

"Alright," Bill said, tucking the private's rifle neatly under his right arm like a pheasant hunter. "Keep your rifle just like that, relaxed but ready; you're in charge."

"What about my other arm?" Stinson asked, painfully aware, both literally and figuratively, that it was dangling at his side.

Bill smiled to himself, tucked the other man's hand into his trouser pocket, the thumb sticking out. "Now you look calm and cool, hell I wouldn't mess with you. Just put a scowl on your face and tell them to 'raus' every few minutes. And keep an eye on their officer; you'll recognize him by his fancy shoulder boards. If anyone will try to stir things up, it'll be him."

"The one who shot me?"

"That's right. Just look that bastard in the eye as if to say, 'You missed, but try anything and I sure as hell won't.'"

"How do I do that with just a glance?"

"Not a glance... a glare. Really snarl at him. Try it on Mister Carter."

"Raus, you filthy Hun bastard," Stinson growled.

Carter shook his head. "It's good, but get serious, Bill."

"I am. Stinson took six prisoners single-handed at Vimy, or had you forgotten?"

Carter was still sceptical. "'Single-handed', that's what he is now. And no I haven't forgotten."

"Dead Huns aren't accounted for; prisoners are. I'm sure it would increase your standing with Captain Reid, maybe even the commanding officer. Every officer in the company will be talking about it. 'Carter's boys took thirty prisoners.'"

"If he makes it back. I'm sorry, but it's too dangerous."

"It would be a favour," Bill said desperately. "I know it's dangerous, but if anyone can pull it off, it's Stinson. Please, let him try, Sir."

"Is this about your brother?"

"Yes," Bill replied without hesitation.

Carter took a deep breath. "Okay, he can take them back. Now get your men ready, we've got a lot of area left to move through."

"Better hurry before Fyles plugs them."

"Thank you, Sir," Stinson said to Carter, then sped away.

"What'll it be for him?" Bill asked. "A DCM?"

"I'll recommend it," Carter replied. "But I doubt Reid will be keen to encourage such stupidity. I already regret it. Now come on, get the men together, McCloud will be waiting for us."

Bill handed off Stinson's bomb bag to Roy. "Tom, you're my second thrower now, Roy you're my mule."

Roy was beaming, though obviously a little disappointed that he had not been chosen to replace Stinson as a bomber. "That's fine. You'll never guess what I got my hands on. A Luger pistol. And look at this." Roy showed off a ring he was already wearing with an iron cross emblem on it. "Now that's something to write home about."

### *

Soon Stinson was alone with his captives, and keeping an arrogant, spiteful eye on the German officer, just as Bill had told him to. So far it seemed to be working. With each passing minute, and each grunted 'raus', the prisoners were further away from their discarded weapons, and closer to the Canadian line.

The whistling of artillery sent every man to the ground. But instead of the familiar crash of high explosive, the shattering of glass and enamel resonated. Phosgene gas. The shells had landed on the western edge of Fresnoy Wood, and though colourless, the telltale smell of mouldy hay drifted on the wind.

Stinson's breath caught in his throat. He swallowed hard and screamed at the top of his lungs for the German prisoners to keep moving, but they were too busy pulling on their gas masks to listen to him. As the phosgene came closer, Stinson let his rifle fall to the ground and began to tug at his gas mask carrier. With two working hands, donning a respirator could be accomplished in mere seconds; with only one, it was a near-impossible task. He clawed at the canvas bag slung around his neck, barely able to open the two brass snaps that kept it shut.

The German officer saw his opportunity. Grinning with purpose under his gas mask, he charged at Stinson and tackled him to the ground, knocking the respirator away. Stinson pulled at the man's mask with his good hand, but German respirators were not as flimsy as Canadian ones, and it remained secure. The officer easily overpowered his captor, using his superior size to pin Stinson to the ground, and wait for the gas to finish the job.

The stench of phosgene gas was getting stronger as it crept towards him. It was always like that; a man could smell, almost taste the odour for a few moments before it was close enough to start taking effect. Once the concentration was high enough, a minute or so of exposure would be fatal.

Stinson tried hard to hold his breath, but soon his nose began to burn, and his throat tighten. At last he couldn't help but take in a lungful of toxic air. Uncontrollable coughing turned to desperate hyperventilation. Soon his vision blurred, turning the officer's black rubber gas mask into a nightmarish, otherworldly monstrosity. Stinson sputtered a mouthful of vomit onto it, covering the glass eyepieces. It slid down the snout that contained the filter, and dripped back on to Stinson's face and chest. It was a hell of a final image to take with him to the great beyond.

Like a guardian angel, a redeemer in hobnailed jackboots, a German soldier tore the officer away from Stinson and pulled the young Canadian's respirator over his face. It was difficult for Stinson to control his breathing. Between his wounded arm, now worse, and the poisonous gas he had inhaled, it took all of his strength and calm just to breathe. In, out, in, out.

Stinson scrambled for his rifle as the officer and the man who had just saved him tumbled to the ground a few yards away. Trying to aim with one arm proved just as difficult as he had anticipated. Sitting up, and propping the barrel of the rifle between his boots, Stinson let a single round ring out. Although a trained bomber, any marksman would have applauded, or at least nodded his approval as the bullet passed through the officer's gas mask, exiting out the top of his helmet, mere inches from his unlikely ally.

The surviving German stood and ran for Stinson. Hauling the little Canadian to his feet, the other man tucked his Enfield rifle back under his right arm. Mumbling something indiscernible through his gas mask, the German even placed Stinson's left hand back into his pocket as it had been, and began shouting commands to the other prisoners. Stinson vomited again, and the German carefully readjusted his mask. His vision was still blurred, but to his astonishment, Stinson saw the man who had saved him lining up and reorganizing the prisoners. He didn't have the strength to call out, 'raus', again, so simply began to stumble towards the Canadian lines. Before long he could make out the red and green patches of the Third Battalion headquarters flag.

### *

The woods soon became too thick to see very far. The canopy had stopped burning and was still intact beyond the first German line, blocking out the moonlight. Not wanting to pass by any German soldiers waiting in ambush, Carter assembled the men in a single line, himself in the middle. Fyles was on the far left, Bill on the far right, with riflemen and bombers interspersed throughout. Each twig that snapped underfoot played havoc with the men's nerves.

Fifty yards deeper into the woods, Fyles ordered the men nearest him to halt. Word passed down the line and in a few seconds the entire group came to a standstill.

Carter made his way towards Fyles. "What is it?"

"Wooden huts, three or four of them."

Carter peered into the woods. A clearing had been formed and a semi-circle of buildings, complete with windows and doors had been constructed. "Any idea what they are? Billets, stores, headquarters?"

"No clue. They're marked though. I can read a little Hun, but not from this far. I can go take a quick look, see what they are and if they're still occupied."

"I'll go with you."

Both men moved at a crouch, which was neither quick nor quiet, towards the leftmost building. "Officer's billets," Fyles said.

Carter peeked in through an open door. "Empty."

The next building was obviously a quartermaster's store. Piles of axes, shovels, picks, and sledgehammers lay next to rolls of barbed wire. This was the equipment that was too heavy and inconvenient to move in a hurry. An empty wooden crate marked for grenades, however, was less encouraging.

The third building was heavily inscribed above the doorway. "It says 'Battalion Headquarters.'"

Carter boldly swung the door open, revolver at the ready, but could see that it had been thoroughly cleaned out. "One more to go."

The last structure, which sat some distance away from the remainder, revealed its identity before being seen. The stink of a communal latrine, even a well-maintained one, was too obvious to bother exploring further. Carter and Fyles returned to the men and the advance continued.

Carter's men were nearly through the woods. Hearing the crack of rifle fire, each man knelt and began scanning the immediate area. Fyles and Bill made their way towards the middle of the line, asking each man as they went if they saw anything.

"So, any ideas?" Carter asked.

"Nobody saw anything, but my man Payne insists the sound came from directly ahead of him," Bill said.

"I can't get any straight answers. Better go with what Payne says," Fyles added.

"Alright, we'll reform the men. Bill, your section will be up front, centred off your man Payne. Fyles, your section will be just behind, bayonets ready. We'll move forward until we make contact. Bill's boys will bomb them, then yours will pass through and mop up. Let's be quick about it."

Before long the sections were forced to a halt. An ancient oak tree, long since felled, blocked their path and formed a low wall. The crack of rifle fire was closer now, somewhere on the other side; but it was hard to tell exactly as the reports reverberated off the trees and boulders of Fresnoy Wood.

Peeking over the top, Carter could see beyond the edge of the woods, just twenty yards away. "That firing we heard must have come from out there. They're harrying the battalion from the tree line, I'd suppose. Bill, get your section on the other side first and wait for us."

As Three Section climbed over the fallen oak, McCreery lost his footing and fell to the ground. It would have been hard for him to make more noise if he had been trying. His helmet, rifle, shovel, and mess tin all clattered against each other. There was no mistaking it for anything other than a soldier's gear. For a moment the woods were silent, and Bill's men stood perfectly still. German rifle fire sent them diving to the ground, as Fyles' section propped their rifles against the tree and began shooting at the muzzle flashes that betrayed the enemy's position; ahead on the right.

"Who's on the right?" Bill screamed through the gunfire.

"Roy!"

"Can you get a few bombs on them?"

"I'll need to get closer, the trees are too thick!"

"Do it!"

Roy chose his route carefully, caring less about cover from fire, and more about approaching the enemy from a good angle. Each yard seemed more like a mile as he made his way closer to the muzzle flashes, and the situation became clearer. About a half-dozen Germans were occupying a hastily dug trench at the edge of the woods. They were focusing on Carter's group, and were entirely unaware of the lone Canadian inching his way towards them. He would need to be close: in the darkness and thick brush, it was the only way to ensure his bombs would be on target.

At last Roy pulled the pins from two hand grenades and stood. Tossing the first at a low arc, he watched in dismay as it landed inches shy. Another split second and it rolled down the lip of the trench. Roy took two steps forward as a German soldier swung his rifle towards him. A shot rang out, the round passing between Roy's legs. As the German began to chamber another bullet, Roy hurled the second bomb directly at him, breaking his shoulder and sending him to the ground.

Roy was still standing when the first bomb exploded. The shooting from Fyles' men stopped as Germans voices began to scream frantically. Roy flopped to the ground as the second bomb detonated, silencing the trench. Once the echo died away, the woods were quiet, peaceful even.

Payne ran to the trench and jumped in, his bayonet ready to finish off any survivors. There were none. "Jesus Christ, that was amazing. Eight Huns with two bombs."

Roy stood and casually readjusted his gear, trying to hide his shaking hands. "About damned time. Think I can still notch my rifle?"

"Fuck yeah."

"Okay, reform, there's a still a battle waiting for us," Carter said loudly.

At last the men had made their way through Fresnoy Wood, but the fighting had progressed some four hundred yards forward. Breaking out at a fast run, the group made their way towards the sounds of rifle and machine-gun fire.

### 3

"Cutters! I need wire-cutters up here now!" Corporal Blake called frantically in all directions, his voice hoarse but still audible.

Private McNeil, Number Two on the Lewis Gun was caught fast in a tangle of barbed wire. In the darkness he had stumbled through a gap and suddenly found himself trapped in a web of razor-sharp twisted metal. It happened occasionally in these pre-dawn attacks. McNeil's thrashing efforts to extricate himself had only made his situation worse. Now, he was face down in the wire, uniform and skin badly cut. It would have been smarter to leave him behind, carry on the attack, and hope he survived to be cut free later. But McNeil had a Number One.

Thompson had laid his gun on McNeil's back and was using his ensnared partner like a tripod. As soon as his drum of ammunition ran out, he let it drop to the ground and snatched another from McNeil's gear; the last one.

"I'm almost out!" Thompson yelled over his machine-gun.

"Finish that drum and get to cover; McNeil isn't the only one we need to worry about," Blake replied.

Blake knew he had already spent too much time worrying about the trapped Number Two. The platoon's only Lewis Gun had been firing defensively for the past three minutes. Three minutes too long. Stalling out an attack on the enemy wire could be disastrous. Blake was working desperately with his boots and bayonet to free McNeil without joining the man in his predicament.

Thompson finished his magazine and ran off to find another member of his section; each would be carrying an additional four drums of ammunition.

"Cutters!" Blake called out again, knowing that he could no more separate Thompson from his Number Two than he could leave one of his own men on the wire.

"Roy, you see that?" Bill asked.

"Someone on the wire," Roy replied, unhitching his wire-cutters. "Maybe twenty yards up and to the left, yeah?"

"Yeah," Bill replied, sounding more sure than he really was. In the smoke and now-failing moonlight, it was hard to tell exactly. "Can you go cut them free? We'll move up and try to cover you."

"Okay, Lance," Roy replied confidently, and went forward calling, "cutters here!"

Blake was bunching up strands of wire with his bare hands to make the job go faster as Roy began to free McNeil.

"Just don't take my finger, boy," Blake said. "I want to be buried in one piece."

"Okay, Corp."

McNeil was balancing himself with one foot on the ground and a hand on Corporal Blake's thigh, his other arm and leg still stuck. Each strand that was cut away meant another chance of falling into yet more wire.

With the Lewis Gun silent for an uncomfortably long time, German rifle and machine-gun fire redoubled. Six Platoon began to press the attack. If the Lewis Gun was out of action, the situation could only become worse, and a quick victory was the lone alternative to a prolonged struggle.

"Tom, Stan, get into the first trench and wait for me," Bill shouted, deciding to pull Roy away from his task.

He was just steps away from Roy when a deafening explosion brought him to his knees. It felt like a fencing blade was being driven through his head, in one ear, straight out the other. Bill covered his ears as tears of agony streamed down his face, and blood leaked down either side of his neck. Slowly, he opened his eyes.

Name: Bomb, Mills, Number Five. Weight: one pound, eleven ounces. Length: three and seven-eighth inches. Diameter: two and three-eighth inches. Throwing range: up to forty yards for a trained bomber. Danger radius: one hundred yards. Explosive: Baratol, two and a half ounces. Detonation velocity: five thousand yards per second. Mechanism: striking lever, time-delayed fuse – or a stray German bullet.

Bill knew at once that Blake and McNeil were dead. McNeil, reduced to a pair of legs and half a torso, cut diagonally, was still entangled. Blake, whose face had been sheered away and resembled that of a giant apple doll, formed a pulpy heap ten yards from where he had been, most of his extremities missing. Roy was lying face-down on the wire.

The storm of steel had passed in an instant. Now, white phosphorus was beginning to crackle and hiss. The westbound wind was carrying the deadly smoke away from the Canadian attack. Each man in the attack had been issued with two flares; these too ignited, glowing through packs and uniform pockets, creating a ghostly aura around the dead men. When Bill saw Roy's chest heave, he knew a miracle had taken place, and ran to him. "See, it rubs off on the whole section. You're bombproof for good now."

As Bill turned Roy over, his mouth dropped open in horror. Roy's left arm was gone, leaving a gaping hole through which Bill could see the other man's frenetically beating heart. It wasn't the image he was so used to from playing cards: pure red, symmetrical, pretty. Roy's heart was a clump of meat; blackened and yellowed at parts, tubes running in all directions, slimy.

"Stretcher-bearer!" Bill screamed, his voice cracking, and barely audible to his own ears. "Stretcher! Stretcher!" He called again hysterically.

Roy opened his mouth and Bill leaned in close to listen. Roy's voice was sad but mature, he knew he was dying, and accepted it. "Don't waste a stretcher. The bastards killed me. At least I finally got some of them. I did good, didn't I?"

"Yeah, you were great, Roy. Can I do anything?" Bill asked frantically. "A nail? Something to tell your parents? Water? A nail?"

"Put some notches in your rifle, okay? For me. Get back to the others." Roy's heart lurched one final time, then stopped as his eyes widened and froze. "Goodbye, Lance."

Bill was a fool. A fool for loading up Roy with so many bombs. A fool for not telling him to leave them behind before going to the wire. A fool for caring more about survival than killing. A fool for ever letting a German prisoner live.

The phosphorus was smouldering, bits of uniform and equipment igniting, accompanied by the cracking of overheated ammunition. The smell of burning flesh, mingled with gunpowder, didn't take long to overcome Bill. He had to get away, but seemed to be bolted to the ground.

After a few tiny backward steps, Bill felt a hand on his shoulder.

"What the hell happened?" It was Thompson, Lewis Gun hanging by the sling from his right shoulder, several drums of ammunition tucked under his left arm.

"They're broken," Bill mouthed the words, staring at the ground, but no sound came. "Just pieces. We could try, we could try to put them back together. I'll need help."

Thompson pushed past Bill, quickly inspected the bodies, then returned. "Look at me, Lance. Look at me."

Bill slowly turned his face upwards until both men locked eyes. The machine-gunner's expression was a terrible combination of sorrow and malevolence. In a moment the gaze took hold of Bill, and the two shared an unmistakable glance with one clear meaning: revenge. Bill snatched the drums from Thompson and began to lead him to where he had ordered his men. "You'll need both hands for that thing. I'm your Number Two. Let's get back into it."

Payne was tucked against a traverse leading towards the next line of German trenches, rifle to his shoulder. McCreery was pitching bombs over into the next portion of the trench. As Bill and Thompson made their way forward, a German grenade exploded on the ground above them, showering them with dirt.

"You guys alright?" Bill asked.

"Section of Hun bombers have been trying to send us west," McCreery replied.

"Just about out of bombs too," Payne added. "Unless I lost count, we've only got three left."

"Where's Roy?" McCreery asked.

"Gone."

"Did you get his bombs?"

"No. How far away are they?"

Payne answered. "There's a stretch of trench about twenty yards long, they're around the next traverse. They aren't exactly inviting; we tried to force 'em out but they've got plenty of bombs, and they ain't afraid to use 'em."

"Okay, you two stay here; toss a bomb every thirty seconds. Keep them where they are. Take these," he concluded, dumping his own tiny stash of bombs into Payne's bag.

"Whatever you say, Bill," Payne replied.

"Thompson, you come with me."

"Where are you going?" McCreery asked.

"Overland."

"But I can't be sure all my bombs will land in the trench; they might get you."

"Just do it," Bill replied. "But first help us out."

Bill and Thompson crouched along the parapet and made their way forward. The first bomb McCreery threw exploded just before the traverse the Germans were defending. The response was swift; four grenades sailed through the air towards Payne and McCreery.

"I'll throw a flare in amongst them, blind them for a moment. All you have to do is finish them off, and don't let any of them get away. When McCreery's fifth bomb explodes, close your eyes and wait until you hear the flare ignite. Do you understand?"

"Yeah," Thompson replied. "Let's get on with it."

By the time the third bomb was thrown, they were halfway between the two groups. Again, several grenades replied; their blasts seemed more like the distant clap of thunder to Bill. Thompson managed to ignore them altogether, his index finger stretched anxiously along the trigger guard, impatient to feel the shuddering of the gun. Soon they could hear voices speaking in German; obviously trying to decide whether to stay, advance, or retreat; they must have lost their NCO. Bill pulled out a flare from his tunic pocket and prepared to strike it, counting down to McCreery's next bomb. It exploded on the other side of the trench, just yards from Bill and Thompson, but was made harmless by the sandbag parapet that absorbed the metal fragments. Bill lit the flare and tossed it into the trench.

Shouts of confusion and the sounds of jangling equipment could be heard for a moment. Thompson placed his right foot on the parapet, the butt of the machine-gun shoved into his armpit. His left hand was perched just beyond the drum magazine, while the barrel, enclosed in its large tubular cooling jacket, pointed almost straight down into the trench. The crack-crack-crack of the Lewis machine-gun filled the air as the illuminated figures and shadows of the German soldiers moved in all directions; some turning their rifles on him, others starting to run, others diving for cover.

In a few seconds forty-seven rounds had cut the German section to pieces, and forty-seven smoking empty cartridges littered the ground at Thompson's feet. Both men leapt into the trench, the flare still hissing and shedding light on the bodies of their fallen enemies, the desperate phantasmagoria of a few seconds before replaced with motionless blots.

"Come on up, boys," Bill called, handing Thompson a drum of ammunition.

Bill fixed the bayonet on his rifle and began prodding the bodies; none moved. "I guess these are all yours. I get, let's see, four, five, six assists."

Payne and McCreery were terrified when they entered this stretch of the trench. Bill and Thompson had wild, vicious grins. Murderous fury mingled with sadistic satisfaction as they proudly surveyed the scene.

Thompson had finished reloading and was ready to move forward.

"Bombs, get anything they have," Bill said. "Quick."

Without waiting, Bill and Thompson moved forward, leaving Payne and McCreery to catch up with them. They knew Bill was delusional; anyone claiming to be bombproof had to be, but they had never seen him like this. Before long, the group was clear through the trenches and was looking out over open ground to the east. They were just ahead of the other Canadians.

Bill pulled himself out of the final trench and knelt. German soldiers were streaming eastward. He picked his target, just thirty yards away. Left eye shut, right eye focused on the rifle's iron sights, breath perfectly still, he squeezed his trigger. It was so easy. One Hun down, a couple million to go.

### *

The dawn was already breaking as, twenty yards beyond their final objective, the Third Battalion was digging in. Occupying old trenches would have been convenient, but not very smart. The enemy artillery would know every traverse, dugout, and strongpoint. It was better to create a new line which the Germans knew nothing about. Of course it had been different at Vimy – a virtual fortress.

The new positions amounted to basic slit trenches, six feet across, two feet wide, never quite deep enough, and dug independently. Of course they would be connected later, but for now the focus was on getting each little group of three or four men some half-decent protection from the inevitable German shelling and possible counterattack. Each man couldn't help but think that he might be digging his own shallow grave.

Distant machine-gun fire had proved an annoyance for the first hour or so, but as the sun came out it became deadly. The men now had to kneel, or even lay prone in their trenches as they deepened them. Bits of dirt, kicked up by enemy machine-gun fire, peppered what was left of Three Section.

"They're dialled in pretty damn good," Payne said.

He was the only man digging at the moment. There wasn't enough room for all three men to be shifting about in the tiny trench. It was still shallow enough for Bill to catch sight of the red-roofed houses of Fresnoy.

"So what happened to Roy?" McCreery asked. "I mean I can assume, but, you know."

Bill turned his sight from Fresnoy to McCreery. All his bloodlust was gone, he was his old self: thoughtful and cheerless, but concerned for his boys. "His bomb bag got hit, killed Blake and McNeil too."

"Jesus."

Payne didn't stop digging.

"It wasn't bad. I mean for them, they were all dead before they knew what happened." Bill was so used to that lie he almost believed it himself, though in his mind he could still see Roy's heart pulsing for the last time.

"So what'll happen to them?"

"They're still stuck on the wire, but there isn't much left of them. Groundsheets or blankets for the big chunks, sandbags for the bits and pieces."

"So they'll be buried altogether?"

"Probably. That'll be up to the burial parties later."

"Better than the corpse factories," Payne commented.

"That's a myth," McCreery replied dismissively.

"Nuh uh, I read it in the newspaper. The Germans round up all the dead bodies and parts they can find, even their own. They have these big factories just behind the lines that they bring them to, then melt it all down for soap, grease, oil... and other things."

McCreery ignored that. "Here, I'll take a turn digging."

Bill turned his attention back to Fresnoy. It was a funny thing to see a peaceful village, practically unscathed until recently, in the frontlines; a side-effect of the recent successful Canadian attacks at Vimy and Arleux that had brought the line forward so quickly. Bill could only hope that the Second Battalion had done their job and not left behind any snipers or artillery spotters waiting in the attics or church steeple. So far everything on the left flank was fine. The battalion's right flank, however, was entirely in the air. A British battalion was supposed to provide support, but failed to show. Bill had a sickening sense of déjà vu, made worse by the fact that the German machine-gun fire had shifted towards the open ground east of Fresnoy Wood, and west of their own new position, isolating the Third. At least they could stretch their legs a little.

### *

At battalion headquarters, astonishment and handshakes had soon turned to inquiries about the platoon's current disposition. Stinson didn't have much to say on that; all he knew was that the first line of German trenches had been taken. After a few minutes of questioning and a fresh bandage, he was allowed to make his way towards the nearest dressing station, nearly two miles away.

Once out of the trenches and on the road, Stinson breathed a deep sigh of relief. While not out of range of the German guns, they had no interest in shelling the deep rear areas when there were so many targets, so much closer. The fresh air provided a simple and honest revivification. It was a privilege to be alive.

The walking wounded were a mixed lot. Stinson passed one group of men who, in no hurry to get to the aid station, had stopped to rest at the side of the road. Another group consisted of three men abreast, the soldier in the middle had both arms around his two comrades as he hobbled along on one good leg. Even those with leg wounds were often denied a stretcher; there were too many more seriously damaged bodies to attend to.

The dressing station was packed with wounded men. They were mostly members of D Company, caught in a whirlwind of German artillery fire before the battle had even begun. An ambulance was being loaded with stretcher cases when a corporal of the medical corps greeted Stinson and led him to what appeared to be a picnic table. He wondered if the men of the medical corps ate on the same surfaces they treated patients on. A cursory inspection of his arm wound confirmed that all he needed was a quick cleaning and another fresh bandage.

"I was hit with gas, too," Stinson said. "Phosgene, I think."

"And you walked all the way here?"

"Yeah."

The man seemed dubious. "Well, let me see you spit. Just work up whatever is in your throat and toss it up on the ground."

What came out of Stinson's mouth was enough to make the corporal gag a little. "Okay, okay. See that line over there? It's for gas patients, go wait your turn."

### *

Out in front of the platoon about fifteen yards, Thompson and his Lewis Gun were positioned in a little hole. If a machine-gun were to be effective, it had to be able to traverse left and right. It couldn't do that in a crowded trench with friendly soldiers on each flank. McCloud had picked the spot and helped dig the position. With Blake gone, Thompson was the senior man in his section, but McCloud decided to stick close to the gun until he was really needed elsewhere. A new Number Two, Private Chilvers, was burdened with every remaining drum of ammunition in the platoon, and lay by Thompson's side.

From away on the left and passing down the line came the familiar call of "Gas, gas, gas!"

There was no sign of gas in the immediate area. For all they knew, the call was being passed down from miles away and nobody had bothered to bring it to a stop. In any case, all three men repeated the call, then pulled on their respirators.

"If they make a charge, don't open up until two hundred yards," McCloud said through his mask. "We want to catch them in the open and make them pay, not send them scurrying back to cover. I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Gas, gas, gas," Bill repeated lazily to the men on his right. "You heard 'em, masks on."

Waiting for his two remaining men to pull on their masks, he double-checked each before donning his own. There was no real need for them just yet, but gas shells could land anywhere and create a cloud in just a few seconds. Besides, not wearing a helmet might get a man killed quickly; not wearing a gas mask might get a man killed very slowly. It wasn't unheard of for gas casualties to go on for a few weeks in hospital before finally dying.

"Nevermind digging it any deeper," Bill said. "I don't want you two too tired to lift your arms Fritz comes. Can you tell me the difference between two, too, and to?"

McCreery slumped down at one end of the trench and sat quietly, knees together and hands folded. Payne knelt, tall enough to rest his elbows comfortably on the lip of the half-dug trench, head in his hands, and watched for enemy movement. Bill instinctively lit a cigarette, pulling his mask aside every few moments for another puff.

"Here, let me help you with that," Payne said, motioning for the cigarette, his own mask now also askew.

Bill handed it over as McCreery removed his mask altogether. Once Payne finished his puff, McCreery stuck his hand out.

"You don't smoke," Payne said.

"Yeah, well, it's an excuse to get some fresh air."

"Damn – masks," Bill muttered quickly, pulling his on again, the others following suit.

Sergeant McCloud leaned over the trench, his unimpressed scowl not visible through his gas mask. He moved close to Bill and leaned in so the privates couldn't hear. "You're setting a shit example. We're in the middle of a gas alarm and you know damn well there's a counterattack brewing. I don't mind how shallow the trench is, but masks on at all times until the alarm is cancelled."

"Okay, Sarnt'."

"Honestly, Bill, you have the smallest section in the whole platoon, even before you lost half of it. Get a grip on your men, and try not to lose the other half."

Before Bill could respond McCloud stood and made his way towards Four Section.

"Sergeant McCloud just wanted to let us know that he's got a message through from company headquarters," Bill announced to Payne and McCreery. "Stinson made it back just fine, with all the prisoners too. Not bad for a half-pint eh?"

A few minutes later the gas alarm was cancelled.

### *

The counterattack began at noon. There were four hundred yards of open ground between the new Canadian line and the nearest German positions. Waves of grey-clad soldiers were moving at high speed towards the Canadians. Lieutenant Carter dug through his tunic pockets for a flare gun and red cartridge: the signal for an emergency artillery barrage. Other red flares were already in the air, but in the daylight it was difficult to distinguish them. The dull, heavy thud of the flare gun discharging left Carter without purpose. Each trench was working independently of the others. There was nothing for him to do but wait until an emergency occurred, or the Germans came within range of his revolver. Considering the revolver's effective range of about thirty yards, these were one and the same.

Lewis machine-guns chattered away busily, cutting down the leading edge of the attack. Before they even began to really smoke, Canadian artillery had joined in and was crashing down on the Germans. Cheers went up all along the line.

"Range one hundred yards, three-quarters left," McCloud yelled over the gun.

A cluster of Germans, though not endangering Six Platoon, had come too close for comfort to the men of Five Platoon. Thompson swung his gun around and fired off two drums of ammunition, dispersing the group. More soldiers were making themselves visible at every moment, taking cover the next, and moving ever-closer. Thompson remained steady as he chose his targets, fired quick bursts, then moved on. The gun was getting hot now, and he had lost count of how many rounds he had fired, how many lives he had snuffed out with a jerk of the trigger.

"Three drums left!" Chilvers shouted as the gun was reloaded.

"The gun is yours, happy shooting," McCloud said, then ran across the field to where some of Fyles' men were entrenched. "Ammunition, now," he said with arms outstretched.

Each man handed over a cloth bandolier containing fifty rounds; enough to keep a rifle going for several minutes, the Lewis Gun for several seconds. McCloud arrived back as Chilvers was slapping on the final magazine. A pile of empty drums sat neatly stacked and upside down, waiting to be reloaded.

McCloud knocked his helmet to the ground, hollow end up, and began tearing apart the bandoliers. Clipped together in five round chargers intended for use with Enfield rifles, each bullet had to be ripped free by hand. McCloud tossed these loose rounds into his helmet. Chilvers had dug out Thompson's reloading tool from his gear, Blake and McNeil had the other two, and began frantically cramming in rounds. It was a tedious process, the tool requiring a turn to pull back the magazine follower before each round was inserted. Each twist of the tool increased the tension on the follower, making a full complement of forty-seven rounds more difficult to achieve. Thompson was barely firing now. McCloud added his Lee Enfield to the volleys of rifle fire coming from B Company's main positions.

"How long is that going to take?" McCloud asked.

"Uh, three or four minutes," Chilvers replied.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" A rare expletive from McCloud.

"I wish I was; it takes time."

After what seemed like forever, Chilvers placed a reloaded drum next to the gun. Once Thompson fired off his last burst, and the ominous click sounded, he deftly slapped away the empty magazine and replaced it. Only a few rounds had been fired off when the weapon jammed. Thompson placed his boots against the gun's bipod legs and cranked back on the cocking handle several times, but it remained obstinate, stuck halfway between the forward and rearward position. "Fuck you, you cheap whore."

It might have been the accumulation of carbon and brass flecks after over a thousand rounds passing through the gun in a few hours. It might have been the intense heat that turned the gun's working parts hot and dry as a desert. Most likely, it was a result of Chilvers' hasty reloading. In any case, the gun would require a special trick to continue functioning.

Thompson unclipped the far end of the sling from its mount and looped it around the handle, the closer end still attached to the gun's butt. One hard pull brought the cocking handle suddenly backwards. Three unspent bullets, dented and scratched from a rare triple-feed, clattered against each other and fell to the ground. With the obstruction clear, Thompson let the handle fly forward, chambering a fresh cartridge.

### *

The remainder of Six Platoon was picking up the slack as their Lewis Gun became quieter. "That makes three," Bill announced, having felled two German soldiers since the counterattack began. He was taking his time, choosing only good targets. The last thing he wanted was to be stuck without ammunition if the Germans came close enough for bayonets. "Come on, keep count and call it out. Let's see who can get the most."

"Well I'm already at five, so you've got some catching up to do," Payne said brightly, firing a few rounds into the oncoming Germans. He was probably exaggerating.

"I'm a little busy to be keeping count," McCreery replied, sickened that the others were making sport out of war.

Payne slammed another five round clip into his magazine. "I think I got two with one shot, what should I count that as?"

Bill wasn't listening, wasn't even firing his rifle. Something was wrong; he could hear it. No, his ears were still too badly damaged; he could feel it: vibrations that suspended gravity in the most subtle ways. "Get down, both of you," he said, crouching low in the shallow trench.

Neither man made a move.

"The others can handle whoever gets through that racket. Get your asses down, now!"

"What is it?" McCreery asked, as he and Payne took cover.

As if in answer to his question, a large-calibre shell shook the ground around them, dirt spraying in all directions.

"Counter-bombardment," Payne said spitefully.

"No," Bill replied indignantly. "I know a nine-two when I hear one. Some of our own guns are dropping short. Must be Old Jack's kid. I wonder if they're born senile or if they get it from filling those catalogue orders all day long."

"Who?" McCreery asked.

"Nevermind. Just keep low."

As all three men hugged the ground, a massive explosion caved in the right half of the trench. Bill blinked through the dust and smoke to see Payne, blown out of the trench and lying on his back outside of it. McCreery was nowhere in sight, a mound of dirt where he had been. Bill's ears began to bleed again.

"Fuck, fuck," Bill muttered automatically. "Tom, are you okay?"

"What?" Payne asked stupidly; stunned by the blast, though not harmed. Useless at the moment.

Digging out a buried man was difficult enough with a group of men. No shovels or tools could be used; they were too likely to cause more harm than good. The job had to be done with bare hands. On his own, Bill wouldn't stand much chance of pulling McCreery free, but he also knew he had only seconds to make it happen. He wasn't going to lose another man today.

Bill began to claw at where McCreery had been. Nothing but dirt. At last he felt a patch of wool; not enough to determine where McCreery's head was. As he dug around it, an arm suddenly shot up out of the ground, scratching desperately at the mountain of earth. Two more hands appeared, these from next to Bill: Payne.

Both men grabbed McCreery's free arm and began pulling. Bill was half-expecting it to come right off in their hands. Payne was expecting to pull out a corpse, if indeed they could even pull him free with so much of his body still submerged. They didn't have time to dig him out anymore though, it had to be now.

Bill and Payne stumbled and collapsed backwards onto each other as a final tug brought McCreery's head and shoulder above ground. He was spitting dirt and struggling to breathe, but he was alive.

"Dig him out," Bill huffed, as Payne got back to work. "Congratulations; you've just been buried for the first time. It's good luck for six months. How do you feel?"

"Water," McCreery gasped, sludge falling from his mouth.

Payne handed the still half-buried man his canteen and continued to dig him out. McCreery rinsed his mouth, spat and took a long drink. The machine-gun and rifle fire was dying down; the German counterattack had been defeated.

"Nail," McCreery rasped.

Again, Payne ceased his digging and reached for his cigarettes.

"Better make it three," Bill said, crawling towards Payne and beginning to assist. "I have to tell you, Tom, being blown out of a trench is only three months good luck."

Each man smiled widely as they worked, occasionally emitting little snorts and squeals of laughter. By the time McCreery was free altogether, all three men were rolling on the bottom of the trench laughing hysterically. It was the happiest moment any of them had known in a long time. McCreery had been buried alive, but his friends had brought him back from the dead.

### *

By five-thirty that evening things had quieted down. Three Section was enjoying a break from expanding the network of slit trenches, now almost entirely connected. Tins of corned beef were the preferred meal for most of the men when in the frontline, not for the taste, but because they were easy to store, open, and eat, and probably tasted better cold than hot. Except, of course, when Hal had made his famous stew.

"That's enough for now," Bill said, indicating the three entrenching tools piled at the bottom of the trench. "Put that gear away and let's settle in for the night."

### *

"Bill, wake up." It was Sergeant McCloud again. Bill glanced at his watch; it was five after nine. The sun was beginning to set.

"Jimmy," Bill replied with a yawn. "We under attack or something?"

"Don't call me Jimmy, Billy. See, how do you like it? We're pulling out tonight; gonna dig a new line halfway between here and the jumping off positions," McCloud said bitterly.

"Why?"

"The Brits on our right barely made it out of their own trenches. The battalion's right flank has a gap about eight hundred yards long. Same fuck-up we had at Vimy."

"I didn't know leaving Canadian battalions stranded was such a popular sport in the British army. Around what time are we moving?"

"I'll let you know when I know. Oh, one more thing, you were near McNeil when he got hit, right? Well once it gets dark I need you to go back there and find his spare parts bag for the Lewis Gun. Thompson won't shut up about it. When the order to move is passed, hand your men off to Lincoln, then get that bag."

"How about Roy's wire-cutters?" Bill asked sarcastically.

"Get them if you can," McCloud said seriously. "But that bag is the priority."

Bill frowned and squinted at McCloud, furrowing his forehead.

"What is it?"

"Roy. Blake. McNeil."

"What about them? I've already listed them as killed."

"Nevermind. I'll get the bag and see about the cutters too."

### 4

There was a full moon again when the battalion began to slink away from their newly-won positions. The crooked roads that ran through unplowed fields and shattered woods to ruined farms and tiny wrecked villages provided a quick escape route. By the moonlight, Bill had no difficulty finding the spot where Roy, Blake, and McNeil had been killed. The stench of the remains made it even harder to miss.

The phosphorus must have smouldered for some time after Bill left, for the charred corpses were fused together with gear, barbed wire, and each other. The spare parts bag for the Lewis Gun, though burnt and blackened, stood out amongst the standard-issue equipment every soldier wore. Bill held his breath and removed the bag from what was left of McNeil's body; it didn't take long to realize that the sludge that clung to the canvas pouch was a small part of its previous owner. He could still just barely see and hear each platoon as it filed by about fifty yards off to his right towards their new positions. Bill took a few steps away, turned to catch up with the company.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Bill stopped. He knew that voice, but it couldn't be. Slowly, he turned around. He barely managed to choke out the name. "Hal?"

Hallicks was leaning easily on the wire, a big grin plastered on his face. "Hey, Bill, how've you been?"

Bill shook his head. "No, no this is impossible."

"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 had 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; the missing arm was nowhere in sight, and the rest of 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? When was the last time he had slept?

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 battalion. "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."

"Fuck, Bill, you couldn't find your way out of a paper bag with a lit candle and a sharp knife. How'd you get separated?"

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 when 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. 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 man 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 Post 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; I forgive you, Jack. Well, looks like Seven Platoon is up next. I'll talk to you later."

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. Something 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. And she claimed she couldn't afford the postage to return the first ones she had ordered. 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.

Once Eight Platoon cleared out of the showers the NCOs of B Company took their turn. While the privates had to share bars of soap and towels, fresh ones were standing by for the NCOs and were in good supply.

Fresh undergarments followed, then each man dug through his kit bag for his spare uniform, and turned in the soiled one he had worn for the last few weeks. It was warm enough now that Bill decided to bury his winter cap at the bottom of his duffel bag. A standard-issue soft cap was dug up, and his battalion badge transferred to it. That ought to make Turner happy.

### *

The next day a few dozen reinforcements arrived. Having taken over two hundred casualties at Fresnoy, it wasn't very encouraging. Upon closer inspection however, most of the men were familiar faces: former members of the battalion wounded at Vimy, Regina Trench, or even Mount Sorrel.

News was also received about some of the wounded men. Stinson, it was reported, was recovering well, and might even rejoin the battalion within the next month. For the time being, Three Section was still down to just Bill, McCreery, and Payne.

McCloud brought a dazed-looking private to where Bill and his men were cleaning their personal gear. "This is Private Wilson, he's yours. I'll get you another if I can, but you'll probably need to wait for Stinson before you're up to par." Par here was a loose term. An ideal infantry section consisted of seven, eight, even ten men. Manpower shortages, added to McCloud's limited confidence in Bill, meant that five was the ideal number.

Bill stood and shook the new man's hand. "Welcome to Three Section. I'm Bill, this is Tom, and Stan."

He was clearly uncomfortable. A mix of arrogance and helplessness showed on his face. Though a volunteer, he didn't want to be here. His own battalion had been broken up in England, his friends and acquaintances parcelled out as reinforcements to several units. "Wilson."

"Your parents give you a name?"

"Wilson. It's my father's surname."

The Three veterans exchanged a knowing glance. Stinson and Roy were already missed, but now with a new urgency. Payne and McCreery seemed to be silently saying 'get rid of him.'

"I mean a first name," Bill said, trying to be helpful.

"Martin."

"Well, nice to meet you, Marty."

"Martin. Same."

### *

That night the enlisted men of the battalion surged towards the three estaminets clustered on the north end of Petit Servins. The officers had gone south, to what had once been a hotel, and now catered to a slightly more sophisticated class of drunken soldier.

The three estaminets at the north end of the village were marked with notable bits of debris. The Crucifix, named for a smashed roadside statue that had been rescued from further damage by its pious owner, had disturbed Lincoln. The Smashed Cannon was the busiest of the three, most likely due to the owner being a well-established pimp. While ostensibly named for a reclaimed artillery piece, the symbolism was not lost on any man who had suffered from syphilis, gonorrhoea, or herpes. The Wagon Wheel, though the least popular due to its small size and older serving staff, was where most of Six Platoon decided to spend the night.

It didn't take long for Wilson to alienate himself from Three Section. A few cheap glasses of wine and he was slurring his words, inserting himself into conversations, and commenting on card games. The rest of Three Section sat at a little table together, dining on the standard eggs, chips, and beer.

"This is too much, Bill," Payne said. "We need to get rid of this idiot."

Bill sipped his beer and nodded to McCreery, silently asking his opinion.

"I agree. I don't want him here."

It wasn't right for a new man to receive such a cold reception, but Bill felt the same way. Already Wilson had failed to salute every officer he saw, made a mess of his uniform, and misplaced his equipment twice. As an NCO, however, Bill had to try to defend his man.

"You two were new once, not too long ago really. A couple weeks and I'm sure we'll manage to sort him out."

"Or you can just get rid of him, now," Payne said.

"He's a walking cock-up," McCreery added.

Bill snickered; he had tried, a little. "Alright, I'll see about getting rid of him."

As if on cue, Lieutenant Carter and Sergeant McCloud entered the building.

"Not just yet though. I think I can work something out with Jack."

The newer men who noticed half-stiffened, unsure if they should come to attention; the veterans cheered, booed, and catcalled. The officer was in their territory: there was no need to pay him any formal respect. McCloud called above the racket, "It's okay, I invited him."

Once the noise came to a halt and the men returned to their drinks, Carter's eyes fell upon the dusty upright piano at the back of the estaminet. McCloud's calls went unheeded as Carter, looking like a man possessed, made his way towards the sound of ivory keys and taut steel wires. It hadn't received much attention ever since the scavenged billiards table made its debut. Lincoln was seated at the piano, quietly playing a hymn, just for practice.

Carter leaned one elbow on the piano. "That's quite good."

Lincoln didn't look up. He was too busy concentrating on the keys; normally he played with sheet music. "You play?"

"Since I was a boy."

"You must have good parents. Each of my children had to start learning once they turned seven."

"We had to start at six, but we got to choose what instrument we wanted to learn. I chose piano for ragtime."

Lincoln shuddered. "Oh, your poor parents. I assume they made you learn something respectable though. Do you know any four-hands?"

Carter nodded and cracked his fingers. "Cortege burlesque. Ever hear of that?"

"Please, Carter, or should I call you?"

Carter shrugged; he was in an estaminet for enlisted men after all. "Bob."

"Please, Bob, something an old man like me would know. What about Schubert's Fantasia in F minor?"

Carter sighed a little. "Yes, I know that one, Dad."

Lincoln smiled and shifted to one side of the piano bench. "Have a seat."

"Sorry, but how long is this going to take?" McCloud asked.

"Oh it's a short piece. About twenty minutes," Lincoln replied with a grin.

As the pair began playing, the men nearest to them went quiet and listened attentively. Slowly, the audience nudged their way closer to the piano, until the old instrument was the centre of attention. McCloud waited impatiently for the duet to end. Once it had, he politely shooed Lincoln away, while the men around him erupted into cheers and applause.

Carter was still fiddling with the keys. "So, what was it you wanted me to see, Jim?"

"It's Bill Brown, Sir," McCloud began. "He's been getting worse lately. I think he's had it."

Carter turned pensive, but continued pressing ebony the ivory.

"I just need your permission, and I know I can have him transferred to a good instructing job in England. Away from harm, and to be honest, away from where he can do any harm. It isn't right to let a man in his state continue to lead a section."

"And what state would that be?"

"He's cracked, Sir. He thinks he's blessed, or marked."

"He's an Original and still around, of course he's blessed."

"Maybe blessed is the wrong word. Bombproof. He thinks he can't be killed, and he makes the men around him think that way too."

"Perhaps a little foolhardy bravery is a good thing. I think it best that the men believe in something positive, like divine protection, rather than existential nihilism."

"I don't know what that means, but just look at him. He gets drunk whenever he gets a chance; he's happy one moment and glum the next. And he can barely see or hear anything. It's dangerous."

Carter stopped playing. He knew McCloud was a good sergeant, and that he only wanted what was best for Bill. He also knew that McCloud would continue to pester him until he approved of Bill being transferred.

"Alright, Jim. I'll talk to Captain Reid about it. I think he'll agree, especially if I tell him that it's what you want."

"Thank you, Sir."

### *

"Excusing me," a heavily-accented voice came from behind Bill. It was Jack's assistant.

"Yes?"

"Please to let me sit with you, I brought drink."

McCreery and Payne shrugged and smiled. Why argue with a free drink? Jack's assistant set down four glasses of beer, two each pincered between the thumb and index finger of either hand. "My name is Kellowitz, Witold. Friends in training call me Czar. You can call me too if you want."

"I'm Bill Brown, this is Tom Payne, and Stan McCreery. Nice to meet you."

Kellowitz had a firm handshake, the kind that impressed Payne and McCreery, but struck Bill as unnecessarily hard.

"What can I do for you?" Bill asked.

"I get right to point. I hear you talking, talking about you want to rid of someone in your section. New guy, nobody like him, he too stupid, not nice, not fun. Not good soldier, not good friend. I am stuck with Grandpa Jack, old man, never stop talking. So I come to your section, new man you don't like, he take my spot with Grandpa Jack. Trade one for one. Grandpa Jack talking all the time of friend Bill Brown, you."

McCreery and Payne exchanged a look. They could get used to having Kellowitz around, especially if it meant getting rid of Wilson faster. Bill noticed their glances and added his own.

"I'd love to do that," Bill said. "But Jack is a little angry with me."

"Not angry, good friend, he like you a lot."

"I owe him a pair of wire-cutters."

"Little folding type or big wooden handle ones?"

"The big ones."

"Okay, that's harder a little. Won't be Kosher, but I can find," Kellowitz said, standing to leave.

"Hold on a minute, aren't you going to finish your drink and get to know your new section members?" Payne asked.

Bill nodded. "The cutters can wait."

"Besides, I want to hear about Russia," McCreery added.

A few minutes later, Wilson returned. Laying one hand on McCreery, he used the other to point at Kellowitz. "Hey, Payne, who's this? He's in my spot."

"That is not Tom Payne, that is Stan McCreery," Kellowitz coolly corrected.

Wilson made a face at the sound of Kellowitz's accent. "What the fuck did he even say?"

"Okay, we're gonna take you back to billets," McCreery said. "Give me a hand, Tom."

Both men stood and took a hold of him. Wilson resisted, spilling Bill's beer in the process. "Hey, get off me!"

Kellowitz moved to help, but Bill motioned for him to stay where he was. This was a Three Section affair, and if it escalated, it wouldn't help to involve the company quartermaster's assistant.

Payne tightened his grip. "I have no problem hurting you. Stop fighting and let's fucking go. Or else."

Nobody in the estaminet seemed surprised to see Wilson getting dragged away. He had been making a fool of himself the entire night.

Kellowitz slid one of the remaining glasses to Bill. "So we have deal, trade me for him?"

"If Jack will go for it," Bill said, wiping beer off his fresh tunic with a fresh handkerchief.

"We will convince him. I will do job poorly, never speak to him, tell only, 'No English.' He get lonely and angry, trade me for anybody, you be doing him favour. And me."

Bill shook his head. "I don't want to put Jack through that. Besides, he'll make a point of fixing you, which is why I don't mind dumping Wilson on him."

"What to do then?"

Bill scanned the estaminet and caught sight of Old Jack. He was watching Corporal Post, who hadn't left the battered and greasy billiards table since earning his spot there; a man had to lose a game in order to give up his right to play. The soldiers assembled around the table were gambling, and the odds were clearly in Post's favour.

"How much money have you got?" Bill asked.

"Twenty francs."

"Give 'em to me. I'll pay you back later."

Kellowitz swiftly handed over the crisp notes. "I can get more if you need, I have in my gear. Also British pounds."

"No, this will do."

At the billiards table, Bill waited for the game to end, then threw down all of Kellowitz's money on the table. "I want the next game, Post."

Post laughed. "Are you serious, Bill?"

Already bets were being made against Bill, a few unlucky men betting in favour of the newcomer. Most of the men who did place their money on Bill were bombers who recognized his patch and decided to back one of their own.

Bill leaned in close to Post. "Listen, Gary, I know you can beat me, but I just want to make sure you don't go easy. After you win this game, I need you to lose the next one, no matter who plays you, okay?"

Post gave nothing away with his expression. He could have winked, or nodded his head slightly, but he didn't have to. Post knew Bill was up to something and needed his cooperation. Understanding passed through the air as if by radio waves.

"You're about to become twenty francs poorer, my friend," Post called loudly. "Place your bets, fellas!"

It didn't take long for Bill to lose. Even though he was trying his best, he was still no match for Post.

"It's all in the bridge," Post announced after sinking the eight ball. "Now, who's next?"

Lance Corporal Fyles wasn't new to billiards. He had been watching the last several games, observing Post's weak points. "Ten francs."

"Any higher bidders?"

The spectators, while willing to bet a few francs on each game, had no interest in topping Fyles' stake.

"Alright, I'll rack 'em up, you can break."

Bill made his way to where Old Jack was seated. "You have to admit it was close, I almost got him."

Jack laughed aloud. "Close? Post is unbeatable."

"Well then how about a little wager? I happen to know that Fyles is pretty keen with a billiards cue."

"I don't gamble, Bill. I have a family to send all my money to. All that time I was a private was a real loss."

"We don't need to gamble with money."

"With what then?"

"Men. I have a new chap in my section; he's a great soldier, just a little small for frontline work. I could use that big Russian fellow you have."

"Does your man speak English?"

"Of course, his name is Martin Wilson. You can't get much more English than that."

"I don't know, Bill."

"I'll make it easy for you. I'm betting on Fyles, you can bet on your 'unbeatable' Post."

"Okay. If Post somehow loses, I'll talk to Captain Reid and trade you Kellowitz for Wilson."

"Deal."

"Wait, what do I get if you lose?"

"If I win, we trade."

Jack paused and turned reflective. "Oh, right, okay."

Fyles gave a good performance, and while Post could have beaten him, it didn't seem to any of the crowd that he had indeed thrown the game. Post shook hands cordially with Fyles and left the billiards table for the bar.

"Gary, what happened?" Jack demanded.

"My arm must have gotten tired. Hope you didn't bet on me."

Jack returned his attention to Bill. "You never said what I would win."

Bill was stuck. He didn't want the trade to be reversed. "I promised to find those wire-cutters, tonight."

"Well if they're so easy to find, I want them first thing in the morning, otherwise the deal is off."

"We made a bet, Jack–"

"Just go through your men's gear and find them, they've got to be somewhere. Tomorrow morning, Bill."

### *

It was dark when Bill and Kellowitz left the Wagon Wheel. Bill had eagerly gulped down what was left of Payne's and McCreery's beer, and was feeling slightly giddy. Trucks were rumbling somewhere in Petit Servins; dropping off rations or bringing up more reinforcements. Bill stopped and began digging a pack of cigarettes out of his trouser pocket. It was stuck on something. Bill twisted and tugged until the pack came free, flying out of his hand and into a puddle in the middle of the dirt road.

"Fuck, nails!" Bill yelled, diving for them.

In his impaired state, Bill assumed the truck's headlights were a ray of moonlight. The rumbling of the engine and the rattling of its load he barely heard, and supposed it to be a distant sound. As Bill reached for the pack of cigarettes, the truck's horn sounded, but there was no time to brake. Funny how vehicles always seem to have time to blast their horn, but are so rarely able to stop.

Kellowitz was not only a big man, but an agile one. As Bill contemplated whether being bombproof applied to large vehicles, a hand grabbed him by the collar of his tunic and wrenched him to safety. The truck rolled by, blowing its horn once more, but not stopping, or even slowing.

Kellowitz was far more shaken than Bill and broke out into a language he couldn't even guess at.

"It's okay, Czar. I'm bombproof, do you know that word? It means I can't be killed. I will never die, at least not in this war."

Kellowitz wasn't sure if Bill's confidence was a sign of insanity or courage. "God wants that you live."

Bill shrugged indifferently, assessing the damage done to his precious and now somewhat wet cigarettes.

"And he wants me to as well. Have you heard: 'He who saves one, it is as if he saved world?'"

Bill shook his head, finding a dry cigarette and lighting it.

"We will both bombproof," Kellowitz said, pulling out an expensive looking cigarette case and lighting up. "I bring you back to billets, then I go find cutters."

### *

Kellowitz had brought Bill to the house that Six Platoon's NCOs shared. Just after he disappeared to locate some wire-cutters, Bill heard a sound coming from the rear of the building. He walked closer to it; muffled weeping. Not the desperate, inconsolable sobbing of the truly hopeless. This was different; contained. Taking a few steps towards the sound, Bill caught sight of Thompson, now an acting lance, sitting with his back to a tree and rubbing his hands in his face, as if coercing out each tear.

"Are you okay?" Bill asked.

At once the crying ceased and the machine-gunner wiped his face, stood, and turned to see Bill. "Just getting it out," Thompson replied, embarrassed but not ashamed.

"Yeah, it's been a rough couple of days."

"More like a rough couple of months."

"Months? You seem to be holding up pretty well. I mean, until right now."

"This isn't the first time. Since October I've been bottling it all up and letting it out when I can."

"What happened in October?" Bill asked.

Thompson didn't reply.

"Maybe you would have preferred to be put into another platoon."

"Why do you say that?"

"You were with us at Regina Trench, right?"

Thompson sounded like a man pleading guilty. "Yes."

"This was back when we only had a handful of machine-gunners. Most of them have been killed or transferred since. And most of the Lewis teams we have now only got their job after Regina Trench, when the platoons specialized. But not you."

Thompson nodded. "Hallicks. He was a friend of yours, I know. An Original too. It's my fault he's dead. We all fell asleep. I woke and heard a noise, and–"

"Don't say it. I don't want to hear you say it. You aren't the only one who got someone killed." Roy. Blake. McNeil. "A minute earlier and you'd be dead too. A minute later and I would have been."

"But it was my fault."

"I know," Bill said sadly. "It was my fault too."

### *

Bill was exhausted. He flopped down on his gear, which formed a pathetic imitation of a pillow, and closed his eyes. Sleep came fitfully, images of Hal and Roy appearing in his mind. One moment they were talking, smoking, and laughing with him in an estaminet, the next they were strung up over a belt of barbed wire. Bill tossed and turned until something stuck into his thigh. Wire-cutters. So Kellowitz was good for his word after all. Bill snuggled up with the cutters, caressed them like a child would a toy bear, and in a minute he was fast asleep.

Toronto, 1932

The Leaf and Crown was empty when Gary returned with Kate and the children. As usual when the adults were busy with an emergency, the kids were allowed to stay up late and play. Gary showed Kate to the bedroom and closed the door behind her. Bill had told him plenty of times that he only slept well when he was with her.

Kate could smell the whiskey on his breath, but decided not to comment on it. Instead, she slipped under the blankets with him. "Do you want to talk about it? Or should we just get it over with?"

"You've come to have your wicked way with me, have you? Well, I won't argue. Maybe Gary's bed will grant me some extraordinary talents."

"You're a boor when you're drunk, you know that?"

"And you're cute when you're upset with me," Bill said, taking a sip of whiskey-laced tea.

Kate snatched the cup from Bill and choked it down, briefly making a face.

"I wasn't done with that," Bill said, smiling and pressing his lips to Kate's for a long kiss. He loved it when she drank.

She pulled away. "William, are you alright? Really."

"Of course, you think an automobile can hurt me? Don't be silly."

"I was asleep when Mister Post knocked on the door. I had dreamed of a candle, burning too bright, flickering, extinguishing itself."

"Don't worry about that one. A candle burns for us somewhere. It always will. Let's take our time."

### END OF PART III

EPILOGUE

France, 1917

"Anything for a Goddamned parade," Bill grumbled. "They love this shit."

"Aren't you at least used to it by now?" Stinson asked, newly returned from an English hospital a few days earlier.

"No."

The battalion had assembled in a field just south of Petit Servins. The four companies were spaced out perfectly, the men all standing in ranks three deep. Bill was in the most rearward rank. He preferred it that way. Nobody could see his sloppy drill movements and constantly shifting feet; somehow he never could stay at attention.

It had been one year to the day, June 13th, 1916, that the battalion had taken Mount Sorrel. This was the first time they had celebrated any sort of anniversary or special day. Their victories at Vimy and Fresnoy were too fresh to commemorate, and the early battles of 1915 had been too disastrous to mythologize.

Mount Sorrel had been their first big success, but it had been costly. Nearly as many men had been killed or wounded at Sorrel as at Regina Trench. Each time, fresh drafts of reinforcements easily outnumbered the survivors. Mount Sorrel had been where Bill's old platoon commander had been killed. It had also been where Captain Reid took command of B Company.

The men were called to the open-order as the band played an elongated medley, and the commanding officer passed by each soldier. It wasn't the formal inspection of an NCO; this was strictly ceremonial. Bill didn't mind the CO; he was an Original too, and had come to France as a mere lieutenant. Still, he hated the pointless pomp.

When the inspection concluded the battalion was stood at ease. Little sprigs of wood sorrel were distributed by each company's sergeant major, and placed in the men's caps, just next to the brass battalion badge each man wore. These were to commemorate the events of one year prior, though Bill didn't see the connection. What would they do to commemorate Regina Trench – smear their uniforms with shit and human innards?

After the CO's speech and the chaplain's prayer, a number of men were called forward. Captain Reid held a handful of medals. Bill flushed with pride, after all, he had wrote the citation, as Stinson's name was called and he took his place among those to be awarded the Distinguished Conduct Medal: Vimy, prisoners, Fresnoy, bombs, gas. Carter received the Military Cross: coolness, leadership, inspiration, objective; the usual for an officer.

After the chosen men returned to their places in the ranks, the CO called the names of posthumous recipients. Sergeant Bailey had been given the dubious honour of a Meritorious Service Medal: the kind of award usually reserved for clerks who write especially neat reports, or bombproof instructors who yell especially loud. It was a pat on the back for years of unremarkable service, several months too late to matter; Reid's way of saying thank you without having sufficient grounds for granting a gallantry award. Considering all that Bailey had given to the battalion, Bill viewed it as a slap in the face. He wondered which was considered the greater medal, Bailey's MSM or Hal's Croix de Guerre.

Next came the promotions. Bill wasn't surprised to hear his own name called; he'd been a lance corporal for longer than most, but then again he had been a private for longer than most as well. He could hear snickers as he marched forward, his drill still not up to par. He was glad nobody had bothered with a parade when he was promoted to lance. When he arrived at the front of the battalion along with the other men awaiting new stripes, he was surprised to hear McCreery's name called out too. It would be a shame to lose such a mature private to another section. Besides, somebody should have told him beforehand.

Company Sergeant Major Turner gave each man their new rank insignia and a few words of encouragement. "Good job on the boots, Lance Corporal Brown, probably the shiniest in the company, next to mine, alright? I can see you took your time with those buttons, very nice. I'm glad to see you've ditched that flappy cap; it was starting to annoy me." Turner shook Bill's hand and palmed a set of corporal stripes into it. He neglected to mention the origin of the stripes: Blake's spare tunic. "Congratulations, Corporal Brown. I knew you had it in you, didn't I? I guess you've finally earned that nickname: you're really bombproof now, aren't you?"

Bill furrowed his brow, half-frowned. "What's that, Sir?"

"You've got Sergeant McCloud to thank for it. We'll miss you around here, Corporal. And sew those stripes on straight this time, alright? The sergeant majors in England are less forgiving than I am. Remember, you're representing the battalion."

Bill couldn't believe what he was hearing. "I'm sorry, Sir, can you say that again?"

Turner's face turned soft with sympathy as he leaned in close. "I know your hearing hasn't been very good since Fresnoy, okay? That's the only reason McCloud managed to convince me to let you go. Make us proud. And don't worry about your section; Lance Corporal McCreery will take good care of it."

### *

After the parade Bill found Turner and McCloud talking. He stood at a safe distance, letting them know he wanted to talk to them but without seeming to eavesdrop on their conversation. When the two were finished and Turner left, Bill walked slowly towards McCloud.

"Jim? What did you do?"

McCloud was unapologetic, firm. "Don't get mad, Bill. You've done your share for this battalion, but it's time you move on."

"Move on where?"

McCloud's tone turned stricter. "England. They need competent bombing instructors to teach the new men. You know most don't even see a hand grenade until they get to the frontlines."

"But what about the battalion? John?"

"For Christ's sake, Bill. You still think he's a prisoner? He's been dead over two years."

Bill's mouth went dry, his voice shook as he searched for words and forced them out. "You knew, all this time?"

"Of course I knew; I was with him. He made me promise to keep you safe, and now I can finally be true to my word."

"Tell me what happened."

"It doesn't matter."

"You've been lying to me for two fucking years, now you're having me sent away, and it doesn't matter?"

McCloud sighed. "C and D Companies had been sent out to secure a gap in the line. We held it for a day and a half, you know that. Almost every man had been hit to some degree. Finally we got the order to retire, the forty or fifty of us that were left. Your brother, myself, and Turner were in good enough shape to make a run for it. He was hit. Turner and I tried to bring him away with us; it was only another hundred yards or so. He was hit again while we were dragging him. We left him. He was never taken prisoner."

"You let me believe."

"What else could I do? You'd crack if you knew the truth. And after Bailey gave you a section I certainly couldn't say anything. Everyone will be better off with you in England. Kate too."

"What the hell has she got to do with this?"

"I know what you're thinking. Do a few weeks in England like a good boy, make friends with a savvy clerk and come back out here with the next draft of reinforcements. But I'm willing to bet they won't send out a newly married man."

Bill's face screwed up in confusion. He felt like he was in the late stages of a chess game, and losing badly.

"Kate's been in England for nearly a month."

"So she's just sitting around, waiting for me?"

"Not exactly. She's an ambulance driver with the Voluntary Aid Detachment."

"What?"

"She's stationed not far from where you'll be instructing. I've arranged for a small house–"

"A house? Jesus, Jim, have you gone mad?"

McCloud smiled benevolently, but there was a touch of something sinister, manipulative. "There are a lot of empty houses in England right now, rent is cheap. I only want you to be happy. Put all the unpleasantness behind you."

"What does that mean?"

"Your little indiscretion at Albert. She stopped writing you for what, two months?"

Bill turned red with anger and embarrassment. "You bastard. How do you know about it?"

"I've been censoring the platoon's letters since Mister Hudson was killed. One year ago. The job fell to Bailey and he asked me to deal with it. When Mister Carter arrived, he asked Bailey to keep handling it, and Bailey asked me. I've been in correspondence with her since January. I know everything, Bill. About you, about Kate, about the entire platoon."

"Everything?"

"And a few things that weren't in the letters. In particular an episode involving you and Post at Regina Trench."

Bill's heart dropped.

"Don't worry, Bill. Like I said, I only want you to be happy." McCloud pulled a small jewellery box from his pocket. "There are three rings in there: a nice engagement ring, and two wedding bands; courtesy of Mister Carter. You should thank him before you leave."

Bill didn't.

### *

"I can't believe we're saying goodbye," Post said sadly. "I know we haven't seen as much of each other over the past few months, but I'm really gonna miss you."

Bill lit two cigarettes and handed one to Post. "Might be the last time we share a nail."

"Let's not talk about that," Post replied, grasping for anything other than the inevitable. "That was some parade, huh?"

"Pointless."

"That's not true, Bill. If we can't take a moment to remember the ones we lost, and to honour the ones who deserve it, what's the meaning of it all? Sooner or later we'll pass into history. We need to make our own way, tell our own story so it isn't lost forever."

"A parade passes by," Bill said.

"Marches past," Post corrected. "Besides, you got some stripes. That's something, what's a word you would use... tangible."

"I like the ones I have."

"Sew 'em on top of the old ones; crooked too, you owe me that much."

"Yeah."

They stood smoking in silence for a long time, lighting new cigarettes, sharing them when they ran low, until both men had none left.

"Why don't you want to go to England? You don't want to face Kate?"

"No, I can do that. I just don't want to leave the battalion. This is what I know now, Gary. Before I enlisted I never imagined anything like this could ever happen to me. I read about things like this, but now it's my life. Or at least it was. How can I go from school, to war, to being a normal person?"

"With a smile and a prayer."

"You know I don't pray."

Post grinned. "Fine. Say one for me then. We're not all bombproof."

### THE END

### ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

While I consider BOMBPROOF a deeply personal achievement, it is not one that I accomplished alone. The love and support of my family, especially my father, provided important feedback and encouragement. There have been too many notes, drafts, and marathon telephone calls to remember, but each one brought BOMBPROOF one step closer to completion.

Several of the characters are loosely based on the incredible friends that I made during my time in the army reserve. For their friendship and inspiration, I owe them my most sincere gratitude. Some will even recognize their namesakes.

Although BOMBPROOF contains a few historical errors that were necessary for dramatic purposes, a great deal of research was conducted. The Queen's Own Rifles of Canada museum and their war diaries transcription project made this research much easier.

Special thanks go to Mr. Gary Switzer. When it comes to the Third Battalion, I believe he is the most knowledgeable man alive. As a mentor and as a friend, he has dedicated much time and effort to enlightening me. Any mistakes contained within the novel are my own.

Three poems that I greatly admire appear in BOMBPROOF. They were written by two British soldier-poets, Wilfred Owen and Leslie Coulson, who died in the war.

Lieutenant Wilfred Owen is widely considered one of the greatest poets of the First World War. On November 4th, 1918, just one week before hostilities ended, he was killed in action during the crossing of the Sambre-Oise Canal. At the time, he belonged to the 2nd Battalion of the Manchester Regiment. His parents were informed of his death one week later, on November 11th, 1918, as church bells across England were ringing out in recognition of the war's end. His poems "With An Identity Disc" and "Futility" were reproduced from "Wilfred Owen: The War Poems," published in London by Chatto & Windus in 1994, and edited by Jon Stallworthy. These poems were used with the kind permission of the Wilfred Owen Association.

Leslie Coulson was a sergeant with the 12th Battalion of the London Regiment when he was wounded on October 7th, 1916. He died at a dressing station the next day. A hand-written copy of his latest poem, "Who Made The Law?" was found amongst his possessions. The poem was published by E. MacDonald of London in 1917 in a short collection: "From an Outpost and Other Poems."

Finally, I would like to acknowledge the service and sacrifice of the members of the Third Battalion, Canadian Expeditionary Force. From 1914-1919, over six thousand men served with the Third. Well over one thousand lost their lives. Thousands more were wounded, but an exact figure is impossible to determine. It is to these men that I respectfully dedicate BOMBPROOF. I hope that I have accurately reflected their courage as well as their flaws, their inspirations and obligations, and above all, the spirit of comradery that bound them together. They belonged to one of the finest infantry battalions ever assembled, and deserve our respect, love, and remembrance.

### HISTORICAL NOTE

BOMBPROOF is a work of fiction, but draws heavily upon the history of the Third Battalion (Toronto Regiment). Below is a brief history of the Third.

When Canada went to war in August 1914, volunteers were plentiful. Soldiers from dozens of Canadian militia regiments were hastily reorganized into overseas service battalions. This allowed for a new, integrated administrative system, as well as a new sense of belonging. This was imminently important, as thousands of British-born men, many with military experience or even serving members of the Canadian militia, formed the majority of the First Contingent.

The volunteers were looking for adventure, a chance to do something meaningful, steady work, or a free ticket back home. Some already knew their way around a barracks or parade ground. Others had been made tough by hard living. Some were naive and unfit. One thing that they all had in common was that few imagined the war would last longer than a year, and none knew what exactly they were getting themselves into.

The Third Battalion (Toronto Regiment) was formed out of volunteers from three pre-war militia units: The Queen's Own Rifles of Canada, The Royal Grenadiers, and The Governor General's Body Guard. Some members had years of service. Others volunteered with these units soon after the outbreak of war, often assisted by serving friends or family, or by false claims of previous time with the British army. In October 1914, over one thousand men went overseas as members of the Third.

Newspapers at the time often referred to the Third Battalion as the Queen's Own Rifles, not surprising since it was the most prestigious Canadian regiment of the time, and the majority of Originals had indeed belonged to the QOR. But it wouldn't take very long for this association to fade. Before the Third Battalion even arrived in France, a large draft of Albertans from the nearly disbanded Ninth Battalion filled gaps in the ranks left by sick men, underage recruits, those selected for special duties outside the battalion, and wife-deserters sent home to face unimpressed spouses. After the Third's first major action at Ypres in April 1915, hundreds of reinforcements were needed. Soon men from across Canada were finding themselves with the Third.

This cycle of casualties and reinforcements would continue throughout the war, though some effort was made to keep the battalion supplied with men from Toronto whenever feasible.

By the summer of 1916 most of the early "Originals" were gone. The early battles had taken a heavy toll on the Canadian Expeditionary Force, and replacements, some with overlooked shortcomings, joined the ranks with startling regularity. The identity of the battalion remained, but its personnel were constantly changing.

By the time the Third returned to Toronto in April 1919, just forty men could claim status as an "Original." Although the overseas service battalions were disbanded, the Third wasn't about to fold. Much to the surprise of the Queen's Own Rifles, ex-members of the Third who wanted to serve in the post-war militia were not interested in joining their ranks. Instead, a new militia unit was founded in 1920: "The Toronto Regiment." The men wore their wartime cap and collar badges, and still considered themselves members of the now-extinct Third.

But it would be a short run. In 1936, The Toronto Regiment was amalgamated with The Royal Grenadiers, forming the Royal Regiment of Canada. The Royal Regiment of Canada and The Queen's Own Rifles served in Europe during the Second World War, and continue to exist to this day. Both regiments jointly perpetuate the Third Battalion, sharing its history, traditions, and battle honours.

### THREE MEN OF THE THIRD

A few seemingly extraordinary events occur in BOMBPROOF, which are in fact based in reality.

On October 30th, 1915, Private George Lewis Eastman, a Third Battalion Original, performed an astonishing deed. The war diary for that day states "PTE. EASTMAN, G, caught and threw back a grenade, saving several comrades." A month later he would be awarded the Distinguished Conduct Medal for this feat, and later promoted to corporal, only to be killed in action at Mount Sorrel on June 13th, 1916. He was 40 years old.

Corporal William Joseph Walsh was also an Original member of the Third, and had previously been awarded the Military Medal for his courageous conduct. After the disastrous attack at Regina Trench, he made the ultimate sacrifice. The battalion's war diary for October 8th, 1916 states: "Cpl. W Walsh of 'A' Coy, realizing they were being forced back, managed to collect a few bombs from wounded and killed and tried to make a stand to cover our retirement, but was killed a few minutes later, and the remnants of the Battalion were forced back to their jumping off trench." He was 33 years old.

Corporal Kenneth Lloyd Sherman was 19 years old when, at the battle of Fresnoy, the following deed took place. "This N.C.O. is recommended for remarkable bravery and coolness during and after the attack on Fresnoy, May 3rd, 1917. He was in charge of a Lewis Gun and engaged several advancing lines of the enemy very successfully causing them many casualties and compelling them to retreat. Again, later in the day, when he had run out of ammunition he, at great personal risk, crawled out, both in front and behind our lines, and collected S.A.A. from dead bodies, this being done under a heavy and direct machine gun and rifle fire. This ammunition was instrumental, in the afternoon of May 3rd, in repulsing an enemy counterattack." He was awarded the Military Medal for this act, and was later wounded, being invalided back to Canada in early 1918.

Eastman, Walsh, and Sherman were exceptional soldiers who exemplified all the best traits of the military. When I learned about their stories, I was compelled to include fictional versions of their heroics in my novel. Several of my fictional characters owe some measure of themselves to these factual members of the Third. I strongly encourage readers who enjoyed BOMBPROOF to learn more about the real men of the Third Battalion.
