 
# MENTIONED IN DISPATCHES

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# P.L. WYTKA

## Toronto, 2016

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## Copyright © 2016 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 Kieran and Kris

# PROLOGUE

England, 1917

When Bill arrived in late June, he thought that it might really work; that his days with the battalion were truly over. It had nothing to do with the prospect of sleeping in a real bed every night, enjoying proper meals, or even being able to stroll down to a pub whenever he liked. It was seeing Kate for the first time in nearly three years.

He could barely believe his eyes when he first saw Kate in her Voluntary Aid Detachment uniform: tall boots, a blue skirt that reached just a few inches past her knees, and matching tailored jacket. Her hair was pinned up and tucked beneath a soft peaked cap, driving goggles perched garishly on top. What struck Bill the most was the 'CANADA' badges on either shoulder, just like those on his own khaki tunic. She even had a driver's patch where his own bomber's insignia was. A Third Battalion "sweetheart pin" adorned her left lapel: a little silver and gold version of his own brass cap badge. This wasn't the girl he had left behind. She was a perfect vision of womanhood: confident, unique, and beautiful.

Bill had spent his time in transit cleaning himself up. But with every bit of dirt he scrubbed off, every cut and bruise that healed, every rash and pimple that cleared up, he only saw tired, old skin in the mirror. While Kate's eyes were clear and sharp, his were dull, almost cloudy. Her hair shined, while his looked just about ready to turn grey. When they met and embraced, he felt ashamed, as if his own failures and guilt might infect her.

He had proposed to her that day, and they were married the next. A captain from the East Surrey Regiment had stood up for Bill, while Kate's maids of honour were a group of recently and soon to be married locals. They were wed in their uniforms, and had their portrait taken in a little photo studio next to a seedy pub. She convinced him to give up cigarettes for toffee, which he chewed incessantly. He started drinking less.

Every night since, they had tried to conceive a child. Between Kate's ambulance duties, and Bill's new position as a bombing instructor, it wasn't often they had a chance to be together. Most of the time when they were, both were exhausted, and made love mechanically; with purpose rather than passion. When he slept, he dreamt of the battalion. At first, waking up to her was enough.

## *

Promotions came quickly in England, especially for combat veterans. Just two weeks after he had arrived, Bill was unceremoniously handed a pair of sergeant's stripes. The base tailor hadn't even argued when Bill insisted on his new rank badges being sewn on top of his old, crooked chevrons. In France, a man sewed on his own badges, and previously used rank insignia was handed down to the recently promoted; here, it was thrown in the rubbish bin.

Another stripe didn't really mean any more responsibility. There were no platoons to command; only classes to teach. It was more of a pat on the back for surviving active service, and going a few weeks without messing anything up too badly. Bill enjoyed the extra twenty-five cents a day that being a sergeant brought, as he was no longer entitled to his ten cent a day field allowance. And married life brought with it a slew of expenses that now seemed foreign to him: rent, groceries, furniture, linen; civilian excesses that he was entirely unfamiliar with after nearly three years in an infantry battalion.

Six weeks had passed when Bill saw the notice posted in the orderly room. A draft was needed to reinforce his old battalion, the Third. Volunteers were in abundance: whether new recruits tired of base camp routine, or veterans eager to return to a job that mattered and that they understood. By the time Bill had applied there was no room for any more sergeants or corporals.

"Care to take a voluntary demotion?" The officer in charge had asked him, pen and paper ready to take down the details of each man. "We still have spots for one lance and five privates."

Without a word Bill had pulled out his jackknife and hacked off his sergeant's stripes. Beneath them lay his corporal's insignia; these too were hastily cut away. He shoved the handful of patches into his pocket. Someone in France, where NCOs were killed or wounded with regularity, would need them soon enough. Post's faded, crooked lance corporal stripes were now exposed to light once again. "Lance Corporal Brown, William, nine three five six, Third Battalion, Church of England. Married."

## *

When Kate arrived home that night, Bill was sitting on the end of their bed, fingers blackened, and polishing his boots as if in a trance. His wedding ring lay on the nightstand, along with his battalion cap and collar badges. All shone brightly, a tin of Brasso and a strip of soiled cheesecloth next to them. An ashtray was piled high with cigarette butts, a half-empty glass of whiskey snuggled next to it.

Kate removed her cap and jacket, laid them on the bed, then sat next to Bill. "So this is it? You're going back?"

Bill didn't look up. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's what you want. That's what's important isn't it? That you do what you want?"

"Please don't do this, Kate. My mind's made up. It isn't something I want to do; it's something I have to do."

Kate stood and walked to the nightstand. "That's a crock. Cigarettes, whiskey, and brass. That's what you love now, isn't it? Your damned battalion, your war fantasy. You of all people should know better."

"It's not a fantasy. It's a job that needs to be done. I'm of better use in the thick of it, not hiding back here."

"And when did you decide this?"

"Today. But I've been thinking about it since the day they made me leave."

Kate said nothing as her heart seemed to fall to pieces. Bill had almost been his old self these past weeks: intelligent, funny, and caring. But beneath there had been cynical comments, strange references she did not understand, and sudden dazes that left him staring blankly, as if entranced. All at once the truth came over her: she was only his consolation prize. And not one that he intended to be happy with. He wouldn't be happy until he was back with his battalion.

"What is it, William? What is it that I can't give you?"

"Nothing. You're everything to me."

"Then why do I see you obsessing over medal citations in the newspaper? Why do you turn away from a normal life? Why do you want to run away from me, and back to all that horror?"

Bill put an arm around Kate, boot polish staining her white blouse. "When this is all over, I promise, I'll never leave you again. But right now my section is in someone else's hands. Maybe he can keep them safe, but maybe he'll make a stupid mistake; the kind I've made, but learned from. I bet I've got more experience than ninety percent of the men in uniform today – Canadian, British, French, German, Russian – I'm one in a million. It isn't my place to sit back and do a job that anybody can do. I'm sorry if you'll have to be lonely for another three years, hell, another ten. But I have a chance to do something that matters. To save lives and help end this Goddamned war. I know you think that I love the battalion more than I love you, but that isn't true. I hate it. I hate every second of it, even the times when we drink, joke, and play cards. I hate it because I'm away from you, and because I love you. But I have an obligation to be there."

Kate's eyes were full of tears. She didn't know what to think. "And your obligation to me?"

"That will just have to wait."

## *

The next morning Bill rose silently. He stood by a dressing mirror and went over each item on his uniform. It was August, and while still hot, his Third Battalion cap badge was again mounted on his ridiculous winter cap. His tunic buttons gleamed, except the second from the top, which was wrapped in black cloth; a symbol of mourning allowed for men who had lost an immediate family member on active service. His crooked lance corporal chevrons sat a few inches below the red rectangle that marked him as a First Division man, and the green triangle that further indicated his membership in the Third Battalion.

"William," Kate called to him from the bed.

"I didn't mean to wake you," Bill replied apologetically.

"You weren't going to leave without saying goodbye, were you?"

"I suppose not."

"Come here, William."

Bill took his eyes off the image in the mirror and lay in the bed next to her. "I don't have a lot of time. We'll have to be quick about it."

Kate undid his trousers and rolled them down his legs until his tightly wound puttees prevented them from going any farther. "One more try."

## *

It wasn't until Bill's draft was on a southbound train that he realized he had forgotten his wedding band. He turned out his pockets, tore through his equipment, and even insisted that those sitting nearest to him prove they had not thieved it. At last, completely defeated, Bill slumped down in his seat and decided to try to sleep, if only to delay the letter he would need to write his wife.

As he laid his arms across his chest, Bill felt something hard digging into his skin. He tugged at the collar of his shirt and pulled out his identity discs.

Tied between the two tags that bore his name, battalion, regimental number, and religion – and the one that had belonged to his friend Hallicks – was a simple gold ring. "You're the best, Kate."

# PART I

#

# NIGHT CONDITIONS

## In bitter safety I awake, unfriended;

## And while the dawn begins with slashing rain

## I think of the Battalion in the mud.

## 'When are you going out to them again?

## Are they not still your brothers through our blood?'

## \- Siegfried Sassoon, CBE, MC

# CHAPTER ONE

Toronto, 1921

Cigars, whiskey, and beer were in good supply at the Leaf and Crown veterans club. Bill hadn't seen most of his wartime friends for over two years, despite the fact that the majority of them lived in Toronto. For many, it was too strange to sit through a peaceful lunch or baseball game with the same men they had huddled close to during an artillery bombardment, or had went forward with, bayonets fixed, into an enemy strongpoint. Most preferred to just forget. But Bill was an Original, and had made more friends than he could count during his time with the battalion. The birth of his first child seemed as good a reason as any for a reunion.

That July Saturday afternoon, one man after another shook Bill's hand and congratulated him. The married men offered words of advice, while the bachelors kept him busy with humorous toasts. Some men were instantly recognizable; others looked like strangers in civilian clothes and required an anecdote to confirm their identity.

"Where's the wife?" Francis Green asked, his empty sleeve pinned to his suit jacket, and an Amputations Association of the Great War badge on his lapel. "I knew that photo you showed me wasn't really of her. Far too pretty to ever end up with you. Is this kid even real, or are you just trying to get a few free drinks?"

"Yeah, funny," Bill replied, annoyed but nostalgic for his old friend's snarky comments. "She's with her parents, resting up. It was a hell of a show. She only started walking again the day before last."

Green's trademark grin vanished. "Is she alright?"

"She's tough as nails. Tougher than me, or you for that matter."

Green's lips curled up again as he fished through his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. "Speaking of nails."

Bill watched in amazement as Green struck a match and lit his cigarette with one hand. The other had been torn away by a grenade five years earlier. "You're getting pretty good."

"You might even say I'm... handy?"

"Oh, Green, fuck off," Bill said lightly, breaking off a piece of toffee and attacking it with purpose.

The other man's grin tightened, as if he was forcing his face into a caricature of itself. "I'm gonna go have a look around for some friends. You know, it's a shame I came late and left early, you must know everyone here."

"Yeah, you missed a lot of good times. Ypres, Festubert, Vimy, Fresnoy, Hill Seventy–"

"Quit makin' me jealous. I'll talk to you later, Bill. And I still don't believe it's Kate in those photos."

Once Green left, Bill felt a hand on his shoulder. It was James McCloud, his other hand outstretched. "Congratulations, Bill."

Bill's face turned from pale to crimson in an instant. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Come on, Bill. Can't I just wish you well?"

"I told you I never wanted to see you again. I meant that. Our relationship is strictly operational, remember?"

France, 1917

Mid-August found Bill and his draft of about thirty others in Mazingarbe, a pathetic ruin three miles behind the frontlines. To Bill it looked no different than any other shattered village: churned up cobblestone streets, half-standing buildings, a conspicuous church spire, and khaki-clad soldiers milling about, or huddled in temporary shelters. The only difference was that Mazingarbe smelled worse than any other village Bill had been to, or maybe he was just used to the relatively clean streets of England. The newer men were appalled and exhilarated all at once; they had one foot in the door and were yet to see the worst of it.

Reinforcements rarely joined their battalion in the frontlines. Normally a rest camp or town miles from the fighting allowed the new members time to be allocated to their companies, stock up on needed equipment, and learn the names of their comrades. On this occasion, however, the battalion had already left a few hours prior, and the draft was supposed to have met them in time to go forward with it. It was just after midnight.

The officer in charge of the reinforcement draft, a lieutenant whose name Bill hadn't bothered to learn, had been leading the men in circles for over an hour. He could see a hand-painted sign marked "3RD BATT, B COY, QM", hanging above one of the more intact buildings. Being on the march and in ranks, however, he could do nothing but remember the spot. At last the officer brought the group to a halt, and Bill took the opportunity to speak with him privately.

"Excuse me, Sir."

The lieutenant was exasperated, and nearly jumped at his words. "Yes, what is it, Lance Corporal?"

"We passed by my old company quartermaster's shack awhile ago. I could go and ask him where the rest of the battalion is."

"Good. Go now."

The officer turned away instantly, uselessly surveying the wreckage of Mazingarbe and comparing it to the dot on his map which represented the town. Bill allowed himself a sneer before departing. Although a few men in the draft were returned veterans, like him, he still hated being lumped in with replacements. He wanted to be back with his section.

Old Jack was napping in a folding chair when Bill arrived, a kerosene lamp hanging from a cord above him. Supply, transport, and headquarters men often had little luxuries of that sort. His assistant, Private Wilson, was busy inspecting a broken shovel. The shaft had snapped in two halfway up, and Wilson was apparently attempting to repair it through sheer force of will. Of course he had considered the shovel a write-off, but Jack insisted that tools were non-consumable, and therefore did not need to be replaced, only cleaned and fixed. Wilson caught sight of Bill, but not recognizing him, returned to his futile task.

Bill tapped the old man gently on the shoulder. "Hey, wake up, Jack."

It took nearly a minute to rouse the quartermaster, who upon regaining consciousness, darted his eyes left and right, snorted, then came to his feet with a fart.

"Bill?"

"Yeah. You miss me?"

Jack was delighted but incredulous. "But you've been away for so long."

"Well I'm back. You were away for eight months after you broke your leg; I was only gone eight weeks."

"Was it only eight weeks? I think it was longer than that. So much has happened since you left. I lost thirty francs in a game of crown and anchor, my bladder was giving me some trouble but it got better, and my son-in-law came by to visit me, oh, Wednesday? Or was it Saturday? What are you doing here? Eight weeks?"

"I'm here with a draft of new men, but it looks like the battalion has already moved up the line."

"That's good," Jack said, motioning to his assistant. "Bring those pickets and wire. You see, they forgot some stuff. You can bring it up for them, how many men do you have? Eight weeks?"

Bill sighed. He would have been better off just waiting around for the officer to figure out which direction the front was in. "About thirty. They didn't leave any scouts behind to guide us up, did they?"

"Not that I know of. Apparently the front is a real mess; they need them all up there."

## *

Twenty minutes later the draft was formed up and ready to go. Jack had supplied the officer with excessively detailed instructions for how to reach the battalion – the only useful word of which was "east." Every two men carried a six foot barbed wire stake over their shoulders, a coil of wire resting between them, constantly threatening to slide into one's face, or the other's back.

The march to the frontline brought the men slowly uphill. Roads gave way to abandoned trenches, then to polluted fields, formerly no-man's land. The open ground was often more difficult to move past than the trenches, being covered with old barbed wire entanglements, heaps of refuse, and the ubiquitous shellholes.

A passing stretcher-bearer had informed the draft that the battalion was in close support, occupying a mix of old Canadian and German trenches; while other units, some few hundred yards beyond, were holding the firing line. The Germans had become aware that a new group was taking over the line, and had taken the opportunity to blanket the entire area with sporadic shellfire.

Exhausted from moving through winding trenches and smashed fields, getting lost, finding his way, and getting lost again, the officer in charge of the draft decided to call a halt. The men dropped into a deserted trench and rested, preparing for the final leg of their journey. Bill could tell from the officer's expression that he was hoping for a guide to suddenly appear and bring them to wherever they were supposed to be. He wished it too, hoping that Post might be their saviour.

Bill had heard it first, and though the sound was dulled through his damaged eardrums, incoming shellfire of this quantity was impossible to miss. High explosive rounds wouldn't have worried him, much, but these were shrapnel rounds: fused to explode overhead and send hundreds of metal balls scattering downwards. They were intended to rip through flesh, not damage fortifications.

"Shrapnel shells!"

A few veterans and quick-thinking replacements clued in, and disappeared around the nearest traverses searching for dugouts or niches carved into the walls of the trenches; others flopped to the ground or curled up into a fetal position.

The officer in charge, along with about half of the draft stood still, dazed. "Who ordered that? Get back here!"

The first shell exploded just to their rear; moments later another three went off overhead all at once. Bill instinctively forced his body to attention – it was the best way to avoid the shrapnel balls raining down from above. A man standing upright presented a smaller target, and allowed the brim of his steel helmet to do its job. Those who dove to the ground only made themselves bigger targets, while those who ran covered more ground and gave the shrapnel balls more opportunities to get lucky.

Bundles of wire and stakes lay scattered amongst the khaki heaps. More shells whined and exploded above them as the soldiers sought to become one with the earth. Soon the fire shifted two hundred yards north, found its desired target, and carried on with greater fury.

"Okay, get back here," Bill called out. "Check each man to see who's wounded. Even if they say they're okay, look for yourself."

It wasn't unusual for a stunned soldier to insist he was unhurt, even when an obvious wound proved otherwise.

"Lance, come here quick," one of the privates called. "What do we do? What do we do?" He had pulled out a field dressing and was uselessly manoeuvring it, unable to commit himself to applying it to the appalling wound.

There was not much that could be done. The man was kneeling next to another, blood coursing from his neck, which was so badly torn and mutilated it looked as if his head might fall off altogether if it leaned the wrong way. Bill sat the man up, so as to change the cause of death from choking on his own blood to shock from loss of it. The man's eyes were calm, and through his spluttering for air, even managed a weak smile. Bill had seen this before, and those who survived such massive blood loss often described a peaceful euphoria. Bill waved away the man with the dressing; bandaging the wound would only slow things down.

"You're doing well. Everything is great, isn't it?"

The dying man's smile twisted upwards; he was delirious and would believe anything Bill said.

"Going back to Canada tomorrow, eh? Well I don't know how you managed that, but congratulations, pal. We'll sure miss you around here, but it'll be great to finally go home, won't it? I'll write them a letter and let them know. Everyone will be waiting for you at the station."

The man nodded slightly.

"Your mother is making chicken and potatoes – your favourite. Oh, and gravy. There'll be a big party and everything. She's making a cake too."

Everybody was silent.

"It doesn't sound like a party," the dying man gurgled.

"Sure it does," Bill countered, then began to sing. "For he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fellow – and so say all of us!"

Now the entire group of reinforcements joined in. "And so say all of us, and so say all of us! For he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fellow – and so say all of us!"

Still smiling, the man nodded slightly, rested his chin on his chest, and died.

"Did you know him?" Bill asked the other private, who was still holding the bandage in his hands.

"No, did you?"

Bill shook his head, then raised his voice. "Anyone hit bad?"

"Just some scrapes over here," somebody called.

"Three walking here," another soldier replied, obviously a veteran by his calm and firm tone.

"Hard to say for certain," a third, unsteady voice chimed in.

Bill turned his attention back to the body and instinctively relieved it of a pack of cigarettes. "Get the wounded together, let me have a look."

The officer stood impotently as Bill decided the fate of the wounded men, offering them the dead man's cigarettes as he went. Four were alright to go forward with the draft. Three, including a corporal, definitely had to proceed to the nearest aid station.

"Okay, let's get moving," Bill announced to the remainder of the group, then indicated the wire and stakes. "Just kick that gear to the side."

"No," the officer stated loudly and obstinately, eager to take control again.

"Can I have a word in private, Sir?" Bill asked.

The officer hesitated, but Bill remained where he was. After an embarrassing few seconds, the officer came to Bill.

"What do you mean, 'kick that gear to the side?'" He asked in a hushed tone.

"These men have just been under fire, most for the first time. They need a cup of tea and a few hours sleep. Someone else can deal with this gear later, or us, but later; it ain't going anywhere."

"And what about the dead man?"

"He ain't either."

## *

The officer had at last brought the group to battalion headquarters – a freshly captured German dugout that had previously served the same purpose – to receive instructions for the draft. Bill headed off on his own, leaving the others to wait and see where they were to be allotted. Probably the officer would volunteer the men to go back and retrieve the abandoned wire and pickets, now that he was safe among the other Misters and Sirs, and away from Bill.

It didn't take long to get directions to B Company headquarters; another recently captured dugout. Bill removed his helmet and placed his ridiculous winter cap on his head before descending the steps. Six small tables, probably looted from a local elementary school, lay spaced equally apart; one for each platoon commander, one for the company commander, and one for the scouts, signallers, and runners.

The dugout was vacant, aside from two sleeping runners, ready to be roused and deliver a message at a moment's notice, and Company Sergeant Major Turner. The CSM was seated at Captain Reid's table, looking over sketches left behind by the battalion they had just relieved. He was determining what parts of the line required repairs, when and where to place his working parties and patrols, and how many men should be standing-by in case of a German breakthrough. He looked up as Bill entered, and almost showed some kind of emotion that he couldn't discern.

"Lance Corporal Brown, what happened to your other stripe? And take that Goddamned flappy cap off; is it summer or winter? And what are you doing back from England?" Turner droned monotonously.

Bill couldn't help but smile. It really was good to see the sergeant major again. "Well you see, Sir, England was too quiet for me; I can't sleep without a good bombardment for a lullaby. But I had to take a demotion to go along with the latest draft; I was actually a sergeant, briefly. As for the cap, you've got to admit it's been a cool summer."

Turner nodded, absorbing the information instantly and filling in the gaps of his knowledge with sensible assumptions. He looked Bill over and became concerned. "Where's your ring? Married men wear rings, don't they?" He asked, presenting his hands and tapping two fingers against his own wedding band.

"Not to worry. Kate hasn't divorced me... yet. It's tied to my cold meat tickets."

"Identity discs," Turner corrected. "There's no need to be morbid, is there? And what about your hearing?"

"It's gotten better."

"I assume since you came alone, you've ditched the rest of the draft and want a spot in your old company, am I right?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Well that's fine with me, but I can't guarantee you Six Platoon. They have all the NCOs they need right now. I actually need a corporal for Seven. Maybe the Misters can sort out a trade, understand?"

"Any chance I can talk it over with Carter?"

"He's out getting the troops settled into their positions, but you can wait for him, okay?"

"Thanks, Sir. And by the way, your new corporal got crocked on the way up. And I sure hope that officer isn't for B Company."

Bill piled up his equipment next to the table marked in chalk with a number '6', and settled down underneath it. Soon he was asleep, and dreaming of Kate.

## *

Bill's eyes opened to a vision of an unbelieving Lieutenant Carter. He sighed heavily and produced two cigarettes, lighting both and offering one to Bill, who took it without a word. They had smoked for over a minute until Carter decided to break the silence.

"So, you're back," he said sheepishly. "I'm glad to see you."

Carter was aware now that he had taken part in something untoward. Why else would Bill have gone from a bombproof job in England, back to his old battalion in just two months?

Bill pulled himself from under the table and stood, yawning. "Likewise, Sir."

Carter finished his cigarette, regained his composure, and waited for Bill to explain himself. He checked his watch; it was five-fifteen in the morning.

"I was bored, Sir."

"Well that's a damned stupid thing to say."

"It's true. England is okay for a little bit, but it gets old fast."

"How do you mean?"

Bill shrugged. "It's too, I don't know, luxurious maybe. How can I appreciate a hot meal when I get three a day? How can I enjoy twenty minutes sleep when I get eight hours every night?"

"Okay, I get the picture. Unfortunately, I don't have room for an NCO in Six Platoon right now. But the next time I need one I'll find whoever owns you then and bring you back."

"No; that won't do, Sir. Who're your NCOs now?"

Carter was taken aback by Bill's tone, but something about the Original's bearing demanded an answer. "Sergeant McCloud, Corporals Lincoln and McCreery, and Lance Corporals Fyles and Erikson."

"Erikson? Who the hell is that?"

"We got him just after you left; he took over the Lewis Gun section. Between the time we lost Blake and got Erikson, Thompson was in control of the section and the gun. That's just too much work for one man."

"McCreery is in charge of my old section?"

"That's right."

"Put him in charge of the Lewis Section. Send Erikson over to Seven. I'll take my old position: Three Section Commander with the bombers."

"Look, Bill–"

"No, you look, Sir. I can cause a lot of trouble." It was half-threat, half-promise. "I don't want to – I love this battalion more than you'll ever understand. But I will not allow myself to be whored out or sent away. I know things about almost every officer, NCO, and private in the company. I know it wouldn't be difficult for you to pull some strings and do as I ask. So, please, Sir, do as I ask."

Carter wasn't sure whether to shake Bill's hand or charge him with insubordination. However, Bill was an Original, a good leader – most of the time – and more passionate than anyone else.

"It'll take a day or two to line things up. But it'll get done."

"Thank you, Sir. You won't regret it."

"I just might live to. Sergeant McCloud is outside; you'd better go talk to him."

Bill climbed the dugout steps. McCloud was giving detailed instructions to a soldier holding a wooden ratchet noisemaker; a sentry whose job it would be to alert the men in the immediate area in case of a gas attack. He saw Bill the moment he emerged from the entrance and concluded his instructions to the sentry before acknowledging Bill's presence.

McCloud had a bandage wrapped around his jaw, and tied at the back of his head. The previous night he had been grazed by a piece of shrapnel while bringing Six Platoon to their new positions and relieving the previous occupants. Not being an awfully serious wound, he had decided to remain with the battalion. A leather holster housing a Webley revolver hung from his canvas waistbelt, while his Lee Enfield rifle was slung tightly over one shoulder.

"Holy hell. Bombproof Bill." McCloud's expression was something between annoyance and nostalgia. "That's all I need. I guess you talked to the Mister?"

"That's Lance Corporal Brown. I'm coming back to Six; soonest."

"Well, I have to admit, it's good to have you back," McCloud said, extending his hand.

Bill looked down in disdain, and shoved his own hands into his trouser pockets. "No. It's not like that."

"Like what?"

"Handshakes, 'nice to see you', 'let's go for a pint.' From now on, consider our relationship strictly operational, Sergeant."

# CHAPTER TWO

Toronto, 1921

Bill couldn't bring his eyes back to McCloud's face; it had gotten much worse since the last time he saw him. A painted metal plate screwed into his lower right jaw had restored the basic structure. Three primitive, discoloured skin grafts had failed and turned necrotic after several months. The inside of his mouth was no better. The gums around the old wound were black and rotting. The false teeth he had been supplied with never stayed put for more than a few minutes, and McCloud hadn't worn them in over a year. His palsied lips drooped and occasionally shuttered uncontrollably. What should have been a light scar, the kind considered dashing by some, had transformed into a gruesome deformity. And it might not have been that way.

"Gary," Bill called.

"Yeah?"

"I'm going to finish this beer. Once I'm done, either the sergeant will be gone, or there's gonna be trouble."

McCloud stood. "Fine, if you want to act like a child, you can do that. But your little grudge doesn't change anything. I made your brother a promise. I kept it during the war, and I always will."

Post walked McCloud to the door. "Sorry, Jim. I didn't think he would be like that."

"It's alright. I shouldn't have come."

"Oh nonsense; everybody was happy to see you. Uh, except Bill of course. I think he'll come to his senses – do you want to come back a little later?"

"No thanks, Gary. I better keep my distance. It's a nice place you have here, good luck with it."

When Gary returned, Bill was chewing on a piece of toffee furiously, his glass empty. "You gonna let me die of thirst? And toss a little whiskey in there too."

Post refilled the glass. "You didn't need to act like that. Jim McCloud is the only reason you and I are alive today, or had you forgotten?"

Bill ignored that and spat his wad of toffee into his beer. "Gimme a nail."

Bill wasn't supposed to smoke. Kate hated it, and although the customary cigars were permitted, she had asked Post specifically to make sure he didn't smoke any cigarettes.

"Kate would be mad with me. It's bad enough I'm gonna let you get as drunk as you like. She wanted me to hold you to two drinks."

"More conspiracies," Bill said shortly, returning his attention to his beer.

"You never answered me; about McCloud."

"Christ, will you stop taking everyone's side but mine?"

Post allowed himself a derisive laugh. "Sure. But if you think I've ever been on anyone else's 'side' you're a damn fool. Besides, you know perfectly well that McCloud was only trying to look out for you. If you don't want to admit it, then I have a story for you. I think you know how it goes."

France, 1917

Bill waited outside the dugout, smoking ceaselessly as the sun came up. He knew Corporal Post would pass by sooner or later with a message, report, sketch, or list of some variety for Turner or Reid. Bill was right, and soon he was shaking hands with his old friend. Post's weariness, despite his excitement, showed through easily.

"Good morning, Bill! If I had known you were here I would have brought you breakfast."

"How about a nail?"

"Give me a minute; I need to drop something off. Don't go anywhere." Post disappeared down into the dugout and reappeared a moment later, holding his nose. "Stinks like Hun and officer down there." Post lit two cigarettes and handed one to Bill. "Breakfast."

Bill sniffed at a soaking blanket shoved to one side of the dugout entrance, hooks and nails at the ready to block it off. "Speaking of stink, what's this?"

"Gas blanket," Post explained. "It's soaked in special chemicals that neutralize Fritz's new stuff. He's been dumping it all over this area for a few weeks. During a gas alarm we seal up everything we can. When it's clear we air it out, or try to anyway."

"Mustard gas?" Bill asked. He had read about it in the newspapers in England, but it had only been in use over the last month.

Post nodded. "It's more like hot oil floating all around you. That's what I've heard anyway. It can't get through the mask, but it burns exposed skin, causes big ugly blisters the size of your fuckin' fist. Makes you hair fall out too, and all sorts of other scary shit. It's worst on what they call 'moist orifices.' That's your mouth, nose, pisshole, and arse. Apparently it can burn your ears and fingers right off, or melt them. Not sure if that's true though. Smells like mustard, obviously."

"I'd prefer HP sauce. So what do you do when it hits you?"

"Cover yourself up. Gloves, scarves, groundsheets; anything and everything. The problem is, like I say, it's more like oil than gas, so it sticks to your clothes, sticks to everything. Given a cold night and a warm morning, it can freeze, thaw out, and turn to gas again. Worse still, the whole frontline is soaked in the stuff."

"Well I sure picked a nice time to come back. What else can you tell me about this new gas?"

Post pointed to a pile of used gas blankets that were spread out on the parapet. "Only a good, heavy rain will really get you clean. I've been up to the front, and the fellows I talked to said that they've started using their drinking water just to rinse off any skin the gas has touched. Sometimes Fritz uses it in such small doses you can't even tell you've been hit by it, 'til a few days later. Then it starts: bloody cough, delusions, and all the other stuff I told you about already."

"Jesus. Well, cheaters never win, not in the end anyway."

Post smiled at Bill's optimism. "'Fair play' – I've taught you well. One more thing about the gas: if enough of it is used, it creates a yellow cloud; you won't be able to see through it. So make sure you always know your surroundings and can find your way blind."

"Fuck, I'm blind with both my eyes wide open."

"I wouldn't want you getting lost around here, Bill. The Huns have been counterattacking like crazed beasts. And both sides have been ripping the place apart with artillery. It's worse than anything I've seen in a long time, and we're going into it tomorrow."

Post led Bill to where Six Platoon was holding their part of the line. The men had already eaten breakfast and were engaged in various repairs and working parties. The first man they saw was Private Kellowitz.

"I brought you a gift, Kelly. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a little meeting with some scouts from the Second. We'll be taking over their part of the line."

As Post slipped away, Kellowitz embraced his old section commander. "Lance Bill, greetings!" His accent seemed thicker than Bill remembered, as if he was intentionally trying to keep it despite his exposure to Canadian and British ones.

"Hey, Czar. How've you been?"

"Good, better now you here. Love to stay and talk but I have to sandbags fill. Need to fix nest for machine-gun birds. They make do all alone."

"I'll give you a hand."

"But you busy lancing."

"Not quite yet. I've got some spare time."

Soon both men were repairing a position that had been smashed by artillery, both Canadian and German. It had evidently once faced the old Canadian lines, been partly rearranged once captured, then neglected as the attack moved forward. If the frontline broke, however, such strongpoints would be vital to stem the flow of advancing Germans.

"You be over taking Three Section again?"

"That's the plan; it will take a bit of time though."

"The sooner is better. Mageery too strict."

Bill exploded with laughter at the other man's pronunciation of 'McCreery'. Kellowitz could do better, but chose to be lazy if it meant getting Bill to smile.

"Is true. He memorize all the books and orders, he quote to you rules about how wide is this trench, when sentry time, don't piss in trench, go all the way to latrine, even for just piss. Piss in trench, I say. Very glad have you back, Lance Bill."

"Thanks, Czar, I'm glad to be back. I assume we've got a new man since McCreery usurped me?"

"Yes, Dawson. Good man, knows how it works, but Macgurgy bad influence on him. I try to get him relax. He was born Britain; very sad story, but you should hear from him."

"And how are Payne and Stinson?"

"Both good. Stinson walk around proud with medal. Payne not shut up about wife and kid, but happy for him."

"Do they ever talk about me?"

Kellowitz stalled for time, fumbled for his elaborate cigarette case, lit two, and handed one to Bill, for once wishing he could speak better English. "Oh yes. Sometimes they say, 'I miss Lance Bill', other time they say, 'Oh, if only Lance Bill are here.' They will be happy to see again, I know this. They like you lot."

Bill faked a smile. It was clear that only Kellowitz was glad to have him back. Everyone else preferred to have him tucked away in a meaningless bombproof job. They didn't understand what he had to offer. They would soon.

## *

The scout from the Second Battalion looked his anxiousness. He would be glad when it was somebody else's job to hold the frontline. "Over one hundred casualties in two and a half days."

"Jesus Christ," Post whispered to himself.

'Wastage' was a known feature of trench warfare, but normally casualties inflicted while holding the line amounted to two or three men a day.

"And it wasn't pretty either. You've heard of the new gas, yeah?"

"Sure, mustard gas."

"You'll want to pass this along: keep yourself covered all the time, no matter how hot it is. Cut up whatever spare material you've got and make some wrist-overs. Do your puttees up tight. Cut open your stocking caps and make them into balaclavas. Sew on extra buttons and tabs around your tunic cuffs and collar. Anything, just keep that fucking stuff off you. And for the love of God, don't dare try to wash yourself or change your clothes. If you got caught with your pants down–"

"Thanks for the advice."

"I'd give you my own gear if it would help, but I've had to get rid of almost everything I have. And what I've got left is soaked in the gas."

"We'll manage. It won't be the first time we've had to improvise."

The other man snapped a finger at Post. "Aeroplanes. Watch out for them too; they strafed us once, but no one was hit. And liquid fire. A raiding party took a section of our lines for a few hours, but we bombed them out. The trick is to hit the petrol tank on the operator's back; he and whoever is near him will go up like kindling in an instant."

"Flamethrowers? I never saw one in person before."

"Let's hope you never do. Fuckin' frightening they are."

Post didn't scare easily, but right now he was wishing he had a bombproof job. Poison gas, aeroplanes, liquid fire; it was all so industrial and cruel. Post understood the rigours of combat better than most, but this was too much. Still, he wanted to know more.

"Have you seen much of the fighting down south?"

"No, but I've heard plenty of stories passed up the line; you will too. They're fighting in the cellars and houses around Lens – that's three miles south. Also around the slag heaps and in the old quarries. Both sides are attacking and counterattacking like madmen; there were even two attacks that went off at the same time. Our boys and Fritz met in no-man's land and got to work with the bayonets; they were just too damn close together for anything else. It's bad up here, you'll see for yourself soon enough, but I'm damn glad we ain't down near Lens."

## *

By the following evening everything was settled, and Bill was once again in charge of Three Section. When Bill and McCreery shook hands it was more formal than friendly. Bill didn't have anything against him personally, but he hated that anyone other than an Original had taken command of the section that he had belonged to since the beginning of the war. McCreery, who now outranked Bill, was upset about being forced out of the section that he had belonged to for over ten months.

"I hope you kept the men in good form while I was away," Bill said without feeling.

"I did my best. Stinson's still a thrower. Payne did his bombing course six weeks ago. Kellowitz and the new man, Dawson, are carriers," McCreery replied, giving only the most basic information.

"Congratulations on your promotion."

"Thank you. Will you do me a favour, Bill?"

"Depends."

"Wear your damn helmet. I've taught these men to play it safe over the past two months, and we've come through alright. I'm not trying to tell you how it is, but I'd hate to see any of them get hurt by being careless."

It was becoming clearer that Bill had been sent away to England not only for his own safety, but also for the safety of his men. Ever since Roy had been killed, Bill had his own feelings that perhaps he was indeed a dark cloud for those around him.

Just after midnight the battalion moved forward. One platoon at a time was brought up to replace the exhausted men of the Second Battalion. The plan was to bring as many soldiers as possible into the deep dugouts and leave the frontline to be held by machine-gunners, bombers, and patrols. In light of the new German gas, raids, aircraft, increased artillery fire, and the possibility of a full-out attack, placing the men defensively was vital. Too many soldiers in the front trenches would make for easy targets, too few would be overtaken before the remainder could react. A collection of experts would be needed to ensure the security of the remainder of the men.

Bill and his section were guided to a narrow trench that ran out into no-man's land. Here, a bomber of the Second Battalion was waiting for them. "You'll be taking over my bombing post thirty yards up. Pick one of your men and I'll bring you to it. There's a spot around the corner, not very deep, but practically bombproof, I'll bring the rest of your boys there later and pick my own up. I recommended day and night shifts, it's too stressful for a twenty-four hour go, but that's your business."

It was a pretty standard setup. "Okay, thanks."

"I come, Lance Bill," Kellowitz volunteered.

"No thanks, Czar. Dawson, you're up, let's get to know each other."

"Yes, Lance Corporal," Dawson replied in a slightly-diluted British accent.

Bill and Dawson followed the Second Battalion bomber down the trench to a little pit at the far end. Another soldier was gathering up his gear and getting ready to move.

"Tell them what we've got."

"Twenty bombs, four of them phosphorus. The P bombs are more for smoke cover than anything else, but it's also the closest thing we've got to match their new gas. A flare pistol; ten white cartridges, three red. We try not to use either. Two hundred rounds of .303, but we try not to use that too. In case you get stuck for the long-term, eight tins of corned beef and a gallon of water, but we try not to, well, you know."

Bill nodded his head in the darkness, then realizing the futility of the gesture, whispered. "Sounds good, thanks."

White flares were for illuminating no-man's land. They could stop an enemy patrol in its tracks, but only for a minute or two. Once the light died out, there was a good chance that the man who fired it off would too. Red flares were used to signal an enemy attack and request artillery fire.

"Okay, that's it. Any questions?" The Second Battalion man asked.

"No," Bill replied, happy to have such a well-equipped outpost to call his home for the next few days.

"Oh, and the pins on those bombs have been straightened for fast pulling, so be gentle with 'em. Good luck."

"You too."

Once the two men were gone, Bill settled in, dropping his equipment in a pile, and digging through his pack for Hal's scarf. Next, he unfolded his groundsheet and pulled it over himself. "You can take the first shift sleeping, Dawson. We'll have our talk in the morning."

Dawson held back a yawn and leaned forward. "Shouldn't we both stay awake, Lance? At least until a little after dawn?"

"Don't worry; it's been a long time since I fell asleep on sentry."

Dawson wasn't comforted by that. "Well I'm not really tired anyway."

"Okay, we can have our little get-to-know-each-other-chat then."

"Shouldn't we be listening for Huns?"

"Of course. But we have to listen in the background. If it's too quiet, you won't hear anything at all. Besides, it's good if they hear us just a little."

Dawson wasn't sure if his new section commander was imparting some rare wisdom, or completely insane. "Alright, well, what do we talk about?"

"Army stuff first, it's always like that. Then personal stuff. When did you enlist?"

"December 1915."

"How long you been at the front?"

"Six months. The first four were with the divisional entrenching battalion. I've been with the Third for two months."

"Is that usual these days?"

"Oh, sure. Nobody spends more than six months in an entrenching battalion, except the fat sergeants and immature officers. It's sort of a forward reserve."

"And I bet you dig your ass off."

"Yeah."

"Enough army chat. Where are you from?"

"Accrington."

"I mean in Canada."

"Perth."

"Where the hell is that?"

"Just next door to Smith's Falls."

"Christ, boy, this is the Toronto Regiment. I don't know your little towns."

"It's not too far from Ottawa."

"Well at least it's in Ontario. We've gotten reinforcements from as far away as Alberta, and that was before we even came to France."

"Why would you need reinforcements before you came to France?"

"Oh, stuff happened. People got sick; our first chaplain died of meningitis back then. A few got transferred to new units: training depots, military police detachments, brigade and divisional headquarters. Others stayed behind to help train the Second Contingent. Some got sent home. All sorts of things."

"You're only the third or fourth Original I've met. Bombproof Bill they call you. I've heard quite a few stories."

He was hoping the stories Dawson had heard were of the old days, when Green had saved his life. But Dawson was too new, and so were the other men in the section, to know about that. He had probably heard about Fresnoy, when Roy, Blake, and McNeil had been killed, while Bill had managed to walk away unscathed.

"Just 'Bill' will do fine. Unless someone fancy is around, then it's lance, and if someone really fancy is around, better be official and make it lance corporal. But I thought I said enough army chat; how old are you?"

"Thirty-eight."

"Family?"

Dawson sighed. He was tired of telling this story, but this was his new section commander, and he might as well know it sooner rather than later. His tone was to-the-point; he just wanted to get it over with.

"I'm a widower. My wife and children were killed in a fire almost four years ago. I was working a few miles away, and spending the night with a friend. I tried to enlist right when the war began, but there were too many volunteers: they didn't need me then. Once the recruiters got desperate I was glad to get a free trip across the pond. The moment this thing is over I'll go home and try to start again. Canada was good to me for a long time, but I've got no reason to ever return."

Bill could feel the blood drain from his face. Even after the deaths of John, Hal, and Bailey, he couldn't imagine suffering such a devastating loss. He thought of Kate, wondered if she might be pregnant. "I'm sorry to hear that. With any luck you can get a nice Blighty wound and be discharged. Or I can try to get you a bombproof job."

"No thanks, Lance. I owe it to Canada to do my bit in the line. If anyone deserves a safe job or an early discharge, it's men like you."

Bill ignored that. "So what'll you do once you get back to, uh, Accrington, was it?"

Dawson nodded. "Settle into a new family. You've heard of the Accrington Pals?"

"There're too many Brit units to keep up with."

"Well, they were nearly annihilated at the Somme. I imagine there will be plenty of widows and orphans still waiting by the time I get there. Getting back to Accy was always the goal after the fire. But with the funeral expenses and all, I had no money left, so a free ticket overseas with the One Hundred and Thirtieth seemed like a good idea."

"How did you figure on getting back home, exactly?"

"Once we landed in England, I put in all manner of requests for transfers. And once I got into one British regiment or another I could go from there. But the One Thirtieth disbanded; we all got sent to some Canadian reserve regiment or another. Then it was depots and base camps, little groups of us being sent hither and thither. Each time I tried to explain my situation I got the same empty promises from clerks, sergeants, and officers, then got sent off somewhere else before anything happened. So, here I am. One thing I can say about the Canadian army: it has the market cornered on bollocks bureaucracy."

Bill noticed something familiar in the older man's voice: he had resigned himself to the battalion.

## *

The rest of the night passed quietly. Occasionally one of the men would perk up and tap the other on the shoulder. After a few moments they would either be satisfied that the sound was imagined, or hear the call of friendly voices: "Toronto, patrol passing by, Toronto."

Neither man slept that night, both unsure if they could trust the other to stay awake on their own, both wanting to make a good first impression. Around three in the morning Bill caught his teeth chattering. He laid his helmet on the ground, pulled out his winter cap, and rolled down the flaps. He huddled close to Dawson and both men readjusted their groundsheets and lay next to each other, breathing silently and listening.

Towards dawn the patrols ceased, and the call of 'Stand-to' resounded throughout the frontlines. Stand-to was the pre-breakfast ritual in the trenches; every man in the battalion would line up along the parapet ready to fight off an early morning attack. Stand-to would also be called at dusk, again as a defensive precaution against a major attack. In both cases, it lasted one full hour. Stand-to could also be called in anticipation of a threat, and would remain in force until no longer necessary when 'Stand-down' would be called.

In the early morning light, Bill inspected his supply of bombs. The split-rings keeping the striking levers in place had indeed been straightened for quick arming. The outside of the bombs were sticky and possessed a yellowish tinge, some even had streaks like a poorly painted wall. It was mustard gas residue, which Bill preferred to ignore; difficult considering the odour they gave off. If it had been mud or rain he would have no qualms about wiping it off on his uniform. Clean, dry grenades were more reliable, a fact that most men refused to believe, but bombers clung to.

"You might as well head back now, before it gets any lighter. And have Stinson bring up some hot brekky, if they have any today. I don't plan on getting back into corned beef and biscuits until I absolutely have to. Here, take my mess tin."

"Who else?" Dawson asked, rolling up his groundsheet and tucking it under his arm.

"Just Stinson. I'll stay out here for another shift. Tell the others to lie low as much as possible. If anyone tries to get you for a work party, tell 'em you're going on a twenty-four hour tour at a bombing post soon, and that you're on forced rest to prepare."

Dawson marvelled that Bill could encourage his own section to shirk, especially when he was willing to stay at the bombing post for two shifts in a row. It showed in his face and Bill decided he owed his new man an explanation.

"There's no danger of me getting killed, trust me, so I might as well stay up here anyway. And I don't want any of my men getting crocked unless I'm around; odds are it can be avoided."

## *

It was turning foggy as the smallest man in the platoon made his way down the trench, rifle slung diagonally across his back, a steaming hot mess tin in each hand, one full of tea, the other of meat and vegetable stew. His tunic pockets bulged with chunks of bread, while a ration bag tied to his waistbelt was stuffed with cheese.

"Breakfast in bed!" Bill said playfully, still covered in his groundsheet.

A big smile lit up Stinson's face. "Good morning, Bill. Glad to have you back."

Stinson set down the tins and the two men shook hands. They had seen each other the night before, but between the darkness and the formalities of taking over frontline positions, hadn't had a chance to speak. Bill rummaged through his gear for his blue-rimmed white enamel mug. He tipped half the tea into it and left the other half in the mess tin. Stinson removed his own standard issue mug and poured half the stew into it, handing the tin to Bill. Both men were eager to talk, and spoke through their meal.

"How was England? Why'd you come back?" Stinson asked.

"It was alright, a little quiet though," Bill replied, then slopped down a mouthful of tea, wishing he had sipped it. At least it took the chill right out of him.

"Well, was Kate there? Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, she's doing fine, thanks. So I guess you've been following this whole conscription issue, eh?" Bill asked, knowing the easiest way to change the conversation would be by making it political.

"Of course. We need to get Borden another majority whenever they finally hold the election; make sure the Liberals don't reverse it."

"The election we were supposed to have nearly a year ago? But then again, what better reason to not hold a vote than a national crisis, perhaps, a war?"

Stinson soaked a piece of bread in his tea, then crammed it into his mouth. "So are you voting for Laurier then? Please don't tell me you are."

"I'm not sure. I may not vote at all. Voting is near pointless when the elected officials have to answer to an appointed senate, a governor general, and a king. Now supposing I do, Laurier is past his prime, but I don't want to see conscription in Canada."

"Why not? Let the shirkers do their bit for once."

"Christ, Stins, the whole country is turning military. First the War Measures Act, then war bonds, then rationing, now the new income tax that just passed, and in a few weeks, conscription. It's too much. Besides, I don't want to be part of a slave army."

Most soldiers were in favour of conscription, and if Bill wasn't an Original, would have been ridiculed by nearly every man in khaki. The flow of volunteers had all but dried-up back in Canada, which meant that overseas battalions were almost always short of replacements.

"Fair enough; I guess you could never really trust a conscript in a tight spot," Stinson conceded, not wanting to argue, but still wanting to talk politics. "Besides, if you don't vote, your mother and sister will, your wife too. What do you think of that?"

"Let the women vote, they won't make any better or worse decisions than the rest of us. But I say it shouldn't just be women with a man in the army."

"They earned it though."

"Well by that logic civilian men shouldn't be allowed to vote."

"Who do you think should be?"

"Anyone who passes some kind of test. Not just a formal exam though, it has to have an element of compassion involved too."

"That wouldn't work."

"Why not?"

"Nobody would pass it. They'd either be smart enough, but heartless, or kind enough, but too stupid."

"Jeez, you're cynical, Stins. Sorry, I guess I must have done that to you."

"After Vimy and Fresnoy, I think it was inevitable. What kind of man surrenders one minute, then tries to kill you the next?"

"The kind that tried to kill you a few minutes earlier. We should have just shot those bastards."

"Maybe. It would have made more sense at the time, but I'd feel bad about it now, I think."

"You've sure had bad luck with 'prisoners', eh?"

"It's 'cause I'm short; they think they can take advantage. You're not awfully big yourself. The next time you have a chance to take a prisoner or shoot him on the spot, you might want to play it safe and plug him."

"Yeah I guess, but–"

"Hear that?" Stinson interrupted.

Both men went silent. The intermittent shellfire that had not slackened since their arrival in the frontlines had vanished sometime earlier without their noticing. In its place, the hum of low-flying aeroplanes could be heard. The artillery fire had ceased in order to avoid a German shell smashing into a German aircraft; not unlikely considering the large volume of shells that had been peppering the Canadian lines for the past several days. The Canadian artillery, meanwhile, was busy concentrating on Lens, some miles south.

Turning their heads upwards, the pair watched as two scout planes, Rumpler reconnaissance double-deckers, painted in blue and white camouflage schemes on their undersides, streaked across the sky. One plane was flying about a mile to the north, the other about a mile to the south. Both were making their way towards where Bill and Stinson lay, and were nearing the end of the stretch of ground they had been assigned to observe. As the noise of the engines grew louder and closer, seemed to become one, Bill and Stinson sought cover under their groundsheets, like frightened children hoping to avoid the spectre of a bogeyman. The hum of the engines turned to a roar as they passed overheard, then began to fade into the distance. As the two men poked their heads from beneath their canvas sheets, an extraordinary crash greeted their ears.

The Canadians watched in disbelief as the two aircraft collided with each other, sending smoke and flames skywards, and debris earthwards.

"Holy fuck!" Bill said, mouth agape. "Did you see that?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Stinson replied automatically, keeping his eyes on the wreckage as it spun downwards, then smashed to pieces on impact.

A few minutes later the German artillery resumed.

## *

Just after dusk, Stinson was sent back to fetch Kellowitz.

"Greetings to Lance Bill," the big Russian whispered.

"Hullo, Czar," Bill replied through the darkness. "You bring us anything for dinner?"

"I bringing the tea and stew; also cheese and bread."

While any civilian might be disappointed to have the same fare served at all hours of the day, Bill didn't mind. Eating the exact same fresh rations for days on end was still better than resorting to tinned, dried, pickled, powdered, or otherwise preserved food. Generally being on outpost duty forced isolated soldiers to subsist off iron rations for days at a time. But when rotations were possible, the best food available was brought up as a kind of reward.

"The battalion must have gotten soft without me. All I do is sit here and my boys bring me hot meals."

"Lance Bill, I make serious, you should not at outpost all time. Others think you go mad. I know you alright, but still, feel afraid you get hurt, you young man."

"Thanks, Czar, but I'll be fine."

"Always you're saying this. And always people saying 'Bombproof Bill.' I say no man is a bombproof. In morning you should go back; too dangerous if Jeermens make attack."

"Alright, alright, shut up about that. Any news from back there?"

"Your friend Post making patrol tonight. His men leaving one-thirty in morning, returning through this outpost at three-thirty. Tells me tell you, 'I visit Lance Bill when I get chance.'"

"Anything else?"

"Sergeant McCloud wanted me tell you–"

"I don't want to hear it," Bill said sharply.

The two ate silently, both men ending the meal by sponging out their mess tins with a wad of bread, and gulping down the soggy chunks with gusto. The cheese would keep well overnight, and they decided to save it for later.

"So what we going to talk about?" Czar asked after a few minutes.

"Tell me about Russia."

Toronto, 1921

"Mister McCloud!"

McCloud had only seen Kate Brown once before, when the battalion had returned from overseas two years earlier. She was just as pretty as he remembered. And though the wound in his face had worsened significantly since then, she didn't startle or look away, as most civilians, and even some veterans did.

"It's nice to see you, Missus Brown," McCloud offered, as Kate presented her right cheek for a kiss. He nervously obliged, glad that his worst abscess had been drained a few days earlier.

"It's great to see you again, Mister McCloud," Kate replied, planting a firm but gentle kiss directly on his grotesque patchwork of skin grafts. "You're not going already, are you?"

"I think I wore out my welcome," McCloud replied, wiping around his lips with a damp handkerchief, trying to make himself look a little more presentable. "Congratulations on the child. Boy or girl?"

"If you don't know that, you couldn't have possibly worn out your welcome. A boy. We've named him, well, William named him John, of course."

McCloud's heart sank at the namesake of Bill's brother, killed in Belgium back when the war seemed like a brief chapter in the men's lives. "That's very nice," he managed. "Where is the little lad?"

"At our house, my parents are watching him. I just wanted to stop by and make sure Bill is keeping his promise."

"What promise is that?"

"No whiskey, no cigarettes. Two beers only, and a single cigar."

"Last I saw he was just drinking soda water."

"Oh, Mister McCloud, you're a dreadful liar. Would you please accompany me back inside?"

"I really should go."

"Please stay a little longer. I've never had a chance to properly thank you for all you've done for William, and for me. I know you tried very hard to keep him safe, and if it weren't for your letters and advice I would have never gone overseas. We may have not even been married."

McCloud tried to take a step backwards and make up an excuse, but something in him wouldn't allow it. "Okay, but call me James," he said, holding the door open for her.

"Kate," she replied, stepping into the Leaf and Crown.

When Gary saw the pair enter he snatched the glass of whiskey and cigarette from Bill's hands, and hid them under the bar. "SOS, Bill; we've been observed. Wife to your seven o'clock."

Bill spun around on his stool, saw Kate and McCloud enter, then promptly fell to the floor in one swift motion. It was obvious they had seen him as he pulled himself to his feet. All his animosity towards McCloud melted away, replaced by fear that Kate would attribute his fall to too much alcohol, rather than a slippery barstool.

Kate sighed openly as Gary approached her. It was clear that he was hoping to pre-emptively avoid a scolding, and give Bill a few moments to recover himself. "I see you noticed that souvenir I just had framed," Post said, pointing to a piece of cloth Kate had already walked right past without a second glance. "Oh yes, this was taken from a German aeroplane just north of Lens in August 1917. It's a truly stirring story."

France, 1917

Post's patrol had been anything but stirring. The night was unusually quiet, but not for a lack of German patrols. Several times Post's men had come within a few yards of the enemy, but the Germans had bigger plans. They didn't want to cause alarm, but simply sought to ensure that their positions did not fall victim to a Canadian raid. They had laid in wait tensely, ready to spring into action only if necessary.

When the patrol came across the crash site of the two aircraft, Post ordered a listening halt. The men fanned out and lay still, while Post inspected the wreckage. Only one body was present, still strapped to the seat by his safety belt; the others had been ejected and lay scattered across no-man's land. Every man in the patrol felt a thrill of jealousy as Post removed the jackknife from his pocket and cut away an iron cross emblem painted onto the canvas covering that blanketed one of the wooden bi-planes. If he was out on a patrol risking his neck anyway, he might as well get something out of it.

"Alright, let's head back," he whispered to the nearest man. "Pass it down, then send up the count."

Before the patrol began to move, each man informed his neighbour that they would be going soon. The last man to receive the message confirmed this by stating the number "one", and patting the next man on the shoulder, with each subsequent man replying with "two," then "three." By the time the man nearest to Post replied with "seven," he knew that all members of his eight-man patrol were aware of what was happening, Post himself being the eighth man. Leaving a soldier accidently marooned in no-man's land was not only dangerous for the lone castaway, but permanently crippled the confidence the others had in the patrol's leader.

"Toronto, patrol coming in, Toronto," Post called when he came near to Bill's outpost.

Kellowitz nudged Bill. Both men were awake, but Bill hadn't heard. "Patrolmen coming, should I call back?"

Bill shook his head. "With that accent they'd think you're a Hun. Toronto, welcome to my humble hole, Toronto."

Post was the first to enter, and counted off his men as they made their way towards the main Canadian line. "Tell the Sir I'll be there in five minutes," he told the last one. "Were you gonna stay here the entire time, Bill?"

"Oh stop it with the lectures. I'm gonna do one shift with each man in my section, if that's okay with you. How many nights have you gone patrolling anyway? You looking to win yourself a wooden cross?"

"Fair play. It's good that you're looking out for your boys."

"I had a good teacher. Well, an okay teacher. Any idea when we're getting relieved?"

"About this time tomorrow."

"Well that's a short little shift in the line."

"Believe it or not, you're pretty cozy here. The guys in the front and support trenches get shelled pretty regularly. Hell, I feel safer in no-man's land at night than I do in the daytime back there. But I think something's brewing. Anyway, I need to go make my report. I'll come visit when it gets light out, if I have the chance."

"Alright, see you soon."

When Post was gone, Bill turned his attention back to Kellowitz. "Thanks."

"Whatting for?"

"You heard Post bringing his men back in. I didn't."

"Is okay, we all have time we need the help, and we all have time to give a help."

"Would you like a promotion, Czar?"

"Trying to get rid of me?"

"No. I just think you'd make a really good NCO."

"No, but thanking, Lance Bill. In old country I have many, what is word, when you must do things all the time?"

"Obligations? Responsibilities?"

"Yes, it's the responsibilities. Being private is nice change from Duke of Warsaw, commander of cavalry brigade, university professman, chief of all the rabbis; all these things I do before. Now only dig, eat, smoke cigarette, march on the route; simple, easy."

"Forget what I said about making a good NCO. They should make you a damned general."

"Lance Bill, you're too high-thinking me, I make good private. That's all."

## *

A few hours later Post returned, with Payne in tow. "Your relief is here, Kelly."

"Why you not calling me Czar? Showing very little respect for my great title. After war, you might not be invited to Winter Palace. Labour in the fields with the serfs, then perhaps you recognize your better."

Post simply tapped the two chevrons on his right sleeve. "I'll call you 'Czar' when you call me 'corp', Kelly."

"Fair enough, comrade Corp."

Post made a show of shooing Kellowitz away. "Alright, now get out of my outpost, comrade Czar."

"Okay, I get out outpost, Post."

Bill and Payne exchanged a glance of exasperation. The other two men's wordplay and verbal sparring was hardly insightful, or easy to follow; they were just two bored men trying to pass another minute before settling into the next part of their days. When time was plentiful and entertainments non-existent, the quality of conversation always suffered.

Once Kellowitz left, Post and Payne settled in. Again, Bill's new man had brought up two mess tins; one full of tea, the other stew.

"How long are you staying for, Gary?" Bill asked.

"All damn day. They've had me working like a dog recently, but I'm not expected to guide or patrol until tonight."

"Aren't there better places to catch a few winks?"

"Not really. Whenever anyone doesn't know what to do, they come to me first. Nobody wants to ask their sergeant or officer where something is or how something is supposed to be done, so they all come to me with their stupid questions. Don't think I'm being anti-social, but after breakfast I'm going right to sleep."

"We shouldn't really be talking on outpost duty anyway," Payne added in a low voice; the kind of voice a married man ought to use on outpost duty.

Bill and Post ignored that. Of course he was right, but neither man cared enough to do things exactly by the book. As long as reasonable precautions were taken, there wasn't a great deal any soldier could do to guarantee his safety. And the Originals didn't consider going all day without some degree of mindless banter reasonable.

Still, Bill was glad when Post drifted off to sleep and Payne remained quiet. While he would have enjoyed a light conversation, he knew the inevitable questions that would be raised. About England, about Kate. His brother-in-law of all people could bring up a variety of sensible questions and propositions to which Bill's only answer would be to shrug them off.

## *

It happened at noon, sharp. The German shellfire ceased entirely. Bill shook Post awake, while Payne pulled on a pair of gloves and grabbed a hand grenade, still sticky with mustard gas residue. After a few moments of silence, the shelling picked up again. But instead of the familiar overhead explosion of shrapnel shells, the quieter crash of gas shells began to perforate the still air. To some men it smelled like garlic, to others onion, but most agreed the gas smelled like mustard, which is how Bis(2-chloroethyl) Sulfide got its common name.

Calls of "Gas, gas, gas!" went up along the line as men struggled not only to pull on their respirators, but also to ensure they were not exposing any skin. Yellow-brown clouds were forming all across the Canadian line, filling the air with the thick gas. Before long, a familiar voice, CSM Turner, could be heard: "Stand-to! Night conditions! McCloud, bring in Outpost A!"

The order "Night conditions" was normally issued when a heavy fog rolled in during the day, limiting visibility. It meant that all ordinary precautions taken during the night would be taken during the day as well. Issued along with a "Stand-to" it was essentially superfluous, but Turner could tell already that this gas attack was intended to obscure the men's vision, and wanted them to keep that in mind throughout. If the Germans were only trying to hassle the Canadians, they would have been dropping gas shells over the past several days. This was deliberate, meant to throw the men off-balance, and probably the precursor to a raid, or even a full attack. Those who were not yet enveloped in the clouds of gas repeated the orders before donning their masks.

Normally stand-to was a time for light conversation with old friends, or a few words of advice for newer ones. Now, nobody could distinguish if their neighbour was a member of the same section, or a man from an entirely different company. But it didn't matter; if the Germans wanted a fight, they would get one, and each soldier in the battalion would do their part.

Bill, Post, and Payne knocked their helmets backwards to the ground as they pulled on their masks; the reason why soldiers in the frontline always wore their chinstraps reversed, curving from ear-to-ear via the back of the neck. Usually the helmets were immediately recovered and worn again, but taking heed from what the men of the Second Battalion had told them, they decided that covering their skin was more important, especially if the rumours of instantaneous and permanent balding were true. Post and Payne carefully fitted standard-issue wool caps and scarves around their masks. Bill tugged on his winter cap, pulled down the ear flaps, then wrapped Hallicks' scarf around the whole mess. They looked more like hobos on a winter night than soldiers.

For several minutes they waited in silence, Post with his rifle to his shoulder, Bill and Payne with bombs at the ready. They could only see a few yards into no-man's land, and for once were able to freely stand in their little hole without fear of enemy sniper fire.

The men knew they were in trouble only when the ominous click of a Luger pistol being cocked sounded from within the gas cloud. It was followed by another, and another, until they knew that German raiders, probably seven or eight of them, were intending on making them their prisoners. It was an "identification raid," designed to bring back live enemies for interrogation. Raiders always preferred handguns over rifles; the limited range seldom mattered much, but the increased rate of fire and ease of manoeuvrability always did.

With their threat made, the raiding party edged closer until their shapes could be distinguished. They too were clad in gloves, scarves, and caps; only the snout of their gas masks protruding, like Medieval Plague Doctors. One even wore a burlap sandbag with eyeholes cut into it, cinched up around the collar of his tunic. None wore helmets. There was nothing for the Canadians to do but slowly lay down their weapons and climb from their outpost, stunned and dismayed. Each man felt the pang of failure more than fear; they had let the entire battalion down. A German soldier grabbed each man by the arm and began to lead them away into no-man's land, toward captivity.

When he saw that the outpost had been abandoned, it was obvious that the gas attack was merely a diversion for a raid. Seeing nothing through the blanket of dark yellow, he had no choice but to remove his gas mask. "Toronto! McCloud! Toronto!"

The Germans without prisoners to escort froze and turned their attention towards the sound, while the others buried the muzzles of their pistols into the Canadians' backs, ensuring they would not try to overpower them. They knew where McCloud was from the sound of his voice, but McCloud still had no idea where the Germans, or the Canadians were. Payne tried in vain to snap his fingers through his gloves, while Bill's screams were too badly muffled through his mask and scarf to be heard.

Post knew a riskier play was needed. He swung himself around as quickly as he could, the dull click of a hammer falling greeting him. Post had been too slow, but the repeated jerks of his enemy's trigger could only mean a misfire. Lugers were light, quick-firing, and easy to reload, but had never been the most reliable of handguns; the eight-round magazine often caused problems.

Post disregarded the jammed weapon, instead grabbing the other man's forearm with both hands and breaking his wrist. While the German's cry of pain was inaudible to his comrades, the cracking of bone resounded in the otherwise still air.

It was loud enough for McCloud to move forward in the right direction and catch sight of the nearest raider through the gas cloud, fire off two shots, and see him tumble to the ground. The distinctive crash of the Webley .455 revolver, twice as loud as a German Luger, made the still-invisible Canadian sergeant an inviting target. Luger fire filled the air as German rounds flitted past McCloud, who worked his way further into no-man's land. With four rounds remaining in the cylinder's rotating chambers, and the impossibility of fumbling to reload bullets in the middle of a firefight, McCloud couldn't afford to shoot at anything he was unsure of hitting.

Payne's guard raised his pistol and joined in, firing three shots at where the Webley's report still hung in the air. It was easy for the big Canadian to break free, take hold of the other man's hand, and shove the barrel of the gun towards the earth. With his free hand, he punched the German in the throat, then again in the right kidney; dirty fighting at its finest. In a flash the gun was in Payne's hand, and his opponent was on the ground.

With McCloud invisible once more, the raiders turned their attention back to their prisoners. One German turned his pistol toward Payne, demanding his surrender. Now with a fraction of a fighting chance, Payne decided not to repeat the humiliation of being captured. He steadied his grip on the unfamiliar pistol, firing as his arm swept upwards. The German opened fire before Payne even managed his first shot. Remarkably, both men emptied their magazines entirely without hitting each other, though only yards away.

Post fumbled with the slide of his jammed Luger, finally managing to eject two dented bullets, and chamber a third. Through the gas cloud, he fired off the remaining five rounds at where he supposed the other raiders to be, all the while stiffening with dreadful anticipation; he would rather be facing down a machine-gun that he could see, than a few handguns which he couldn't.

The familiar bang of a .303 rifle was a welcome sound. Company Sergeant Major Turner had heard the commotion and arrived with two men from the neighbouring "Outpost B"; an impromptu rescue party just large enough to be effective, and just small enough to keep control of through the confusion. Soon every German was either on the ground or retreating, except for one man. The raider who had grabbed hold of Bill was taking careful steps backwards, his pistol shoved into the temple of his human shield. He wasn't trying to make off with a prisoner, but to avoid becoming one himself.

Turner signalled for his escorts to stay with the muddle of Canadians and Germans, and raised his rifle to his shoulder. The man who had Bill hostage was just within sight, but the CSM had to continue to move forward to keep it that way; preventing him from standing still and getting a clear line of fire. If this went on much longer, he would have to risk taking an unsteady shot, or allowing one of his boys to be taken prisoner.

McCloud's revolver rang out once more, just inches away from the last German's head. Skull splinters, flesh, and brain spewed out the exit wound just above his left ear. Bill fell to the ground at the same time, dragged down by the weight of the dead man. McCloud tugged him back to his feet, and pulled him towards the Canadian lines.

## *

It was eight o'clock before the gas dispersed enough for the men to remove their respirators and have a late dinner: corned beef and biscuits. There had been no opportunity to bring forward fresh rations through the gas, and the men were far too hungry after so many hours in their masks to bother brewing tea. The overpowering stink of mustard still hung in the air and even tainted their food.

The bombing post had been taken over by Stinson, Kellowitz, and Dawson, who would hold it until relief came a few hours after midnight. Post and Payne were being interviewed by Captain Reid regarding the techniques of the German raiders, and congratulated for the enemy soldiers that they had managed to bring back alive.

The battalion's intelligence officer, half-fluent in German, was already interrogating the prisoners before sending them rearwards. Whiskey, coffee, cigarettes, and sweets had done much to make the Germans more talkative. And while military matters were initially avoided, useful information could still be gleaned through casual conversation. Lance Corporal Fyles, and any other Canadian who could manage "a few words of Hun" had been brought along to help make light conversation with those awaiting the IO's examination.

Bill and McCloud had been brought to the battalion's medical officer; Bill for his bleeding ears, aggravated by McCloud's final gunshot, and McCloud for his wounded jaw. Donning his gas mask had required the sergeant to remove his bandage, and doffing it in order to delay the German raiders' escape had exposed his wound to the mustard gas.

Now, what had been a not-too-deep cut was a burnt, blistered, and bubbling open sore. But McCloud was nothing if not a stoic, and resisted the urge to cry out in agony, as others with less invasive gas burns were doing. An anti-inflammatory salve had been applied lightly, but the wound had not yet been re-bandaged, in order to allow it to air out. The MO himself admitted that he wasn't really sure how best to deal with the new German gas, especially in a complicated case such as McCloud's.

Bill ignored his saviour as best he could, trying constantly to convince the MO that he was ready to depart his makeshift aid station and return to Three Section. At last he was permitted to leave, and returned to the bombing post to await the men of the Fifth Canadian Mounted Rifles, long-since dismounted and converted to infantry, who would be relieving them shortly.

# CHAPTER THREE

Toronto, 1921

"William, can I speak to you for a moment?" Kate asked, already nodding politely to McCloud and Post, while taking a few steps away from them.

"Good luck," both men muttered as Bill sulked towards his wife.

"I want you to apologize to Mister McCloud," Kate said in a quiet, stern tone.

"What? Why?" Bill whispered back.

"You said something awful to him; I could see it in his eyes. He was hurt."

"I've told you before; he's no friend of mine."

"I want you to apologize to him. Now."

"Absolutely not."

Kate raised her voice. "William Richard Brown–"

"Hey," Gary called over with a smirk. "He's gone... Dick."

"For Christ, Kate, now everyone's gonna know my middle name. Don't you dare tell anyone, Gary."

Post had already made his retreat, returned to the bar, and began re-filling empty glasses.

"Do you know why Mister McCloud left?" Kate demanded, without waiting for an answer. "He knew I would ask you to apologize, and wanted to spare your vanity."

"You don't know him like I do," Bill pleaded. "He's a manipulative, vindictive, evil man. He's rotten to the core."

"He saved your life."

"Bah, he kept me from being taken prisoner; that doesn't mean he saved my life."

"Well if you had been taken prisoner, you wouldn't have been there the first time," Kate said, rubbing her stomach unconsciously.

France, 1917

When the battalion returned to Mazingarbe, a hot breakfast awaited them. Corporal Wells, B Company's cook, stood to one side of his bulky field kitchen, ladling out tea. Sergeant McCloud stood at the other end, serving up brown beans mixed with chopped bacon to grateful and exhausted soldiers. Privates were served first, then NCOs, then officers. The kitchen was a sort of giant wood-burning stove on wheels with various compartments for heating food and water; it was normally horse-drawn when in motion, but could also be broken down and loaded onto a truck.

"I'm not sure anyone has thanked you yet, but the hot meals were really appreciated by the men. I know you must have moved the cook wagon awfully close to the front; I burned my mouth over your stew," McCloud said. He didn't really care about hot meals, but he knew that everyone else did, and that Wells' effort had probably gone unacknowledged.

"I didn't know food could be too hot in trenches," Wells said with a smile. "I'll throw some ice in next time."

"Just look what it did to my face!" McCloud replied, pulling down his loosely wrapped bandage to reveal his gas-infected wound.

"Jesus. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm just kidding you."

Wells was taken aback to hear McCloud making a joke; it had been a long time. "Shot or shrapnel?"

"Shrapnel, then gas."

"And they didn't evacuate you?"

"They offered. I hate hospitals though; you pick up more germs in there than you would at the front."

"Still, that looks serious."

"If it gets worse I'll go. But they won't do anything other than smear Vaseline all over it."

## *

Immediately after breakfast the men were allowed to disperse and see to their filthy equipment and clothing. The shower-house, currently allotted to men of another battalion, would have to wait. If there had been a river, or even a tiny stream, hundreds of fully-clothed men would have been sloshing about in it, turning it yellow with gas residue.

Every man in the battalion was exhibiting some kind of symptom, from violent coughing and sneezing, to rashes and blisters, to burns of varying degrees. Armpits and groins were scratched or rubbed in vain desperation: sweaty pores could easily absorb the gas even through thick wool uniforms. Even those who had managed to keep the gas off their skin during their time in the trenches were experiencing the side-effects of secondary exposure from their comrades, and their own clothing and gear.

Old Jack had distributed a supply of collapsible canvas buckets, insisting on recording the name and service number of each man who received one. Bill had been called to the front of the line and given two; a perk of being a friend of the company quartermaster.

Long queues formed around tiny fountains and wells, the men already in various states of undress. Bill had made his way to the front of one line-up consisting mostly of soldiers from B Company, loudly flaunting his status as an Original. The waiting men parted as Bill called for members of Six Platoon to join him; the scene would have made Moses proud. Kellowitz and Payne took turns on the hand-pump, quickly filling both buckets.

It was an abandoned clothesline that caught Bill's attention. He set the buckets down near it, and the two-dozen men with him, all privates, began to strip down. The water wasn't for washing their clothes, but their bodies. At least the uniforms could be hung out on the line and allowed to air out slightly. Besides, they could wait, or hopefully be replaced altogether; no quartermaster could issue out a fresh set of skin.

"Why are you wearing three identity discs?" Dawson asked Bill, both men entirely naked. "Afraid of ending up in a sandbag or something? I thought you were bombproof."

Bill wasn't paying attention. He was in mourning over the condition of his brass cap badge. It had been turned a dull greenish-black, like mould. The proud "Toronto Regiment" and Roman numeral "III" were barely discernible, while the wreath of maple leaves looked more like a hollowed out cold sore. The "C/3" collar badges were in no better shape.

Stinson could see the expression of pain on Bill's face and placed an arm around him. "At least you've got something to keep you busy. They'll shine up again with time."

"Yeah," Bill replied dejectedly. "Thanks, Stins."

"And your ring got through alright."

Bill dared not touch his wedding ring, still tied to his identity discs, for fear he would damage it. If the cap and collar badges didn't shine up perfectly, so be it, but the ring was far more precious. Or at least that's how he felt ever since returning to the battalion; in England it had been a different story.

The buckets of water turned yellow and slimy before any of the men were even somewhat clean. Every few minutes a man would wriggle into his uniform and go for a refill, leaving the remainder to rub at themselves with damp facecloths that would certainly be discarded before the day was over.

## *

After an hour a sergeant wearing the badge of the Canadian Army Service Corps approached the group. "You lot, get dressed; I need a work party."

Bill fetched his underwear and boots, but motioned for the other men to remain as they were. "Sergeant, can we have a private chat?"

"Who are you?"

"I'm the top man here."

The sergeant scanned the filthy tunics hanging on the clothesline, then settled on the only one with any rank insignia sewn to it. "Get them dressed. It won't take long."

Bill was still sliding into his boots. "I'll be with you in just a moment."

"Now, Lance Corporal. Get your men dressed."

Something in the sergeant's tone was enough to destroy what tact Bill had left for the day. Slipping back out of his boots, and underwear, he decided that the "private chat" would be a public one. "I cannot give you these men."

The sergeant's face reddened with anger. "You will, immediately."

"I'm sorry, Sergeant, but you aren't in my chain of command. Normally I would oblige you, but we just got out of the frontline, and every man here is suffering from mustard gas poisoning. We're casualties, and we'll not act as a work party."

"Who's your company commander?"

"Captain Reid, Third Battalion, B Company. And my name's Bill Brown."

Twenty minutes later the sergeant returned with Captain Reid. Reid was barefoot, wearing only a collared shirt and trousers; he too was doing his best to rid himself of the persistent gas. "Lance Corporal Brown, I understand you won't give this nice sergeant a work party. Is that right?"

Bill was still naked, and now smoking a cigarette as he rubbed a damp cloth across his buttocks. "Yes, Sir."

Reid, obviously annoyed with the sergeant at having to put his trousers back on, was fully intent on giving him a hard time. "I think that was very good of you. I'm glad to have NCOs who know when to make decisions for themselves. Even if it means crossing a dolt with a few more stripes than him."

The sergeant's face reddened again, this time with embarrassment. He had been expecting the officer to lecture his lance corporal and arrange for a work party.

"Sergeant, it would be very kind of you to bring these men as much soap, towels, clean socks, underwear, and shirts that you can get your hands on. In fact, I want two hundred of each; thank you. In the meantime I'm going to speak with your officers, and let them know how helpful you've been. Maybe they'll pin a Meritorious Service Medal on you."

Bill's group broke into laughter at that, as the sergeant stormed away. The MSM was the kind of medal awarded for devotion to duty outside of the frontlines. To the soldiers of an infantry battalion it meant less than nothing.

"Fellows, I wanted to thank you for an outstanding performance under very trying circumstances. B Company will have the shower-house just after lunch. Carry on."

"Sir," Bill called after Captain Reid.

"Yes?"

Bill grinned and offered an intentionally sloppy salute.

Captain Reid made a motion as if to doff and don a top hat, as the men erupted in cheers and applause. A bow finished the officer's performance.

## *

The men of B Company were not yet dry when the order came to form up for a route march. Five miles and four hours later, the battalion sauntered into Barlin, a little coal-mining town much like Mazingarbe. The men of C and D Companies, whose turn to use the shower-house had not yet come, were glad to learn that a small pond, in fact an abandoned and long-since flooded mine pit, was only a short walk from the already-crowded billets.

Bill was heading towards an abandoned house buzzing with NCOs when CSM Turner approached him.

"Lance Corporal Brown, how are you?"

"Good, Sir," Bill replied anxiously as more NCOs crammed into the building, no doubt jockeying for choice real estate.

"I have a favour to ask."

Bill feared the worst, like calling drill for replacements, or forming part of a ceremonial guard for a special parade. "Of course, Sir."

"I can see that your badges were tarnished by that gas."

All at once Bill noticed that Turner wasn't wearing his own cap and collar badges. "I'll get them cleaned up as soon as possible."

"I know you will," Turner said, reaching into his pocket. "I'd like you to do mine too. Apart from me, you have the best badges in the battalion, and that includes the other CSMs."

"And the RSM?" Bill asked facetiously.

Turner ignored that. "If I weren't so busy with–"

"CSM stuff," Bill cut in helpfully.

"That's right. I'd do it myself."

Bill had no problem believing that. Judging by the shine on the CSM's pace stick, already fully-restored, Turner probably enjoyed polishing brass more than drinking, gambling, or even sex. "I will certainly do my best," Bill said.

"I want them first thing in the morning. I'll find you at breakfast, alright? They don't need to be perfect, but you wouldn't want to let me down, would you?"

"Of course not, Sir."

"Good. I'll see you in the morning."

"Uh, Sir."

"Yes, Lance Corporal?"

"If you hadn't shown up when you did–"

"Don't get all soppy on me now, Brown. Besides, you should be thanking Sergeant McCloud. One more thing, I'm bumping you back up to full corporal the next time we have a chance for a parade."

"Thank you, Sergeant Major."

"The Sir told me about you and that sergeant from the CASC," Turner said, allowing himself a slight wink and approving smile. "You're going to keep looking after your boys, right?"

"Yes, Sergeant Major."

"Good. Now go get yourself a billet."

# CHAPTER FOUR

A week later the Third Battalion was ten miles east, in Orlencourt. They had spent the last few days practicing for a big inspection, and in another two hours it would commence. General Haig, the commander of all British and Empire forces in Europe, would be inspecting all four battalions of the First Canadian Brigade. Inspections on this scale didn't mean looking for tiny deficiencies in a man's uniform or equipment. This was a formality, and while each section commander would conduct their own thorough inspections beforehand, General Haig would simply stand on a pedestal while thousands of soldiers marched past. Afterwards he would tell the commanding officers of each battalion that he was thoroughly impressed, that this brigade was the finest under his command, et cetera. For now, the bulk of the battalion was sitting in a field, waiting for the final call to form up.

B Company headquarters, a larger house that had once belonged to the mayor, was nearly empty. A skeleton crew that consisted of Captain Reid and Corporal Post was also waiting; at the last minute, the captain would join the company for the parade. Post was one of the few men allowed to sit it out – in case of an emergency someone had to be at company headquarters.

"It'll have to wait for after the parade, but I have a surprise for you and Private Payne," Captain Reid said.

"The good kind of surprise, Sir?" Post asked.

"I should hope so. Short leave to Paris; seven days."

Post was ecstatic. His previous leaves had been spent in England; why waste an annual two-week furlough in a city where the women couldn't be romanced in English? London had always been his destination of choice. But short leave was different: a kind of bonus. And with only seven days, a trip to England would be all but wasted on travel time.

"This is a reward for the prisoners we took, right, Sir?"

"You and Payne did a fine job. Brigade headquarters was very happy with the Huns you brought in alive."

"Jimmy, uh, Sergeant McCloud, and the CSM really did more than me or Payne."

"No offence intended, but I can't spare them. I can spare you and Payne. Besides, Sergeant McCloud and CSM Turner would reject the offer and try to trade it off to yourself and Lance Corporal Brown anyway."

"Brown didn't really do anything."

"I know. But McCloud and Turner have a soft spot for him. I'm sure you know more about it than I do."

It was true. The quartet of Originals had been together, more or less, for the past three years.

"Could I give my leave to Brown?"

"Why? You just said yourself he didn't earn it."

"His wife is in England. I know short leave is usually kept more local, but if he doesn't mind wasting the extra travel days–"

"Unfortunately I need Lance Corporal Brown for the brigade school. It's our turn to provide instructors: bombers, Lewis Gunners, and the like. It should just be for six weeks."

"He won't like that, Sir."

"If there is some problem, he can take it up with the CSM. I've put him in charge of picking the instructors, and since Lance Corporal Brown has just returned from a tasking at a bombing school in England, I'm sure he'll be chosen." Reid checked his watch. "It's about time I join the company. Don't interrupt the parade for anything but an SOS."

"Of course, Sir," Post replied, his mind already fluttering with schemes, explanations, and downright lies.

Once Reid left, Post was alone. A box of papers: blank war diary templates, requisition forms, nominal rolls, and leave passes was his target. He snatched two passes then ran to catch up with Reid.

"You get lonely or something? Don't tell me the German army launched an attack once they saw me leave HQ."

"No, Sir. You see a fellow, a truck driver, just came by headquarters asking for directions. He was on his way to Paris."

"And you want to skip out on the parade and take your leave?"

"He promised to wait fifteen minutes."

"We can sort out a ride after the parade."

"But the First Battalion let their guys go."

"They did?"

"Uh huh, and the Second and Fourth, Sir."

"Well, in that case..."

Post produced the two leave passes and a pen, then turned and crouched to allow the company commander to use his back as a writing surface.

"Initials and service number?" Reid asked.

"G, it's for Gary, Sir. Nine, seven, eight, five."

"No middle name?"

"Just Gary, Sir."

"And Private Payne?"

"T, don't know his service number, but I'll make sure he fills it out on the truck."

Reid signed and dated both passes then handed them off to Post. "You know that I spoil you, right?"

"I know it, Sir," Post said with a huge smile and a quick salute.

"Off you go, enjoy yourselves."

## *

"Bill, come here," Post said, motioning for Bill to drop out of his place in the ranks. The parade would be starting in ten minutes, and the men were standing in formation, ready to come to attention and step off.

Bill shot a quick glance left and right. He was in the front rank; CSM Turner would certainly notice the empty space. "You there," Bill said in his best NCO voice, making his way towards Stinson, positioned in the rearmost rank. "Ever hear of buttoning up your tunic? Fall out, quick, let's get you sorted out."

Stinson obeyed, but asked quietly, "What do you mean, Bill?"

"Nevermind. I need you to go take my place in the front rank. You know how nervous parades make me. I don't want to make the battalion look bad."

"Oh, sure, no problem."

"Thanks, Stins; I'll owe you a pint."

With Stinson now filling Bill's spot, he ducked back towards Post.

"Get back to billets, don't get caught. Put a few changes of underclothes in your haversack, all your money too. Here, give me your identity discs and paybook."

"Are we deserting?" Bill asked casually.

"Sort of."

"Okay, but I'll need the ring, and Hal's ticket."

Bill didn't need to ask what the hell Post was talking about. Something was up, and following his old section commander's instructions was an instinct that came to him readily. He complied and began to skulk away, as Post tracked down Payne and covertly traded Bill's identity discs and paybook for his brother-in-law's. A man's paybook, which had no photograph and listed no physical description, along with his identity discs, were the only means for a soldier to prove who they were. With Payne's discs and book, Bill could easily become his doppelganger, and make use of the leave pass intended for him.

"I'm not even gonna ask," Payne said. "Wait, I really have to ask."

"It's for Bill, they're gonna send him away again, but I have a plan, trust me."

"Okay, just don't get yourselves court-martialled or anything."

"I'll try. Thanks. I'll send you a postcard from Paris."

"Paris?" Payne asked unbelievingly as Post disappeared. "Do I get to go too?"

Post smiled and shrugged as an officer called: "Parade! Attention!"

## *

For nearly five miles the fugitives made their way south on foot, as Post explained the situation. Bill didn't know what made him happier: a week in Paris, or knowing that when he returned the bombing instructor position would have already been filled by someone else. Skipping out on a big parade and snubbing the highest ranking man on the continent was the icing on the cake.

At Tincques, one of the seemingly millions of little villages, a main road ran southeast to Arras, and they began to hitchhike. Soon after, a big truck rumbled to a halt near them, and both men squeezed into the cab, Bill half-sitting on Post's lap. The driver was a talkative Englishman, probably a relative of Old Jack's, and the Canadians said little throughout the ride. In less than an hour they had arrived at a station just southwest of Arras, thanked the driver, and dismounted.

Arras, the largest city in the immediate area, had been a rail hub before the war. But owing to its proximity to the frontlines, trains stayed a safe distance back, turning formerly tiny stations into large depots. Walking a few miles down the track, Post and Bill came to a station that was buzzing with activity, while the platform itself was surprisingly empty. They had just missed the train, and had no idea when the next one would come. But they didn't care.

## *

Paris.

"What'll we do first?" Bill asked. "See the Eiffel Tower? The Louvre? The Arc de Triomphe? Notre Dame Cathedral? The catacombs?"

"I wonder if they rebuilt the Moulin Rouge yet," Post mused.

"You still want to see that dancer lady, huh?"

"Mistinguett. You know her legs are insured for ten hundred thousand dollars, or something like that."

"Something like that, I'm sure."

"But we can go see one of those places first."

"That's okay, I need a drink anyway. And not that watery swill they serve in estaminets. I want a real beer – in a bottle."

"It's settled then. I'll ask this fellow, he looks like a veteran," Post said. "Excuse moi, les monsieur, we are les Canadians, can you les helpez us?"

Although the man wore civilian clothes, several medals were pinned to his jacket. He was obviously befuddled with Post's sad attempt to communicate, but saw enough wound badges and qualification patches between the two men to decide to help, and keep it simple. "Mon camarade, comment puis-je nous aider?"

"What did he say, Bill?"

"He says, uh, 'How can I help you?'"

"Tell him we want to know if the Moulin Rouge is rebuilt yet."

"I don't know how to say that."

"Well just, okay, I'll try. Les Moulin Rouge, oui?"

"Oui," the man replied slowly, not knowing what Post was getting at.

"Uh, je, want, want, you know? I want to go there."

The man shrugged his shoulders. "Je suis désolé, je ne comprends pas."

"Mistinguett?" Post offered.

"Ah oui, Mistinguett," the man replied, his eyes lighting up. "Elle donne une présentation au Folies Bergère. Pas au Moulin Rouge."

"You get that, Bill?"

"Yeah, it's the name of a night club, you know from that famous painting; 'A Bar at the Folies Bergere.'" Bill turned his attention to the veteran. "Mistinguett est a la Folies Bergere, oui?"

"Bonne chance mes amis, je vous souhaite un bon séjour à Paris," the man said, deciding that if the Canadians had any other questions they should ask someone in a khaki uniform.

"Thanks, pal, amis, ami? Mercy," Post said. "Okay, Bill, you know this Folly Berger place, where is it?"

"I said I know it from a painting; I don't actually know how to get to it."

"Oh, right. Let's ask a Brit how to get there."

"Good idea."

## *

Asking a Brit had in fact been a bad idea. The first few men they spoke to, also on short leave, had never even heard of the Folies Bergere. The next few gave very confident but very inaccurate directions that sent Bill and Post in circles. It wasn't until after dark that the pair finally reached their destination, and both men felt that they had arrived in the Promised Land... except for the several hundred people, mostly officers and well-dressed civilians, lined up outside waiting to be admitted.

"Well this is hopeless," Post conceded. "We could wait until three in the morning and still not be anywhere near the door. We have all week; maybe tomorrow night won't be so busy."

"Maybe, but look at this crowd: high society types with lots of money to spend. I don't think two Canadian NCOs are going to get a warm welcome, even if we did get to the front of the line."

"You think they won't let us in at all?"

"No. But I've got an idea. Help me push to the front of the line. Just look confident and don't say anything."

A few dozen "Excusez mois" later, Bill and Post were confronted by two large men in expensive suits. Neither doorman wore medals, but both looked like combat veterans: tough, confident, and a little disingenuous towards their high-class patrons. Bill leaned in close and whispered something into one of their ears, as Post set his jaw with entitled arrogance. Much to his surprise, the two men made way, and allowed the lowly Canadians to enter; though escorted them past the ticket booth and directly into a huge lobby. One even grinned and patted Post on the back approvingly. The foyer was lined with bars on either side, bustled with socialites in the space between, and ended with a grand staircase that led to the main theatre.

"What did you say to them, Bill?" Post asked.

"I told them you were Mistinguette's garcon."

"What?"

"Her, well... her hired companion."

Post cracked a huge smile. "A man-whore?"

"Basically."

"Oh hell, how are we gonna get in? We don't have tickets."

"I guess the gentlemen callers meet the ladies here and head off to a private room. Maybe we can bluff our way in... again."

"Maybe," Post echoed, his attention being pulled towards one of the young women serving drinks.

"Can't resist la filles, eh?"

"Think they're for sale?"

"Some of them. The one you're looking at, what's she selling?" Bill asked, straining his eyes.

"Wine, beer, oranges."

"Aha! Go buy an orange from her, and don't expect estaminet rates. It'll be about fifty francs I'd think."

"Fifty? For an orange?"

"No. It's a high society thing, you buy the orange and you get her too."

"Oh. Classy."

"You got enough money?"

"I've been saving up for my next leave to England, but they'll be plenty of time to make my money back before then. I've got almost a thousand francs."

"Before you spend it all on girls, can you loan me, let's say, a hundred?"

"No cash, eh?" Post said, handing over a wad of paper money. "Allowment to the wife; I understand."

"Allotment," Bill corrected, and set off in search of bottled beer.

## *

After Post's time between the sheets, the girl he had bought the orange from brought him and Bill to an opera box that was always kept empty for unexpected but very important guests. Free food and alcohol were provided, while the girl and a few friends of hers kept Bill and Post company.

"How much did you pay for this?" Bill asked.

Post winked and grinned lecherously. "I performed long, hard physical labour for the young lady."

When Mistinguette appeared on stage, the crowd erupted. Post leapt to his feet and began blowing kisses. She could sing, dance, act, tell jokes, and most of all, hold the eyes of every man, and woman for that matter, in the audience. Except Bill's.

## *

By the time their leave was up, both men were penniless. The hotels and expensive meals of the first few days added up quickly, and the pair had ended up taking most of their meals, and sleeping, at various servicemen's organizations. Bill had even spent the last two days sober. Closer to the front they learned that the battalion was still in the vicinity of Orlencourt, but preparing to move back up to the line.

Reporting in at company headquarters, Bill expected a very long, very loud lecture. Technically speaking he had not only stolen another man's identity, he had deserted as well. B Company headquarters went silent when Bill and Post entered. Clerks, signallers, runners, and officers all averted their gaze.

"Brown," Captain Reid called softly. "Come here, please."

Bill nervously approached Reid's desk, came smartly to attention and rendered a crisp salute, by way of an apology. "I'm sorry, Sir, I don't–"

Reid's expression was enough to silence Bill: pale and sympathetic. He handed over a telegram. "This came for you early this morning."

Telegrams were rarely sent to men in infantry battalions. It could only be bad personal news.

URGENT

GENERAL POST OFFICE, LONDON 2135

BROWN, W, 9356, 3 CAN INF, FRANCE

WIFE IN SOUTH LONDON HOSPITAL FOR WOMEN STOP MISCARRIAGE STOP COME AT ONCE FULL STOP

Bill was in his own world, oblivious to everything except the telegram. He didn't even know that Kate had been pregnant. The dreaded words "come at once" were always reserved for those who were not expected to survive much longer. More papers followed: a letter from Kate dated one week earlier, a compassionate leave pass, an envelope stuffed with money. Reid laid them on the desk along with Bill's paybook and identity discs.

Turner hugged Bill and spoke quietly in his ear. "We've all been saying prayers for your wife, and we've made a collection around the company. Buy her some flowers from all of us. Sergeant McCloud has arranged for an automobile to take you directly to Calais, and convinced the CO not to charge you with desertion. The leave pass is good for two months. Corporal Post, would you please pack a bag for Mister Brown," it was a statement, not a request. "Include some corporal's stripes."

Post gathered up the papers from Reid's desk. "I'll get Payne's paybook back to him, Sir."

"I know. And once Brown is on his way, we're going to have a little chat."

Toronto, 1921

"Poor McCreery had to take your spot at the brigade school. He was pissed," Post said, laughing a little and pouring three glasses of water. "Not at having to instruct on the bombs, but at not getting a chance to learn the Lewis Gun. He must have gone for nearly a year before he was actually qualified on that damned thing."

"What happened to you, Gary?" Kate asked. "Wasn't Mister Reid angry that you orchestrated the whole thing?"

"Oh, he was mad at first. But I accused him of being jealous that he never got to see the Folies Bergere, which amused him too much to want to charge me with anything."

"And Mister McCloud? Did you ever thank him for arranging your compassionate leave, William?"

"He did what any platoon sergeant would have done for one of his section commanders," Bill replied.

"Any decent platoon sergeant," Kate corrected.

"Reid and Carter went to bat for you too. So did Turner," Post added. "It was mostly McCloud though."

Bill ignored that. "What's with the water, Gary? I might as well finish that drink."

Post turned to Kate for approval. "It really was just his second drink."

"Oh, I'm sure it was, if you count a half pint of beer mixed with a half pint of whiskey as one drink."

"Come on, Dear, seeing McCloud really set me on edge," Bill protested.

"Fine. I'll see you at home."

"Wait, wait – just give me a few more minutes."

"If you get drunk you're not sleeping in bed tonight."

"Wouldn't be the first time."

# CHAPTER FIVE

England, 1917

Sitting on a nightstand next to a hospital bed, Bill rubbed at his wedding ring constantly. It was just after midnight, and he was waiting for Kate to wake up. A part of him wanted to nudge her into consciousness, or hoped that she would sleep fitfully and open her eyes soon. Waiting for her was excruciating; he wanted to know how she was feeling, what she was thinking. He wanted to hear her voice, to look into her eyes, but mostly to tell her that he loved her and that everything would work out alright.

With nothing better to do, he began to dig through the bag that Post had packed for him. Sitting at the very top was Kate's letter. Reading it would be the next best thing to sate his appetite for her companionship. But it would be the old Kate, the one writing to say that she was pregnant, that they would be a family now. It would be an illusion, a lost prospect. He shoved the letter further into his bag.

A rag and a small bottle of brass polish had been set directly beneath the letter; Post knew Bill well. Removing his cap and collar badges, he set about attempting to restore their previous shine. Two hours later, all that remained were a few stubborn green-black marks. Trying to keep himself awake, Bill stood and leaned against the wall, then slowly allowed himself to slump to the floor.

"Am I dreaming?" Kate mumbled.

Bill's eyes snapped open, and he scrambled to his knees. Kate had the most amazing green eyes, he suddenly realized; like little perfect emeralds. "No, Kate, you're not dreaming. I'm here."

"William. You were here before," Kate replied. "But it was just a dream. Is it really you?"

Bill held out his soiled rag and now-gleaming cap and collar badges. "I bet dream Bill doesn't stink of Brasso."

"Oh, good, it is you," Kate whispered, before closing her eyes and falling asleep again.

Hearing Kate speak was like a lullaby for Bill, who rested his head on the edge of the bed, and fell asleep too.

## *

When Bill awoke it was light out. Kate was sitting partway up in bed, slowly running her fingers through his hair and humming Daisy Bell. She hadn't seen him smile like that for three years. "Good morning, William."

"Your hands will get dirty," Bill said through a yawn.

"No they won't."

Bill sidled up to Kate and laid a kiss on her lips. "Yes, they will."

"It's your breath that concerns me," Kate replied, kissing him back.

"Guess I haven't brushed my teeth since Paris."

"Paris?" She asked with a big smile and a little laugh.

"It's a long story, I'll tell you later. And don't worry," Bill said, holding up his ring finger. "I was a good boy."

Kate's smile faded as she remembered the reason she had come to Europe in the first place. Bill had not always been faithful to her.

Bill recognized the expression and decided to change the subject, his own face contorting remorsefully. "They made me a corporal again. Would you sew my stripes back on for me? Please."

"Of course, William."

Toronto, 1921

Kate was true to her word, and when they returned home, Bill was condemned to a reading chair in the living room. Kate's parents were asleep on the loveseat; baby John in a little crib. She gently lifted him up, waking him and sending him into a crying fit.

Kate's mother woke too. "Everything okay, Kit?"

"When was the last time John was changed and fed?"

"What time is it now?"

"Just after ten o'clock."

"About two hours ago. I gave him half a bottle, and he still had a clean nappy then."

"He doesn't now. I'll give him a change and take him to bed. Thanks for staying so late, Mom."

"Oh it was wonderful. John is such a handsome boy."

"You're welcome," Bill chimed in, already slumped in his chair. "It comes from my mother's side."

Kate's mother hadn't approved of Bill's sense of humour since 1914, but attributed it to a side-effect of his time in the army. "Very funny, William. Do you want me to change him, Kit?"

"No, it's okay. If you and Dad want to stay–"

"That's alright, Kit, it's a short walk."

"Night conditions!" Bill blurted out. "Extra sentries always help."

Kate's mother looked at her quizzically.

"I think William is saying that he's had a bit too much to drink, and it might be nice if you and dad stayed. Why don't you go upstairs to the guest room, we'll be up in a few minutes," Kate said, changing John.

Once her parents were upstairs, she slid one side of her dress down and began to feed him.

"Do I get any?" Bill asked.

"Don't be a boor, William."

"Oh, you love it. I'm the funniest guy in the city, and the city must have at least two or three dozen residents."

Kate stifled a smile and shook her head in mock disapproval. "Goodnight, William."

"You're really gonna make me sleep down here?"

"If you sober up at some point, you can join me then. I don't want you groping me all night."

Bill had a habit of doing that after drinking.

"Fair play, Dear. But you know the best thing to help a man sober up is a little milk."

"Goodnight, William."

Bill couldn't sleep. He was still lightheaded from the whiskey, and wanted nothing more than to join Kate in bed. He stumbled to his desk and began sorting through his "war junk" drawer; looking for a photograph that Kate had sent to him in late 1916. Old postcards, citations, and letters crowded the drawer, medals and badges scattered throughout. Bill removed the entire drawer and laid it on the desk.

Kate's letter was still unopened, "S.W.A.K." – sealed with a kiss – blissfully scribbled in pencil on the flap. He kissed the seal in turn, then opened it.

August 27th, 1917

Dearest darling William,

I have joyful news: I am pregnant. I wanted to wait until I was certain to write you, although I had a feeling just after you left that I might be. What will we name the baby? I was thinking David if he's a boy, Ruth if she's a girl. What do you think?

I know you'll return to your instructor's job and join me in England again. Soon we'll be a real family.

I have a lot more letters to write, so I must be off. More later.

All my love,

Katherine

XOXOXO

Bill returned the letter to the envelope and went upstairs. Kate was still awake, John lying on her chest, somewhere between still feeding and fast asleep.

"Don't tell me you sobered up that quickly," Kate whispered.

"I'll prove it," Bill replied, carefully lying in bed next to her, not wanting to disturb the baby.

The whiskey, beer, and smoke were still easily detectable on his lips and tongue. But when he kissed her it was soft and sweet; loyal love, not drunken lust.

"Sober enough?" Bill asked after a long kiss.

Kate said nothing; she had fallen asleep. When John woke and began to fuss, Bill carried him downstairs so he wouldn't wake Kate. "Let mommy sleep, John. I'll tell you a story. It's about a very brave soldier that we named you after."

# END OF PART I

# PART II

#

# DIED OF WOUNDS

##

## But when the dreaded moment's there

## He'll face us all, a soldier yet,

## Watch his bared wounds with unmoved air,

## (Though tell-tale lashes still are wet),

## And smoke his woodbine cigarette.

## –Eva Dobell

# CHAPTER SIX

Toronto, 1923

The family had requested that veterans not wear their medals or association badges. Bill and Post had worn matching black armbands. For the first time on Armistice Day, the Leaf and Crown was closed. Both men sat at a little table, pints of beer and cigarettes quickly disappearing. A funeral card lay between them.

In Loving Memory of Robert Leonard Carter

who died suddenly on Tuesday November 6th, 1923

in his thirtieth year

May his soul rest in peace

"We have loved him in life, let us not forget him in death."

\- St. Ambrose

"I think his parents were glad we came after all," Bill managed. "Just to know that we still care."

Post had one elbow on the table, his head resting in his hand. "I don't know," he mumbled. "Even without medals our boys stood out, I think. It must make his folks feel worse, seeing how many of us are doing just fine."

"'Died suddenly,'" Bill mused slowly, handling the little white card. "Not quite a lie. I guess a bullet through the heart is sudden."

"It wasn't sudden; he was six years in dying," Post replied. "He chose that day for a reason."

"Passchendaele," Bill said, the word oozing from his lips. "But he made it; he was a survivor."

"Sure, when there was a war to fight still. When the people around him understood what a little brass stripe, or an inch of ribbon meant to a man; what it tells you about him. Civilians just don't understand that. I always invited him, you know, to any of our little get-togethers here. I thought it would be good if he talked about it with some other veterans. I guess he wanted to be done with it."

"We talk a lot about the war, and we're doing okay, aren't we?"

"I think so."

"'May his soul rest in peace.' If only he had talked a little more with us, it just might."

"Too late for that."

"No." Bill stood and marched to a wall covered in wartime studio portraits. He pulled down a photograph of Carter – marked in ink with "Patron Saint of the Leaf and Crown" on the mat – and brought it back to the table, placing it on top of the funeral card.

"Too early for a drink, Sir?" Bill asked.

"Of course not," Post replied. "But the Mister needs some good stuff; let me see if I have any."

Post went to the bar and retrieved a bottle of his best whiskey, poured a glass, then returned to the table, setting it next to the photo. "Sorry I don't have any cognac or fancy stuff, but hey, it's free."

"And we're drinking to you," Bill added. "Sante."

"Here's at you," Post said, a strange smile coming over his face. "Hey, Bob, do you remember back when we first met?"

"You two hated each other," Bill said. "You were gonna get Post court-martialled!"

"But Reid wouldn't let you," Post went on. "And if he hadn't turned me into a scout, I wouldn't have been there to save your sorry ass."

"And if you hadn't saved his sorry ass, we wouldn't be sitting here today, would we?"

"Look at that, Bob. Bill is trying to tell the story."

"My apologies," Bill said, lighting a cigarette. "I'll let the two of you tell it; I'll just listen."

France, 1917

On the third day, the men had begun to grumble. It was mid-October, and the battalion had left behind the towns around Lens, heading north on foot. Everybody knew their destination was Passchendaele; a battlefield that had turned hardened veterans into quivering, mumbling derelicts. But it was the twenty-nine miles they had marched in full equipment that had caused their discontent.

Each day the names of the little villages they passed by had steadily turned from French to Flemish. Haillicourt, Haut Rieuz, and Berguette; then Steenbecque, Wallen, and finally Terdeghem.

Terdeghem, though well-behind the current frontline, was just five miles west of the Belgian border. Belgium was a country which most of the men had never been to. It had been over a year since the battalion left it for the Somme. Since their disastrous defeat at Regina Trench, their glorious triumph at Vimy Ridge, their pyrrhic victory at Fresnoy, and their futile stalemate north of Lens, few old soldiers remained.

For the next two weeks the men prepared themselves for the upcoming assault. It was an old ritual by now: cleaning gear, practicing moving forward under fire, and rekindling their intimate relationships with machine-guns, rifles, bombs, and bayonets. Baseball games lightened the mood and acted as enjoyable physical training, while formal inspections instilled discipline and pride. Altogether, the most important attributes of any infantry unit were being bolstered: capability, confidence, and cohesion.

## *

On a chilly November morning the battalion was roused well before dawn. Breakfast had been served at three in the morning. A four mile march to Bavinchove Station followed. By six-thirty in the morning they were on board a long series of pre-war coach cars. A few minutes later the train began to move, still enveloped in darkness.

"I'm looking for Bill Brown, Six Platoon," Corporal Post called out.

"B Company is up ahead," a voice replied. "This is C."

"Thanks."

Post made his way into the next car and repeated his query.

"Over here," someone answered.

Post arrived and crouched in the aisle next to Stinson. "You mind giving me a moment with Bill?"

"He's sleeping," Stinson replied.

"Nah, just trying to," Bill grumbled without looking up, leaning against a foggy window. "What goes on, Lance? I mean, Corp, er, Post."

Stinson shrugged and slid out of the seat, crouching on the ground a few feet away. He wasn't in the mood to stretch his legs or start up a conversation. Like the rest of the men, he only wanted to recapture a few hours of lost rest. But that would have to wait until Post was done talking to his section commander.

"When'd you get back?" Post asked.

"Day before yesterday," Bill replied curtly, barely looking at him, shifting his glance to the window, looking out at the darkness.

Normally when Bill and Post reunited, even after a short while, both men were eager to chat. But Post could tell that Bill wasn't feeling cheerful. Still, he had to ask the inevitable questions. "How's Kate?"

"She's fine."

"Did you get started on another little Bill?"

"The doctor said we can't have another go at things until next year."

"But she will be able to; that's good."

"It might not work though. We'll have to see."

"Nail?"

Bill straightened up and turned fully to face Post. "Why not?"

In a moment both men were smoking, and Bill's demeanour turned pensive.

"It's being back in Ypres, isn't it?" Post asked.

"Yeah."

"I know. I'm feeling nervous too."

"It's not nerves," Bill replied. "There's something, I can't explain it, but I can feel it. Fucking Ypres."

"Fucking Ypres," Post concurred.

It was all either man could say. Of course what they really meant to say was "Fucking Ypres Salient." The villages, fields, woods, and hills around Ypres had been surrounded by the German army on three sides since the early days of the war. Each name meant something to someone.

The Third's first bloody nose had been at Saint Julien, a hamlet four miles north of the city where half the men of the battalion, including Bill's brother, had been sacrificed in a desperate defence two and a half years earlier. Two miles east of Ypres lay Mount Sorrel, where, over a year later, more regimental blood had been shed. The Salient was not a place for easy victories or fond memories. As fuel for recurring nightmares, emotional scarring, and psychological breakdowns however, it was perfect.

"There's something in the air here. Ghosts maybe," Bill said without thinking.

"Do you think they can move around?" Post asked seriously.

"I don't see why not."

"But only a mile or two, I would think."

"Further, depending on if they have some business to attend to elsewhere. Thirty miles; maybe more." It was the distance between Albert and Fresnoy.

"Are they good ones? Protectors?"

"I don't know. I think some are."

"Our battalion?"

"Some."

"But Germans too?"

"I think so."

Post felt a shiver go down his spine. The Salient had taken too many lives to count; hundreds of thousands, maybe even a million. And it wasn't done.

"Nothing to worry about; you're bombproof."

"But my men aren't. You said it yourself, remember?"

"Yeah."

"Everyone tells me the same damn thing."

"It's been months since we were on the offensive, Bill. And you've spent almost the entire time in England. Everyone just wants to help."

"You can help me with something later, once we get bivouacked. I have a favour to ask."

Post already knew what it would be.

## *

Two hours and twenty miles later, the battalion detrained at Ypres Station, on the western outskirts of the city. The men formed up and began their march into the city itself. Immediately the destruction was obvious; half-standing walls and cellars filled with wreckage from collapsed upper floors were the norm. Several spots had been cleared of debris and served as little storage lots for crates of ammunition, piles of canned goods, and all manner of equipment in various states. Soldiers milled about everywhere: marching in formation, stumbling aimlessly, or resting amongst niches in the rubble. Trucks, motorcycles, and even the odd staff car whizzed about with purpose. Horses were hauling carts and guns; ill-fitting masks slung around their necks in case of a gas attack. No shells were falling now, but a bombardment could be forthcoming at any moment.

None of Bill's section had ever been to Belgium before, so he decided to play tour guide. It was eight hundred yards from the station to the centre of town. "Ypres was a textile centre in the High and Late Middle Ages–" he began.

"When's that?" Payne interrupted.

"About one thousand to four hundred years ago. Ypres itself is even older, possibly before the time of Christ."

"Huh," Payne muttered, somewhat impressed.

"In a few minutes we'll get to the Cloth Hall, where the merchants used to buy and sell wools, cottons, dyes, tools; that sort of stuff. Belgian lace was a specialty. It's over six hundred years old, and recently it was more of a common market with fresh vegetables and the like. Fun fact: hundreds of years ago, people used to throw black cats off the top of the tower to ward off evil spirits."

"Sounds more like a cull," Stinson offered.

"What do you mean?"

"Mice and rats would chew the hell out of all that cloth, so I bet they brought in cats to kill the rodents. But after a while you'd have so many damn cats everywhere that you'd need to kill them too."

"Could be. In any case, there aren't any mice, or cats, or cloth now; even the vegetables are gone. The Germans took Ypres early in the war, and anyone with any sense left. In April of '15 the city was mostly levelled, and what wasn't destroyed was burned all to hell. The last civilians left around that time."

"And why we make big fight for Yeepers?" Kellowitz asked.

"It's the last big city in Belgium that the Germans haven't captured," Dawson noted. "It's symbolic."

"Spend millions troops and shells to keep dead, broken town for symbol. Must a British thing."

"I didn't say I approved. That's just the way it is."

"Forget the philosophical stuff," Bill said. "We're coming up on the Cloth Hall."

One hundred and fifty yards across, three cavernous stories high, and topped with a belfry that reached seventy-five yards into the air, the Cloth Hall had once been among the most impressive buildings in Europe. Irreplaceable Medieval paintings, luxurious tapestries, brilliant works of stained glass, and artisanal sculptures of the Lords of Flanders had all been reduced to burnt masonry and ash. In Bill's mind the details were putting themselves together: spires topped with flags rose proudly, un-shattered windows were lined with purple drapes, and happy civilians were about their business. To the others it looked much like any other smashed building.

"One day you'll have to see a photograph from before the war. It really was beautiful. Two years ago I found a shard of stained glass and sent it home. Everyone was doing that; I doubt there are any left."

Beyond the Cloth Hall, the column left-wheeled and turned towards one of the many roads that ran through Ypres. It had always been a hub, and whether in south-western Belgium or north-eastern France, all roads led to Ypres. The Gravenstafel Road was one of many that ran to the countryside; it was also one that the Originals were far too familiar with.

In 1915 villages and woods were evident. In 1916 ruins and stumps were abundant. Now, the countryside around Ypres resembled a great muddy field, pockmarked with bogged down artillery pieces, abandoned fortifications, makeshift depots, and cemeteries. Months of fighting and millions of artillery shells had destroyed the centuries-old delicate system of rivers and drainage ditches. The low ground of western Flanders had only made the situation worse. Every inch of solid ground that vainly defied the ever-encroaching quagmire was overburdened with men and material in search of temporary sanctuary.

Two miles northeast of Ypres the battalion came to a halt. Wieltje had been a tiny farming community before the war. No buildings remained and the grimy fields were crowded with crude shelters. Before the men were even settled, Corporal Post arrived, and pulled Bill aside.

"Okay, favour time," he said shortly. "Saint Julien, right?"

"Saint Julien," Bill confirmed.

"A mile and a half from here. I need to be back in two hours, and there's no way I'm leaving you out there to wander around and get lost, so let's be quick about it."

"What happens in two hours?"

"Lunch."

Bill ignored that, and both men began the short walk towards Saint Julien, where, in April 1915, Bill's brother John had been killed. The salient was littered with cemeteries, some consisting of a few plots, others containing hundreds of men in mass graves. Bill and Post had been through this routine before, but there was still hope of finding John's remains. Bodies and body parts were always emerging from the soil. The dead of the early years were mostly without identity discs, but sometimes an engraved watch or ring, or a miraculously preserved scrap of paper allowed for recognition. Newer casualties had no guarantees either; identity discs weren't always forthcoming.

Even wooden crosses that bore recent dates were in nearly as rough shape as those that commemorated the fallen of the early days of the war. All were weather-worn and knocked about. Bill and Post paused at each one, poring over the disparate inscriptions. In the Ypres Salient soldiers who had died a few days ago were in good company with men who had been killed three years earlier.

In Memory Of

Sjt. Bill McKenzie

Aged 22 South Staffs

10.27.14

MATTOX 8864

SEAFORTH HIGHLANDERS

26.04.15

"Cuidich'n Righ"

WG Kelley

8 CAN INF

June 14, 1916

RIP

Three Unknown Australians

September 1917

Here Lies

Gnr. BRINDLEY

R.F.A.

Oct-30-17

R. Cleland

37

Irish Guards

Nov 1 14

C Powell

4/S. Afr. Inf.

10 22 17

William P Nunn

Third Canadians

April 27th 1915

"The last time we checked there were more Canadians," Bill said.

Post lit two cigarettes and handed one to Bill. Both men knew that burials in the salient were subject to the same dumb luck that probably got the interred man killed in the first place. Shellfire, weather, soldiers stumbling in the dark, or stray mules could knock down, break, or fade away wooden crosses or their inscriptions. Some stood the test of time quite well; others slowly melted away into the landscape, or were smashed in an instant. The whole salient was one big graveyard.

"We tried, Bill. Lunch?"

# CHAPTER SEVEN

Early the next day a group of scouts arrived in Wieltje. They were men of the Fifteenth Battalion, Highlanders from Toronto, loaned out for the day to introduce the officers and scouts of the Third Battalion to the immediate area. They had been in the vicinity for just a few days, but had been taught the local landmarks and routes by a previous group of scouts. Since the Passchendaele campaign had begun in late July, the line had been pushed forward roughly four miles. In the bleak landscape, however, it was difficult for the men to know where exactly they were, or even in what direction they were heading. Rumour had it that entire platoons had stumbled into the desolated fields, never to be heard of again.

In little groups of four or five, scouts of the Fifteenth began to escort their newly-arrived comrades. It would be too dangerous for each bunch to stick close together; a single shell might kill or wound a large number of men. Post's group consisted of Captain Reid, Company Sergeant Major Turner, and a Highlander scout.

"Good morning Sirs. I'm Corporal McLaren; we'll be stepping off in five minutes."

Turner nodded silently and returned to a hushed conversation with Captain Reid.

"Puttees, pal. Tighten 'em up, trust me," the scout said, leaning close to Post.

Post glanced at his superiors. Turner, like all company sergeant majors, wore his puttees so tight it was amazing his blood was able to circulate past them. Reid, like most officers, wore expensive knee-high trench boots purchased in England. Post, like most privates and corporals, wore his puttees as loosely as possible without being called out for it.

"Why?"

"When we go across country there're a few muddy spots that'll suck the boots right off your feet. I'm not kidding. Tighter puttees will help, a little. Just re-wrap 'em real quick."

As Post worked away at his leg bindings, McLaren crouched next to him and went on. "I don't know if your Sirs are any good, but they sure aren't scouts. So I'm gonna tell you exactly what the last guy told me, plus a few opinions of my own. And you're going to tell the next guy exactly what I tell you, plus your own ideas. I'll try to ignore them and maybe they won't confuse things with stupid questions."

As both men stood, McLaren began to lead the group away. "Now, let me give you the twenty-five franc tour. The first few miles are pretty simple; just follow the Gravenstafel Road until it crosses the Ravebeek."

"I thought the Ravebeek was a valley," Post said.

"Aren't you clever? Yeah, but also a river, well, more like a swamp. The whole valley is flooded now, and most of the time when someone says Ravebeek they mean the river, not the valley."

"Clear as mud," Post replied sarcastically, lighting a cigarette.

"It used to be a little stream but when all the other little streams were smashed up by artillery, the Ravebeek got dammed, then filled with rain water. That is, the river got dammed, and the whole valley eventually flooded. It divides the battlefield into two parts. I'll be showing you around the northern half. You don't need to know anything about the southern half."

The Gravenstafel Road was getting busier towards the frontline. Work parties of hundreds of men, whether engineers, pioneers, or plain infantry, laboured to maintain the road in a state of mere existence. Gaping shellholes had to be painstakingly shovelled full. Sandbags filled with muck lined either side of the road in a half-successful attempt to keep the groundwater at bay. Heavy plank roads provided a narrow walkway through the swampier areas.

These jobs became more difficult closer to the more recently captured positions; rear areas had been under construction for months, but newly-won ground still resembled a near-featureless wasteland. And what features could be seen didn't help the road crews. Abandoned field artillery pieces, bogged down in mud, dotted former bits of high ground; islands since submerged in sludge. Captured pillboxes and fortified farmhouses were converted to depots and aid stations. Towards the very front, they served as firing positions, shelters, or advanced headquarters.

"This is Waterloo Farm," the scout said at last.

Like so many of the pre-war farmhouses in this area, Waterloo had been retrofitted. It was really more of an elongated pillbox now. While the old outer brickwork was dull grey and patchy, the interior was reinforced with eighteen inches of concrete walls, visible only at close range. From where the men stood, it didn't look like a recently captured strongpoint, apart from the cluster of wooden crosses. The crosses, which had obviously formed part of a white picket fence before the war, were already in various states of disrepair.

"Often used as a battalion headquarters, also a dressing station," McLaren went on. "Pretty much bombproof from what I've heard. Taken by the New Zealanders about four weeks ago. Umm, I think it was the Second Auckland and the Third Wellington. Credit where credit is due, as they say. Remember it, because people will use it as a reference point."

Another seven hundred yards down the road the group reached the flooded Ravebeek stream. The duckboard bridge shifted and bobbed under their feet like a rickety dock. The unlevel boards also provided ample opportunity for a man to trip.

"Gentlemen, your gateway to the northern battlefield: The General Sir Arthur Currie Causeway. Falling off here would be bad," McLaren advised. "It's real deep, couldn't tell you just how deep, but you'd probably sink to the bottom. Tell your men to be extra careful at night, especially here."

Beyond the bridge, the Ravebeek turned sharply and began to parallel the Gravenstafel Road. This was the divide the scout had mentioned earlier; the First Division was preparing to carry forward the attack on the north side, while the Second took up battle positions on the south. It was also beyond the bridge that the ground began to rise slightly, rolling gently upwards towards Passchendaele Ridge. Five hundred yards beyond the bridge, the group arrived at a cluster of pillboxes.

"This area is called Bellevue. Again, note the pillboxes, and et cetera. Also, be glad the boys of the Third Division brought us onto higher ground," McLaren said. "Now, this is where I take you towards the front, so let's quicken the pace."

"Where exactly is the front?" Post asked.

McLaren gestured vaguely to the east. "Somewhere over there. Only the boys in the very front know for sure. Don't worry though; I know the back area as well as anyone else."

"Which is to say you've been led through it once before?"

"Yep. But I'm sure someone else will tell you more when you take over the line. Oh, before I forget, if we were to continue down the road another seven hundred yards, we'd come to a place called Meetcheele. More pillboxes, captured just a few days ago. Not a very friendly place to tour through. But if someone mentions the name, you'll know what they're talking about."

The scouts all knew that they would need to rely on hasty directions from the men they relieved, and their own good judgement and sense of direction. It wasn't the ideal way to execute an attack, but the Canadians had only been brought to Belgium to deliver the final blow at Passchendaele. Hopefully they would be in and out before things had a chance to bog down any more than they already had.

Stepping north off of the Gravenstafel Road, the ground soon took a turn for the worse. Shellholes filled with water dotted the fields, while bits of dry ground were few and far between. After a minute, each man had been at least up to his shins in mud or water, at least once. After four hundred yards, the men stopped at another pillbox.

"I don't think this one has a name, but I've christened it 'Canine House.' Why? Well that pile of drenched stumps and matchsticks due west of us is called Wolf Copse. Beyond that is Wolf Farm. I don't think the name has really stuck yet, but it will! We're not far from the front now, and it's about to get wet... ter."

They carried on another few dozen yards, which seemed more like a few dozen miles.

"To our front, we see Woodland Plantation. It's another stump and matchstick style swamp that nobody owns, but we patrol it more than Fritz. Think of it like a no-man's land that conveniently divides our line. It's customary to tip patrols ten percent."

"Is that sarcasm?" Turner asked.

"I assure you, Sir, I don't even know the meaning of the word 'sarcasm.' Beyond that, we now see the latest objectives our boys have taken: Source and Vapour Farms. They're really more like small lakes with a few bricks stacked up in the middle. Source is on the left, Vapour on the right. They were taken by the Seventy-Second, fellow Highlanders by the way, a few days ago. The Fourth Canadian Mounted Rifles might have helped a little too. Well, from here you can see it all, and it would be foolish to get a closer look. To the southeast of Vapour Farm is Vine Cottage, which, I'll go ahead and guess, is your objective. It's up on the Goudberg Spur, but I think you'll be jumping off from level ground. Has this been satisfactory, Sirs?"

Captain Reid and CSM Turner, both dumbfounded, looked to Corporal Post, who had been meticulously writing down each landmark, and pacing out each distance as the journey had proceeded.

"I've got a pretty good sketch here, Sirs," Post said, suddenly realizing that his cigarette had gone out some time ago, and that what he thought was smoke had actually been his breath in the November air.

"Have you got one as well, Corporal?" Reid asked.

McLaren pulled a piece of gridded paper from his pocket and compared it to Post's. "Well, your spelling is atrocious, but you've marked every road, pillbox, and swamp perfectly."

"Good enough for me," Reid said.

"Alright, we'll return overland westward via Yetta Houses and Kronprinz Farm, so you'll know the whole area."

Toronto, 1923

A knock at the door brought Bill and Post back into reality.

"Okay, hold on," Bill called, without standing.

Post opened the door and was surprised to see a familiar face. At least, as far as unfamiliar faces went, it was familiar. Post recognized the man from Carter's funeral. And his stiff posture had marked him apart as a veteran from the aristocratic civilians that had polluted the service with their fancy clothes and bombastic chatter.

"You're Gary Post?" the man asked.

"Yeah, you knew Bob, uh, Carter, the Mister," Post stuttered in reply, too confused by his recent recollections with Bill to know how to refer to the deceased.

"Yes. He was my cousin. May I come in?"

"Of course, of course. Go sit with Bill; I'll get you a drink. What would you like?"

"Have you got any white wine?"

"Sure, I always keep a bottle for the ladies–my apologies, Sir, it's just that we normally drink beer or whiskey."

"Hell, it's been awhile since I had a stiff drink," Carter's cousin replied. "Make it a big one."

"I'm Bill," he said with only a slight slur.

"Ben Carter," the newcomer responded, politely shaking Bill's hand. "It's very nice to meet you."

"You're a veteran I take it," Post said, returning with a drink.

"Yes, I was a few years younger than Robert though. I didn't get to the front until near the end."

"An officer?"

"Yeah, but don't worry; Robert always told me to listen to my NCOs, so I did. We got through some pretty tough times together."

Ben paused and stared at his drink. It seemed strange to be talking about 'tough times' when he was in the middle of one. "Well, cheers. To Robert."

All three men raised their glasses and emptied them.

"Bill, would you refill us, please? And don't drop any glasses on your way."

"Three boozes coming up," Bill replied, nearly dropping one of the glasses, but miraculously catching it.

"Is that the Bill. 'Bombproof Bill?'" Ben asked.

"Yeah, just don't call him that; it sets him off sometimes."

"Well, Robert spoke of you both, often. That's why I'm here."

"I don't understand."

"I want to figure out why my cousin killed himself. He came through so much more than I did, I know, but he was never a melancholy person. I thought you might be able to shed some light on the whole situation."

"November Sixth, 1917."

Ben nodded. "When he was wounded at Passchendaele. Obviously it has something to do with the date he chose. But that was six years ago. If he was having nightmares, or feeling depressed, why didn't we realize it earlier?"

Bill returned with the drinks and set them down.

"Bill was with him the first time he was wounded," Post said. "I'll let him start the story."

"First time?" Ben asked.

Bill lit two cigarettes, handed off one to Post, then motioned towards Ben, who shook his head. "The battalion had been split in two. We'd spent the last couple days running around like idiots. Half of A and all of B Companies were being held back along with some men of the Fourth Battalion to form the brigade's manpower reserve. C, D, and the other half of A were up north, but Gary will tell you about that. Anyway, we ended up at Second Battalion Headquarters; a pillbox two hundred yards from the German line. After their boys made their attack, we were sent up to sit around in the old German frontline and standby for a counter-attack, which never came. This is where Carter got hit the first time. It was in the left shoulder, a shell fragment, not too bad, but not something a bandage was going to fix either. So he started back towards the casualty clearing station at Waterloo Farm, about a mile rearwards."

Post's turn. "Meanwhile, we were up near Vine Cottage. Being a scout, I didn't belong to any particular company; I just went where I was told. A few hundred square yards, two pillboxes, six machine-guns. A single platoon along with that madman Barron, you know, Barron VC, had just taken the area," Post grimaced as the images came to him, crystal clear. "No, that doesn't do it justice. Picture this: it's a three battalion attack on our side of the Ravebeek, and we're separated from the other two by a swamp, way up on the north flank. Now, the area is so small that only one platoon makes the attack, the rest are just in support, ready to join in if they have to, but mostly they're for consolidation afterwards. We can't just pile in hundreds of men, they'd be killed, but a few can work their way through the broken ground and get close. The attack gets stalled, but then this Lewis Gunner named Barron gets into it. He sneaks right up to a German machine-gun crew, and empties a drum into them. Then he does it again, and again! Once they got to Vine Cottage it was mostly bayonets and rifle butts. They took about fifty prisoners, no idea how many they killed. We took a beating too though; I think two hundred or more killed and wounded."

"We felt like hell being down there with the Second," Bill interjected. "We knew damn well you all were getting cut up. We were hoping we'd be called in to reinforce C and D, instead of sitting around doing nothing. No, not reinforce: reunite. Anyway, go on, Gary."

"Most of our runners had become casualties, so they used us scouts too. They would pick two or three men, depending on how important the message was and how much shellfire was going on at the moment. Then they'd give you identical messages and send you off at thirty second intervals. The idea was that at least one of you would get through," Post's throat had turned dry, but a sip of whiskey remedied that. "Well, I get through alright, and I'm on my back when I was hit by a stray shell. Nothing permanent, but I had a Blighty for sure; I could smell England already."

"Where were you hit?" Ben asked.

"Gravenstafel Road, halfway between Bellevue and Meetcheele," Post replied, the scout's map still in his head. "Actually, it was more like two hundred yards from–"

Ben couldn't help but laugh; it had been the first time in the last few days. "No, I mean what part of you was hit?"

"Oh, of course. My right shoulder, just opposite of Carter, can you believe it? I joked to him afterwards that we made a matched set. Anyway, when I was getting my wound dressed I met a stretcher man from the Fifteenth. He saw my battalion patches and my scout's badge and told me there was an officer of the Third that was dead at the side of the road, and that I should make a note of it. But I went to see for myself."

Belgium, 1917

He had the look of a worried deer: stalked, exhausted, and ready to accept the inevitable. Carter had been struck by a second shell fragment in the centre of his chest, a jagged piece of metal protruding from his blood-stained tunic. A dozen stretcher-bearers had passed him by, assuming his wound to be fatal, and busy with men who stood a better chance at survival. It was with large, hopeless eyes that he caught sight of Corporal Post.

Without a word, Post began to strip away the officer's gear. Post was a big man, but with one arm now useless, it wouldn't be easy to carry the officer away. And there was no way he was going to allow a member of his battalion to rot. Every pound that could be shed would help. It was only when Carter's revolver had been dumped on the ground that he spoke.

"My sidearm," he managed between sporadic breaths.

"What about it?" Post asked.

"An officer needs his sidearm."

Post fumbled for the revolver with his left hand, flung open the cylinder and let the rounds fall to the ground, then shoved it into Carter's tunic pocket.

"This is going to hurt, and possibly, no, probably kill you; but I can't carry you without getting rid of this shrapnel," Post said, preparing a field dressing. "And the stretcher blokes won't bother with you until it's too late. Ready?"

Carter forced his teeth together, while his lips shuttered with fear. In an instant, Post had ripped the shell fragment from his chest. A fountain of blood shot upwards, and Post scrambled to apply the bandage as the wounded officer rolled about. Post was surprised to find that Carter was still alive by the time the bandage was in place, and hoisted him up and over his left shoulder.

It was only a half mile to the casualty clearing station at Waterloo Farm, but for both men it felt like an eternity; especially when stray shells dropped nearby or exploded overhead.

"You dead yet?" Post asked after a hundred yards. "I'm tired – wouldn't mind dumping your corpse sooner rather than later."

"Fuck you," Carter replied.

"Good for you, still alive and cursing."

Toronto, 1923

"Wait a moment. Was it a Webley .455?" Ben inquired.

"What?" Post asked, surprised to have been jolted from his story so soon.

"The revolver you put in Robert's pocket, the one he insisted stay with him."

"Yes. Why?"

Ben finished his drink in one gulp and fought back tears. "He told me the same thing: that an officer and his sidearm should never be parted. I buried it with him."

"The revolver?"

Ben nodded. "The one he carried in the war, the same one he took his own life with. I slipped it into his casket before the funeral."

All three men turned their eyes to the photograph on the table. A young, confident, and happy Second Lieutenant Robert Carter stared back at them blankly. The real man was in the ground, already putrefying. They breathed lightly, afraid that the slightest sound or movement would send them all to the floor wailing.

After awhile, Bill broke into the conversation. "They went to England together," he said, his voice cracking, but steadily firming up. "They met my wife, Kate. There's a great story there, but you tell it, Gary: the one with the white feathers and all."

Post wiped a tear from his eye and forced a smile. "Have you heard this story, Ben?"

"No. Robert and I barely spoke about the war once we came back, but I'd like to hear. Tell me, please."

# CHAPTER EIGHT

England, 1917

"Mister Post, it's a pleasure to finally meet you."

Post recognized her face from a photograph. Bill had gone on and on about how beautiful his wife was, but no words could properly describe it. His heart quickened as he looked her up and down. A blue skirt and jacket; professional, but feminine. She was young and healthy, with clear skin and determined eyes. The opposite of the hopeless, broken-down men he had kept company with for the past three years. Post sat up in the hospital bed and extended his wounded right arm. "Missus Brown, please, call me Gary."

"Kate," she replied, shaking his hand.

With military precision, Post leaned in and kissed her hand. "Bill's a lucky man."

"Thank you. How is William?"

"Well, he's... Bill. You know?"

Kate sighed. "Still 'Bombproof?'"

"Don't worry about him getting crocked."

"Oh, I'm not. I'm worried about him – never mind. I came to invite you and Mister Carter out."

Post tried to hide his blushing with a grin. "But you're a married woman."

"For a friendly drink, Gary," Kate replied warmly. "My friends tell me that Mister Carter is ready for day leave, and I thought it might be fun to get you two out of the ward and into a pub. I think you've both earned it. Tonight."

"Tonight? Yes, Ma'am."

"Mister Carter will be glad to see you. He talks about you all the time."

"That's funny; I didn't think he liked me. And I hadn't heard anything about him: every nurse I ask promises to look into him but never gets back to me."

"There are a lot of men in this hospital, I should know. In fact, I brought both of you here, but you were both sleeping soundly at the time."

"When was that?"

"Two weeks ago."

"What time of day?"

"About three in the morning."

"They make you work at three in the morning?"

Kate smiled. "Yes, Gary. We work whenever we're needed, just like the boys."

Boys. The word struck Post all at once like an admonishment and a term of endearment. "Girls don't normally wear uniforms," he replied, trying to sound clever.

"No, we don't. Speaking of uniforms, I've managed to get some civvies for you and Mister Carter; borrowed from some friends of mine. I thought that when we go out you two would enjoy not having to salute the 'brass hats.' Besides, most pubs are informally designated for either officers or enlisted men. Not both."

"And you'll be wearing... girl stuff?"

Kate cocked her head and fixed a faux-smirk on Post. "Yes, Corporal. Girl stuff."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to sound, whatever the word is," Post stuttered awkwardly. Normally he was great at talking to women, but normally he was trying to sleep with them. "Uh, where'd you get the civvies?"

"Some British drivers I work with. There's a very nice suit that should fit you, it belongs to Rachel's husband; an officer in the Artist's Rifles. Sarah's brother was with the London Regiment, but he was... in any case, his old suit should fit Mister Carter nicely, even if it is a little commonplace."

## *

Post hadn't worn a suit since he was a boy; his adoptive brother's second-hand Sunday best. He had no idea that his temporary clothing had cost more than he would make in a year of soldiering, but still strutted about like an overzealous peacock. It was the first time he had worn civilian clothes in over three years. Carter, meanwhile, was less than impressed with the cheap, ill-fitting sack coat and trousers that his geniality had obliged him to accept. A little cologne, something that he had not applied in over two years, had somewhat alleviated his feelings of inferiority.

They were the only two men who were not in uniform, apart from the bartenders, who were either too old for service, or wore badges indicating their status as disabled veterans. The pub was full of low-ranking British soldiers and civilian women. It wasn't an awfully nice place, but near the hospital and easy to locate.

Kate must have been running late, and both men waited at a table, barely making eye contact. Carter drank white wine, while Post sipped whiskey. Almost nobody in the pub was drinking beer: the latest regulations to discourage its production and consumption meant that a weaker, near-tasteless pint cost much more than it would have before the war. A few couples were dancing off in a corner while a pared-down band played a mix of primitive jazz, experimental ragtime, and well-known folksongs.

"I never had a chance to thank you," Carter mumbled after a long silence.

"It's nothing, Sir," Post replied, staring into his glass and wishing he was anywhere else at the moment.

"Alright, fuck. I'm sorry I had you transferred out of the platoon. Okay? Accept my Goddamned apology. Please."

There was no conceit in Post's voice, but neither was there comradery. "I do."

It was the best Carter could have realistically hoped for, and he raised his glass. "To the battalion."

"I'll drink to that."

Kate had been waiting at the far end of the pub for several minutes. Seeing the two men make amends on their own accord, she decided to join them. She really had been running late, and was still dressed in her Voluntary Aid Detachment driver's uniform. Both men stood when she approached the table, and Post beat Carter to pulling out a chair for her. For soldiers who rarely saw women, every one was a rare and magnificent creature; especially if she happened to be a young Canadian.

"Thank you, Gary," Kate said laying her cap on the table, then turned to address Carter. "Good to see you again, Robert."

"You too," Carter replied.

"I didn't think you would be in uniform," Post said.

"You look well in it though," Carter interjected.

"Thank you," Kate replied, removing her tie and undoing the top two buttons of her blouse. "I hate that damned tie though. You both look very handsome in civvies. Khaki is so passé."

Both men smiled proudly, and held their heads a little higher.

"What would you like to drink?" Post asked.

"Oh, thank you, but I don't imbibe," Kate replied.

"Maybe just a glass of water?"

"Later, thanks. I wanted to ask you both a few questions, about the war, would you mind?" Immediately she regretted how sudden she had been, but what one read in the newspapers or from soldier's letters home no longer satisfied her. Blood was difficult to whitewash, and she had seen too much of it since arriving in England to be fooled any longer.

"Not at all," Carter replied.

"Anything," Post followed.

"What's it really like?" She asked. "The weather, the work, the living conditions, everything. And don't tell me some pleasant falsehood. I want to know how it is truthfully."

Post and Carter exchanged glances and shrugs. They were so used to lying about how easy and fun army life could be, but seeing the sincerity in Kate's face, were unable to deceive her.

"Dirty," Carter said after awhile.

"Damned cold, or else damned hot," Post added.

"Exhausting."

"Annoying."

"Wet," both men said at once.

"You can never know when your number's up," Carter said. "It's as if you've already died."

"But maybe you'll get to come back, one day," Post added. "Probably not in one piece though."

Seeing Kate's expression turn from interest to distress, and remembering that her husband was somewhere in France or Flanders as they sat in a warm pub in England, they decided to change tack.

"There's a certain feeling of, having to be there, not because you have to be, but, just because, you know," Post tried.

"An obligation to your friends," Carter said. "One that you're glad to fulfill, and that offers a special sense of self-worth we never had before the war."

All three were taken aback by Carter's words. He seemed to have summed the whole thing up in one off-the-cuff response.

"The battalion is a special place," Post went on. "Where a man can be judged by his actions; not his birth, or religion, or anything else."

"And Bill's been a fine member," Carter said. "An NCO who cares more about his soldiers than himself. You're a lucky woman to be married to such a man."

"To Bill," Post offered, and both men emptied their glasses.

Kate fought back a tear, stood. "I'll get some refills. No arguments."

When she returned, another woman, in civilian clothes, was following a few paces behind her. As Kate set down the drinks and sat again, she couldn't help but see the look of exasperation on both men's faces. Her own expression turned to concern. "What's wrong, boys?"

Post shot a momentary glance upwards. Kate turned half-way around in her seat, and saw a well-dressed woman wielding two white feathers like poisoned daggers. It was a tradition that had begun many years earlier, and had been revived in the first days of the war. "Patriotic" women would present able-bodied men in civilian clothes with a white feather; a symbol of cowardice intended to shame them into enlisting in the military.

"Well?" The woman asked. It was obvious that she was expecting to see some proof that Post and Carter were either disabled veterans, or servicemen on leave.

Carter reached into his pocket for his paybook, while Post began to roll up his sleeve, intending to show off any one of his many scars.

"Stop," Kate said with such authority that both men froze. "You don't have to prove yourselves to this silly girl. An officer and recipient of the Military Cross, and an Original who hasn't seen home in over three years needn't answer to any soldiers or civilians, man or woman, white feather or no."

The other woman wasn't fazed, but only smirked and raised her voice. "A woman in uniform defending two playboy shirkers. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, all of you. I'd wager you aren't even a nurse, but a lady of the night playing to a coward's fantasy."

"Ambulance driver," Kate corrected, teeth clenched and eyes burning. "And you should leave now – before I put you in a hospital."

"Yes, there are a lot of these to deliver," the woman replied, dropping the two feathers in the air above the table.

Before they could even land, Kate had jumped from her seat and slapped the other woman across the face. The pub fell silent at the thunderous sound of Kate's hand contacting the woman's cheek. The rush of air was enough to set the feathers off their course, and send them to the floor at her feet. She turned beet-red as tears streamed down her face, and made a hasty retreat.

Kate was shaking as she sat down. "Mister Carter, could I please have a sip of your wine?"

A huge smile came across Carter's face as he slid his glass towards her. "Have all you, like, Kate."

"That was amazing!" Post exclaimed. "Damn, here's to you, Kate!"

After touching glasses, Post half-emptied his, while Kate had a small sip and returned it to Carter. "Thank you."

The celebration was short-lived. A British private approached the table, looking like he was trying to look tough; he didn't. He had no wound badges, qualification patches, or medal ribbons; if Carter and Post had been in uniform, the young private would have been in awe of their military ornaments.

"I demand an apology," he announced loudly. "And after that, one of your boys will have to deal with me personally – outside."

Kate raised her hands slightly, silencing Carter and Post before they could respond. She stood again, and turned to face the private. "No; I demand one."

"For what?"

"For that girl of yours insulting two Canadian veterans with her pathetic white feathers. The three of us have come half-way around the world to answer Britain's call. We won't be looked down on, or–"

"Listen here, missy, I won't settle this with you. One of these men will have to answer for–"

Before he could say more, Kate grabbed his right ear and twisted it, like a disapproving mother. The man shuddered as she pulled downwards and nearly sent him to his knees. "Pick up those feathers," she ordered coldly.

Post and Carter watched giddily as the man collected the two white feathers from the ground.

"Now, either you and that floozy leave this place, or I'll have you both in an ambulance, soonest."

The man gave a slight nod of acquiescence, and Kate released his ear. In less than a minute he and the woman, along with the white feathers, were gone. Kate took her seat again, trembling with adrenaline.

"We should let women in the infantry; the war'd be over by now," Post said, sliding his glass of whiskey towards her. "Here, this'll stop the shaking."

Kate took a big sip and exhaled a deep breath. "I'm sorry for making a scene, but those types bother me."

"Hell of a scene! Better than any music hall routine or concert party I've ever been to," Post said, withholding that it was also more exciting than half the burlesque shows he'd seen. "Wanna dance? It'll get your mind off all that."

"Sounds fun," Kate replied enthusiastically.

Bill hadn't danced with her since they were kids, before the war. Over the summer and during his more recent leave to England, the most romantic thing they had done was play cards. It didn't even occur to her until Post had one hand on her hip, the other on her shoulder, that she might be leading him on. Or that he might have indecent intentions.

"Remember, I'm married," she said suddenly.

"Don't worry," Post replied, pulling her in close, then leaping backwards. "I only sleep with loose women."

When they returned to their seats, Carter had a look in his eyes like a child who hadn't received anything for Christmas. He didn't have anything inappropriate in mind; he just wanted to be included.

Kate pretended not to notice. "I've tired Gary out, would you care to dance, Robert?"

Carter's enthusiasm showed through easily, and he was already holding Kate's hand before he was standing. He was light on his feet during the quicker numbers, but adjusted his pace well when a slow song came on. He had obviously had some degree of formal instruction. Before long Kate had her head on his chest. It was only when the band stopped playing that they realized the pub was nearly empty now.

"Just about closing time," Post said, when the two returned to the table. "One last drink, Bob?"

"Sure, and I'm buying," Carter replied.

"Good: we'll be even for me saving your life."

*

"What are your plans for after the war?" Kate asked as the three walked back to the hospital, a light snow coming down.

"Finish university, be some kind of high-paid jerk," Carter replied drunkenly. "Marry a woman I hate, then get old and die. Hopefully not too old though."

"Nevermind him; officers can't hold their drink," Post said. "As for me, I have a girl and a kid waiting," Post said.

"I didn't know you had a wife and child. Congratulations," Carter replied.

"She ain't my wife, and the kid ain't mine, but they're waiting for me."

"Oh. Well, asides from that rubbish."

"I want to own a bar," Post said whimsically. "None of this fancy stuff you see, but none of those awful gin joints either. A decent place where a decent man, decent mind you, not rich, can enjoy as much as he wants. I'll even let my regulars run a tab."

"I'll be your first customer," Carter promised.

Kate kept an ear on the two men's banter, not wanting to seem impolite if either one should bring the conversation back to her. They didn't. They were like two old friends meeting again after years apart. But there was something else about them. Carter, even inebriated, was sophisticated. Post was playful. Both were tough and honest. Bill had had all of these qualities, once. But every time she saw him, or received a letter from him, he seemed more and more like a dull version of his former self. She had of course attributed this to the stress of so many years in the army, and more recently, to his responsibility as a section commander. But Post had led men into battle too, and was an Original, like Bill. Carter, meanwhile had had to deal with even larger responsibilities, all the while unable to join in the jaunty comradeship of the enlisted ranks. The army was full of better men than Bill.

Toronto, 1923

"What's this got to do with Robert taking his own life?" Ben asked.

Post continued telling his story for a few moments more. "Oh, what?"

"What's this got to do with Carter?" Bill reiterated.

"Oh, right. After we were discharged from the hospital, we had to return to the front. We were at a station, waiting for a train..."

England, 1918

Anybody who still believed that young volunteers were in good supply would be proven wrong by the mere sight of the men on the platform. Nearly each man wore a wound stripe on their lower left cuff; quite a few wore two or three. Nobody was happy to be going back to their battalion, but that might change once they actually arrived. They were all in that awful transitional period between one form of discomfort and another. It was a "better the devil you know" situation, but whether the men knew England or France better was up for debate. For some men the answer was perfectly clear: Post and Carter weren't the only men wearing colonial uniforms. And as transitional periods go, it was a cold one: early February.

"At least 'ee knew it was coming," an Australian private was telling his sergeant. "Wint on 'is own terms."

"Can't agree with you," the sergeant replied. "Offer him up a bottle of beer and a nice steak, ee'd av' been loving life. 'Ee was in a tough circumstance and gave up, that's all there is to it."

"Wa'wud you know about tough circumstances, Sargey? A private takes all the burden in this war. Sometimes a man's 'ad enough. We've all got a limit."

"They're talking about someone who killed himself," Carter said to Post. "I think."

Post shrugged, not out of apathy, but of genuine confusion. "I can barely understand a word they're saying."

"Sime to you, Corp," the Aussie private shot back. "Nothing more puzzling than a Canadian accent."

"Don't get me wrong," the sergeant added, "we like you blokes, but you could speak a litt'l clear'r."

Carter wasn't interested in discussing accents. "What were you saying earlier, about a man who 'wint on 'is own terms?'"

"Bloke a half mile up the track," the private replied. "J'mped out in front of the train. I 'reckon 'ee wer'a soldier oo'd seen one too many scraps. Didn't fancy going back out a'gin. That's the story anyway."

"Gossip," the sergeant corrected. "So, you fellows are Canadians... eh?"

"That's right."

"Fine job you did at Passchendaele. Were you two there?"

"We were. Both got crocked in The Salient."

"Join the club. My mate and I were hit at Broodseinde Ridge. Probably just a few weeks before you fellows showed up. That was a rough show."

A British lance corporal who had been reclining nearby on a pile of gear turned his head upward and joined the conversation. "Menin Road was no easy go, either."

"Neither was Poelcappelle," an officer with an Irish accent added. "You colonials might have put in the final push, but remember who got you close enough to do that."

"It's the Canadians," the Australian private said, almost accusingly. "They're the glory hounds–"

"Ah, shut that," his sergeant responded. "They were only asking after the corpse on the track."

"Corpse on the track? So that's the hold up?" The British lance asked.

"It's only gossip," Post said, giving the Aussie sergeant a supportive nod.

"I can't understand what you're saying," the Irish officer replied. "Except you, somewhat," he said, indicating the lance corporal.

"What?" the British one-striper replied.

"Are we all speaking English?" Post asked slowly.

A cacophony of informal affirmative responses confused and silenced him. He lit a cigarette, took one step back, and decided to only observe, and not participate in the conversation.

"Can't blame him," the Aussie private said.

"For killing himself, or for making us all wait in the cold while they scrape his guts off the track?" the Brit countered.

"Don't be gruesome, Lance," the Aussie sergeant chided.

"What?"

"It ain't gruesome, Sargey, just the way it is," the private added.

"It's true," Carter confirmed. "Everyone's had a moment when they would rather die than see what the future holds."

"That's an awful way for an officer to speak," the Irishman replied.

"Have you ever been passed over by a stretcher-bearer? I saw a man with no legs, screaming hysterically and strapped down to keep him from falling off go past me, and the men who carried him looked to me as a lost cause. If I had the strength at the moment, I would have put my revolver to my head."

The others all fell silent. They had only been speaking theoretically about suicide; Carter seemed to be serious about it. The group soon dispersed. Carter and Post returned to waiting for the train.

"I've been having these thoughts," Carter said after a long pause.

"What kind?" Post asked.

"Dark things. I already accepted that I was dead when you pulled me out of that muck at Passchendaele. I keep thinking that maybe I was supposed to go, and you just interrupted it."

"Uh, sorry?"

"I don't mean that I blame you. I'm just saying that maybe it was my time."

Post forced a sardonic smile. "Everyone's got their time, and nobody can do anything about it. If the man upstairs wants you dead, he'll find a way."

Toronto, 1923

"Since the moment I dragged him out of the mud, I saw it in his eyes. I had never seen it before, not in him anyway, but after he was hit and left for dead, it was always there," Post said. "Hopelessness, I guess. He didn't kill himself – he died of wounds. Same as anyone else who stopped a bullet and lived a few more months, or took in too much poison gas and is still wheezing for every bit of air, but knows that last breath is coming a lot sooner than it would have otherwise."

Ben finished his drink and stood. "Thank you, Mister Post, for telling me your story."

"I know it doesn't really help, or change anything, but maybe you won't look down on your cousin, and what he did."

"I never did look down on him; I was proud to call him family. I tried to convince his parents to let the veterans wear their medals at the funeral, but they didn't understand. They thought Robert was a victim of the military, that it changed him and made him a worse person. No, I don't agree with that," Ben said, reaching into his suit pocket. "I heard this place was like a shrine to your old battalion. I like it. Here, I brought something for you. I think Robert would approve. His parents didn't care to keep them."

Bill and Post felt a cold shiver as Carter's medals were placed on the table next to the portrait. A Military Cross, awarded for his handling of the platoon at Vimy Ridge, a silver bar affixed to it, representing a repeated honour, this time for his leadership of the entire company in the last weeks of the war. Next to that were the two most basic of medals, awarded to any man who had seen active service: British War Medal, Victory Medal. Not being an Original, Carter's set lacked the revered 1915 Star that Bill and Post were both entitled to as early recruits.

"They would go well with the portrait, I think," Ben went on. "And I know for certain now that you'll not let them rot in a drawer, or lose them, or pawn them for a few dollars."

Post didn't know what to say, so Bill filled the silence. "Thank you, Sir. We were proud to call him family too. I hope you know that you're always welcome here."

"He bought this place for me," Post said suddenly, his voice quavering. "As a wedding present. He told me he didn't think one drink made us even, but a pub was enough to square things flat. The next time you see his parents, tell them they're welcome here too. And I won't tell them a story about a poor victim who was used up and forgotten by a... what's the term I want, Bill?"

Bill's tone was even, hollow. "A malevolent multitude of mindless manipulators. Or something along those lines, I'm sure."

"I'll tell them the story of a volunteer. A sometimes vain, but always selfless man who made the world a better place for being in it, even for a short time. And who doubtless saved lives through his leadership. A man that we're all poorer for without. Tell them that."

Ben nodded to each man, then walked to the door. Before turning the knob, he paused and turned to face them once again. "Quicksilver."

"What?" Post asked.

"Robert never told you about Quicksilver?"

"No. I don't think so."

"It was the name of his dog. He was Robert's birthday present when he turned eighteen."

"A dog for his eighteenth?" Bill asked.

"A very expensive and well-bred hunting dog: a Labrador Retriever. Black as night, sharp as tacks. Pheasant hunting is a Carter family tradition."

"That makes him twelve years old."

"Quicksilver died two weeks ago. He was Robert's best friend; even after three and a half years away they still were. When there was a big party or family dinner, Quick used to get shut away in the back room – he liked to step on people's toes to get their attention, beg for food at the table, or bark and woof whenever people laughed or raised their voice; he slobbered on the guests sometimes too." Ben's face twisted a little in grief, then he went on. "When Quick was taken to the other room, Rob would wait a few minutes, then politely excuse himself for a cigarette. But before he left, he'd top up his wine and put a few extra pieces of meat on his plate. Then he'd go in the back and sit with Quick. That dog ate like a prince: gravy and everything! Rob hated those pretentious dinner parties anyway. The last time I saw Quick I don't think he recognized me. He was old: slept all the time, could barely see or hear anything, wanted to go on long walks but would hurt himself just going down the porch steps. He only wanted to be with Rob. Did you ever see a dog cry?"

"I didn't think they could," Post replied.

"They can. It was this past summer. Rob was sitting on the porch, just staring. Quick ambled over to him and looked him in the eyes. He must have seen whatever Rob had inside of him – pain, or emptiness. And that poor boy cried; I think he was shedding Rob's tears for him. Maybe Rob had none left."

For a long time the Leaf and Crown was silent.

"One time he told me that the world, or the universe even, was like a big wheel. We aren't even a spoke on that wheel. We aren't even a drop of mud clinging to the outside. We're nothing; little pieces of nothing. But we can find other little pieces of nothing and hold on to them as best we can, even as the wheel ignores us and keeps on turning. He told me his little speck of nothing was Quiksilver. I guess even being nothing was too much to ask without him. I used to think that Robert was keeping Quicksilver alive with his love and attention. I'm starting to think it was the other way around," Ben sighed heavily. "I wonder if Quicksilver recognized Robert the last time he saw him. Do you think they're with each other now?"

"I think they know the way home," Bill said quietly.

"Goodnight, gentlemen, and thank you for speaking with me."

The Leaf and Crown was empty again, except for two heart-broken men staring at an old photograph.

"Nails," Bill suggested.

Post produced two cigarettes.

"No, I mean actual nails; we'll knock two into the bottom of the frame and hang his medals from the pinback. Get a hammer too."

Two drinks later, it was done. Both men laid their empty glasses on the table, and poured half of Carter's drink into each. Post replaced the frame where it had hung previously. The medals slanted a little, and Bill pushed them level again. A few seconds later they slid to one side once more, and Post corrected the entire frame, then the medals.

"Well, here's to you, Sir," Post said, raising his glass with his left hand, and saluting with his right.

Bill followed suit. "Rest in Peace, Sir."

Carter stared down at them with young, bright eyes. It was hard to tell if the feeling it gave the men was one of peace, or disconcertment. The Salient wasn't the only place with ghosts.

# END OF PART II

# PART III

#

# MENTIONED IN DISPATCHES

## They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old:

## Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

## At the going down of the sun and in the morning

## We will remember them.

## – Laurence Binyon, CH

# CHAPTER NINE

Toronto, 1938

"John, Hal, these are for Czar's table," Post said, indicating a collection of glasses filled with everything from beer to wine to whiskey. "Bring them over then take a break; there's a half-pint each for you two."

The Leaf and Crown was packed with veterans and their families, celebrating the twentieth anniversary of the war's end. Young legs were an asset to Gary Post, so Bill's two sons had been 'volunteered' to act as waiters. Post's oldest child, Gary Jr., was greeting guests, while his youngest two, Paul and Pauline, were helping in the kitchen.

"Don't let your mother see," Bill added from his barstool, cradling his ginger ale and wanting nothing more than to add a few ounces of whiskey to it. "And don't believe a word Czar says, especially about me."

"No worries," John replied.

"And don't ask him about the war unless he brings it up."

Harold, Bill's younger son, sighed. "Yeah, we know the drill, Dad."

"I mean it, Hal."

Czar made friends quickly. He had a strange charm that was as hard to pinpoint as his accent. Currently he was chatting with Francis Green, a man he had never met until tonight.

"Still not grown back, after twenty-two years? Maybe you need eat more meat, also milk drink for bone," Witold Kellowitz said, indicating Green's empty sleeve.

"I was thinking the same thing, Czar. Say, have you ever thought about having your tongue removed and replaced by a recently deceased Canadian's? It might help with that accent," Green replied. "Or a Brit, even; you could move into high society."

"Mister Blue makes smart suggestion. Why not we swapping tongues?"

"Green. And no, I wouldn't want all of my witty comments suffocated by your Russianese pronunciation. Besides, I only swap tongues with my wife."

"Red Mister, my accent may make a tough understand, but always it brings the women. Is mysterious and intriggering."

"You're not still a bachelor, at your age, are you?"

"What you meaning 'at my age', Purple?"

"The colour thing is old... just like you."

Kellowitz was going over a variety of responses in his mind. Particularly how he might use his accent to mispronounce something in order to create a double entendre of some variety. Before he could, John and Hal arrived with drinks for the table.

"These are courtesy of our Dad," John said.

"Mind if we join you?" Hal asked. "I want to talk to you about the war."

"Your father is the one to ask," Green replied. "Or Post. They were both there for a lot longer than either of us."

"But I've heard all their stories, and I know they leave some stuff out, like whenever I ask about the man I'm named after–"

John caught sight of Green's expression turning from openness to gloom, and gave his younger brother a slight kick. The boys knew there was something wrong with the story of the Hallicks brothers, but weren't sure exactly what it was. Neither of Bill's sons knew if the veterans harboured the same suspicions.

"I remember day I meeting Hal Junior," Czar began, also sensing Green's discomfort. "He was like you, full of questions of things. Better not asking question, but listening to answer, yes?"

Hal nodded his head politely, though not understanding what the old Russian was getting at.

"Time we had big situation. This is before Hal Junior, but this is story I want you know about your Ojciec, your papa. It's a fun story, for kids."

France, 1918

"I hate to ask, Czar, but I'm gonna need to know who the hell you actually are," Bill said, pencil and paper in hand.

It was early March, and with the Bolshevik Revolution in full swing, all Russians were being withdrawn from Canadian infantry battalions. They were considered potential socialist agitators and mutineers. The story was that most would be reassigned to labour or construction units. Czar, however, was not so sure.

"First, am not Russian, am Polish, maybe little bit of Lithuania but mostly Polish. Maybe some Ukraine," Kellowitz replied.

"Those are all part of the Russian Empire," Bill said.

"You knowing geography, but are you knowing history? We are different people. Different language and things."

"What's the matter with being sent away to a work battalion?"

"Says man who refuse safe job. You are not one to tell 'go get safe job,' Mister Bombproof man."

"I don't know if I can help you. I mean, you're Russian, as far as anyone else is concerned."

"Something else, Lance Bill," Czar said, ignoring Bill's restored rank of full corporal. "Am Jewish."

"So what?"

"You know what pogrom means? Always the Jews are being taken away. If they send us back Russia, they take me and say, he used to be imperial army, he fought for British, and worse, he's Jewish. They burn our farms, they steal our things; would kill me with no asked questions."

"So you were in the old Russian army."

"Yes, was sergeant, left when too many troubles. Deserted, you might say. June of fifteen; very bad times. Nearly killed, then captured, then escape. Come Canada, join army again. Just want be left alone and have war done. Now with way thing is in Russia, we not see peace there many years. Am already decided: I am Canada, and will make a new farm, new life, new everything in Canada."

Bill had never felt particularly lucky to be born a Canadian. Neither had he felt any special affinity for foreigners. Right now he was feeling both.

"Alright, if this is all about ethnicity, we can use that to our advantage. Like I said – to everyone else, you're a Russian, right? But why? Because they don't know a damned thing about who you really are, so they put you in an easy little group to identify you. But what if Kellowitz is actually a Flemish name?"

"When enlisted I had say was born in Russia. Recruiting man not heard of Poland. Certainly did not lie and say I Belgian."

"That doesn't matter; those papers are probably in a crate in a basement in Ottawa. I bet they don't see the light of day for a hundred years. What matters is a good story. You were born in Belgium, came to Canada, let's say, in 1913. When the war broke out you tried to enlist, but they didn't want you because you could barely speak English. You tried again to enlist in 1915, but there were too many younger volunteers in better physical shape. Okay, this can work. When did you actually enlist, and with what battalion?"

"February twenty-one, 1916; 204th Battalion 'Toronto Beavers.'"

"That makes sense. The enlistment rates were already kind of low in early '16," Bill mused. "Well, really in late 1916, but let's just say the year and not mention the month unless we have to."

"This all good plan, you think, but who are we talk to?"

"If we can convince the CSM, he can talk to whoever is administering this whole thing."

"You think Turner will believe?"

"I don't know if he'll believe it, but I think he'll at least pretend to."

Toronto, 1938

"So for rest of war I was Belgiuman," Kellowitz said. "Of course they still are calling 'Czar', but I telling Czar means same thing in Flemish. Also telling all my stories of Russia were only joking. Most of them were made up anyway."

Hal stared in confusion at John.

"That's a very funny story, Mister Kellowitz," John said. "Uh, I think Hal and I need to go now. We've finished our beers and Uncle Gary will want us back at the bar; we're acting waiters."

"Thanks for listening story, you both good boys."

Green leaned in close to John, still looking mortified. "Don't ask about the Hallicks brothers, and don't let him either. Their mother is coming later; she'll be the one with the two silver crosses."

When the boys returned to the bar, their mother was waiting. "Your father claims he didn't hand you those beers, is that right?"

Bill was sitting just behind Kate, shrugging stupidly and pointing to Post, mouthing "Blame him."

"Mister Green and Mister Kellowitz insisted," John improvised, not wanting to get Bill or Post in trouble. "They wanted to tell us a story and give us a quick break. You know how the veterans are: they can't tell a story unless everyone at the table is having a drink. It was a good one too, we all had a laugh. Seems the old man saved Czar from something called a 'pogrom.' Good work, Dad."

Kate knew she was being lied to, but catching sight of Stanley McCreery making his entrance, went to greet him.

"Get back to work, John. Hal, come here a moment," Bill said.

The collar on Hal's suit jacket was flipped up, and Bill smoothed it down.

"It's cold," his son protested.

"I don't care; I don't want you looking like that."

"But I do it all the time and you never say anything."

"I know, but tonight's different. Missus Hallicks is coming shortly. She'll be very happy to see you again, and she'll want to talk with you. I want you looking nice."

"Do I have to?"

"Yes."

"But I want to talk to the vetera–"

Bill's tone turned sharp. "Shut up. Listen."

Hal went silent as Bill's voice evened out. "I don't want you mentioning the war, or her sons, or the battalion, or anything to her. Be polite, and keep the conversation to your studies and your friends, just tell her what you've been up to lately."

"You know I don't wanna talk to old ladies, Dad. There's a room full of heroes I can chat with."

As if on cue, an elderly woman entered the Leaf and Crown. Missus Hallicks held her head high. Although not every man in the bar recognized her, all revered her. Two silver crosses, suspended from purple ribbons, were pinned neatly above her heart. These were awarded to the next-of-kin of fallen soldiers.

Bill turned desperate. "You make five minutes of nice conversation with her, and I'll take over waiting tables for the rest of the night, and you can hear all the war stories you want. Just not about the Hallicks boys, understand?"

"Okay, Dad."

"One other thing: I'll call you Harold around her. I'll go bring her over now and we'll get this over with," Bill went on, trying to steel his nerves despite a growing lump in his throat.

Missus Hallicks was led by her daughter to the same table where Green and Kellowitz were sitting. Green stood and hugged Missus Hallicks, then kissed his wife on the cheek. Kellowitz stood and gave a formal bow.

"Sorry we're late," Missus Green said.

"We must have been early," Kellowitz replied, suppressing his accent and actually putting some effort into his grammar and word choice. "Please join us."

Missus Green sat. "Francis, is this one of your friends from the war? I haven't met him before."

"From the battalion," Green replied. "I've known him a short while. Mister Kellowitz, please meet my wife, Elizabeth, and my mother-in-law, Myrna Hallicks."

"I am honoured. Please, Missus Hallicks, sit," Kellowitz said.

"It's very nice to meet you. But would you please give me a minute? I want to say hello to someone first," the old lady replied.

At the bar, Bill had lost his courage, and was now cowering behind his son. "Oh God, she's coming this way."

Post leaned over the bar, a shot of whiskey in his hand. "For Christ, Bill, don't start blubbering now. If that woman can stand it, so can you. Take this, that's an order."

Bill threw back the shot; Kate would understand. All too quickly, Missus Hallicks had arrived at the bar.

"Billy, so good to see you."

"You too, Ma'am," Bill said, giving her a hug.

"Where's young Harold?"

"Right here, Nan," Bill's youngest son replied.

"My how you've grown! Why, the last time I saw you, you were just a boy."

"He'll be sixteen in a few weeks, isn't that right, Harold?" Bill asked, shooting his son a look that threatened to turn from encouraging to murderous if the conversation took a bad turn.

"That's right. I have a big party planned out with my school chums," Hal said without sounding too forced.

"He's received very high marks," Bill added.

"You must be quite popular," Missus Hallicks went on. "You were always so clever, and funny. I remember when I was babysitting you one night, you must have been around seven years old, and you had lost a toy of yours. Well, when Billy came to pick you up, you were having none of it, not without the toy. So you listed off everything we had done that night, where we had been, and where you had already searched for it. You realized there was one room you had been nosing around in, and when I scolded you for snooping, you had dropped the toy right there and went running to the yard. I knew then that with such a good memory, you'd turn out a very intelligent young man. And instead of just going and grabbing it, you asked your father to get it for you, since I had told you not to snoop around. Astuteness and manners; nobody could ask for more."

"Thank you, Nan," Hal said, grasping for a response an adult might make. "You're too kind."

"Gary, would you get Harold a soda? On me."

"On the house, Ma'am," Post replied.

"Come see me later," Missus Hallicks said. "I have something for you. But run along for now, I'd like to speak with your father."

Bill indicated his empty shot glass to Post, who only shook his head. Harold politely took his soda, then left to go find some brave soldier to talk to. He didn't realize he had just spoken with the bravest person in the room. Now it was Bill's turn, and he was sweating and shaking like a man about to go over the top; in fact, he would have preferred that.

"How've you been, Billy? And where's your lovely wife?"

"Well. She's around. No doubt being fawned over by some better looking man," Bill replied.

"That isn't possible, Billy."

"What about me?" Post added, jokingly.

"It's a tie, to be certain," Missus Hallicks replied. "Billy, have you been avoiding the drink?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Then why do I smell whiskey on your breath?"

"I avoid it, but I'm not so spry as I used to be; sometimes it sneaks up and jumps right in my mouth."

"Oh, Billy, it's nothing to jest over. Just make sure you take it easy, okay? You've been doing so well the past few years."

"Thanks, Ma'am," Bill replied sheepishly.

"Well, I won't keep you any longer. I promised Francis and Mister Kello–, what was it?"

"Kellowitz – but you can just call him 'Czar.'"

"I can handle 'Kellowitz.' I promised to join them again. And remember, I want to speak with Harold later in the evening."

"I won't forget, Ma'am."

Missus Hallicks had told Bill a long time ago that there was no need to address her with such formality. But Bill couldn't help himself. The woman had lost two sons in the war. The first had been his best friend; the second had been under his command at the time of his death.

"Whiskey, now," Bill said once Missus Hallicks was gone. "And don't argue."

Post didn't argue, and once Bill had gulped down another shot he simply whispered, "It's Jim."

"Jesus Christ! First Missus Hal, now Jim. Fuck. Fuck."

A minute later James McCloud sat on a stool next to Bill, placing a hand on his shoulder. Bill was surprised to see him sporting a thick beard. While it certainly covered the metal plate, skin grafts, and extensive scarring around his lower right cheek, his mouth was a different story. His gums had continued their necrotic course, and a big gap in his teeth marked where repeated dental surgeries had failed. McCloud's tongue had avoided the infection and discolouration, but was constantly drenched in saliva, and occasionally pus, causing his speech to slur.

"Gary, let's have a drink for me and Bill. Whiskey, right?"

Bill nodded his head slowly. He didn't feel the hate that had driven him away from McCloud since the spring of 1917. And something about that made him feel uncomfortable. "Sergeant Major," he said formally.

"Forget the rank, Bill. I figured twenty years since the big peace would be enough for us to sit and have a drink together. What do you say to a little personal armistice?"

"Okay, Jim."

McCloud raised his glass and touched it to Bill's. "To peace."

"To John," Bill offered.

McCloud nodded his head solemnly and both men emptied their glasses.

"Where are you boys?"

"Waiting tables and hunting for war stories. There's Hal," Bill replied, pointing.

Sure enough, Harold was chatting with his uncle, Tom Payne. Payne had joined the battalion in late 1916, the same day Bill had been made a section commander.

"Tell me about the big battle at the end of the war," Harold implored Payne. "The Hundred Days when we broke the back of the German army."

Payne let a false sneer come over his face. "'We?' I don't remember seeing you there."

"The Canadian Corps I mean. Please, nobody tells me anything."

"Okay. First of all, it wasn't one big battle. It was a couple big ones and a couple little ones. We started out in August with maybe seven hundred men. Maybe closer to six-fifty. In two and a half months we took over nine hundred casualties. You do the math. The battalion was taking in new men faster than we could learn their fuckin' names," Payne paused and took a long pull off his cigarette, finishing it. "I'll tell you about the first battle. Woods and fields all Goddamned day! This wasn't trench warfare like we were used to. We must have gone five miles on the first day alone."

# CHAPTER TEN

France, 1918

August. And the battalion was getting ready for the largest counter-attack of the war. In late March the Germans had pushed the line back and enjoyed their biggest gains since the autumn of 1914. Now, with the Germans' last frantic attack stalled, and the Canadian Corps untouched by it, it was once again time for the Colonials to deliver a decisive blow.

The last few days had been a blur: secret orders delivered at the last minute were often rescinded moments later, then altered and reissued shortly after. Complicated transportation schemes had the men moving mostly at night, and whenever possible through thick woods. Above all, the constant rumours kept everybody, even commanding officers, guessing.

In anticipation for the big offensive, the platoons of the Canadian Corps had been reorganized once again. The four section layout was replaced by two much larger ones. A second Lewis Gun was added to each platoon, allowing each section to have a machine-gun of their own, along with a small rifle-grenade team. Bombers had become obsolete, as every rifleman now carried grenades and possessed basic training concerning all weapons. Bill and the other men who had earned their bomber's patch were allowed to keep them, but officially they were riflemen again; unofficially, they carried a few more bombs than the others. Bill retained his bomb bag, as did Stinson and Payne, but it was more of a valise for personal items.

By mid-summer, Bill had found himself a sergeant in command of one half of the platoon, while McCloud retained control over the other half. He had spent the last several weeks headhunting men from McCloud's group, one by one. Promotions, demotions, and trades had brought all the best men to Bill's half of the platoon. He thought it was due to his shrewd leadership style, but in fact owed more to Carter and McCloud wanting to stack the deck in his favour. McCloud had even graciously turned over Bailey's old sergeant stripes to Bill, knowing it would give him confidence.

Corporal Lincoln served as Bill's right-hand man, in charge of the rifle-grenadiers: Privates Cameron and O'Sullivan, two men who had belonged to his now-defunct section since Vimy. McCreery, demoted to Lance Corporal for formality's sake, was responsible for the Lewis Gun, still manned by Thompson and Chilvers. Stinson, Payne, Czar, and Dawson, along with a demoted Fyles, formed Bill's group of riflemen-bombers. Altogether, Bill was in charge of eleven men, including two NCOs.

"Is it the sixth, or the seventh?" Payne asked, huddled low in a trench.

Zero Hour, four-twenty in the morning, had passed fifty minutes ago, and soon the Third would be thrown into action.

"Eighth," Stinson replied, almost to himself. "The eighth of the eighth."

"More importantly," Dawson chimed in, "ten minutes 'til we go over."

The Third Battalion had been held in reserve. Their job would be to follow behind the Fourteenth Battalion on their right, and the Eighteenth on their left; men from Montreal and south-western Ontario respectively. B Company was on the battalion's left flank, much to Lincoln's distress. His eldest son, Carlyle, had arrived in the Fourteenth a few months earlier. He had hoped to see him before the battle began, but it had proved impossible. Bill could easily read the apprehension on his older friend's face.

"He'll be fine, Linc," Bill said. "If his old man can come through three and a half years without so much as a scratch, the worst he'll get will be a stomach ache."

"Thanks, but that doesn't help. We've both seen plenty of men who were never hit until they were killed," Lincoln replied blandly.

"You been praying for him?"

"Of course."

"Then you're doing all you can."

"Yeah. Just doesn't seem like enough."

"I know. He's your son and you have an obligation to protect him. I feel the same about you and the boys. But I know that there'll be casualties; there always are. So as long as I do everything I can to keep the section safe, that blood won't be on my hands. I have enough of that already: Roy, Blake, McNeil."

"That blood is on Hun hands, Bill. But that's beside the point. If Carlyle is killed it won't matter why. I'll have lost him forever."

"Hey, pearly gates, remember?"

Lincoln forced a smile. "Thanks."

"Alright, enough of that. We're stepping off in about five minutes; remind your men to take a final piss."

## *

The sun wouldn't be up for another hour. Added to the darkness was a thick blanket of fog that limited visibility to about twenty yards. The Company moved forward in single file by platoons. After plodding through eerily empty fields for a mile, the advance continued through a wooded area, each soldier keeping a hand on the back of the man in front of him as the moonlight was overpowered by the overhead canopy, and the persistent fog. Getting lost was their biggest concern, and officers kept their compasses in hand.

Corporal Post, pacing along the edges of the slow-moving platoons, was the first to realize that B Company was entirely out of touch with the remainder of the battalion. An educated guess would suggest that the battalion, in turn, was not in contact with any other unit. They were, in fact, marching blindly through a gap accidently left by the Fourteenth and Eighteenth. A gap, as it happened, that was inundated with hastily constructed defensive positions in woods and high ground.

The obscene cracking of a German 08/15 machine-gun sent the men scrambling to the ground. At least the fog was an equal opportunity obstacle; the gun wasn't far off, but would have difficulty scoring many hits.

"Seven Platoon will take the gun!" Company Sergeant Major Turner boomed. "All others stay put, and hold fire!"

In the fog, it would have been dangerous for the entire company to open up. There was too big a risk of friendly fire.

Six Platoon laid flat and waited. Every man was wide-eyed and anticipating orders, glancing nervously from the man in front of them to the man behind them. Whatever was happening, barely more than a stone's throw away, was a complete mystery. The sounds of the German machine-gun and rifle fire were quickly joined by the crack-crack-crack of two Lewis Guns, and the determined rhythm of Lee Enfield fire. After a minute or two, and two or three or bombs exploding, the firing stopped. Shouts of 'kamerad' filled the air, followed by hideous screams; the job had been finished with bayonets. Mercy was rarely afforded to machine-gun crews that surrendered at the last possible moment.

"Seven Platoon has the trench!" A voice called out.

"Casualties?" Turner asked.

"Five wounded, including the Mister; two killed."

"Prisoners?"

"Not anymore. Two machine-guns, about a dozen dead Huns."

"Eight Platoon has four wounded," another voice called through the mist.

"Five and Six Platoons?" Turner yelled.

"No casualties," Five Platoon's commander called.

"One wounded," Carter replied.

"The Sir was hit!" came another voice.

"Fuck," Turner muttered to himself. "B Company – still! Platoon commanders, on me. Platoon sergeants, see to the wounded." Turner soon became red with embarrassment, as through the fog, he had to keep speaking in order to indicate his own position. "I am here. Hello, hello, hello. This is Company Sergeant Major Turner. Hello, hello. For God's sake, Sirs, hurry up; I feel ridiculous."

Once the three platoon commanders, and Seven Platoon's senior sergeant arrived, Turner brought them in close. "Mister Carter is taking over command of the company. You'll stick close to me, okay Sir?"

"Yes, CSM," Carter replied, certain that McCloud could handle Six Platoon.

"This ground was supposed to be clear until the Green Line, but it isn't, is it?" Turner asked rhetorically.

"Sure as hell isn't," Captain Reid replied, arriving with the help of another wounded soldier. Reid had a bandage applied to his left leg, the other man, his right arm. They had been hit by the same initial burst of gunfire and patched each other up. "Turner, bring the men forward at once, we're already late. I'll take over the wounded and bring them back. Mister Carter, take care of my company."

"I will, Sir," Carter replied with a salute that turned into a handshake. "Gentlemen, return to your platoons, we move in one minute. Corporal Post!"

Post was far on the right flank, but ran at full speed. "Yes, Sir?"

"Please inform Sergeant McCloud that he is in temporary command of Six Platoon, then return to your position. We're moving momentarily."

"Sir," Post replied, then sped away.

"CSM, would you give the order to advance, please?" Carter asked, knowing that Turner was as much in command as he was.

"B Company!" Turner boomed. "Carry on!"

## *

It was nearly nine in the morning before B Company finally arrived at the Green Line: an old British trench system captured by the Germans months earlier, and in a state of disrepair. The familiar barren fields, trenches, and barbed wire were almost a comforting sight. According to a lightly wounded and very lonely, bored man left behind as a guide, only five platoons of the total sixteen that belonged to the battalion had reached the line before them, and they had all gone forward with limited support. Time was more important than strength; the attack had to continue immediately in order to catch the Germans off-guard.

By now the fog had lifted, and while that made organization and movement easier, it also meant that the battalion would present an easy target in the open fields and more sparse woods that dotted the landscape beyond the Green Line. The men had barely caught their breath before moving on. The sound of heavy fighting a half mile away was enough to reinvigorate them; they weren't eager for another scrap, but were more than keen to assist their comrades.

Passing through another wooded area, B Company caught sight of a few platoons of khaki-clad soldiers in a gully: the ever-luckless D Company. Several hundred yards beyond, a forested hill was littered with German machine-gun crews. D Company had walked right into an ambush, and now B would have to join them in their predicament, or leave them to be annihilated.

"Five Platoon, push left one hundred yards," Carter called. "Remainder, fall in line with them."

The men already in the gully were relieved when B Company opened into extended line and joined up with them. But even with the extra fire support, the attack was failing. For every few yards gained, another man or two was hit; by the time they arrived there would be nobody left alive and unwounded. Staying put just meant a slower demise.

"Our only hope is a bayonet charge," Turner advised Carter as both men hugged the earth. "They'll cut us up pretty badly, but they'll break and run at one hundred yards. Huns don't like Canadian bayonets, do they?"

Carter didn't agree. "I'm not willing to wreck the company for some hill; what will we do when we come across the next one in half a mile, Sergeant Major? And I bet it'll be better defended than this one. We need help."

"That'll take time, Sir. Who knows where the rest of the battalion is?"

Carter stood and raised his voice: "Hold here! Smoke grenades everywhere!"

"You heard the man," Lincoln called to his bombers. "Smoke bombs, one hundred and fifty yards." This was more than any rifle-bomb could go, but Lincoln liked to challenge his men.

"How many?" Cameron asked, firing off his first.

"Two each, and make it a good even spread. I want all of Six Platoon covered."

"Too easy," O'Sullivan replied, as his second bomb went flying.

Some riflemen who had been designated to carry smoke bombs added to the cover, and soon the gully was enveloped. The German rifle and machine-gun fire carried on, but it wasn't nearly as accurate. A few minutes later it slackened; the defenders only had so many bullets.

The attack remained stalled out for nearly another hour, until at last, like a heavenly choir, a dozen Lewis machine-guns began chattering from a hundred yards to the rear. The bulk of A and C Companies had met up and arrived altogether. Cheers went up along the line, and the advance continued. But it wasn't long before the covering fire from the Lewis Guns was ignored, and the Germans on the hilltop once again forced the battalion to a stand-still.

Corporal Post didn't wait for orders, or bother to inform anyone of what he saw. Sixty-six tons of beauty: two tanks rumbling down a road several hundred yards away. He dropped his rifle and equipment in a little pile – all except his helmet and gas mask – and ran full-speed towards them.

Arriving at the nearest one, he pounded on the side hatch. "I'm Canadian, open up!" He screamed above the roar of the engine.

The tank stopped, hatch opened wide, and a grease-stained Captain stuck his head out, accompanied by an awful smelling cloud of black smoke. He looked like a futuristic machine-man and nearly caused Post to shudder. The tank commander wore a rubber headpiece which Post couldn't identify for certain as a helmet or a hat, and clumsy leather goggles with horizontal slits in them which hid his eyes, and no doubt greatly limited his vision. An eight inch length of chainmail jangled below his goggles, covering his nose, mouth, and neck. Tanker's helmets weren't designed for protection from bullets or shellfire, but from the many harmful things inside the tank itself. Without their special protection, a crash or sudden stop could hurl the crew against the floor, walls, or even the ceiling, rendering them unconscious. And while generally protected by thick armour, even a machine-gun could send sparks and bits of metal flying all about the interior of the tank. The eight-man crew operated in their own filthy, murky, and noisy little world. At least the Mark Five Star, a newer design, had a somewhat effective exhaust port.

"What can I do for you?" the tank commander asked.

"I need you to put some fire on a target," Post replied.

The tank commander pulled his goggles up to his forehead and blinked heavily, adjusting his eyes to the sunlight. "Where?"

Post pointed to the hill. "Range about seven hundred yards north-north-east. Elevation maybe, uh, twenty yards or more."

"Tell you what," the commander said. "You hop on top and spot for me. If my men are firing short, pound once on the roof. If we're firing too far, twice. If you want me to shift fire left, it'll be three. And to shift fire right, knock four times. Distance and elevation will work themselves out in the same arc. Direction, then distance. Got that?"

Post nodded and yelled above the engine, "Got it, Sir. Thank you."

The commander handed Post a pair of binoculars, then shut the side hatch. Climbing on top of the metal beast was no easy task, but one that the experienced scout managed. Once perched on top, he removed his helmet, ready to smash away his make-do Morse Code. The tank shifted, presented its six-pounder guns towards the hill, and opened fire.

Post saw the first shell land in the midst of the slowly advancing Canadians, and pounded hard four times. The next shell went too far right, and missed the Germans entirely. Three knocks shifted the fire left again, this time in line with the fortified hilltop, but well short. One more solid knock with his helmet, and the next shell landed right on target. A drum-roll with his fists followed, and Post watched with joy as the fire steadied up; the bracketing was over, now it was time to do some damage.

Within a minute the advance began making good progress, and the Germans, facing a Lewis Gun barrage, fire from the tanks, and a two company bayonet charge, began to break. Once the Canadians were within one hundred yards, Post climbed down and smashed the hatch with his helmet. It was now dented so badly that anyone would think he had a close call with a shrapnel shell, or a hailstorm from hell.

The tank ceased firing, and the commander reappeared. "Will that be all?"

"Yes, Sir. Thank you," Post replied, handing back the binoculars. "Those are nice, where did you buy them?"

"Standard issue for land-ships. Thanks for not running off with them. I'd be on the hook for a few days pay. Say, this is the road to Caix, isn't it?"

"That's right. Over there," Post said, pointing, "is Wiencourt and Guillaucourt. You should hit Caix in another two miles or so."

"Splendid. I must be off, good luck, Corporal."

Post smiled brightly at the monstrously veiled man. "Thanks again, Sir, and tell your men that the Third Canadian infantry battalion is glad to have made their acquaintance."

## *

Carter was astonished to see how few of his men were advancing; the majority lay dead or wounded in the gully. Looking left and right, his newly-earned company looked more like a bountiful platoon. Upon reaching the crest of the hill, shouts of 'kamerad' emanated from several recently dug trenches. Most of the German survivors were badly wounded, while a few with lighter scrapes saw to them; those uninjured had abandoned their position and would no doubt be waiting at the next. Conspicuously absent was CSM Turner. And already it was apparent that most of the officers had become casualties as well.

"McCloud, on me," Carter called out.

McCloud glanced nervously at Bill, who was busy with the usual post-assault routine: rounding up prisoners, assessing the state of the platoon, and getting ready to either settle in or press onwards depending on the order given.

"The Sir is calling you," Bill said nonchalantly between a swig of water from his canteen. "I've got everything under control."

Bill's idea of having 'everything under control' differed slightly from McCloud's. Bill liked to let his men do their own thinking and working, while McCloud tended to supervise even hardened veterans carrying out simple tasks. Deciding that Bill couldn't cause too much damage in the next few minutes, McCloud took his leave.

"Yes Sir?" McCloud asked.

"Three things. First: you're my new CSM. Second: I want a casualty report from each platoon. Third: I think we'll be moving straight ahead, so don't bother breaking ground. I'll talk to the Big Sir and confirm, but he'll want to know our current strength."

"Okay. I'll be back in a few minutes."

McCloud sped away towards Five Platoon as A and C Companies began to move into the gully, and sweep past the wounded men.

## *

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." It was Fyles, a bullet wound running all along the length of his left shoulder and arm, the round having exited just before his wrist. Had it entered a degree higher and extended another inch, it would have likely cut Fyles' radial artery. It was an odd wound, but not the oddest that had been received over the past hour.

"It wouldn't be nearly as bad if you stopped moving about and cursing," Dawson replied, a fragment from one of the tank's shells having cut open his right calf.

Both men were repeating a familiar scene: two wounded soldiers bandaging each other. All throughout the gully khaki heaps were sprawled out: sitting upright, or slowly getting to their feet. A few yards away, Fyles caught sight of Turner. He had been hit leading the initially sluggish attack, and lay bleeding with two gunshot wounds in the centre of his massive frame. Dawson and Fyles crawled towards him, and removed the field dressings from his tunic.

Fyles leaned in close to Dawson. "I'll try to track down a stretcher-bearer. They shouldn't be too far behind us. Try to keep him alive; I don't think he'll last long."

"Corporal Post," Turner managed. "Get me Post."

Dawson didn't look up from tending to the CSM's wounds, but called at the top of his voice for Post to come, and that Turner had been hit. Luckily, Post had yet to move forward with the attack. He had returned to the gully to collect his gear, and heard Dawson's yelling. It was strange to see the CSM helpless, and probably dying.

"What can I do, Sir?" Post asked.

Turner's voice was stricken but stern. "Tell Mister Carter not to let the attack stall out. Keep the men moving. McCloud replaces me, alright?"

"Yes, Sir."

"A Company Sergeant Major needs his pace stick, doesn't he? Bring it to McCloud, please."

Post tried to shift the giant of a man gently, but Turner winced in silent pain as the pace stick was pulled out from underneath him.

"Now get going. You wouldn't want the war to pass you by, would you?"

"No, of course not. Goodbye, Sergeant Major. Dave. Good luck," Post said, then stood and left.

Dawson finished with the bandages, but soon found himself bored. He was bored of being a soldier, bored of lying around with wounded men on either side of him, and bored of being scared and sad. Once his boredom turned to something surreal and disturbing, he decided to engage the CSM in conversation.

"It's a nice day. If I was picnicking, I'd want a cucumber sandwich and some Earl Grey tea with sugar and milk."

Turner, accepting that he would probably die soon, decided to carry on the conversation rather than go out in silence. "Could you be any more British? You probably have a backgammon set in your pack, don't you? I'd want a roast beef sandwich; my wife makes the best roast beef sandwiches; little bit of mustard too. And I'd wash it down with a bottle of Bass beer."

"My wife was a temperance woman; she didn't appreciate it when I drank."

"Was? What happened?"

"She was killed in a house fire, along with our children."

Turner's face softened instantly; he looked like he might even shed a tear. "My condolences."

"It was years ago. And I've plans for the future. Once this war ends I'll take my discharge in England and go back to Accrington. I'm sure there's a broken family that I could cement back together."

Turner realized his breathing was getting heavy, and tried to steady it. "I had a chance to go home. Back in February all of the Originals, except the officers, who were married before the war were given the opportunity to be sent back to Canada – for good. Of course there were so few Originals left, and most of them had been bachelors in '14. Six men went; I should have gone too."

"But you had your company to look after."

"I'm aware of that, aren't I?"

"I suppose so."

"And now a couple of filthy Hun bullets are going to keep me from ever seeing my family again? No, they aren't. Hell, I was hit twice before, wasn't I?"

Dawson half-shrugged and half-nodded, glancing down at the CSM's two brass wound stripes. He hadn't been in the battalion when Turner was hit at Ypres in 1915, and again at Vimy in 1917.

"I won't let some Goddamned Germans make my wife a widow, and force my children to grow up without a father, will I?"

Dawson was silent.

"I'm sorry. Forget I said anything," Turner ended, remembering that the man he was talking to had already lost his family.

A few minutes later Fyles returned, two stretcher-bearers in tow. "Your ride back has arrived, Sir. You'll have to wait awhile, Dawson; the stretcher men are still doing their triage. These blokes tell me I have to be going back now, so I'll walk alongside and keep the CSM company."

"Say 'hello' to England for me, Sir," Dawson said.

"I will. I'm sure you'll make good cement."

A few moments later, Dawson was alone, waiting his turn to be carried out. A colony of industrious ants was hard at work a few feet away.

"You there, yes you, get back in ranks," Dawson ordered a stray ant. "You'll have to work together to get by. At least that's what my first platoon sergeant told me. Don't squabble over trifling matters, but rather work for the greater good. You ants don't have wars; at least I don't think you do. But then again you're missing out on factories, steam engines, and even poison gas. You see, we have this little concept called 'civilization', perhaps you've heard of it. Well, for those of you who haven't, it means that we kill each other because we disagree, and the last man left alive has his opinion proven correct. We're a silly, stupid, selfish lot, us men are. Or maybe too smart. We build empires that rise and fall, we go through bad times and do bad things; and we orchestrate it all ourselves. Of course we do great things too. Any one of our monuments would put your anthill to shame. But you've been making anthills for quite a while, and I doubt they'll stop popping up anytime soon. Your little piles of sand and dirt get washed away with rainwater or even a good breeze. We tear our own monuments down, or else our foes bomb them to bits for us. Sometimes we just abandon them. You see, conflict doesn't create or accomplish anything; it just shifts the focus from progress to destruction. It prevents progress. But I think you've been here a lot longer than us, and maybe you've already figured this all out. And I think you'll still be here long after we're gone. Of course, our rubbish will take a thousand years to rust and rot. If you want to change building materials from sand to metal, I think we've left behind enough spent cartridges and shrapnel fragments to keep you well supplied. Just be sure not to build your next hill, or hive, or nest, or whatever you call it, on top of a dud Mills Bomb. I'd hate to see all that hard work wasted."

# CHAPTER ELEVEN

Toronto, 1938

Payne stuck a fresh cigarette between his lips. "We never did see Dawson ever again. I can only assume he settled down with some new family in England."

"What happened after you took the hill?" Harold asked.

"We had a few more little fights. Took lots of prisoners. Early in the afternoon B Company was pulled out. We'd taken so many casualties we were barely functioning. A and D settled in on some high ground, C Company sloshed across the river Luce and made an outpost line, and a little later the Tenth Battalion passed through us and carried on the attack. Altogether we lost something like two hundred men that day, mostly wounded, and mostly from B Company. Even D Company was in better shape than us, and they were usually the most unlucky bastards of all."

"Then what happened?" Harold asked.

Payne gave him a condescending look. "We won the war and went home."

"Really."

"Get me another beer and I'll tell you about Rouvroy, okay? But after that I've got nothing to say."

"Why?"

"I stopped a bullet a few weeks later."

Soon Harold returned with another beer for Payne, and he went on.

France, 1918

That evening, B Company was resting in a field a mile behind the remainder of the battalion.

"Is this Six Platoon?"

Bill's eyes went wide, his blood turning to ice. He was face-to-face with a man who so closely resembled George Hallicks, right down to his flipped up tunic collar, that it could only be his younger brother: Edward.

"Hal?" Bill finally managed.

"Yes, Sergeant. Are you Bill Brown?"

Bill nodded, then turned to another man who he hadn't yet noticed.

"Conacher, Sergeant. We were told to report to Six Platoon by some officer."

"Three syllables. That's too long, what's your first name?"

"William."

"No good, we can't have two Bills. You can be Con or Connie. Think it over and let me know. Hal, how did you end up here?"

"I know, my brother told me not to enlist. And I didn't: I was conscripted. But George always said that if I ever ended up in the army, I should try to make my way to the Third Battalion, and eventually to Six Platoon. I've told a lot of lies, ducked out of a lot of reinforcement drafts, and even bribed a few people to get here."

"Good boy," Bill said. "Clever just like your brother. And you?"

"I volunteered," Conacher said. "Most of the men I trained with were conscripts though. Just happened to end up here."

"The last volunteer and the first conscript," Bill mused aloud. "Do either of you have any special training?"

Both men shook their heads. They had been in the army for about six months, and most of that time had been spent getting from one place to another, learning to march, conducting physical training, and getting a basic idea of how an infantry battalion works. It had been the same for Bill four years earlier.

"You'll both be in my section: number two. Well, I'm also acting platoon commander, I guess. Anyhow, follow me; I'll introduce you to anyone who isn't sleeping."

## *

Early the next morning the battalion was ordered forward again. Seven miles southeast, through fields, woods, and old overgrown British trenches, the sun was nearly setting when B Company entered the little town of Rouvroy. A, C, and D had pushed through the nearly deserted site and established a new line to the east. Still badly lacking in manpower, B Company had been left in reserve, and now assigned the task of securing Rouvroy.

"It's barricaded from the inside," Carter said, indicating a large building that had once been a hotel, government offices, or some prominent citizen's private residence.

Post stood at the centre of the town square with him. "No fire coming from it. Could be scared civilians."

"In any case we need to be sure. I want you to take Six Platoon and clear it out; I've got my hands full with door-to-door searches. Hell, Eight Platoon is being led by a corporal."

"Don't worry, Sir. If we can't break that door down, I'll find another way in."

"Thanks, Gary."

"Six Platoon, on me!" Post called out with the glee of a corporal saying something normally reserved for much higher ranks.

"What goes on?" Bill asked. "You stealing my platoon?"

"The Sir wants us to clear out that mansion. The front door, which is also the only door, is locked and barricaded from inside. It might just be civilians, but there could be some die-hards lying low and waiting for darkness. If that's the case, we have about an hour until they get the jump on us."

Bill brought the biggest soldiers in the platoon together and lined them up, four abreast to the door, while the remainder of his men looked on. "We'll do this like parade drill. Goons... knock down... door!"

On the word of command, Payne, Kellowitz, and two large men from One Section slammed their full weight against the door. It barely budged.

"If we can big piece of wood finding, can use like buttering goat," Kellowitz offered.

"Ram, Czar. B-a-a-attering ram," Bill corrected.

"No, no, Lance Bill Sergeant, b-a-a-a is sheep. Get whole platoon behind goat," Kellowitz went on, making a pendulum motion with his hands. "Like the time we stormed Winter Palace."

"We could burn down the whole place, whoever's inside will have to come out and surrender," Payne added. "And we'll have a nice fire to brew up with."

"Can we blow it open with bombs?" Bill asked Post quietly, afraid of sounding like an idiot.

"I have a better idea," Post replied. "Alright men, come around the side of the house with me."

Underneath a big window, some fifteen feet above, Post took command. "Ditch your gear, all of it. And you," he said, pointing to Thompson, "give me that Lewis Gun."

"It's got a fresh drum," Thompson said, handing it over ruefully, and feeling suddenly naked. "Her name's Louise."

"Take these," Chilvers added, shoving an extra drum of ammunition into each of Post's lower tunic pockets. The Number Two served the gun just as much as the gunner.

With the Lewis slung across his back, Post began organizing the men into a human pyramid. Owing to the limited number of soldiers remaining, the final entry into the window would have to be done with a little upward jump. Bill removed the trinkets and accessories from his bomb bag, leaving only the grenades. Once the makeshift stairway was complete, Post climbed to the top, Bill close behind.

"Close your eyes," Post instructed the huddle of soldiers, then smashed in the window with his helmet. "This thing is really useful," he joked to himself.

Climbing in and seeing nobody in the room with him, he turned and tugged Bill through the window. As Bill pulled the pin from a grenade and held the striker firmly in his palm, Post readjusted the Lewis Gun, ready to fire from the hip.

They were standing in a library, and Bill was frozen in jealous awe. Of course he couldn't read French, but even the reading chairs and bookshelves were like a fantasy come true. Entire segments had been pilfered over the years since the original occupants had left; no doubt used as fuel for a fire. Still, it was a majestic sight for any bibliophile. A track running along the shelves indicated that a sliding ladder had once been present. It was probably lying over a belt of barbed wire somewhere.

Post left through the only door and entered a long hallway. He quietly opened a door leading to a large bedroom – empty. Making his way towards another door, he heard noises coming from within, and motioned for Bill to come closer. Flinging the door open wide, both men nearly gagged.

An old French woman was bent over a bed, as an even older man was grunting with exertion. Both were stark naked, flabby, and generally unpleasant to look at. The German uniform lying on the floor caused Post to bring the gun to his shoulder for a clearer shot; he didn't want to hit the old woman. Before he could fire, the woman brought the German in close to her, shouting something which Post didn't understand.

"What the hell is she going on about?" Post asked.

"I don't know; she's talking too fast."

"Well figure it out, Bill."

"Something about Germany. They're lovers. Wait, I know that word: 'Alsace.'"

"What's that?"

"It's a part of France that was taken over by the Germans in the last war. I think he's a German soldier, but born a Frenchman."

"So, is he French or German?"

"He's kind of both, I think."

"Do I shoot him?"

"Uhhh, no? I don't think so. I think he'll surrender; he doesn't want to fight us. He might even be a deserter or something." Bill snapped his fingers with his spare hand. "Wait a moment, Gary, I'll be right back."

Post lowered the gun slightly and indicated for the two to get dressed. In a few minutes Bill returned from the library, a French-English translation dictionary already flipped open. A few key words confirmed Bill's theory. A few more, and the Canadians learned of an entire platoon of Alsatian soldiers on the main floor and in the basement. They were, according to the old man, defending a handful of locals from the wrath of the retreating German army, and planning on slipping away in civilian clothes once the fighting moved further east.

"Tell him to come with us," Post said. "Both of them actually. They could be lying, so I want to take anyone else in this house by surprise before we start making friends or announcing ourselves."

Stairways were tactical nightmares, and not one that the men had received any training on. The old couple made a good human shield, although the intent was for them to quietly inform the others to surrender and assemble by the barricaded double door. One by one civilians and soldiers put their hands on their heads and moved to the front foyer. If the house had been filled with hostile soldiers and panicked civilians, it would have been a bloodbath; and Bill and Post would have certainly been killed. For now, however, it seemed safest to leave the rest of the platoon out of it – any extra confusion would only make things even more complicated.

With the upper and main floor cleared, Bill and Post eyed the entrance to the basement. "I don't want to risk it," Post said. "We've made it this far, and they've got nowhere to run. I say we holler down to them, see who'll come peaceably, then drop a phosphorus bomb down just to be safe."

"Plan," Bill agreed, and shouted down the stairwell: "Soldats et civils, vous prisonniers de l'armee Canadienne. Allez en... paix?"

It was quiet, and Bill shrugged. "We can go get Lincoln; he speaks far better French than me. And Fyles knows a bit of Hun – oh never mind, he was shot yesterday."

"Wait, someone is coming," Post said.

"Do not shoot," an accented woman's voice called. "We are coming up."

More German soldiers and French civilians climbed the stairs, and Bill pointed towards those already assembled by the door. Bill stopped the last civilian – a young boy – pulled out a white phosphorus bomb, and motioned as if to throw it down the stairs.

"If there's anyone else down there, better let me know now. Eh? Plus des civils? Plus des soldats?"

The boy stayed Bill's hand. "Oui. Isabelle et Oskar."

"Why didn't they come up with the others? Umm, quelle pas ascendez-vous? Avec, uh, outres?" Bill asked, aware that his attempt at French was barely comprehensible.

The boy decided to try giving speaking English a chance. "Oskar was prison camp, not want go jail. Isabelle love him, does not want taken."

Bill nodded, pretending to understand perfectly, but once again relying more on deduction. "Go join the others. Well, Gary, I think we've got another pair of star-crossed lovers down there. A German who was captured once before, but escaped, and a stupid girl who doesn't want to lose him."

"Bomb them," Post said. "It won't kill them; just force them to come up, right?"

"Yeah. Hell I don't mind bombing Huns; I'd enjoy it really. But I can't hurt some silly French girl. And what if they didn't come up? Rather die in each other's arms than part? With the WP smoke we wouldn't be able to get to them until it was too late. I'll go down and talk to them."

"Romantic. What about Lincoln?" Post reminded him.

"Too dangerous. If the Hun, well, French Hun, whatever he is, if he wants to make a fight of it, that's my responsibility. I'm in charge of Six Platoon, and Six Platoon is taking this house. If anyone gets ambushed it'll be me. Fuck, I wish it was just plain old Huns."

"I'll go with you," Post offered. "If you promise to stop saying 'Hun' so much."

"No," Bill replied. "Keep an eye on the folks at the door. Better yet, have them start tearing down that barricade. And take my bomb bag; I wouldn't want it falling into the wrong hands. Besides, I like saying 'Hun.'"

Bill took each step slowly, moving further into the dark basement. "Hello. Bonjour. Guten tag."

A few tough words in French greeted him, as did the sound of a rifle bolt being worked.

"Ah, put that thing down, you idiots," Bill said into the darkness. "Get your foolish French heads out of your asses and follow me. Comez vous, ausgang... shnell. Fuckin'... come here."

Without speaking any more, Bill turned and walked back to the staircase. He waited at the bottom for another minute, his back turned away from the two holdouts. His parents had done that to him as a child, and it had worked every time. Sure enough, the couple approached Bill, who turned to greet them, then led them upstairs.

"One French-Hun, and one young French woman with very large apples," Bill called up to Post.

"I like apples," Post called back. "Think she likes Canadians?"

"Everyone likes Canadians. She might want to ménage-a-trois though."

"What's that?"

"You'll know if it happens."

Sadly for Post, the woman was too busy sobbing. Soon the barricade by the front door – chairs, tables, and a few boards nailed to the frame – had been dismantled.

"We're coming out with prisoners and civilians," Post called.

"Is Bill okay?" Lincoln asked.

"Fine, thanks," Bill replied.

The civilians were let loose, while the prisoners were rounded up and forced into the town square. Bill explained the situation to the platoon, then headed towards Carter to give his report.

"So, these are really Frenchmen?" Hal asked Kellowitz.

"As Belgiuman I am," he replied.

Hal was taken aback by the other man's accent, but tried not to show it. "So, they were forced into the German army?"

"Supposing me."

"So, they're conscripts?"

"Likely most."

Kellowitz began to babble in a language Hal didn't understand. The prisoners didn't respond. When the big Pole raised his voice and made threatening gestures, various replies in French and German were forthcoming.

"Ah yes, as suspecting."

"What?"

"These are veterans. Fighting in Russia, brought back after old empire collapse. They say the only soldiers fiercer than the Polish is the Canadian."

"What are Polish?"

Kellowitz shrugged indifferently. "No idea; don't know these barbarian easterners."

## *

Once an escort had been detailed to bring the prisoners rearwards, the remainder of B Company began to settle into Rouvroy. They were met with low quality coffee and brown bread from the locals, offered beds and baths, and generally made welcome. Captured German rations did not prove popular, except with the malnourished citizens. Anything alcoholic, however, was soon consumed.

Lincoln took advantage of the lull to seek out the Fourteenth Battalion. Not a moment had passed since Zero Hour that he hadn't thought about his son. When he wandered into Warvillers, just one mile northwest, he had only intended to ask for directions. Seeing Canadian soldiers milling about was a good start. But once he realized that each man wore a red rectangle and blue semi-circle on his upper sleeve, he knew he had gotten lucky: the Fourteenth Battalion was right here.

"Kevin?" a voice asked.

"Brian!" Lincoln replied, recognizing a man he had trained with back in the Twenty-Third Battalion.

Both the Fourteenth and Twenty-Third had been raised in Montreal. But after the disastrous battles of early 1915, the Twenty-Third had been disbanded to provide reinforcements to the battered battalions of the First Contingent. Most of the Twenty-Third ended up in the Fourteenth to maintain the identity of the Montreal unit. A few, however, had been sent elsewhere. Lincoln had only been sent to the Third by chance.

Brian didn't look relieved, or happy to see Lincoln.

"My boy," Lincoln said. "Where is he?"

There was nothing to do but get it over with. "He was killed yesterday. I'm sorry."

Lincoln felt like he had been hit in the chest with a sledgehammer. He slowly sat down in the middle of the street, and Brian sat next to him.

"How did it happen?"

"We were clearing out a pocket of resistance. The firing quieted down, a white flag went up. We started moving towards them, then all at once the fire opened up again. That's where Carl got hit. A few minutes later we worked our way up to them, and the white flag went up again. Don't worry; we avenged your boy, Kevin. We didn't take any prisoners."

Lincoln's dirty cheeks were streaked with tears. Nobody had any right to take a boy away from his father. It wasn't supposed to happen that way. It was more than any parent could bear, and it had been happening all over Europe for the past four years.

"Did he hurt?"

"No, Kevin. He was hit through the heart. He died instantly."

Lincoln flung himself into Brian's arms and sobbed on his shoulder.

"He was a brave soldier, Kevin, and a fine man. We gave him a proper burial, along with his mates, a few miles back. I can show you where, if you'd like, and you can say goodbye to your boy."

# CHAPTER TWELVE

Toronto, 1938

"You paying attention?" Payne asked.

Harold was still facing him, but his head was tilted at an odd angle in order to observe Missus Hallicks. He turned his head back around to face the veteran once again. "Every word. Whatever happened to Mister Lincoln?"

"Ask someone else. See that short fellow over there?" Payne said, pointing a finger towards Stinson. "He knows. I was shot, remember? Just as we were stepping off towards Orix Trench. That was at the end of August."

"Thank you, Uncle Tom," Harold said.

Stinson was arguing with a man too young to be a veteran; probably somebody's brother or son.

"There'll be another Great War before the decade's out," Stinson insisted. "And don't tell me otherwise. Peacetime conscription, re-armament, military rhetoric, occupation of smaller countries; it was the same way when my war started. Kaiser, Fuhrer, I don't care what you call it; it means the same damn thing."

The younger man nodded politely, although he was clearly not convinced by Stinson's logic, then turned to join a different conversation.

"Mister Stinson?" Harold asked.

"Wade," Stinson responded with a friendly smile. "You're Bill's younger boy, Harold?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Not Sir: Wade. I haven't seen you in years, how've you been?"

"Good... Wade. And how have you been?"

"Well. Thank you. I know, you're here for a war story, aren't you? Even though I fear you'll have your own soon enough. Which one do you want?"

"I want to know about Mister Lincoln, and what happened to him after his son, Carlyle, was killed."

"I remember it all," Stinson replied. "Linc wasn't an Original, like your dad, but he was one of the first replacements the battalion ever received. Your father took it pretty hard."

"Mister Lincoln was killed too?"

Stinson nodded. "Linc and Bill were very close. Are you sure you want to hear about him?"

"Yes, please."

France, 1918

Bill was no longer acting as Six Platoon commander. He had reverted to leading his half of the platoon, while Lincoln, the next most senior man, had taken over McCloud's half. Their new platoon commander, Second Lieutenant Harrison, was a typical new Mister: skittery, nervous, uptight, and eager to prove himself. Not generally very helpful qualities for the man who was supposed to be in charge.

So many soldiers had become casualties in early August, and so few had arrived as reinforcements, that the platoon structure was beginning to collapse. At times, whichever NCO happened to be around would take over, other times, confident privates found themselves barking orders to corporals or even sergeants. The month was almost over, and the Third Battalion was being thrown back into the frontline for another big attack.

Lincoln looked exhausted. Ever since hearing of his son's death, he seemed too tired to do anything beyond exist. That is, to exist in an infantry battalion. He didn't give up on the other men: he still took good enough care of himself to avoid becoming a burden, still made sure the soldiers under his command had everything they needed. He was still a good NCO. And he was still a good man: he wrote letters home frequently, pretended to laugh at jokes, and gave others comforting words. But he was empty and broken inside. Bill had seen this happen before; in fact, during his darkest days, he had seen it in the mirror.

Even on the Western Front, a man needed time to grieve in his own way. Maybe it was prayer, or being alone, or keeping busy. Lincoln still hadn't figured out what he needed as he looked over his half of the platoon one last time before Zero Hour.

Ahead of them lay the Fresnes-Rouvroy Line; a more recent addition to what some men murmured was the greatest obstacle ever constructed. The Hindenburg Line had been devised as a contingency in late 1916. Since that time it had been fortified in accordance with all the lessons learned from the height of trench warfare on the Somme battlefields. Woods had been stripped of trees, villages ruined, and roads destroyed, all to make the Allied advance more difficult and dangerous. What cover remained was intentional: seemingly harmless places to hide, or clear pathways, were often safe-looking deathtraps covered at far distances by waiting machine-guns. And now the recent advances of early August had brought the Canadians to within striking distance.

The Hindenburg Line itself had no shortage of concrete bunkers, barbed wire entanglements, and well-sighted machine-gun positions. There would be no more quick victories and rapid advances. But none of that mattered now. All that mattered were a thousand square yards, and a half-dozen trenches.

B Company, still understrength, was designated as the battalion reserve. While this meant avoiding the worst of the fighting, it also meant carrying extra gear. Consequently every man in the company carried either a pick or a shovel, beyond the basic battle equipment that all men carried, as well as additional bombs and ammunition to resupply the forward troops. At last Zero Hour – four-forty in the morning – arrived, and the men of A, C, and D Companies advanced, leaving B Company to peer apprehensively into the darkness. Four hours later, B Company was abandoning their extra gear in the recently captured Union Trench, and preparing to exploit the early morning's gains.

The attack had been unusual in that while the Third Battalion had conducted a frontal assault, the First and Second had punched through to the south, far beyond the Third's initial objectives, then moved northwards. As a result, the German defenders had been caught entirely off-guard on their flank. And while the first wave of Third Battalion men had acted in a somewhat sacrificial capacity in order to achieve the surprise, B Company's objectives were already in Canadian hands.

When Carter returned from a meeting with the commanding officer, it was with a look of relief. There were too many new faces amongst his platoon commanders to be overly confident in the company's ability.

"Gentlemen, here's the story," he addressed his officers. "It looks like the work has been done already. The company will advance overland to Opal Trench. Sergeant Major McCloud will remain there with Seven and Eight Platoons. I will bring Five and Six forward to Orix Trench. Our job is just to strengthen the positions already captured by the First and Second Battalions. Any questions?"

"Sir, perhaps I could accompany Five and Six Platoons?" McCloud asked.

"I'd prefer if you kept a grip on Seven and Eight; there are plenty of inexperienced NCOs who could benefit from your knowledge, CSM. Mister Harrison, Mister Renfrew: please have your men ready to move in five minutes."

## *

As Carter's half of the company advanced towards Orix Trench, loud shouts greeted them: warnings from the men of the First Battalion who dared not raise their heads for more than a moment or two. It was one word repeated over and over again: "sniper." There were no bodies in the field, but as Orix had been taken with the unusual flanking manoeuvre, the telltale khaki heaps were absent as the first shot rang out, and Payne crashed to the ground.

No orders were necessary; the men simply began to run at full speed, piling into Orix Trench in a jumble.

"Did anyone see who was hit?" Carter asked.

Heads shook as NCOs looked around, trying to account for their soldiers. Bill went white when he realized there were indeed two missing men – both his. "Payne, Kellowitz," he called, "are you here?"

Everybody remained silent, waiting for a response. None came.

"Fuck," Bill said, beginning to climb back out of the trench.

Carter caught him by the shoulder, and leaned in close. "Forget it, Bill. You still have people to look after. How much faith do you have in Mister Harrison?"

Bill thought it over. Payne and Kellowitz were both big men. If one had been wounded, the other would probably be capable of bringing him to safety on his own. Another shot rang out, and Bill wanted nothing more than to peek out over the parados.

"Where do you want Six Platoon, Sir?"

Toronto, 1938

"Wait a moment; are you saying that my dad just left Uncle Tom?" Harold asked.

Stinson shrugged. "He was in charge of an entire platoon; well half anyway, but he was senior if you discount the new officer. Losing a man or two happens. And it happened a lot in those last months of the war. You wanted to hear about Lincoln, right?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, but I'll put your mind at ease first. It turns out that the sniper was either having a bad day, or not particularly good. Payne was hit in the leg, nothing too bad, Kellowitz dragged him out, and he ended up in a hospital in England. They were being shot at all the while, but neither one was hit again. Kellowitz even came back to the platoon less than an hour later. And he was shot at, the whole way back, but never hit."

Harold caught himself smiling, and evened out his lips.

"But, back to Lincoln."

France, 1918

Six Platoon had pushed out towards the northern end of Orix Trench; it was only fair as they were the latest addition, and the northern end terminated in a likely spot for an enemy attack. Carter, finding himself the senior officer on the ground, also took command of several nearby platoons of the First and Second Battalions.

Stinson leaned against a traverse and peered down a shallow bit of the line, barely three feet deep. Odd shots and occasional bursts of machine-gun fire kept the men under cover. No counter-attack was forthcoming; a hopeful sign that the German army was no longer the force to be reckoned with that it once was. Then again, there could always be an attack brewing.

Second Lieutenant Harrison didn't announce himself, or even lay a hand on Stinson's shoulder: he simply walked in front of the private's rifle and made an inspection of the next bit of trench. "What are you looking at, anyway?"

Stinson adjusted his grip on the rifle, as to point the barrel away from his new platoon commander. "An empty trench, Sir."

"Well, where are the Germans?"

"Oh, they're around. It looks like the trench gets more shallow further on; probably disappears into level ground. Either an entrance point when the Huns held this line, or a trap designed to lure us into the open."

"So we can advance up it?"

"We could. But we shouldn't."

Harrison finished his inspection, then sought out Bill. His platoon sergeant was graciously shaking hands with Kellowitz, and thanking the god he didn't believe in that Payne had survived his encounter with the sniper. Bill sent the big Russian away and lit a cigarette.

"Sergeant Brown, I want the platoon to push north. There's plenty of open trench for us to take. Get them ready."

Bill's heart sank. He had heard plenty of stories of new officers getting their men killed, but he had previously been blessed with Hudson and Carter: men who knew better, or who had a competent NCO to dissuade them. There was a chance he could talk Harrison down.

"Did Stinson report anything unusual?"

"Who's Stinson?"

"The short one who knows what he's talking about."

"The sentry?"

"Yes, Sir, Stinson is on sentry. In a way we all are."

"He said the trench was empty."

"That's a good thing, Sir; it means we have a buffer between us and Fritz."

"A buffer? We want a fight."

"No, Sir, we don't. We're the reserve company, and our battalion's part in this thing is over. We'll be relieved in a day or two and somebody else will make the next push."

Harrison was incensed, but having nothing intelligent to say against Bill, decided to try condescension. "How long have you been in the army, Sergeant? In fact, how old are you?"

Bill tried hard not to sneer. "I'm an Original."

"A what?"

"A 1914 man. I joined when I was seventeen, and I'm turning twenty-two in November." Bill could hardly believe the words himself, and wondered if Harrison did.

"Then you should know that keeping the offensive initiative is the key to victory."

"I know that this war isn't about killing; it's about not getting killed. And I know that a platoon commander should seek the advice of his company commander before taking matters into his own hands, Sir."

"Are you insinuating something about me?"

"No, Sir. But I will not lead my platoon into harm's way unless Mister Carter approves of it."

"Your platoon?" Harrison asked, incredulously.

Bill tossed his cigarette to the ground and squared up against the officer. "Yes, Sir. Six Platoon is mine."

"This is insubordination, Sergeant."

"It sure is," Bill replied with a big, stupid grin that would have made Francis Green proud. "But the fact remains: no order from Bob, no advance."

Harrison stormed away, then returned a few minutes later with Carter.

"I understand there's been some confusion," Carter said. "Bill, would you please push Six Platoon north. One hundred yards should do."

Now Bill certainly couldn't believe what he was hearing. Had Carter gone mad with the pressure of being a company commander? Or was Bill not nearly the calibre of NCO required of his three stripes? "Sir, the trench disappears into nothing. In one hundred yards we'll be exposed."

Carter knew that what he was asking of Six Platoon was insane. But he also knew that officers came and went; that much had been proven especially true recently. If Mister Harrison was ever going to be a competent officer and keep his men safe, he would need to learn for himself what it meant to put his men in danger. Even to get some of them killed. After that had happened, he would be more likely to listen to Bill and willing to act as part of a leadership team. Hell, Harrison might even end up a damned general one day. A quick and brutal education seemed the best option; after all, they were stuck him, and plenty of other new Misters.

"Your platoon commander has given you orders, and I approve of them," Carter said coldly, almost in a trance. "Five Platoon will lay down covering fire if you get into a tight spot."

Bill silently pleaded with Carter. But his company commander turned and left.

"Get the men together, Sergeant," Harrison ordered, then moved back towards Stinson.

"I'll bring the platoon up," Lincoln offered.

"No chance," Bill replied. "I won't lead from the rear. Get a grip on your half of the platoon and don't let the men react to anything that Mister Idiot says. I'm in charge of this cock-up."

"We're pushing north. I want ten yard intervals between each man," Bill called to his platoon. "Nice and slow. Keep your heads down."

Bill paced the length of the trench, crouching low and counting every step. Once he reached a point eighty yards from where he started, he turned and knelt.

"Tell Mister Retard this is one hundred yards out," Bill told the man behind him, Conacher.

A few minutes later a reply was passed forward. "The Mister wants another fifty yards."

In another fifty yards the trench would only be a foot or so deep. Bill pushed out twenty more yards, then sat down. "Tell Mister Stupid that the trench ends. We can't advance any further."

A few minutes later, Conacher relayed another message. "Are you sure?"

"Tell him to come take a look for himself if he wants."

Fifteen minutes passed before Mister Harrison could be seen approaching. He was stooped over and had obviously taken his time getting forward.

"Sergeant," he stage-whispered from behind Conacher, Kellowitz, and Stinson, some 40 yards away. "Sergeant."

"What's that Sir? I can't hear you," Bill replied. "You'll have to come closer: a bomb blew up my eardrums two years ago. Don't worry; Fritz knows to focus on NCOs before officers. Once I stop a bullet, you'll know it's time to turn tail."

Harrison approached, steadied a shaking hand on Conacher. "Advance the platoon."

"Why?"

The new officer ran through a few textbook responses in his head before deciding on one at random. "We have to secure the flank."

"It is, Sir. There's plenty of open ground between us and the next Hun trench."

"The initiative must be maintained," Harrison said mindlessly.

"Well, why the fuck not? I'd be glad to maintain your initiative, Sir. Conacher, you and Hal stay here and keep your eyes open. Tell the rest of the men to follow me twenty yards apart each."

The increased spacing was intended to allow Bill to draw enemy fire, and order a retreat, well before the entire platoon was in any danger. Bill stood tall in the trench, exposing his upper body, then began to walk forward very slowly. Either the German sentries and snipers were taking a break, or they were waiting for more men to move into the open. Nobody opened fire.

"Twenty yard intervals," Bill reminded the platoon loudly, then added pre-emptively, "Stop bunching up – keep it wide."

He was through the open ground and about to enter the next stretch of trench, and still the Germans kept quiet. Looking back, he saw that half of his platoon was safe and waiting to advance. The other half was standing in the open, ready to be cut down at any moment. He hadn't thought that the situation would develop this way. He was too busy focusing on how to prevent Harrison from putting the platoon in harm's way, that he had now done it himself. He could order his men to withdraw, but Harrison would only prevent that. He could order them to move forward at once and find cover in the new trench, but that would leave them isolated. And Bill had no idea if this trench was empty, thick with Germans around the first traverse, or sparse with plucky Canadians of the First and Second Battalions.

Before Bill could come to a decision, two or three German machine-guns opened up on them from a quarter mile away, followed quickly by rifle fire. So, it had been an ambush. The Germans had no intention of letting this trench be taken, but also hadn't the men to defend it properly.

"Linc, smoke bombs! Lewis Guns give cover! Remainder fall back!" Bill called.

"Advance!" Harrison countered from the far end of the line.

"Fall back! This is Bill, fall back!" He repeated through the flurry of gunfire both near and far.

This time Harrison was silent.

"Cam, Sully, smoke! Maximum range," Lincoln ordered, joining in and sending his bomb a record-breaking one hundred and fifty yards away; wind-assisted.

Ideally a smoke bomb would drop closer to the men it was intended to blind, rather than those it was intended to conceal. But with the Germans keeping such a safe distance, this was impossible. For a minute the platoon laid flat, Lewis Guns chattering away, as the smoke began to disperse.

"Lewis crews, rifle-bombers, fall back!" Bill ordered once the screen was fulsome.

Kellowitz and Stinson had been crawling towards him; they weren't about to abandon their platoon sergeant. Bill already felt awful for leaving Payne and Kellowitz behind earlier, but now he felt even worse. This time it was his fault.

"Extended line on me," Bill said, feeling like he had to re-earn his sergeant's stripes. "Look for wounded and call it out if you see anyone."

"Soon see we'll one," Kellowitz guaranteed.

"How do you know?" Stinson asked, scanning through the smoke for wounded comrades.

"Mister New want bring us to doom. Sometimes Mister is shot for an accident, just to keep him from all getting killed."

"I'm pretending I didn't hear that, Czar," Bill said. "Is he going to live?"

"Of course! Just have sore leg for a while. Not even cripple limp."

Sure enough, the trio soon came across Second Lieutenant Harrison. He was cursing and crawling towards the smoke screen and German trenches beyond.

"Filthy Hun bastards," he muttered, revolver in hand. "Sergeant, reform the men, we'll use the smoke cover to advance. Help me up."

Bill ignored every word. "Czar, bring the Mister in."

Kellowitz easily hoisted the officer above his shoulders and carried him, kicking and screaming, towards Orix Trench. Another figure was curled up on the ground just ahead, being dragged out by two other men.

"Stins, you give them a hand, I'll take my time and make sure we didn't miss anyone."

"Okay, Bill. Don't take too long," Stinson said, then made his way to the wounded man.

Stray rounds were still splashing around the platoon, but through the smoke screen they were barely a threat. Without a clear field of view, it was surprisingly easy for a soldier to miss their target, even if it had been in his sight just a moment before. This was especially true at long distances.

Bill didn't see any more wounded; neither had he spotted any dead. If Kellowitz hadn't plugged Harrison, it might have ended much worse. Czar deserved a medal for his act of treason. When Bill returned to the trench, Conacher and Hallicks were still standing sentry.

"I've been keeping count," Conacher said. "Everyone came back. The Mister and someone else, didn't see who, were wounded."

"Bill, come quick," Stinson yelled. "Linc's hit."

Lincoln had been dragged just far enough into the trench so that the others could kneel over him without getting shot. His tunic and undershirt had been cut away, and four or five field dressings put in place. Bill could tell with one glance that it was no use. He had seen enough dying men to know one when he saw one. The only thing left to do was comfort him. Bill tried to sound optimistic.

"How are you feeling, Linc?"

"I'm done, Bill."

Bill couldn't stand to watch helplessly, and retrieved another field dressing. "It's not that bad. I'll patch you up and we'll bring a stretcher for you."

Lincoln waved him off. "I'm tired, Bill. I want to sleep."

"What can I do?"

"Nothing; it's alright. I think I've left already."

Bill wasn't the religious type, but even he could feel something strange happening. "Everybody leave. Stinson, you're back on sentry at the same point as before. McCreery, let Carter know what's happened, then take charge of the men."

Six Platoon left in silence. It was hard to see their sergeant losing an old friend. If a thousand mile route march could change what had just happened, every man would gladly go. And if a thousand hours doing the most challenging of ceremonial drill could at least ease the pain Bill and Lincoln were feeling, no man would complain.

"It doesn't hurt," Lincoln reassured him, lying. "When your soul leaves your body. It's a kind of relief. I can see them all. My boy is with his friends; I won't interrupt him just yet. Hallicks is here. He says 'thanks' for looking after Edward. He wants to talk to you, but he can't right now. He saved us some fine billets though. Bailey, they let you in?"

Bill blinked and the awful truth came upon him. This wasn't a nightmare or a dreadful thought. His friend was dying before his eyes. Both men were weeping lightly.

"Is it nice up there?" Bill asked.

"Heavenly."

With a smile and one final breath, Lincoln was gone.

# CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Toronto, 1938

"Well, that's how Linc went out," Stinson said. "We put up one big cross and buried most of the men killed at Orix altogether. Sometime after the war they were put into private plots, of course. And that cross was sent back to Toronto a dozen years ago. You can see it at The Church of the Messiah on Avenue Road. It has Lincoln's name on it. You should go and visit one day. The battalion colours are there, too."

Harold couldn't manage words.

"So, what story do you want to hear next?"

"I... I don't," Harold replied, biting his lips and trying hard not to cry.

"Hey, don't get upset. This was a long time ago," Stinson said amiably. "It's nice that you're interested. Some veterans don't ever talk about the war. Either it makes them sad so they ignore or avoid it, or their families are afraid they'll offend them by asking too many questions. It's better to talk about it, I think. Hell, look at Green, he goes to more reunions and meetings than anyone. They tell me he was a real joker during the war, and he still is."

Harold glanced over to where Green was now sitting with McCreery and Kate.

"Go chat with them. By the way, McCreery is the man to give you the next part of the story. Just tell him that I left off at Orix Trench, he'll tell you what happened afterwards."

Harold steadied himself up. "Thanks, Stins."

Bill had just delivered drinks to a nearby table when he saw Harold take a seat with Kate, Green, and McCreery.

"No Hallicks," Bill mouthed silently as he passed by.

"Harold, come join us," Kate said. "We were just telling Mister McCreery about a big mix-up at the store a few months ago, you'll remember. We got an order of hats that were all men's, scarves that were all children's, and gloves that were of all variety – except they were all right-handed!"

McCreery wasn't interested in hearing the fine details of this particular story. And Harold clearly wasn't interested in hearing it once again.

"She's the manager of hats, scarves, and gloves," Green said, by way of a polite explanation.

"And Mister Green is the general manager of the entire store. The biggest department store in all of Canada," Kate added.

"But let's not bore the young man with these stories," McCreery suggested. "I know you boys like to hear about the war, don't you?"

"Yes, Sir," Harold replied at once.

"Good," McCreery said. "What do you want to know about?"

"Whatever happened after the battalion fought at Orix Trench?"

Before Kate could admonish Harold, McCreery replied.

"I lost both of my legs, see?"

Harold hadn't noticed until now, but glanced downwards to see that McCreery was indeed legless.

"And your mother saved my life."

"Saved your life?"

"Well, what story do you want? The battle, or the bit about your mother?"

Harold was sick of hearing about the same battles over and over again, but he was concerned for the men of Six Platoon. "Did anyone else get hit, or just you?"

"Maybe some scratches, maybe some of the new men."

Kate and Green didn't care for any more war stories, and returned to their conversation about the Eaton's store.

"Tell me about my mom."

France, 1918

The second morning of September was met unenthusiastically. It had been just days since the fighting at Orix Trench, and now, a few hundred yards forward, the battalion was advancing upon another line of German defensive works. B Company was held in reserve once more, but by three in the afternoon was being ordered forward. The rest of the battalion, having achieved their objectives, was digging in on the reverse slope of a railway embankment. B Company's job was to establish an outpost line six hundred yards beyond.

That's where McCreery was hit. He had left his Lewis Gun team and gone forward a few dozen yards to look for an ideal location to place them. Before he knew what was happening, Bill and Thompson had rushed forward and were over him. He blinked, and a stretcher-bearer was there too. He blinked again, and he was being carried down a road. It was like waking from a dream within a dream when he finally realized what was going on. He had been hit by shellfire, obviously, and both of his legs were gone. A blood transfusion helped to steady him, but he still needed more professional care if he were to live through the next few hours.

He had already passed through a dressing station, where cords had been wrapped tightly around his stumps, and several yards of gauze stretched over his wounds. Next, he had been taken to a casualty clearing station, where, after men more likely to survive had been taken away, his turn came at last to be loaded into an ambulance.

Kate had never seen a photograph of McCreery, but recognized his Third Battalion shoulder patches: a red rectangle beneath a green triangle. Two other men, low priority wounded from other battalions, were also loaded into the back of her ambulance. The severity of McCreery's wounds, and the fact that he had been among the last to be brought rearwards, were sure indications that he was not expected to live. The time it took to bring him to a field hospital and have his legs properly amputated would be the deciding factor.

It was only ten miles between the clearing station and the nearest hospital, but over the poorly maintained roads, Kate had to be careful. Even a bump could be enough to shake McCreery and worsen his bleeding. It was while she was slowing down to pass over a rough patch that she heard the now-familiar whine of a German long-range siege howitzer. The crew certainly wasn't shooting at the lonely ambulance, but rather some nearby depot or railhead. But that didn't matter.

Kate stomped hard on the breaking pedal as a mountain of dirt was kicked up just twenty yards down the road. A chunk of shrapnel crashed through the windshield, shattering it instantly and embedding itself in the roof of her driver's cabin. A big shard of glass came inches away from decapitating her, and instead left a deep cut on the right side of her neck, just missing the carotid artery, then cracked into pieces as it struck the seat beside her.

She was lucky. Several larger shell fragments had riddled the engine, which spluttered futilely as she barely managed to steer the wrecked machine away from the gaping shellhole. The ambulance ended up in a ditch at the side of the road, the front end low and the back slanted upwards at a steep angle.

Kate fought to regain her senses. She was tingly all over and her muscles barely responded to her directions. There was no pain, only a sense of complete exhaustion. She wanted to sleep, and let somebody else come along and take control. But she had three men in her care.

The driver's door was dented inward badly and refused to open. Tiny grains of glass, almost as fine as sand, fell away from her uniform as she climbed out of the passenger side. One of the wounded men had already kicked open the back doors and came to meet her. His arm was in a sling.

"Are you okay, Ma'am?" He asked.

Kate nodded. "The others?"

"The fellow with no legs is bleeding I think. You are too."

Kate felt her neck and inspected her hand, now crimson and sticky.

"I've got a spare field dressing," the man offered. "You'll have to put it on yourself though."

"Thanks."

"Prettier than any necklace," the man said once it was applied.

Kate ignored that, holding in an unimpressed sigh.

The two assisted in pulling another wounded soldier from the back of the ambulance. McCreery had been thrown from his stretcher and lay in a far corner. Kate looked the two walking wounded over. The one with the sling was, upon closer inspection, also sporting a nasty bump on his forehead and a black eye; the other had a heavily bandaged hand, and was likely missing at least one finger. They had barely managed to climb out; so retrieving McCreery would be left to her alone.

"Hold my jacket, please," she told the man with his arm in a sling.

A moment later she had climbed in. The vehicle was at too severe an angle to stand without losing her footing, so Kate had to sit and half-slide her way to McCreery. His bandages were soaking wet with blood, and he was barely conscious. Hooking one arm around his chest, she used the other to latch onto one of the folding benches and pull herself towards the doors. She almost lost her grip a few times, but finally managed to drag him to the exit. All three struggled to unload him, but soon laid him on the ground. Kate disappeared once more to retrieve the stretcher he had been laying on, then returned.

"It's still about two miles to the field hospital," Kate told them, retrieving her jacket and covering McCreery's torso with it. "And that man will probably bleed to death if he doesn't get there, soonest."

The stretcher had two handles at each end. Under fire, usually a two-man team would carry a wounded soldier out. Behind the lines and over great distances, four men were employed.

"I'll take the front end; you two take a handle each."

The men agreed, and after a struggle to get out of the ditch and back onto the road, the group was on their way.

Toronto, 1938

Harold was agape. "Is that why mom was–"

"Mentioned In Dispatches," McCreery said.

"Wow."

"Now if you don't mind, I've got to go to the bathroom."

"It's in the basement," Harold said. "I'll help you get there."

"No need," Green interjected. "I could use a pee break too. And between us we've got two legs, three arms, and two crutches. Counting crutches as limbs, we're only short one between us. And my stump is pretty capable too."

McCreery tapped his triangular Amputations Association lapel pin, while Green breathed on his knuckles and made a motion as if to polish his own. Both men laughed, repeating their mantra in unison: "Amputees helping amputees."

Kate had been listening to McCreery's story. It was her story really; she just didn't like telling it. And there was a second part to it that she had never told anyone.

France, 1918

Kate was exhausted when she arrived at the field hospital, as were the two walking wounded. Seeing the unusual sight, several stretcher-bearers relieved the unlikely trio of McCreery, and began to inspect the other soldiers. Kate spotted a Red Cross banner and walked to a large table where hot drinks and finger-food were being freely offered. Further from the frontlines such sights were common, and a man could walk from the battlefield to what amounted to a welcoming committee all in one day. She wasn't hungry, but poured herself a large mug of hot tea and began to swig it down.

"You should have that seen to," a voice said.

Kate turned and saw a man who could only be a dispatch rider: a motorcyclist whose job was to convey information and hand-written orders when other means of communication proved impractical. In this case, he had come to the hospital to receive a list of items – everything from blankets to bread – that would be needed in the near future. A shopping list of sorts.

"Your neck," he said again. "And it looks like you've had a shock."

"I'm fine," Kate replied.

"You're shaking," the man said, laying a hand on her shoulder, and making deliberate eye contact. "I'll go get a doctor."

Twenty minutes later Kate had a fresh bandage and a clean bill of health. She had been lucky, the doctor said, and could lie down, even stay the night with the Red Cross women if she wanted to. The dispatch rider had offered to bring a report to her detachment to explain her absence.

"There will be more of my crew passing through eventually; I can get a lift from them," Kate replied.

"Is there nothing I can do?"

"No thank you, Sir."

"Please, call me Victor, or Vic. And you are?"

Kate knew when she was being romanced. It happened all the time to a young woman operating in a setting where men went for months without even seeing a female; and she had been in France since April. She wasn't shy about flashing her wedding ring, and would often respond to flirtation by bringing her left hand into view. Scratching a feigned itch, crossing her arms, or in extreme cases, directly flaunting the ring, had deterred many would-be suitors.

But there was something about Victor. He was well-built and handsome, and could have hardly looked more dashing if he tried; especially when compared to Bill. Bill was only an inch or two taller than Kate, and just a few weeks older. Victor was a little over six feet tall and looked to be in his late twenties. Bill's idea of being garish was wearing a silly winter hat all year round, and sporting a modified tunic collar that should have been left as it was. Dispatch riders wore a big overcoat with huge pockets for carrying documents, a revolver, and, like Kate, a set of driving goggles on their peaked caps. They were different from other men, just as Kate was different from other women.

Kate had known Bill since the two were very young. His face was familiar, boring even, and after so many years with an infantry battalion had turned hard and unpleasant. Victor obviously had time to brush his teeth every day, bathe regularly, and enjoy a healthy diet; luxuries Bill wasn't afforded.

"Katherine. You can call me Kate. And I could use a ride back to my ambulance; I left behind a few personal things."

Victor smiled confidently, walked her to his motorcycle, then climbed on board. "Just put your arms around my stomach like that, Kate," Victor said as they got comfortable on the one-seater.

"Promise me you won't drive too quickly."

"Top speed it is," Victor replied playfully, as the engine came to life, and she was soon travelling faster than she thought possible.

It was strange to pass over the same road where less than an hour earlier she had exhausted herself carrying McCreery. On the back of the motorcycle she was carefree, excited, and wearing a huge smile. When Victor spotted the ambulance and began to slow down, however, her mood soon changed. It was obvious what the dispatch rider wanted, and she wasn't sure whether or not she wanted it too.

The motorcycle came to a full stop, and Kate stepped off, making straight for the cab where her personal things were waiting. "It's a shame it happened today. I just performed the weekly maintenance routine."

"Maintenance can be a bore," Victor replied, stepping down into the ditch after her. "I prefer driving: the roar of the engine, the wind in your face."

Kate stepped down from the cab with a small bag across her shoulder, and Victor took her by the hand. "The power and control. The skill it takes to do everything just right."

Kate only tried to keep her breathing steady, wordlessly failing to resist Victor as he moved in closer and finally kissed her. She kissed him back, their driving goggles knocking up against each other. Before she knew it, Victor had seated her on the outside of the huge side fender that protruded above the rear right wheel, and pressed his body against hers.

"I love drivers," Victor said. "So tough, yet lovely. But I don't think I've seen one quite as beautiful as you."

"Vic, wait," Kate managed as his hands worked their way downwards.

"Don't worry," Victor replied, kissing her upper chest gently, his breath teasing her skin. "I never finish up until the lady has been attended to properly. And I'm very good. It's all about taking our time. And we've got all the time in the world."

Kate didn't know what to do. If it had been only a wild fantasy where all her desires could be allowed to assert themselves, she would indulge in Victor's lovemaking. But this wasn't a dream; even if the past hour, since she had nearly been killed, did bear a strange, surreal quality. She could of course manage some kind of justification. After all, Bill had been unfaithful to her – not due to a lack of love – he had simply given into his basest desires. Needs. And she had them too.

Victor was rapidly diminishing her will to resist; she had to make a decision, fast. It was difficult to spurn a knight in shining armour, even if the armour was a mud-stained trench coat, and the white charger a four horsepower, 550cc model 1914 Triumph.

Victor took her face in his hand, and locked eyes. It was his final tactic; one intended to remove any lingering doubts Kate might have. He had, after all, seen the wedding ring on her finger. But instead of the eager, rapacious look he was expecting, Kate turned her vision away, nearly bursting into tears.

He didn't understand. She was full of pain, not from anything he had done, but from remembering the feelings she had gone through when she had first learned of Bill's transgression, two years earlier. From her miscarriage one year ago. From being surrounded by people but always alone.

Victor pulled away. "You don't want to?"

Kate shook her head a little.

He let out a big sigh. "That's okay. I just thought you knew what I had in mind."

"I did," Kate managed. "But I can't."

"Your husband. Well, he's a lucky man. Come on, I'll give you a ride back to the hospital."

Victor helped Kate out of the ditch and the two remounted the motorcycle. This time the drive was slower, steadier. Kate had only the simple sense of being transported from one place to another, rather than from one way of feeling to another. At the hospital Kate gave Victor a kiss on the cheek, and he sped away.

# CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Toronto, 1938

"Mom? What are you thinking about?" Harold asked.

"Oh, just how to sort out this situation with the gloves," Kate replied.

"Always thinking about the store. Don't you have any fun?"

Kate smiled to herself. "Run along, Harold. You'd best get in all the war stories you can before the old men start falling asleep."

"I wasn't supposed to ask about the Hallicks brothers..."

"But you want to anyway?"

"Yeah."

"If you must, ask Gary; just don't let your father know that you did. I'm not sure exactly what happened to those poor Hallicks boys, but I know it wasn't good."

Harold stood, then looked about the Leaf and Crown. There must have been hundreds of medals jangling from suit jackets; some common, some exceptional. Even as a member of the Voluntary Aid Detachment, Kate was entitled to two medals; one for overseas service: the British War Medal, and one awarded to all Allied soldiers to celebrate the war's end: the Victory Medal. Having been Mentioned In Dispatches for her time as an ambulance driver, she was also entitled to wear a small metal oak leaf pinned to the Victory Medal. If she had chosen to wear them, she would have put plenty of the men to shame.

"Why aren't you wearing your medals, Mom? Don't you want to show off your oak leaf?"

"Memories, Dear. I don't want to dwell on the past: William does enough of that for both of us. Besides, your father lost his oak leaf, so I gave him mine to wear."

"But nobody will be able to tell that you're a veteran too."

"I don't mind. I know what I've done, and most of the people here do too. Some of it at least. I don't need medals to be happy. I have you and John."

"And Dad."

"Yes, and your father."

The bar had quieted down, and Gary Post was taking a break when Harold arrived. "Ready to get back to work? Your old man is getting tired out."

"Actually, I was hoping to talk with you about the war. I've been asking about the last few months. If I've kept things straight, there was only more big battle before the war ended."

"Who've you talked to already?"

"Kellowitz, then Payne, then Stinson, then McCreery."

"McCreery told you about losing his legs?"

"Yes."

"Then you're right: just one battle left. Are you familiar with the Canal Du Nord?"

Harold shook his head.

"You've heard of the Hindenburg Line?"

Harold nodded.

"Close enough. Now, I'd love to tell you that my battalion smashed the whole work, won the war, and shot the Kaiser in the ass. But we were just a little part of it."

France, 1918

If the men of B Company knew that they would fight their last big battle that late September morning, they might have been in better spirits. Two of their newer NCOs had been hit in the assembly area, and once more they were scheduled to act as the battalion reserve; staying behind the main attacking force until things settled down and it was time to establish the outpost line. The routine was growing old, but the battered company was still short-staffed, and seemed to lose men, both old hands and new replacements, like water through a sieve.

Corporal Post had been hand-picked by CSM McCloud to escort B Company through the unusual terrain ahead. The Third Battalion was to go forward in the second wave of the attack. The initial push would be made by four understrength battalions. Their task: to climb down, through, and up the other side of the incomplete Canal Du Nord, and secure a stepping stone for the follow-on battalions. While the first wave would have to capture the Marquion Line, and latter waves would take the Marcoing Line, the Third Battalion would only be responsible for pushing the attack further in the space between.

Construction on the canal had begun in 1913, and with the outbreak of war the following year, had been left largely unfinished. The canal bed was roughly fifty yards wide, though this varied in places, as did the depth. On the western edge, it was just a yard or two deep, but bottomed out nearer to three or four yards in some places. It would be easy to slide into, but difficult to scramble out of, and the first wave of soldiers had been issued with everything from duckboards and ladders to life vests and rope.

The Canadian Corps had been tasked with punching through a mile and a half wide section of the canal, then fanning out and continuing the attack through a final series of fortified trenches and towns. Their ultimate goal was the ancient city of Cambrai – for beyond it lay nothing but open country. It was time to break the Hindenburg Line for good.

The morning of September 27th was grey and dull. While the attack had begun at five-twenty, the Third Battalion wasn't set to step off until seven-thirty. Post and McCloud had gone forward an hour early to inspect the condition of the canal, and to determine if the initial assault had even been successful. The canal bed was muddy, owing to a steady overnight drizzle, but by no means flooded.

Already engineers were hard at work constructing bridges and moving earth; making it easier for the infantry to climb up either end, and eventually, making it possible for the artillery to move across and continue to support the attack before the ever-shifting frontline moved out of range. McCloud and Post waited for a stretcher team to pass by before walking down a plank ramp. Post stuck his head into a dugout cut into the side of the canal where a German outpost had once been stationed. It was empty except for the usual junk.

"It could be a hell of a lot worse," Post said.

"Could be better," McCloud replied. "But you're right, at least crossing the canal will be simple; the hard work has been done already. By the time we face Fritz, though, he'll be a little upset at having been awakened so early."

Post lit a cigarette and observed his surroundings. "It's a long way from the Queen's Own parade square, eh?"

"Yeah."

"Strange, isn't it?"

"Strange," McCloud agreed. "Do you think Turner made it?"

"I don't know. It's possible, I guess."

Once Post finished his cigarette and flicked it to the ground, he and McCloud returned to the company. The men were ready for action and covered in battle equipment. However, with nothing to do until Zero Hour, they sat or lay about silently while officers and NCOs kept an eye on their watches, scrutinizing each tick of the second hand. After what seemed like days, the order finally came for the battalion to form up and begin moving forward.

By the time the company arrived at the canal, even more work had been done by the engineers. Dirt walkways aided the crossing, supply dumps had been established on the far end, bridges were nearly complete, and block and tackle pulleys were in use hauling gear and building supplies. Just one hour after sunrise, horse-drawn field artillery and thousands of shells would begin crossing the canal.

Beyond the canal the ground was in rough shape. Shell craters and jumbles of barbed wire were scattered about. In the near distance, the little villages of Marquion and Bourlon were in flames. Seven miles away, some of the taller buildings in Cambrai could be discerned by those with keen eyes.

Just after noon, B Company was collected from their shellholes and trenches, and ordered forward. The remainder of the battalion was already engaged in heavy fighting several hundred yards ahead, and had been stalled near a railway embankment. Every man who had been with the company at the beginning of the month couldn't help but be overcome by a sense of Déjà Vu.

McCloud was the first man to climb the embankment, and the first to be shot. Bill saw him crumple and ran to him as German machine-gun fire opened up. He had been hit through both legs; not lethal wounds, but he would certainly not be joining in the attack. Bill called for a stretcher-bearer, and in a moment, two corporals wearing the distinctive SB armband were seeing to McCloud.

"I guess this makes you CSM," McCloud said calmly, as if there was nothing unusual about what had just happened. "You'd better get up there. Here, take this."

McCloud handed Bill the pace stick that he had inherited from Turner not even two months earlier. Bill only nodded, then went to seek out Carter. With Turner and McCloud both wounded, he wondered how many Originals were left. There was himself and Post, but who else? He knew there were several officers that had left Canada back in 1914, and a few men in the other companies. He went through the faces and names in his mind, scratching off casualties from his invisible list, adding men he had forgotten. Before he knew it, he was standing before Carter.

"Get down here, Bill," Carter called from a sunken road, seeing the pace stick. "Is McCloud killed or wounded?"

"Just wounded, Sir."

"Fine. Listen, there's a crossroads about three hundred yards up, seen?"

Bill poked his head up, not seeing anything, but hearing the rattle of 08/15 machine-guns. "Sure. Too far for rifle grenades. I'll get the Lewis Guns to focus fire, all at once for let's say, five minutes straight, then we'll move the men up."

"Make it happen."

The first man Bill sought out wasn't a Lewis Gunner, but Corporal Post. "Gary, come with me."

"CSM?" Post asked, moving with Bill towards the far right flank of the company.

"Acting, I suppose. You see those guns at the crossroads?"

"Yep. I count four."

"Okay. We'll go along the line and give targets to each of the Lewis crews. I want them all opening up at once, and suppressing all four guns. I want five minutes of covering fire for the company to get up there and clear them out. After that, I reckon our part in this show will be done. What time do you have?"

"Twelve-thirty-six."

Bill checked his own watch. "Good. I'll sync watches quickly with the Number Twos, and tell them to open fire at quarter-to-one; you point out the targets to the Number Ones."

"Sounds like a plan, Sergeant Major."

With two minutes to go, Bill and Post were only now arriving back at Six Platoon's position. Suddenly he realized that without an officer, and without him, his platoon was effectively leaderless. But there was no time for that.

"Go tell Five Platoon's guns the plan," Bill said, then called together both of Six's Lewis Gun teams, and explained his proposal.

"We haven't enough ammunition for five minutes," Chilvers challenged, while Thompson considered ranges and angles. "I can give you three, all out, and I guarantee we'll keep their fingers off their triggers."

The plan was for five minutes, and Bill had already told the other crews that. None of them had complained, but maybe they were intending to lay down lighter cover than Bill had in mind.

"Fine, make it four."

"Three hundred yards," Thompson said with an unenthusiastic frown. "That's a bit far to be sure we even keep 'em spooked. And we won't knock them out, that's for sure."

"Well at least kick some dirt up in their faces," Bill replied.

Before Thompson had even set up his gun, the Lewis teams of Seven and Eight Platoon opened fire, followed shortly after by Six and Five.

Bill scrambled forward and held his pace stick high, just now realizing that he had informed only Carter and the Lewis Gunners about his impromptu attack plan, and none of the other officers and NCOs. Bill wasn't used to giving orders, but to receiving them, and even then, not on the company level. Luckily the more experienced men took the hint, and the company began to move forward, Lewis Gun fire zipping over their heads and flying out from the flanks, German bullets splashing all around them.

All at once, Bill finally caught sight of one of the enemy machine-gun positions. In fact, he was only about fifty yards away from it; a newly-dug trench with five or six men in it. He looked about, and saw that most of the company was still well behind him.

"You getting lonely? Keep moving, Bill, let's smash this thing." It was Post, inexplicably cradling a Lewis machine-gun.

Bill might not have known anything about leading a company, but he knew how to throw a bomb. Two dozen more yards and he was in a good position, Post firing from the hip and keeping the enemy gunners from becoming fully effective. It was the last bomb Bill ever threw. And it was perfect. He felt like a star athlete scoring the final point in a well-fought game as the bomb found its target and exploded.

Post rushed forward, a new drum of ammunition on the Lewis Gun, and sprayed the trench with bullets. Slapping on another fresh drum, he pointed to the next German machine-gun, this one sitting on level ground about fifty yards away to the right, though barricaded about with sandbags, and covered on three sides by a thick belt of barbed wire.

"Six Platoon is here," a voice called from a few yards back: Stinson, followed closely by Kellowitz.

"Leaving this to us!" the big Pole announced, then pushed past Bill and Post.

Post knelt and continued firing, as Bill could only watch the insane scene unfolding before him. Stinson was holding a grenade in each hand as Kellowitz picked up the much smaller man and tossed him over the barbed wire. He landed a few yards behind the gun, and let both bombs loose, wiping out the entire crew in one twin blast.

To the left and right, the rest of the company was pushing through the German positions. "B Company, hold!" Bill yelled.

Nobody seemed to hear him, so Post repeated the order. "Anything else, CSM?"

"Go get a casualty and ammunition count from Seven and Eight Platoons. Also, tell them to turn these captured guns around and start breaking ground. They can use the dead Huns as sandbags if they want. I'll talk to Five and Six; meet me back here in five minutes."

"Yes, CSM."

"And where did you get that thing from?" Bill asked, indicating the Lewis.

"One of your machine-gun crews. Thompson and Chilvers, is it? They were killed just after you stepped off. Nobody else noticed, so I ran back to get the gun."

More familiar faces gone forever.

"Five minutes," Bill said again.

## *

Not long afterwards two fresh battalions, the Fifth and Tenth, moved through B Company's position and carried on the attack. Carter had returned to report to the commanding officer, and was on his way back to B Company when a desperate, sickening, gurgling noise caught his attention. In the sunken road they had launched the attack from lay Thompson, riddled with bullet holes, but still alive. Next to him was Chilvers; dead but still clutching a fresh drum of Lewis Gun ammunition. They had fought and lost their last machine-gun duel.

Carter leaned over Thompson, who was trying to say something. "Louise."

The officer shook his head.

"My gun."

"One of the lads took her forward; did good work with her."

Thompson's voice was quavering. "My Number Two?"

"He did his job."

Without a gun and a Number Two, Thompson felt as though he had no obligations left but one: the truth. "I have to tell you something."

"What is it?"

"That night when one of your men, Hallicks, was killed by our own gun. That was me. I'm sorry."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I've come to terms with it. These things happen. And I want you to come to terms with something: I want you to put me down."

Carter could see the pain and fear in Thompson's face. But he could also see that the man was obviously going to die before the day was out. It might as well be a short day.

Carter pulled the revolver from his holster and held it to Thompson's chest. "I'll let your folks know it was quick and painless. One shot through the heart. I'm sorry too."

Toronto, 1938

"But whatever happened to Hallicks?" Harold asked.

"Ask your father," Post replied, turning his glance to the framed portrait of Carter that hung, along with his medals, on the wall of the Leaf and Crown. "I think I've said enough. Besides, we're not allowed to talk about it."

Bill was sitting with Kate, pleading with her. "Come on, Dear, just one beer. I'll drink it slowly."

"Once Missus Hallicks leaves you can drink all you want, William," Kate replied firmly. "I don't want you saying anything silly to her."

"Damn it, Kate, it's a special night, isn't it?"

"Too special to ruin by being drunk so early."

"But it's nearly seven o'clock!"

"Nearer to eight," Harold interjected. "Mom, can I borrow Dad for a minute?"

"Of course. Just let me know if someone tries to slip him a drink."

"I will."

Once Kate left, Harold sat in her place and produced a neatly hidden glass from inside his sleeve; half whiskey, half beer: Bill's favourite.

"Here, Dad, this is for you."

Bill's eyes lit up, and in a few moments the glass was empty, and he felt warm and comfortable. "Thanks, Hal."

"I've been asking around about the war, Dad."

Bill wagged his finger disapprovingly. "Hey, hey, what did I tell you about all that?"

"I never knew you were a sergeant major."

"Was I? Briefly, acting. That was one hell of a day. You see, McCloud was hit through both legs–"

"I know. But what happened afterwards? It's time I learned about Hal's younger brother."

France, 1918

The battalion's part in the day's fighting was over. There was nothing left to do now but wait around and be relieved. The newer men had watched in awe as the attack carried on in front of them; it really was an incredible thing to see. The veterans were more interested in changing their socks.

Bill had stuck Turner's pace stick into the back of his gear, and slung his helmet over it. With nobody to tell him to put it back on, he was free to saunter about from one platoon to the next with his head exposed. Considering the German bombardment that was now falling amongst his company, intended to isolate the attacking troops from reinforcements and cause casualties to future attacking waves, it was probably a bad idea.

Passing by Six Platoon, Bill stood over where Stinson was dug into a tiny hole in the ground. "How would you like to be an acting corporal?"

"If you need me to be," Stinson replied nonchalantly.

"It sort of makes you acting platoon commander as well. I'd make you an acting sergeant, but technically I'm only a sergeant, and can't really bring you up to my level. I don't think so anyway; it'd be considered rude. You okay with that?"

"Sure. But might I recommend, CSM, that you take cover? We are being shelled, if you hadn't noticed."

"A CSM needs to see what's going on. Doesn't he?" Bill droned, unwittingly impersonating Turner.

"You could at least put on your helmet."

"Tin hat, you mean, right?"

"You could at least put on your tin hat," Stinson fired back without missing a beat, and smiling at Bill's impression of Turner.

"Bah, I won't be scared by a little–"

Before Bill could finish his sentence, he had been knocked down from behind, and landed on top of Stinson. The new commander of Six Platoon sat Bill up and began to look him over. He could barely believe what he saw. A jagged piece of shrapnel, still sizzling hot, was imbedded in Bill's helmet. If he had been wearing it properly, his spine would have been severed, and either a quick death or a long life as a cripple would have followed.

"Are you okay?" Stinson asked.

Bill gulped hard. "I think so. Where did that light?"

Both men climbed up and saw the newly-created shellhole just yards from where Hallicks and Conacher had been dug-in. Conacher was walking about in small circles, dazed and temporarily deaf, while Hallicks was reclined, motionless, against the edge of their little shelter, his tunic collar flipped up in contempt of the barrage.

He appeared untouched, but he didn't move, or even breathe. It was called 'Blast-Induced Barotrauma,' but of course the men didn't know that. All they knew was that being near a high calibre shell when it exploded was enough to shut down a soldier's heart, lungs, and brain. The concussive force did something to the internal pressures of the organs and bloodstream. The result was instant death, and a clean, un-marked corpse.

"Get a grip on Conacher," Bill said quietly.

Once Bill climbed down into the little hole where Hallicks lay, he wasn't alone for long.

"They're all the same," a still-familiar voice said. "Give 'em a little rank and they go mad with power. Even you." It was George Hallicks, Edward's older brother, killed nearly two years earlier.

Bill turned and saw the older Hallicks, pale-skinned and wearing a blood-stained tunic, as he had been the night he died. "But, Hal, I can't stop shellfire," Bill protested.

"Look around you. The company could have pulled back a hundred yards. You could have made sure everybody was properly dug-in, or maybe even picked up a shovel yourself; you're not even wearing your fucking helmet. You were supposed to take care of my brother, just like we all took care of you. Maybe you were too proud, or stupid, to take a bombproof job, but you could have at least tried to get one for my brother."

"I'm sorry, Hal."

"I know you are. But that doesn't stop me from being disappointed. Goodbye, Sergeant Major."

In a flash, the older Hallicks brother was gone, and Bill cradled the younger, just repeating "Hal, come back, please."

His best friend hadn't even called him by name.

Toronto, 1938

"It was all in your head, Dad," Harold said. "Hal would never be mad at you."

"I don't know," Bill replied. "I've seen ghosts, or sometimes just felt them, for a long time now."

"Maybe you think too much about it," Harold said, suddenly realizing something sitting behind the bar in between some liquor bottles. Two things actually. "Is that the helmet from the story?"

Bill turned and nodded his head at the two smashed helmets he had once worn. "The one on the right. The one on the left is from 1916. After that got wrecked, I took old Hal's helmet, and had it with me the day young Hal was killed. The one on the left is probably the only reason your mother married me."

"Huh?"

"Nevermind. Where were we in the story?"

"The last big battle was over. Tell me about Armistice Day."

"There isn't much to tell. We'd been out of the line for nearly a month. One day we were told that the Kaiser had abdicated, the next, that Germany was in a state of revolution, and the next, that the war would be over in a few hours."

"Didn't you know the war was going to end sooner than that?"

"Not really. So that's it. The war was over. We marched into Belgium, then finally to Germany."

Harold was disappointed by this lacklustre ending. "If I want to ask someone about Mount Sorrel..."

"Green."

"And Vimy?"

"Stinson, again."

Harold left, and Bill looked about the Leaf and Crown. Turner's pace stick still hung exactly where it had eight years earlier. It was, like most things in the Leaf, coated in a layer of dust. Bill pulled it down from the wall, returned to his seat, pulled out a clean handkerchief, and began to wipe it down.

# CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Belgium, 1918

It was the end of November, and the battalion had spent the last two weeks on the march. Most available trucks and busses were filled with gear and rations, and passed the men by day after day making supply runs. Formerly-occupied Belgium was in shambles, and while welcoming, was completely unable to sustain the victorious masses that were flowing into it.

What struck the men most was the state of the Belgian civilians. The naval blockade imposed by Britain upon Germany had meant a shortage of everything from metals to chemicals to basic foodstuffs. Of course, those Belgians living under German rule had gotten the worst of it. And the blockade would not be lifted for several weeks.

Mass malnutrition and all the related inflictions had turned the Belgians desperate. Flour was laced with sawdust or pulverized straw; coffee made from roasted acorns was a rare delight. By the end of the war, even turnips and potatoes had grown to be such a rarity that they were traded on the black market for gold and jewellery. Each day when meals were served, or when the men halted to open a tin of corned beef or a packet of biscuits, hungry Belgians were grateful to share in what they considered to be the best meal of their lives.

After another long day of marching, the battalion settled down into some pathetic Belgian town that Bill didn't bother to learn the name of. They would be marching again tomorrow, or if not, the next day. Still company sergeant major, Bill was glad when he had finally dealt with all the little details a man of his rank was expected to. He was also thankful that both Turner and McCloud, though in England, were in good health, and either one, or both, might be rejoining the battalion again soon.

The one task he had enjoyed was a parade the previous week. He had officially confirmed Stinson as a sergeant, while Kellowitz had earned his corporal stripes. Both men had also been awarded the Military Medal: for destroying a German machine-gun crew, and for saving the life of Mister Harrison respectively. It had been hard to resist laughing when Kellowitz accepted his promotion and medal with the words: "You thank, Sergeant Major Lance Bill."

Usually Bill hated parades. Especially now that he had to lead an entire company in drill. This of course meant calling out corrections to slow or sloppy soldiers, giving and receiving salutes whenever the company commander took over or left, and memorizing a variety of obscure and ancient manoeuvres and traditions. It turned out that being a private or corporal on parade was a hell of a lot easier than being a company sergeant major. But it was a surreal joy to bestow rank and medals upon the men who, to him, were more like friends or brothers than underlings. He was proud of them, and had every reason in the world to be. They were his company.

*

"You're a hard man to find." Only one woman in the world had that wonderful voice.

Bill turned around and ran full speed towards Kate. She had been stalking around him for over an hour, waiting until his duties as CSM were complete, before approaching him.

"Kate!" Bill cried, embracing her.

Between the big offensive, Bill's position as CSM, and Kate's constantly changing location, the two had not been able to meet earlier. As it was, they had not laid eyes upon each other since Bill had left her in England, just over a year before.

He was still a small man, not much larger than Kate, but it was obvious that the infantry had made him light on his feet, and even a little bit brawny. He picked her up and swung her around a little, almost dancing.

"Oh, Sergeant Major, put me down!" Kate said playfully as Bill bounded about blissfully.

He complied, but his expression soon changed to curiosity as he examined her recently-earned scar.

"What happened to your neck? Are you alright?"

"Oh, just a little cut."

"That isn't little. It's almost as big as mine," Bill said, removing his cap and showing off his scar from Regina Trench. His was actually smaller. "Tell me."

"A shell shattered–"

"A shell?"

"William, you asked me to tell you, so let me tell you. A shell shattered my windshield, but I'm perfectly fine."

"Were you wearing a helmet?"

"I never wear a helmet. It musses my hair."

"Kate, you should wear your helmet at all..."

"Yes?"

"I guess you can't drive too well with a helmet in the way, huh?"

"That's right," Kate replied, now noticing the second wound stripe on Bill's lower left cuff. "You never told me you were hit again. What happened?"

"My helmet stopped a piece of shrapnel, and no, I wasn't wearing it at the time. Probably a paperwork cock-up; I've had worse ingrown toenails. You should have it," Bill replied, removing the stripe and handing it to her. "It can be a nice little accessory to your uniform. Maybe I'll get it gold-plated for you; I'm making CSM money now."

"How are your boys doing, CSM?" Kate asked. "I trust you've been keeping the company in order."

"Best I can," Bill said dully.

"Oh, William, I'm sure nobody can do the job better than you." She placed her hands on his shoulders. "You're a good soldier, William. You know why? Because you're a good man."

Bill forced a smile. "You know I don't deserve you, right?"

Kate shoved the wound stripe into her pocket, and decided to change the conversation.

"Well, I suppose I'm bombproof too. And now we have these lovely 'his and hers' scars to prove it."

"How many couples have that? So, how'd you know where to find me?"

"Us drivers have our resources."

"How'd you even get the time?"

"Things have finally quieted down. I don't have so many clients to chauffeur around these days. Mostly returning prisoners, actually. One of the benefits of having your own vehicle is to take it for a joyride every now and then."

"A joyride?"

"A pleasure excursion in an automobile."

"Well that's great. Why now?"

"It's your birthday, silly."

Bill had forgotten entirely. "And how old am I turning?"

"Twenty-two."

"Hmm," Bill considered mischievously. "And how old are you, young lady?"

"Twenty-one."

"Well," Bill began, now mimicking CSM Turner, "that makes us both young, beautiful, aroused adults; doesn't it? You are aroused, aren't you? Sexually speaking? I think I can find us a tent or a shack – which would you prefer? Or I could always just dig us a nice cozy trench, sound good?"

"I have a better idea," Kate replied, leading Bill by his pace stick. "Come on."

"I should resist your charms, but..."

"It's okay; we're married."

Kate brought him to her ambulance, tucked away in a quiet corner of an open field.

"'By whose direction found'st thou out this place?'" Bill asked.

It was an old game of theirs, one they had not played since 1914. They would exchange romantic lines from classic plays, poems, and novels. The conversation had to be complete and coherent, and no one author could be quoted twice. Originally the rule had been that no single piece of literature could be quoted twice, but that had only led to endless Shakespearean banter.

"That's Juliet's line," Kate replied.

"So? How will you respond?"

"'And the twin-stars that shine on the wanderer's devotion, its guide and its God – are thine eyes!'"

"Last Days of Pompeii; my favourite. Let's see... 'Wheresoever she was, there was Eden.'"

"Mark Twain," Kate replied, dragging Bill towards the back of the ambulance and flinging the doors open.

"You still owe me a quote," Bill replied, climbing aboard and closing the doors.

"Let's take our time tonight."

"Who said that?"

"Me."

## *

Bill was still asleep when the sun began to come up. Kate had borrowed a dozen blankets from the nearest hospital and made a comfortable mattress out of them in the back of her ambulance. With nothing to do, she dressed and began to gather up Bill's clothes. She wrote a quick note and pulled out his paybook to slip it in. She was surprised to see the photo she had sent to him two years earlier at the very front. Behind it was a more recent letter, which she couldn't help but read.

October 15th, 1918

London

Sergeant Major Brown,

I know you are keeping my company in good form, aren't you? Remember to distance yourself from the men, but not to exclude their ideas and feelings. While you are now a leader of soldiers above all things, you must strive to maintain your good relationships. Whether an officer, an NCO, or a private, all soldiers respond better to orders from a man they also consider a friend, understand?

I expect you to keep my pace stick in good condition as well. If you can find a lemon and some olive oil, you can make a fine wood polish; ask the other CSMs about it. And only use Brasso on the metal parts; you do use Brasso on your own cap and collar badges, don't you? Keep the metal polish off the wood, and the wood polish off the metal, and use different clean cloths for each. Make sense?

Remember also that you are a married man. And while you must presume all risks before your men, do not put yourself in danger unless necessary. This means wear your Goddamned "tin hat." Why wouldn't you? And if I hear about a CSM wearing a flappy cap, I might just make you get rid of it, fair enough?

Please write Sergeant McCloud a letter, he would appreciate it, don't you think?

Yours,

D.L. Turner, Third Canadians

Another letter was tucked just beneath it.

September 4th, 1918

Toronto

Dear Mister Brown,

I am sorry for going so long without writing. I hope you have been keeping well. Edward wrote me recently that he had arrived in your platoon. I know that you will look after him, but I have a favour to ask. If it is at all possible, I would like you to have him transferred out of the battalion to somewhere safer. I realize that as a conscript he will not be privy to any special treatment, but perhaps as an "Original" you may have influence over such things.

I hate to ask this of you, as I know that there are men, such as yourself, who have spent so many years in the army. But Edward is the only boy I have left. I do not know what would happen to the family if we were forced to endure yet another loss.

I apologize for my pleading; I know that it is unseemly. But I can do nothing to help save my boy other than to beg you to take care of him. Keep Edward safe, for the sake of what's left of my family.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Charles Hallicks

Kate shoved the letters back where they had been, and added her own note. Then she climbed back under the covers with Bill, who stirred.

"Good morning," Bill said, going straight for a kiss, and gratefully letting it linger. "Dressed already? That's too bad."

"It's nearly seven. I assume your company will be forming up sometime soon," Kate replied.

"Probably. Say, wanna drive me and a few of the boys into Germany? It'd sure save us a lot of walking," Bill said, slowly putting on his uniform.

"Of course. I think two francs a mile is a fair rate."

"For a truckload of us?"

"Per man."

"Well that's too rich for our blood."

"William?"

"Yes?"

"Do you keep the letters I send you?"

"In the frontlines most letters ended up as toilet paper."

Kate sighed.

"But not yours. What I did with them is even more embarrassing."

"Did you use them for fuel?"

"No, guess again."

"As cleaning rags?"

"Nope."

"What, then?"

"I kept them with me. I read them again and again until the next one arrived. Then when I had so many that they became an encumbrance – can I just stop and say that I love being able to use big words when I'm with you? – well, once I had too many, I'd bundle them up and send them home."

"Encumbrance is the sweetest word you could have used; burden or hassle would ruin the romance."

"Exactly," Bill said, pulling on Kate's cap and exiting the ambulance, pace stick tucked under his arm. "So, how do I look? Like a real CSM?"

Kate rolled her eyes. "I suppose you want me to wear this?" She asked, holding up Bill's absurd winter cap. "I will, just to humour you."

"Jeez, I guess everyone was right: that cap is ugly. But somehow you make it look good."

"Really?"

"Really. Come on, humour me one last time," Bill said, grabbing one of the blankets and heading for the front of the ambulance.

"What have you got in mind, William?"

Bill climbed onto the hood of the ambulance and flung the blanket to the very top of the vehicle, then extended his hand. Kate took it and climbed up with him, then over the windshield and to the roof.

"We can watch the sun come up, then I should get back."

Toronto, 1938

With the pace stick now free of dust, Bill walked to the wall where it had hung. His old winter cap was there too, and he inexplicably decided to don it. He had worn it several times since the war ended, usually when shovelling snow, but had not touched it since he had deposited it in the Leaf and Crown eight years earlier. The pint of whiskey-beer probably had something to do with it.

At first, Bill thought his mind was still stuck in 1918. But the crashing explosion that flung him to the floor, set his ears bleeding, and his mind racing, was somehow unfamiliar. It wasn't a bomb or a shell, and it wasn't just in his head. This was real.

A moment later the exposed knob and tube wiring began to buzz and hiss; then the lights went out entirely, moonbeams through the windows casting odd shadows. The distinct smell of coal smoke began to waft upwards from the basement, as the crackling of burning wood accompanied it: spare furniture, old kegs, and other items stored downstairs.

Gary Post knew at once what must have happened. The boiler of the Leaf and Crown had been acting finicky since the previous winter. In preparation for the reunion, he had called in a repairman just two days earlier. He would have been better off tinkering with it himself; the "expert" must have left one of the pressure valves disengaged, or perhaps damaged the delicate old boiler while cleaning the inner-workings.

Post ran to the door that led downstairs and wrenched it open, intent on fighting the fire before it spread to the main floor. If he had known what a backdraft was, he wouldn't have tried it. The initial explosion had sent hot coals scattering all about, and sucked all of the oxygen out of the basement. The result was a hungry fire below, that pulled down air from the main floor, and sent a fireball towards Post.

Fortunately, the change in air pressure also served to rip the door from its rusty hinges, knocking Post to the ground and preventing him from being burned alive. Unfortunately, the fire soon spread throughout the main floor, then carried on to the second storey, spreading like ivy along doorframes and crown moulding. Smoke filled the Leaf and Crown as windows shattered and ceiling beams came crashing down; a side-effect of huge fragments of the boiler and chunks of concrete block from the basement walls being sent skyward through the floorboards and lathe-and-plaster walls.

Bill's visibility went from pitch blackness, to flames of illumination, to a blanket of smoke before he could understand what was going on. The clattering of chairs and tables, mingling with shouts of confusion and screams of terror was enough to set him into action. He had spent more time in the Leaf and Crown than anyone else, asides from Post. He knew exactly where he had been standing, where the others had been, and most importantly, where the only door out was.

Bill held one hand out, feeling for anyone nearby, while his pace stick now acted like a blind man's cane, improving his sense of direction. Before long he had shepherded a half-dozen people to the exit, while others were finding their own way out.

Post was slow to get back to his feet, but scrambled towards the staircase leading to the upper floor as quickly as he could. His daughter Pauline has gone to bed an hour earlier. The bottom of the staircase was blocked with flaming wreckage, and there was no way he could get through without braving the fire. Painstakingly, he reached above his head and began to pull himself up by the banister rungs.

"Careful, Lance, don't burn yourself," Green called.

He was climbing down the stairs, having by some unknown feat of speed raced to the upper floor before the access had been blocked, Pauline cradled in his stump and against his chest. Planting his good arm on the railing, he bolted over and landed next to Post. The move was done with surprising agility, especially considering that Green had to launch himself over with his left hand, while the handrail was designed to be descended with the right. It was a testament to

Green's impertinence to disability. Post took Pauline from him, then grabbed him by the hand, and lead all three outside. At least his eyesight was as sharp as ever.

As the trio was exiting, Bill was re-entering; Kate and his boys, along with several others, had yet to emerge. Of course Bill had initially went towards where Kate had been when he last saw her. But every time he got near, he came across others and decided to lead them out first. The fewer people remained inside, the more likely he was to find his family. Besides, the Browns were bombproof.

Kate was no stranger to the Leaf and Crown either. She had attended enough events, and dragged Bill home after enough late nights, to know her way around as well. Kate's focus had been Stan McCreery. It should have been John and Hal, but all the recent reminiscing had turned her thoughts to the boys of the battalion, not her own.

Missing both legs at least made McCreery light, but it was only with great strain that she managed to shift him onto her back, and carry him to the door. Once outside, several others relieved her of McCreery, and she began to search the motley group of veterans and civilians for her sons.

John and Harold were still inside the Leaf and Crown. Harold had gone towards Missus Hallicks, while John had tried to catch Harold and drag him out. The clinking of medals – two silver crosses – had brought the boys to where Missus Hallicks was struggling to pull something down from the wall. Realizing that she would only refuse to leave without it, they decided to help her. It was a large picture frame, and recognizable even through the smoke: the Third Battalion flag Post had carried at Vimy Ridge. Once it was off the wall, all three exited.

Outside, Bill, Post, and McCloud had assembled by the front door. They had grouped together the escapees into clusters of family and friends. Nobody seemed to be missing.

"Browns and Posts are all accounted for," McCloud said. "Greens too."

"McCreery?" Bill asked.

"I saw him," Post joined in. "Also Czar and Stinson. The Paynes too."

"Yeah, I saw them," Bill replied. "I think everybody got out."

"One more person," Post said, then disappeared into the burning building. A minute later he returned with the portrait of Carter. "All accounted for."

# CHAPTER SIXTEEN

England, 1919

"A veterans club," Post said, already nostalgic for his time in France and Belgium. "I've been saving up my pay since the war ended. If I can get a decent job–"

"That's a big 'if,'" Stinson said.

He was right. It was April, and the men had crowded into a filthy dockside pub, waiting to board a final troopship that would bring them home for good. Already there was a surplus of ex-soldiers in Canada, scrambling for what jobs were available. And with the war suddenly over, the economy had yet to react and stabilize. The mysterious Spanish Flu hadn't helped matters: worldwide it had killed more than the war itself, and shut down all but the most vital operations. For soldiers anxious to return home, a filthy dockside pub was of course considered a vital operation.

"Fine, it's a pretty big if. Still, I could dodge the temperance types, I think. I mean, who would shut down a veterans club for serving a few pints of beer?"

"Besides, that was only a wartime measure," Bill said. "Prohibition, just like all the taxes will be repealed in a few weeks, I'm sure." He was very wrong.

He was also now sporting the ribbon for the Military Medal and the 1915 Star sewn to his tunic. Just above it, an oak leaf indicated his status as having been Mentioned In Dispatches – a distinction that came with no official citation, but probably had to do with his leading of B Company during their last battle. The MM had also been awarded without a citation, a common occurrence near the war's end, and was probably an accidental excess award for the same deeds. Another new badge sat on his lower right cuff: one red and four blue chevrons indicating his years of overseas service. Only 1914 men were entitled to the red stripe: he could finally wear his status as an Original on his sleeve, literally. Much to his chagrin, he had been called forward on four separate parades to receive his decorations in dribs and drabs. He preferred the unceremonious field promotion when he had inherited Post's lance corporal insignia. Presently, he returned his attention to the now-faded and heavily-creased note Kate had placed in his paybook the last time he had seen her, re-reading the three little words for the nth time.

"We're supposed to get a gratuity, also," he went on. "Should be about a year's pay for the old hands. Maybe I'll get a house."

"If ever we getting back Canada," Kellowitz said. "Maybe boat drowns, and us too! No moneys, no jobs anyway, just lots of water."

The HMT Olympic, the ship that would bring the men home had a storied past. Sister ship of the Titanic, lost in 1912, and the Britannic, lost in 1916, she had nearly been sunk herself in 1918, but had instead managed to ram and sink a German submarine. While it made some men nervous, Bill considered the ship to be bombproof. A few months later while being retrofitted for civilian use again, it would be discovered that the Olympic had been struck during the war by a German torpedo that failed to detonate, leaving a large dent in her hull.

"I do hate water," Bill replied, downing his diluted war-time beer in one gulp. He especially hated the Atlantic Ocean right now: Kate had crossed two weeks earlier, and he didn't appreciate being so far apart. "Barkeep! Another, and throw some damn whiskey in there!"

A few minutes later, Carter arrived. He was no longer acting company commander, just as Bill was no longer acting company sergeant major. They were merely Six Platoon men again. Carter's appearance was instantly noticed, and it was obvious without him giving any orders that he had been instructed to round up his men. Their ship would be sailing in a few hours.

But Carter didn't bark orders, or go from one soldier to the next politely asking them to finish their drink and form up outside. Instead, he made his way to a well-worn piano, and began to play. Bill recognized the piece: it was the same duet he had played with Lincoln two years earlier after the battle of Fresnoy. Carter was playing the unchanged four-hands arrangement, hitting only the low notes, while the higher keys went untouched. It was an elegy, and an apology. Carter had gotten Lincoln killed trying to make a decent officer out of Second Lieutenant Harrison, but the world didn't need any more Second Lieutenants now. By the time he had finished, the entire place was silent. Carter stood and left, followed by his men.

Toronto, 1938

Missus Hallicks and Post hadn't been the only people to secure a relic before exiting. In fact, the street outside looked like a neighbourhood rummage sale was taking place. Photographs, medals, and all variety of war souvenirs lay about, as the assembled veterans and civilians silently watched the Leaf and Crown burn.

Bill was still drunk, and on the verge of bursting into tears at seeing his favourite place in the world engulfed in flames and smoke, but forced himself to be merry. He pretended they were all at a great bonfire and made his way to Kate. "May I have this dance?"

Kate took his hands. "Let me lead, William; you're drunk."

"I sure am," he replied, leaning his head on her shoulder.

"You're not bleeding on my jacket, are you?"

"No," Bill replied slowly, not moving his head, and beginning to hum Daisy Bell. "I don't think so."

Soon the clanging of bells filled the air as fire trucks began to approach, and the crowd moved to the far side of the street. The firefighters were young, tough, and sharp-looking in their uniforms. Many of the veterans were balding, and turning either heavyset or scrawny in their old age. Even the youngest veterans were middle-aged. Bill, under-aged when he enlisted, would be turning forty-two in a few weeks.

Post, McCloud, Kellowitz, and Stinson tried to assist the firefighters but were graciously waved off; they would only get in the way. It was difficult for the veterans to stand back and do nothing. Shortly, the men who smoked cigarettes began passing time the same way they had done in the trenches. All their combat experience was useless now; there was a new enemy, and new men to fight it.

A newspaper man from The Star wasn't far behind the firefighters. He recognized Bill from the office, but had no idea that the cynical, often hilarious film critic was a veteran.

"Bill," the man began, pencil and paper already in hand, "what's the scoop?"

"Can't you see I'm busy, Fred?" Bill replied.

"Come on, Bill, give me something."

Bill didn't stop dancing. "Veterans club burns down, all are safe, but memories lost forever. There, that's your by-line."

"That's not what a by-line is."

"Fuck yourself, then, headline. By-line: by Fred. Okay? Bye, Fred."

Fred was taken aback, and began to search the crowd for a good story. Settling on Francis Green, he began his interview. A minute later, he had his story. "'Crippled veteran saves the day': that'll do nicely."

"Crippled?" Green asked, not amused.

"Well, you've got no arm."

Green whacked the newspaperman in the chest with his stump. "I have an arm and a half, and I am not crippled. I am the manager of the largest retail store in the country: not a cripple."

"Sorry."

"Now, go talk to that big fellow, Kellowitz. He'll tell you everything you need to know; the man cannot tell a lie."

Harold and Missus Hallicks had sat together on the sidewalk. Having finally discovered the fate of both her sons, he felt a profound sadness for her. Not pity, but empathy.

"Remember I said I had something for you?" she said after a long silence.

Harold nodded.

From a red and green striped ribbon hung a simple metal cross, two intersecting swords filling in the hollows at each corner: the Croix de Guerre. Missus Hallicks stood, and Harold did too.

"This was George's. He was awarded it in 1916 for helping the battalion escape after a failed attack. Twenty years ago the war ended, and I still feel like I'm waiting for George and Edward to come home. It's time to accept that they're gone. I want you to have it."

Harold steadied himself as Missus Hallicks pinned the medal to his chest. He could swear he saw two young civilian men, shabby suit collars flipped up, standing on the roof of the Leaf and Crown as it burned. They seemed to nod their heads in approval, then disappear.

"Your boys were very brave," Harold said.

Missus Hallicks surveyed the street, men of the Third Battalion scattered in little groups. "They still are."

## *

It was early the next morning before the fire was finally out. With the exception of Bill and Post, everyone had gone home.

"It's a miracle that nobody was hurt," Bill offered after a long silence.

"Yeah," Post agreed. "Must be those bedtime prayers the wife makes the kiddies say."

"We'll get a new place. Fix it up just like the Leaf. Better."

"I was just about to get a piano and a billiards table," Post said dejectedly. "Good thing I didn't. No, Bill; that was it."

"But where will we go for Armistice Day next year?"

Post shrugged. "I don't know if we'll be in the mood to celebrate next year. Stinson's a prophet."

If another war really was on the horizon, both men had sons old enough to be involved. The thought disgusted and horrified them.

Once the firefighters left, the two began to sift through the rubble of the Leaf and Crown. The hand-painted sign was nowhere to be seen, an especially bitter loss for Post, who might have been able to save it had he only thought to at the time. A light rain began to fall, mocking the burnt out Leaf and Crown, and turning ash to sludge.

"I shouldn't even be surprised," Post said, shifting a pile of bricks.

"What is it? Did any booze survive?" Bill asked anxiously.

Post held up two smashed helmets, leather liners and chinstraps somehow still intact, the red rectangle and green triangle of the Third Battalion still easily distinguishable.

"What else should I have expected?" Post asked, smiling. "Bombproof."

Bill smiled back at him and placed his original helmet on his head. "Put your tin hat on, Lance. Don't you know all these things are good for is keeping the rain off you?"

# END OF PART III

# EPILOGUE

Toronto, 1919

The parade had brought the men of the Third and Fourth Battalions from North Toronto Station on Yonge Street, a mile north of Bloor, down and along Queen's Park, to the University of Toronto Stadium. The grandstands were filled with veterans, family members, and well-wishers; among them Francis Green, Missus Hallicks, and her daughter. As the battalions formed up, the cheers from the crowd became too loud for shouted orders to be heard. There would be no formal dismissal, as thousands of civilians rushed onto the field in search of the loved ones they had not seen in years.

When Post caught sight of Laura, she had a young boy in her arms. "This is your daddy," Laura said to her son.

"What a handsome green-eyed boy," Post said, taking Gary Jr. in his hands, well-aware that both he and Laura had blue eyes, and could not have created such a son. Besides, for a child supposedly conceived in 1914, he seemed awfully small. But he didn't care.

Bill smiled to himself as Gary became acquainted with his "son," then turned about. It was strange to see CSM Turner embraced by his wife and children, the giant of a man seemed to turn to jelly. Kellowitz had nobody to greet him, and simply walked out of the stadium alone. Fyles was inexplicably surrounded by beautiful young women. Stinson's parents had come from out of town to bring him back home, and after a few handshakes and waves, he was gone. McCloud, his face badly disfigured now, nearly brought his mother to tears when she laid her eyes on him; his father kept her stable. Carter was being introduced to some business acquaintance of his father's, shooting glances back to the men whose welfare used to be his greatest responsibility; he hoped they would be able to take care of themselves without him around. Reid was shaking hands with the commanding officer and the other company commanders. Payne had already reunited with his family, meeting his daughter for the first time. Anne had taught her to say "Dada."

Kate led Bill's parents to him. They had had trouble picking him out in the khaki crowd. It didn't help that it had been well over four years since they had last seen him in the flesh. Bill was numb the whole time. He had left Toronto with John, and returned without him.

The men had said hello and goodbye so many times before. When a friend went on leave, or to the hospital, or on a temporary assignment outside of the battalion, they usually came back. Only the dead were never seen again. That's what gave the whole experience such a strange feeling. The men who survived had looked death in the face so many times, and after each it was like living a whole new life. They had not only grown old together, they had spent lifetimes together; sleeping under the same leaky roofs, eating the same boring meals, laughing at the same bad jokes, grieving over the same senseless losses, and wearing the same badges on their uniforms. And now, in little groups they were going their separate ways. Just forty of over a thousand Originals who had left Toronto in 1914 were there for the final parade. On April 23rd, 1919, the Third Battalion of the Canadian Expeditionary Force died.

## *

It was a hot July day when Bill met Post at their favourite pub; one of the many that openly flaunted prohibition in return for free drinks for local police officers. The men had dedicated each Saturday evening to meeting up; and that always involved beer, whiskey, and cigarettes. Like so many veterans, he was wearing his father's clothes, and had still not bothered to buy new ones that fit properly. After living in government-issued uniforms for so long, it seemed silly to actually pay for textiles. But today the bar was empty, the door locked. Bill knocked repeatedly, and at last someone came and unbolted the door: Gary Post.

"What's the idea? Are you the new janitor or something?" Bill asked.

"Better," Post replied, pointing up to where the old bar sign used to hang, but was now absent. "I own this place."

Carter was inside, meticulously painting over the old bar sign, but set it down and ran to greet Bill as he entered. "How've you been, Bill?"

"Good, Sir, and you?"

"Good, thanks."

"So what's going on here?"

"It's a wedding gift," Post said, spreading his hands out. "Mister Carter bought it for me. Now we're square for that time I dragged you out of the mud at Passchendaele. Well, after that sign is done, naturally."

"What are you going to call it?" Bill asked, overwhelmed with joy for his friend.

"The Leaf and Crown."

Carter pointed to where the half-completed bar sign lay. "I need to finish up this side, then do the other."

"Do you know why bars have names like that?" Bill asked, unable to resist.

"No," Post said, lying – he of all people would know – "do tell."

"In the old days, back when most people couldn't read, they needed a way to meet up. You couldn't say 'meet me at Gary Post's Bar'; nobody would know how to read that. So bars just had signs that everyone could recognize: the rose and wolf, let's say. This way everyone could find where they were going just by recognizing a few common symbols."

"Enlightening," Carter said, carrying on with the sign.

While Bill had been telling his story, Post had returned with cleaning gear. "How's this for a sign: the mop and bucket."

"I assume we have a beer ration," Bill replied.

"We do, but you have to earn that," Post said, walking over to a corner where a recently sanded table was ready to be stained.

Bill got to work. "You know what would look nice? Some souvenirs on the walls."

Post paused, then went into a frenzy. "That's perfect," he said, rushing about from one place to the next. "The flag – right there! And over here I'll get a Hun rifle. Bill, that's genius!"

"Does that earn me a beer?"

"Sure, go ahead, you too, Sir. I think we've worked hard enough for today. We have a whole week until the grand opening."

"So, Bill, what are up to? Have you found a job?" Carter asked.

"Yeah, Kate's uncle has me working in his used bookstore. It's just a temporary thing."

"And is Kate..."

"We're working on it. The wife keeps me busy all night."

"Good. The world needs more little Bills."

"Or Billets," Post added.

Bill and Carter sighed in unison, faking exasperation.

"Do you guys ever talk about the war to your families?" Bill asked.

"A little," Post said.

"Not generally," Carter added.

"When Kate and I came back, we promised to leave all that behind. Close out that chapter and get on with our lives, you know?"

Both men nodded.

Bill wanted to say more, but there really wasn't anything more to say. They had said it all during the war, and were still too new to civilian life to know what else to say. It was in their quick swigs of beer and their long drags off cigarettes. It was in their phoney smiles and forced laughs. It was in their fought-back tears and vacant stares. It was in their premature wrinkles and grey hair. But it was also in their stupid grins and firm handshakes. It was in their knowing glances and slang terms. It was in the feelings every man who had went overseas would keep with him forever.

And they wouldn't have it any other way.

# THE END

# ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Three poems are featured at the beginning of each part of the novel. The first is "Sick Leave" by Siegfried Sassoon, originally published in "Counter-Attack and Other Poems" in 1918. Sassoon was a British infantry officer during the war, serving with the Royal Welch Fusiliers and attaining the rank of Captain. In 1916 he was awarded the Military Cross with the following citation:

"For conspicuous gallantry during a raid on the enemy's trenches. He remained for 1½ hours under rifle and bomb fire collecting and bringing in our wounded. Owing to his courage and determination all the killed and wounded were brought in."

Eva Dobell was a nurse with the Voluntary Aid Detachment when she wrote "Pluck." It was originally published in 1919 in the poetry collection "A Bunch of Cotswold Grasses."

"For the Fallen" was written by Laurence Binyon in 1914. First published in The Times, the portion appearing at the beginning of Part III is known as the Ode of Remembrance, and is still recited during memorial services throughout the British Commonwealth.

# HISTORICAL NOTE: THE VICTORIA CROSS

During the First World War two members of the Third Battalion were awarded the British Empire's highest military honour: the Victoria Cross. The first was Colin Fraser Barron, a Lewis Gunner. A brief reference to Barron is made in Part II, but no fictional account could compare to his genuine heroics. He was a 24 year old corporal at the Battle of Passchendaele when the following deed took place, on November 6th, 1917, during the attack against Vine Cottage:

"For conspicuous bravery when in attack his unit was held up by three machine-guns. Corpl. Barron opened on them from a flank at point-blank range, rushed the enemy guns single-handed, killed four of the crew, and captured the remainder. He then, with remarkable initiative and skill, turned one of the captured guns on the retiring enemy, causing them severe casualties. The remarkable dash and determination displayed by this N.C.O. in rushing the guns produced far-reaching results, and enabled the advance to be continued."

George Fraser Kerr was an Original member of the Third Battalion, enlisting as a private. By September 27th, 1918, he had already been awarded the Military Medal, as well as the Military Cross with Bar, and held the rank of lieutenant when the following deed took place:

"For most conspicuous bravery and leadership during the Bourlon Wood operations on 27th September, 1918, when in command of the left support company in attack. He handled his company with great skill, and gave timely support by outflanking a machine-gun which was impeding the advance. Later, near the Arras-Cambrai road, the advance was again held up by a strong point. Lt. Kerr, far in advance of his company, rushed this strong point single-handed and captured four machine-guns and thirty-one prisoners. His valour throughout this engagement was an inspiring example to all."

Kerr would achieve the rank of captain before the war ended. He died due to accidental carbon monoxide poisoning in 1929. Barron would go on to serve in the peacetime militia, and reach the rank of sergeant major, serving during the Second World War. He died in 1959. Both men are buried in Toronto.

My Third Battalion is a fictional version of the real one. Barron, as a member of D Company was able to be mentioned by name without upsetting the narrative or me clumsily "putting words in his mouth." After the heavy casualties that B Company sustained on August 8th, 1918, just one officer out of five was left alive and unwounded. Kerr would soon be given command of B Company, and his inclusion in the novel would have required an uncomfortable amount of mingling fact with fiction.

I strongly encourage all readers to learn more about the real Third Battalion.

#  HISTORICAL NOTE: CROSS AND COLOURS

In the early 1920's individual and regimental grave markers of various designs and mostly made of wood were replaced with the now-familiar universal headstones used in all Commonwealth cemeteries today. A few examples of original markers were repatriated to Canada and usually deposited in a place of honour in regimental churches.

A cross which marked the graves of thirty-one Third Battalion men who were killed in action at Orix Trench in August 1918 was brought from France and placed in The Church of the Messiah on Avenue Road in Toronto in 1926.

The Cross, which stood eight feet tall, remained in the church along with the original battalion colours, issued in 1919 above it, until the night of August 5th, 1976, when the church suffered major fire damage. Both the cross and the colours were destroyed.

In 1926 the cross was dedicated thusly:

"This Cross from France is placed here by the Toronto Regiment in token of the valour and self-sacrifice of those named thereon and of all other members of the Third Canadian Battalion who gave their lives for their Country in the Great War."

Patriae quaesiverunt gloriam, vident Dei.

Those who seek glory for their country are seen by God.

