The Place

by Gary Collins

  The next day the constable sailed home, leaving the community in mourning. The Place, well used to tragedy by sea, had not experienced such a traumatic event before. The pall of murder-suicide hung over them more than did the deaths themselves. The question on the lips of all was a simple one. Why? There were no answers.

  Word was sent by the next vessel sailing south with the hope of contacting Jack. But when eight days passed and Jack still hadn’t returned, the two bodies had to be buried. Just about everyone in the Place stood around the grave when mother and daughter were laid to rest. Into a single grave, in one coffin, they were lowered down. The reason for their deaths was mired with them.

  Every day and every evening until sleep claimed her, Sophie’s mother kept watch from her window over the harbour. She was waiting, hoping, and dreading to see the Plunging Star come sailing home with Jack aboard her. Sophie’s mother wanted to keep a lamp burning in Sophie’s kitchen window, but her husband was against it. A light in Sophie’s kitchen window would give Jack a false hope, he reasoned. Maybe, if the schooner arrived at night, which was common enough his darkened kitchen window would somehow prepare him for what he must soon learn. And so it had been, until the night the Plunging Star came sailing home. Sophie’s mother saw it right away and went to the wharf, the bearer of devastating news.

  The chandler finished telling Jack the sad tale. His bottle of brandy was empty, and the telling of the story, combined with the warmth of the brandy, brought tears to his eyes. But when he looked into Jack’s eyes, he saw no tears, just an expression of disbelief. Jack left the chandler with hardly a word. He walked the lane to his house, and though everyone who met him offered condolences, Jack spoke not a word.

  Arriving at his empty home, he opened the door and stepped inside. The emptiness of a cold, silent home bereft of life hit Jack hard, and he sat in a chair by the table. Everywhere he looked there were images of his family. Sophie’s form by the stove, over the table, beside the pantry. He fancied her pleasant voice asking him about his trip. Little Emiline’s beaming face welcoming him home. Running on her unsteady legs into his open arms.

  How could they not be here? Was it true? Had Sophie bludgeoned their daughter to death? And then taken her own life by letting the waters of Muddy Cove drown her? It couldn’t be! It made no sense! The evidence had to be wrong. What possible reason could there be for Sophie to change from gentle mother and loving wife to murderer, of not only their beloved daughter but herself? It made no sense to Jack. Maybe it was the reason he hadn’t yet cried.

  He turned toward a sound of laughter coming from the lane outside, half expecting to see Sophie come through the door with Emiline in her arms. The sound faded away, and Jack rose to his feet. It was cold in the kitchen, colder than outside. He prepared splits and wood for a fire in the stove. When it was burning to his liking, he stood with his back to the stove, waiting for the first tendrils of heat to find his back.

  Looking all around, it came to him that the house was spotless. Nothing was out of place. No dirty dishes left from a hasty meal, no loose clothing left hanging from a chair, not even a speck of dirt on the well-swept floor. When Sophie left this house for the last time, it wasn’t a sudden whim conjured up from some terrible emotion. For whatever reason, she had planned to leave and just as sure had planned to take Emiline with her. This thought disturbed Jack more than anything he had heard this day.

  The fire in the stove was going good now. Jack decided to go upstairs. Maybe he would find some clue to this cruel mystery there. He climbed the stairs and entered the room where they always loved. And for as long as he lived, he wished to God he had not.

  25

  The Catholic

  It was deemed by generals far away from the fighting that passage by their ships and their allies up through the Dardanelle Strait and into the Black Sea was not attainable. Sheiks and khans, emperors and caliphs, pontiffs, kings, and lovers had all been defeated by this waterway that separated continents. One of the most coveted waterways on earth had once again claimed victory over a fierce skirmish. Still running dark, free, and fallow, it would wait for the next one.

  The British would never admit defeat. Stalemated, they would lick their many wounds and evacuate all troops and equipment from the Gallipolian peninsula. The fighting went on. It would go on for weeks. It would go on till the last soldier had climbed or was carried aboard the last ship in Suvla Bay.

  Michael’s duties as runner increased. Redoubts, platoons, and fortifications all along the lines had to be kept in constant communication. Orders changed by the hour. Between the beach and the trenches, over which the retreat must traverse to gain the beach and the waiting boats, were miles of rough terrain. Directions had to be reported from commanders to troop leaders.

  Michael made dozens of runs between the dugout headquarters and trench fortifications, almost always under the cover of darkness, bearing messages—messages on paper to be handed to officers unsure what was happening, and messages in his head, to be repeated word for word to weary officers tired of watching their men die carrying out those orders. The days and nights went by. Men carried, pushed, and pulled weapons and the battered accoutrements of war back down the long hills to the confusion of supplies gathering on the shore.

  Ill-fed mules and horses, their ribs showing, drew cannons and hundreds of tents and wounded men away from the blazing hills of Suvla. Their planned stealth was betrayed by the clatter of moving metal, the movement of troops, the braying of gut-shot animals. And standing guard over that withdrawal from hell were the men still fighting and dying in the trenches. These men and the snipers who peered over the ramparts were the last bitter line of defence.

  Under the lip of one such rampart, its sandbags riven with bullet holes, crouched Jake the sniper. By now everyone in the regiment was calling him the Crackie. Every time Jake heard the term, he shuddered. His father frequently called him a goddamn redhead. Told him repeatedly he was as useless as a crackie. But over here, few paid much attention to his red hair, for as one old soldier told him one day, “Aww, me son, sure, your ’ead is after turnin’ a bit rusty, is all.” Jake laughed. And he had well-earned the moniker Crackie. Jake was a deadly sniper. The name didn’t bother him anymore—much.

  It was dark, and a low, drizzly fog, barely chest high, had come creeping over the land and through the lines, making the night colder. The fog distorted the land and created false images. It was possible for a soldier to crawl like a shadow under that veil. Shadows that moved were fair game on both sides. Jake’s attention was focused on a shadow that had moved when Michael came up behind him.

  “Mauzy ol’ night, Jake. Just like home, eh?”

  Jake didn’t answer him, and Michael nodded, seeing his friend’s body all tensed, his rifle at full cock and pointing toward no man’s land. He rested between two sandbags and waited for what he knew was to come. Michael watched as the Crackie lived up to his name. Jake’s eyes were wide open, both of them. The butt of the rifle was firm against his right shoulder, its fore stock resting gently upon his left hand.

  As Michael looked on, Jake’s right hand curled around the action, his forefinger on the trigger taking up the slack. Then the Crackie’s right fingers all squeezed as one. Jake’s rifle exploded and a tongue of orange flame spat into the fog. Jake rapidly reversed the action and shoved another round into the chamber without taking the weapon from his shoulder. He waited for a long minute. Then, turning around, he said to Michael, “Got ’im.” His voice wasn’t proud, just factual. Michael knew how Jake felt about killing.

  “’Tis a necessary evil, Jake.”

  “I know it, Mike b’y. But I still don’t like it.”

  “Yeah, I know. The way I got it figured, war makes murderers of us all. We can kill with impunity. ’Tis the way of it.”

  Jake changed the subject. “Got a run tonight?”

  “I do,” Michael replied. “All the w
ay to the east sector. Not to be delivered till 2200 hours, fer some reason.” He looked at his watch. “Six o’clock, 1800 hours. Four hours to go. Bloody military time. Never get it right.”

  “Bad night fer runnin’, Mike. This fog is deceivin’. It hides things and makes things look altogether different. ’Tis a fine night fer crawlin’, though. They’ll be out after trinkets and boots this night, fer sure, crawlin’ under the fog like bloody crabs. On both side of the trenches. Damn graverobbers. Scavengers, I calls ’em.”

  “Scavengers is a good name for ’em. Human vultures is a better one. Stealing a dead man’s coat or boots to keep warm is one thing. Robbing gold from a soldier’s fingers or mouth is something deplorable. We are all soldiers, no matter the colour of our tunic. All fighting a war we will never understand or give a tinker’s damn about. It has always been so, I believe.”

  Michael pulled a pack of British cigarettes from his pocket, offered one to Jake, bent over, and lit his own in the cup of his hand. Jake lit his from the tip of Michael’s. They sat in silence for a moment as the smoke from their mouths blended with the fog. No fear of smoke betraying a soldier this night. Jake had killed snipers who failed to notice that telltale sign on a clear night.

  “I’ll never get to see the Hellespont now that we are retreating.” Michael seemed wistful.

  “Hellespont?” asked Jake.

  “The Dardanelles. The Turkish strait. The Bosphorus. Lovers’ tears.”

  “Oh! You mean the tickle?”

  “Yes, my clever young friend, indeed it is. You have named it best. The Hellespont—call it what you will—is nothing more than a tickle. The world is full of tickles. Between us and the Turks is a tickle stained with blood. The most powerful nations on earth are battling over something as simple as a bloody tickle of water. And once again, the tickle has won.”

  “Why is it important to you to see this tickle, Michael?”

  “I’m not sure if I can give a quick answer, Jake b’y. I’ve told you about the old priest, my friend and mentor. From him I learned about this strait of water and the part it has played in history, our history, everyone’s history, whether we know it or not. Suleiman the Magnificent of the Ottoman Empire, upon whose land we fight, was dominant here. Saladin, first sultan of Egypt and Syria, led the Muslims against the English crusaders, who needed to cross it to reach the Holy Lands. The Templars, defenders of the faith, all fought and traversed the Dardanelles.

  “I would have been a Templar, I think. Would have defended the scrolls based on the teachings of the Christ, the Grail of my belief. Christ, the emblem of peace, walked this land. And long after He died at the hands of his own, the Knights Templar kept his moat. Always loved the name Templar and what it represented. So much so that if I had a son I would have named him Templar.”

  “Well! How you do talk, Michael Kelly.”

  Jake, who always marvelled at the knowledge Michael possessed, didn’t see his friend’s face as he spoke these words. Michael felt the hairs rise on his neck. They were the same words Ruth would often say to him. He sighed.

  “Only when I am in good company, Jake. Only when I am in good company.”

  Jake saw the sad look on his face then and was about to ask him the reason for it, when a shell screamed overhead and exploded farther along their trench. It shook the ground and more sand leaked out of the sandbags, trickling like falling water down over them. Several screams erupted, and the cry for a medic pierced the air.

  “The war has found us again, Jake.”

  “Aye, Mike. That shot must’ve been a fluke in this muck.” Jake nodded toward the fog.

  “Maybe they’re getting better at it, Jake. God knows they’ve had lots of practice. Both sides have honed their shooting skills. We’ve just heard the thrust from the Turks now. I expect we’ll hear the parry from the Brits.”

  Both men waited for the answering volley, but there came no reciprocating whine of shells. Most of the artillery in their sector had evacuated down the hill. Only rifles in the trenches remained to retaliate against bombs. Last defence.

  26

  Michael crouched to light another cigarette and looked at his pocket watch by the glow of the match. 2130 hours. Time to go. He told Jake it was time for him to leave. Jake looked out over his “gaze.”

  “Just like winging ducks from a gaze back home,” he had told Michael once, referring to sniping from the trenches. The fog seemed to be lifting a bit but was still hanging around. “Stay under the fog, Mike b’y. Don’t give ’em a good target. You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah, I do, Jake. I’ll try not to offer ’em centre mass.”

  “I’ll be here when you finish yer run, Mike. We’ll have a smoke. Too bad I can’t leave a light in the window to show ya the way home.” Jake grinned at him.

  “My compass will be my light home. See ya, Jake.”

  “See ya, Mike. Keep yer head down.” Michael stepped away and was soon lost around a bend in the clouded trench.

  Michael’s feet were cold and soaked to the bone. They had been for days. The trenches were filled with water, and the duckboards oozed water and filth. The duckboards stank worse than a ship’s bilge. Human excrement, bloody bandages, scraps of food, and the refuse of a thousand soldiers drew rats, which brazenly prowled both day and night. In exchange for the free food, they gave disease.

  Men huddled against the night and keeping watch from the top of the trench greeted Michael as he passed them by. Everyone knew he was a runner, knew how dangerous his job was, and they all liked him. Michael stopped and warmed his hands by a brazier around which soldiers were gathered.

  By the light of the coal oil, he used map and compass to determine his route. Northeast-by-east would bring him close enough. The compass only gave him direction and didn’t allow for obstacles or suggest deviations he must take on the way. Dodging men and gear in the trench would slow him down. He should have left earlier, but he had enjoyed his chat with Jake.

  There were also lesser trenches that intersected the main tunnel he was following. Added to that was the great swing to the south the trench took before sweeping north again, creating what the Newfoundlanders were calling “the cove” in the line of defence. Across this cove was the quickest way to his destination. It was also the most dangerous.

  Michael climbed a rickety ladder propped against the north side of the trench and slid like a tansy up over the lip. He crouched below the fog on the west side of the cove. Keeping low, he started off. The farther away he got from his own side of the line, the greater the danger of getting shot. In no man’s land at night, in fog, he could as well be shot by friendly fire as enemy fire. Michael thanked God for the fog.

  Despite the cold, he was sweating long before he got across the cove. Stopping for a brief rest, he caught a whiff of his own body. God! he thought. What I wouldn’t give for a good all-over wash. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been fully clean. He was within a few yards of the redoubt when he stopped again.

  Lying prone on the wet ground, he called out in a low voice, “Runner bearing a message.” There was a break in the noise from the trench ahead. Fog, wet and dense, swirled all around.

  “You’ll have to do better’n that, mate.” The voice sounded Aussie.

  Damn! Michael couldn’t believe he hadn’t given the password. It was one used by no one else but himself. “The Catholic!” he called back, his voice lower still.

  “Right-o! Advance! An’ keep yer ’ead down, mate.” Everyone knew the runner named the Catholic.

  Michael bent so low it hurt. He scurried forward, crab-like, slid in over the trench’s edge, and stood on the same duckboards in the same filth he had just left. He was directed toward a tent where the commanding officer of the company was housed and stood to attention before a British officer he figured was his own age. Below the dingy lantern light hazing from the tent’s ridge pole, the
CO looked twice as old.

  “Wot is it this time, eh? Want the bloody sandbags lugged down the bloody hill so’s they can pick the bloody lead out of ’em, do they? Evacuation! Bloody inglorious retreat, defeat is wot it is! Well, where is it?”

  Michael pulled the paper from the inside pocket of his tunic with one hand, saluted smartly with other, and said loudly, “Here, sir!”

  The irate officer snatched the paper from Michael’s hands. Bending to favour the light upon the page, he began to read. “Bloody ’ell! Read this, ’ave you?” He directed the question at Michael.

  “No, sir!” Michael lied. He knew very well what the communiqué said.

  “‘Do not evacuate. Repeat, do not evacuate until further orders.’” The officer was very upset. “Bloody sots, the lot of ’em! Not guts enough to put the bloody word ‘retreat’ upon the bloody page.”

  Michael, still at attention, was waiting.

  “Well?” snapped the officer.

  “Reply, sir?” Michael was half afraid to ask it.

  “Reply?” The CO peered at Michael’s armband, which was smeared with mud. “Bah! Lance corporal! Runner! Bloody page boy! Traipsin’ all over bloody Gallipoli with bloody notes from bloody sots! Reply? ’Tis rhetorical, sir. Tell ’em this. Tell ’em I am a British officer of the line, sir! And British officers never evacuate without orders. Tell him that, sir! There’s my answer, sir. Dismissed!”

  Michael gladly vacated the officer’s presence. Feeling as though he had just been attacked, he made his way back to the trench. A sentry bade him good night as calmly as if he were leaving a kitchen party back home and cautioned him to keep his head down. The sentry called him Mike. No one called him the Catholic to his face.