Flanders

by Patricia Anthony

  The next morning I was relieved to see that he had vanished. His buddies had gathered him in.

  When bad things happen you put them in a little box somewheres, Bobby. You wrap those memories up real neat and store them in a closet. When you least expect it, though, you’ll turn a corner and find that damned package sitting out. Riddell’s back to his normal self after bayoneting that Boche boy who was trying his best to surrender. Sergeant must have boxed the memory up. Still, I bet sometimes he opens a piece of mental mail and finds out too late that it contained the boy’s death throes and how the rifle stock felt, twitching in his hands.

  I hadn’t had a drink until the day the Boche begged me to kill their friend. Hadn’t wanted one, really. But LeBlanc found me, made me sit down with him on some old empty ammo boxes. As the sun set, we had us some brandy.

  “Tell me about your mare,” he said.

  LeBlanc’s a strange sort. I don’t know where he sleeps night to night. I suspect nobody does. Sometimes when I’m lying in the dugout with Pickering and Marrs I get to thinking about LeBlanc and wondering if he’s out in the dark, hunting No Man’s Land. It sends shivers down me.

  “She’s a born cutting horse,” I told him. “Hell, she wasn’t but a year-old filly when she started watching cows. I think sometimes she figures it’s a step-down for her to guard goats. She sees I got the Border collies for the chasing, so what the hell? What about yours?”

  “Had to sell him when I joined up. So your mare figures you got her slumming, eh?”

  It’s like LeBlanc was raised up without any stories to tell, and so he wants to possess mine. I resent that in him. There’s times I feel like he’s thieving my memories in the casual, sneaky way he takes lives.

  I asked him, “You’re Catholic, right?”

  Twilight was falling. The trench was murky, the sky above an unsettled color, not blue, not quite pink. I heard LeBlanc moving around, saw the flare of a match, smelled the nose-tickling, intoxicating smoke of a Woodbine cigarette.

  “Want one?”

  I reached out, fumbled for the pack. LeBlanc was just a dark hulking shape with a coal in its hand. We sat smoking and sipping for a while.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Raised in the Church, anyway. You had your nose up O’Shaughnessy’s butt for a while. You turning Catholic there, Stanhope? Better watch yourself. Once the Church gets hold of your short hairs, they never let go.”

  “He saved my life once,” I told LeBlanc.

  “Who? That mick? That’s what you say. You also promised to kiss my great big bâton.”

  I watched him take a drag on his cigarette. The coal at the tip went bright. Somewhere outside the sun must have been setting in a bonfire blaze. Pink and orange streaks gloried across the sky.

  I said, “I’m puckered and waiting.”

  LeBlanc doesn’t laugh a lot, leastways not happy ones; so his gut-loud guffaw surprised me.

  “You’re such an asshole, Stanhope.”

  The fondness in his tone surprised me, too.

  I said, “I thought priests wasn’t supposed to tell on you, I mean, your secrets and all.”

  “Can’t trust a priest.” Then he said, “They lie all the time, especially about Heaven and Hell, you know? All that shit.” The cinder-tip of LeBlanc’s Woodbine fell like a shooting star, then lay there, smoldering. “None of us goes anywhere, eh? When God’s finished with us, He tosses us in a garbage can. That’s all we get: darkness. Maybe the stink of old cabbage. Shoulder to shoulder with used rubbers. Goddamn cats rooting around you. Flies all over, and rats pissing on your head. That sort of thing.”

  I laughed. I took my last lungful of Woodbine and threw the butt down. Above, the gold and pink rays had faded. The first shy stars were peeking through.

  “You think it’s funny, eh? You’ve been in this crapper of an army, Stanhope. You chicken-shit sentimental cunt-headed bastard. You’ve seen what death looks like. You think after death’ll be any better?”

  “Well, okay, but you said ‘God,’ right? Seems to me that if you believe in God, you got some sort of pattern going. Come on, LeBlanc. See what I’m saying? Else why believe in God at all?”

  “Goddamn Church never gave me any choice.”

  He sounded so sad when he said that, like the Church had stolen all his could-be’s.

  I don’t know. The way that Boche boy of mine fought dying, you’d think he’d caught a peek of what was to come. He whipped his arms around so, maybe he was battling LeBlanc’s trash-can Purgatory.

  Me, I’ve been dreaming about the cemetery again. The mausoleum’s doors have been flung open. The marble niches are empty and waiting. A warm breeze blows through, and birds flutter around the domed glass ceiling. Fallen leaves gather in the quiet corners; they scrape along the floor.

  The platoon’s gone, but for some reason that’s all right. Trantham doesn’t call anymore, and that’s all right, too. I walk the gravel path and look down into the glass-topped graves. There are other soldiers sleeping: Boche and Frenchies, Tommies and boot-black Algerians. I look for familiar faces, but all I see are strangers.

  I see the calico girl sometimes. Coming across her is always a surprise. When I least expect it she’ll be seated on a fallen tombstone or standing by a pensive angel. She has a thoughty look, as if she’s concentrating hard on all her drowsy charges.

  The graveyard’s flowers have gone to seed, Bobby, the plants long bolted, life sucking them dry and woody. Fruit has gone so overripe, so sweet, that it’s all windfalls now. Even in my dreams, autumn’s coming.

  Travis Lee

  AUGUST 25, THE RESERVE TRENCHES

  Dear Bobby,

  This afternoon a shell hit one of Nye’s secret dumping grounds. Shit went skyward. It came down over the enlisted trenches in brown, aromatic sprays. It pattered down in a heavy stinking rain all the way from HQ to the aid post. Hear tell Major Dunn got his fat-assed self a face full. Ain’t war wonderful?

  When we’d cleaned ourselves up, me and Marrs and Pickering and the new man, Calvert, were sitting around the dugout when the Boche began shelling for serious. Marrs looked up dubiously at the piece of elephant sheet over our heads. The strikes were close, but without punch, mostly all Jack Johnsons. Still, the earth vibrated. The dust on our plank table erupted into clouds. Bits of dirt and pebbles danced the boards. Pickering and me exchanged looks. Calvert’s first time in a barrage. He’d go to screaming or crying or shitting his pants.

  Marrs lit the primus stove that we’d all chipped in to get. He put on a kettle for tea. A Jack Johnson exploding outside the door made our tin cups clatter, sent black smoke billowing over the parapet.

  “Milk or lemon?” Marrs asked.

  Only powdered milk. Just dried lemon rind, but still. Riddell’s sister had sent him a box full of tea fixings and he shared it with all the platoon. Poor old Foy. Rumor had it he was due back about the same time we got those tea fixings. The fool sent us a message that said he was happy he didn’t have a Blighty. Crazy, isn’t it? Said coming back to the platoon would be just like being home. But I heard that three nights later he took a turn for the worse, his blisters oozing again.

  A sharp crack, the blast so near that even Pickering ducked. Dirt rattled down the sheet metal of our elephant like hail.

  “Bloody hell,” Marrs said.

  A startling cuss for him. He’d dropped the lemon rind, and now set about salvaging it from the floor’s muck.

  There was a vacancy where Foy should have been, a place where the too-silent Calvert sat now. I exchanged another glance with Pickering, the unspoken language that all originals know. My shrug was, At least he’s not crying.

  Pickering’s ironic smile meant, Not yet.

  A long, seemingly endless whistle, descending the scale. The whizzbang struck somewhere down the trench. Someone far away started screaming for the medics.

  The kettle screamed, too. I flinched, then laughed at myself. You get used to it, Bobby. Folks die with the shelling, one and
two at a time: a parsimony of war. I remember how scared I used to be of artillery, and I have to wonder if the barrage was really so bad the night McPhearson got it. But seems like I can remember the dumb, inescapable blows of 8.5’s coming as fast as windmilling fists, loud as freight trains. Heavy shelling is like an act of God, Bobby. They call it “hate.” And the real hate, the lunatic mad-God hate, kills in squads, in platoons, in companies. I remember the endless storms of 8.5’s. I remember the Boche that we found huddled together in dugouts, stunned to death by our barrage. Compared to that kind of hate, what we were living through was heavenly dislike.

  Calvert finally spoke up, and his voice sounded steady enough. “Likes me tea plain, thanks.”

  Marrs poured the water into an old biscuit tin, wrapped a field towel around it for a cozy. Another close strike. One of the sandbags on the south wall burst. Black dirt avalanched, burying Pickering’s haversack.

  Marrs caught our biscuit tin before it could topple. “Bought us a real teapot a month back,” he said apologetically to Calvert. “But it broke, didn’t it.”

  “Considerate old Boche.” Pickering ignored his buried haversack. He lit up a Woodbine, offered the pack around. “They break our teapot, but give us time between shells to. . .”

  A blast from a whizzbang left him mouthing his last word, left my ears ringing. I dug my fingertip in my ear and shook my head to clear it. The next sound I was able to hear was Pickering’s laughter. “Talk,” he said. “They give us time between shells to talk.”

  Three fast ones in succession that left me in a cold sweat. I licked my lips and listened, but the Boche settled down into their slow rhythm again.

  “Teatime, gentlemen.” Marrs unwrapped the tin with a flourish and poured.

  Calvert took his first sip and spewed it. Marrs got a spray of tea full in the face. His eyes went as wide as eggs.

  “Sod all!” Calvert shouted. “Bleeding sugar! There’s bleeding sugar in ’ere!”

  “Well, it comes together, now, doesn’t it?” Marrs was saying. “The tea and the sugar. Comes packaged. Can’t pick it apart.”

  But Calvert’s polite façade had cracked; no explanation would mend it. “Bleeding army! Effing, bleeding war! They puts the effing, bleeding sugar in our effing bloody tea? An’ wifout asking? Them bastards! What if we don’t likes it, then? They ever bleeding stop and think about that?”

  Pickering and me nearly split a gut laughing. No doubt about it. Calvert’s going to work out just fine.

  Travis Lee

  AUGUST 31, THE REST AREA

  Dear Bobby,

  Yesterday Riddell asked permission for all of us to visit Foy. There, just outside the mess tent, Blackhall looked from Riddell to Pickering, from Marrs to me. It was my eyes he lingered on. He owes me. He knows I never told anyone about that beating. But just so I remember that he has the upper hand, he keeps riding me and riding me about my drinking. The asshole. He knows as well as I do that if I ever had a problem, I sure don’t have it now.

  Still, he can’t help but put a dig in once in a while. “Long as you sees Stanhope ’ere keeps his nose out of the bottle.”

  Then it was salute-the-shit and a chorus of Thank-you-sirs.

  “Back on time, now. Won’t have yer loitering.”

  A click of heels—my uncarved-on, uncomfortable boots. Peckerwood Blackhall wouldn’t have it any other way. We got out of there quick as we could, left the rest of the boys to their forever football game.

  The breeze was still warm, but walking the road I could see that summer was ending. Autumn comes on different here, Bobby. It’s like life just thrives so hard in the hedgerows, on the canal banks, in the deep woods, that it wears itself out. I can see it happening around me: stalks gone thick and woody that used to be moist and translucent green. Flowers have used themselves up into seed. Nature’s like an aging woman, sucked dry by childbearing, gone thick around the middle and knobby-fingered.

  On the way, Pickering and Marrs pushed and slapped at each other like a couple of kids. Riddell would stop every so often to collect one of his weeds. It was a fine afternoon, Bobby, with clouds towering like white marble fortresses and elfin sun rays slanting through the trees.

  We scared ourselves up a lark by the side of the road. It flew toward the dark ceiling of branches. Frenzied, trapped, it made its wild and flapping way down the lane until it was free. Beyond the trees, the bird forgot its panic. Cheerful now, it launched itself toward the radiant clouds, singing.

  “ ‘We look before and after,’ ” I quoted softly. “ ‘And pine for what is not.’ ”

  The three of them stared.

  “Shelley,” I explained. “He said that no matter how contented humans are sometimes, bad memories hang around. The future’s always worrying at us, too. We just can’t ever be as happy as that damned lark.”

  They stood in the road, a trio of blank-faced sheep.

  “Oh, fucking goddamn never mind,” I said.

  The moment, if it had ever been, was over. Pickering mock-punched Marrs. Marrs dodged and slapped back. Riddell stepped off the path to pick a weed. I wondered where Miller was and what he was doing.

  We stopped at a little arched bridge over a canal and stared down into the dark water for a while. I thought of Coleridge, of Xanadu and its sunless sea. Then of Poe’s morbid ghosties and how old Edgar Allan would have been drawn to my dreams’ cypress-dark.

  “Think I could thump meself up a fish?” Marrs let a pebble drop. It sank into the black water, leaving dark concentric ripples in its wake.

  Pickering said, “Gas him. That’d be faster. Go ahead, Marrs. Give him one of your famous farts.”

  Pickering held his throat and pretended to choke. Marrs punched him lightly in the arm. They slapped each other for a while.

  We walked on. The yellow flowers were gone from the meadows, but wild ducks floated a nearby canal. Spotted cows nosed under wire fences, in a search for the forbidden. I thought of the tumbledown hut, of Dunston-Smith and Miller. Did they talk poetry there? The Holsteins and me—pining for what is not.

  Then Marrs started singing. His voice was as pure as a flute, so high that only the top branches could catch it. His voice dazed me. His Latin came so easy. How could something that extraordinary come out of such an unexceptional man? And the song, Bobby. God. That song. If there was ever an anthem for my graveyard, he was singing it.

  “What on earth are you bawling about there, Marrs?” Pickering asked.

  I could have knocked him down.

  “Taverner’s ‘Magnificat.’ I was a choir boy, wasn’t I.”

  Pickering huffed. “No. I meant what were the words you were mouthing? I couldn’t understand the bleeding words.”

  “Well, that’s ’cause it’s Latin, then.” All in a flood, he said, “ ‘Magnificat anima mea Dominum. Et exsultavit spiritus meus in Deo salutari meo . . .’ ”

  How could he do that? How could he remember the words so well, and say them so quick and so matter of fact? It was too fast for me to follow, still I knew the prayer was magic—an incantation for the lips of marble angels.

  Pickering’s “Ye-e-es” teetered on the edge of aggravation. “All very well and good, Marrs, but what does it mean?”

  “Well, the fathers don’t tell us that, now does they.”

  “Sing it again,” I said.

  Pickering rolled his eyes.

  “Please,” I said. “Sing it again.”

  Marrs opened his mouth. Song poured out of his small, ordinary body. I dropped back a few paces and walked behind them to hide the tears he brought to my eyes.

  I should have saved them for the C.C.S. aid station, maybe. Easier to get choked up over beauty, though, than it is ugliness. And that hospital was an ugly place.

  You could hear the wounded moaning long before we ever got there. They were lying in the grass around the portable buildings. Men, towels over their eyes, were sitting dumbfounded and gasping in the road. We picked our way around dead still on
their stretchers, left where they were dropped when it was seen they were without hope.

  And there wasn’t much hope, Bobby. In the yard, the freshly wounded; inside, men were puffed grotesque with rot: fingers the size of pickles, arms and legs like blood-sausage balloons. God, it stank. The air was thick with the sweet-sick stench of spoiled meat. I wondered if those boys knew they were death-bound, or if they were still hoping.

  Riddell stopped a doctor to ask directions. Marrs’s face had gone pasty. Pickering kept looking at the ceiling. I tried the best I could to hold my breath, tried not to meet any of the bedridden’s eyes. Then I saw a familiar figure in a corner. O’Shaughnessy was comforting the dying.

  “This way,” Riddell said.

  We hurried after him, escaped past a canvas building and barrels piled high with bloody pus-stained gauze to another cheap canvas-and-wood barracks, one filled with the drowning-man sounds of the gas victims. That’s where we found Foy.

  He was sitting up on pillows. His arms were raw and oozing. He’d crusted his sheets, and in places they were stuck to him. His eyes were swollen nearly shut, dripping and thick with pus. It looked like he was crying amber.

  “ ’Ello there, Foy,” Riddell said gently. He went up to the bed when none of the rest of us would.

  Foy kind of tilted his head funny, squinting sideways at Riddell. He whispered something, I think. At least his cracked, swollen lips moved, and bleeding fissures opened. Jesus. He couldn’t be hurt that bad. It was just a little sniff of gas. He’d got his mask on in time.

  “You’re right, Foy. ’Course I brought the others.” How could Sergeant understand that dry-leaf whisper? How did he have the heart to smile? Riddell turned and pointed to where we stood in the safety of the aisle. “See, lad? Brought you Pickering and Marrs and old Stanhope, too.”

  I looked away. Toward the back wall, yellow-blistered men were strapped to their beds, trying their damnedest to scream. Nothing came out of the wide dark of their mouths but hisses.

  “Brung you a comfrey poultice,” Riddell was saying. He took a paper packet from his uniform blouse. “An’ horehound and licorice for your cough.”