Flanders

by Patricia Anthony

  He laughed, shook his head. “Dismissed, Stanhope. Report to Lieutenant Blackhall.”

  “I’m not going to be drinking anymore, sir. I learned my lesson.” Truth was, Bobby, I’d seen something that made me scared to drink, for fear I’d be throwing something magnificent away.

  “Yes, yes.” He waved his hand. “Whatever you wish.”

  Blackhall was waiting in his dugout for me. “Poof squabbles,” he said. “Won’t ’ave you and LeBlanc working together no more. Nothing bloodier than two fairies fighting it out. Besides, I figures you and LeBlanc got something to ’ide, ain’t you?”

  “He beat and raped that bakery shop girl, sir.”

  “I knows that. Knows you was there, too. Confronted ’im wif it. ’E as much as told me.”

  I shook my head. It didn’t matter.

  “When you takes up sharpshooting duty again, you’ll be going out wif another gentleman, name of ’Arold Crumb, a bloke I knows from the old days. ’E’ll keep you on the straight and narrow, ’Arold will.”

  I saluted.

  “Didn’t dismiss you as yet, Stanhope.”

  “Sir.”

  “Seen this before, two blokes as got a secret between them. One always ends up murdered, seems to me. If LeBlanc ends up wif a shiv in ’im, I’ll know ’oo did it.”

  I didn’t go looking for LeBlanc this time. He didn’t go looking for me. Whatever tie we once had had been severed. Through the grapevine I heard that he’d come back from No Man’s Land with my rifle. Said he’d seen with his own eyes that I caught a mortar round. The bastard. Still, look what he gave me, Bobby. For an hour or two I was surrounded by splendor.

  Travis Lee

  NOVEMBER 4, A POSTCARD FROM THE RESERVE TRENCHES

  Dear Bobby,

  Well, LeBlanc pulled one of his crazy stunts and they made him shit wallah for it. Hear tell he hates the duty, ha ha. Nye’s not all that enraptured with him, either.

  I was a couple of days off duty. When we’re back at the front, I’ll be plinking Boche in No Man’s Land with some hardass named Harold Crumb.

  Travis Lee

  NOVEMBER 6, THE RESERVE TRENCHES

  Dear Bobby,

  The shelling’s picked up. The rain has, too. The communication trenches have collapsed, but there’s no sense digging them out again. The earth doesn’t have any hold to it anymore. Flanders is tired, Bobby. Rain and shells have beat it down. Corpses have softened it. Walk to the rear now, and you go overland, dodging whizzbangs and daisy-cutters, slogging around craters and their pools of sludge-yellow water.

  Pickering isn’t taking things well. “Should just bloody give it up, shouldn’t they? Not sportsmanlike to go on bashing us.”

  We were huddled in the dugout waiting for the sump pumps to start working so we could finish revetment duty. Calvert and me laughed. Pickering wasn’t in the mood.

  “Unenlightened sods, the pair of you. Like the bloody British Army, can’t look at things reasonably. We’re down and out. Only an idiot would advance in this sort of weather. Since both armies are mired, why can’t we simply postpone the war until the weather improves? Done it before. Remember that time we took up residence in part of the Boche trenches?”

  Calvert said, “It’s effing Command that’s the problem, ain’t it? Leave it in my ’ands, we’d pack it in and go home.”

  Pickering brightened. “Yes! Let’s!”

  Calvert and me slapped each other and howled. Outside the cramped misery of our dugout, a waterfall of rain splashed down the revetments. Even the birdsong had drowned.

  No way the pumps would work today. I lit the primus. Calvert picked ants out of the tea. Still, when the tea was brewed and poured, a few were left floating. I pinched mine out with my fingertips, wiped the bodies on my pants. Calvert, who once liked his tea plain, drank it down, sugar, bugs, and all.

  Conversation was too heavy to lift. I listened to rain drum the sandbags. Pickering wiped an ant off his tongue, sat there looking at it. “Bloody surrounded by death. Depressing, if you ask me.”

  It was depressing, and I wanted a drink. Riddell’s weed cure only blunts the need a little. I beat the craving twice already. I’m near as tired as Flanders now. The calico girl made quitting so easy that I had taken it as cheap. Damned if I didn’t throw the gift she gave me away.

  Listen to me, Bobby. Never drink. For to give up whiskey, you have to be strong every single minute of your life. Pa knew he wasn’t sturdy enough. I think it pissed him off. Made him beat on me, maybe—knowing there was something in this world more by-God stubborn than he was. It took control of him; and Pa couldn’t abide weakness, not mine, not Ma’s, not his own.

  I watched the bloated corpse of a rat sail the trench, bumping its nose on floating duckboard, on sandbags, until it beached on the rise of our dugout. The current nudged it around until it was facing me. Its black eyes were fixed and intent.

  “I keep dreaming the same damned dream about my pa,” I said. “After I heard for sure he was dead, I thought they’d stop. Bastard won’t leave me alone.”

  Calvert opened a pack of Woodbines, passed them around. A fresh pack, but the cigarettes were stale.

  I took a deep drag, sent smoke streaming out into the gray day. “Ain’t that a pile of shit?”

  Pickering’s jaw was tight. “Sometimes I dream about Marrs.”

  “Don’t dream, meself,” Calvert said.

  I asked, “What kind of dreams?”

  The two looked at me. A whistle, falling down the scale. The whizzbang struck not far away. I waited for the screams. None came.

  “Pickering? Tell me. What do you dream about Marrs?”

  A whuffling noise above us. Calvert raised his head. Not a gas shell. A good solid crack that made the three of us jump. Black smoke trickled down the sandbags.

  “So. What about Marrs?”

  Pickering said, “Just a dream is all.”

  “It’s real important.”

  “It’s a bloody, piddling dream!”

  Only a dream. Marrs stuck out in No Man’s Land. Pickering holding him there.

  “Stop dreaming about him.”

  Pickering’s droll face twisted. A nightmare, then. “Blast, Stanhope! I don’t want to bloody dream about him. Do you want to dream about your sodding father?”

  “Don’t dream, meself,” Calvert said. “Blinking waste of time, seems to me.”

  I leaned toward Pickering. His gaze kept sliding away. “Got to tell me what he’s doing in your dream, Pickering. Please. It’s real important. You got to tell me.”

  His knee kept going up and down, a crazy never-ending toe-tapping, like there was some ditty playing. “I see him die, is what it is.”

  That wasn’t the answer I needed. “He died bad,” I said.

  “No bleeding use to dreams, far as I can see.” Calvert, near the door, blowing smoke rings. “No use in remembering the sad, either. Wallowing in it. Me mum always made us look on the cheery side. Should try that, the pair of you, ’stead of nattering on about death and the like.”

  There was more to the Marrs story. The tension hadn’t left Pickering’s jaw. “Tell me the rest,” I said. “He was your best friend. Tell me.”

  “He’s all in flames the way he was. Fire up and down his arms, even in his bleeding hair. He reaches a hand out to me, and his hand’s burning, too. ‘Pickering,’ he says. ‘Do you see me, Pickering?’ Of course I can ruddy well see him, clear as I saw him that night. He’s on bloody fire, isn’t he. Well. So. There it is. Totally useless dream.”

  “Grab him.”

  Pickering barked a shocked kind of laugh. “Will you leave off?”

  “He’s scared. Next time grab his hand.”

  “It’s a dream! A sodding dream!”

  “Grab his hand!”

  “Bugger off!”

  Calvert flicked his cigarette butt into the stream, watched it float away. “Don’t ’old wif dreams and the like. Gypsy fortuneteller sort of muck.”

 
; “Marrs won’t listen to me,” I said. “I keep trying to tell him he’s dead. He’s still stuck out in No Man’s Land. You got to help him.”

  An incredulous and betrayed look from Pickering. He shot to his feet. A sharp whistle in the air nearby, the loud crack of a whizzbang, much too close. “Off to give LeBlanc some duty,” he muttered, and set off by himself in the rain.

  “Like reading them books,” Calvert said. “The bof of you should be out and about, instead. Fresh air and all. Bit of exercise. Books gives you notions. Bad for the ’ealth, seems to me.” He lit another cigarette.

  I sat watching water cascade down the sandbags. When Pickering came back, we didn’t talk about dreams anymore.

  Travis Lee

  NOVEMBER 8, THE REST AREA

  Dear Bobby,

  There’s not much green left. The grass sank into the mud. The trees are losing their leaves, but without fanfare. They turn a sickly yellow and fall like they’re just tuckered out. I stand at the barracks window and watch them dropping. Still, there’s an enchantment to it, that slow rain of leaves, the hushed gray blanket of sky, like the world is settling down for a nap.

  Nothing much else to do but watch the leaves fall. It was LeBlanc’s fault there was no free time this rotation. He must have known that. They couldn’t single him and me out to stay behind. They didn’t dare let him go to town.

  I drilled with LeBlanc and the others today. We didn’t look at each other. We didn’t talk. After lunch, when the skies cleared a little, we watched the Maconochies beat the fire out of the Jam-Pots. I was holding the bets for Calvert. LeBlanc was standing near the goal, alone.

  Pickering watched the game beside me, bemoaning the lack of whores. “My cock is wanting for a tight little cubbyhole, Stanhope,” he said. A Maconochie kicked the ball across the sidelines. An agile half-step, and Pickering kicked it back. The player foot-dribbled away.

  Across the muddy field, Miller was passing the time of day with Dunston-Smith and Wilson. He must have told a joke, for the other two officers burst out laughing.

  “Hate to admit it, Stanhope old chum,” Pickering said. “But you’re looking better and better.” He missed seeing a Jam-Pot goal attempt and my brief, wild confusion, because just then Stewart Fowler sidled up.

  “Well, Fowler. You’re looking lovelyish, too,” Pickering told him.

  I picked up the conversational thread in time to explain. “He’s missing his whores.”

  “Oh.” Fowler’s puzzlement cleared. He stepped back, eyed Pickering head to toe. “Ain’t you a charmer? Got pinard, if you’ve a mind.”

  Pickering grabbed for the canteen. “Fair stolen my heart. Must wed you. Do remind me.” He put the canteen to his lips, upended it. Cheap red wine dribbled out the sides of his mouth.

  “You’re spoken for, I hears.” Fowler took the canteen back, handed it to me. “Stanhope here’s available.”

  “No, thanks.” I waved it away.

  “Me heart’s broken.” He shoved the canteen back.

  I could smell it—a raw, harsh wine. A wine with a bite to it. The need came on me so strong that it near tore my guts out. “Quit! I don’t want nothing to drink!”

  Pickering turned, beaming. “Oh, right-o! Good on you, Stanhope! Deserves a kiss.”

  Before I could escape, he threw his arm around my neck, pulled me close, and planted a big wet one on me. I shoved him away, scrubbed my cheek with my sleeve. “Shit! Goddamn it, Pickering! Stop that!”

  Across the field, Miller seemed taken aback. Dunston-Smith was smirking. Blackhall’s eyes had narrowed. The enlisted won’t believe it, but the officers sure will. Old Travis Lee Stanhope done got himself a new boyfriend. As many girls as have delighted in this pecker of mine—ain’t that a pisser?

  Travis Lee

  NOVEMBER 8, A NOTE FROM THE RESERVE AREA

  Dear Bobby,

  I’m sorry for that next-to-last postcard. Didn’t mean to make light. Tell Ma I’m glad he had a nice funeral. Tell her it doesn’t matter that not a lot of people showed up.

  Leastways I know all them old church ladies were in attendance, the biddies who go to weddings or funerals just so they can be stepping out. And whether or not Pa’s conversion took, it’s good to have them Baptist hymns for planting: “Shall We Gather” and “I Walk Through the Garden Alone.” They’re good solid songs you can lean on.

  Your letter was nice, and I’m sorry I rode you hard for it. I don’t hold forgiving Pa against you, Bobby. Fact is, it makes me happy that he never overburdened you with mad. Maybe you can be more content with what life brings you. Maybe sense will come easier, too.

  Travis Lee

  NOVEMBER 10, THE REST AREA

  Dear Bobby,

  The boys’ last day for playing football this rotation, and it rained buckets. It was so muddy that we didn’t even drill. The officers went back to their barracks; we went to ours. Every rifle is clean. Lord knows we made enough jam-pots and Battye-bombs. Now the platoon’s lounging around playing cards. A few are reading. Those that have to are mending socks.

  I’ve been thinking about you. It was past time for that apology, but Pa’s death just caught me sideways for a while. You talk about how you wish I was there. Well, I wish I was, too. Still, you’re wrong to think you need me. You’ve done just fine so far. Don’t let nobody, not Ma, not the preacher, tell you different. While we were growing up I know that Ma always treated me as the clever son, you as just the good; but if I was smart, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t have thrown that scholarship away. Goddamn it, Bobby. There won’t be another chance for me, no matter what I promised Ma. No matter what the deans at Harvard said.

  It’s not a choice of wanting to. Something—the shelling or the bullets—have ruined me. It’s hard to sit still. My eyes lose their focus. My mind’s dulled to everything except survival. I can hardly make the lines of Keats and Wordsworth make sense.

  Pickering said he joined the army to please his father. Calvert said he thought he owed something to his country. I just wanted out—out of the ties of family, out of the damn Yankee East. What a worthy reason to die.

  Seems like lately I been treating you the way Pa treated me, only without the fists. That kind of bullying is handed down. Please, Bobby. Let the family tradition end here with me apologizing and you letting it go.

  We just now had mail call, the only bright spot in the day. I was left empty-handed again. It’s okay, Bobby. I know you’re busy; know you don’t hear much from me anymore. I’m hoping that when the war’s done and you see the letters I didn’t send, you’ll realize I never once forgot.

  Letter or not, though, mail call’s a happy time. Pickering got saltwater taffy from his wife. I ate so much I nearly got sick.

  After lights out I heard sniffling. It happens sometimes: bad news at mail call. I knew Willie Whittington’s sister had been sick. I was hoping the crying I heard wasn’t his, but I didn’t dare ask.

  I was surprised to hear Goodson’s whisper in the dark, “What’s it?”

  Damn. If the weeper had wanted us to know, he’d have told us. We’re pecker to cheeks here, Bobby, but a man’s allowed his own bubble of privacy.

  The soft sniveling sounds went on. Above my head, a slow rain pattered on the canvas roof.

  Goodson’s disembodied voice again, insistent. “Come on, then. Tell us. What’s your name?”

  “Blandish, sir.” The new boy. Hadn’t been issued his privacy yet. Blandish sounded so damned young.

  Through the dusky shadows of the barracks came Pickering’s snort. “Not ‘sir.’ Henceforth, Blandish, please address Goodson as ‘sod.’ ”

  A creak of wood as someone shifted their weight. “Go on. What is it?” Goodson again.

  “I’m homesick,” the boy said.

  Quiet, except for the hollow tapping of the rain.

  Then the boy, sobbing again. “You just don’t know how it is, being homesick.”

  Wind rattled the door softly, made its icy way around t
he ill-fitting jamb. The air smelled of coming frost. The room was warm with the heat from the coal stove, the body warmth of the resting men. I pulled my blanket tighter.

  “No,” Pickering said into the darkness. “Don’t know balls about it. Love it here. Particularly like the shelling.”

  Calvert. “Fond of them gas ones, meself.”

  Hutchins. “Me? It’s all that flaming mud.”

  From his corner, Riddell said, “Leave it be.”

  A polite wind. The door shook gently on its hinges. The weather drummed delicate fingers on the canvas. Then Orley said, “Can’t get enough of that Maconochie.”

  Chuckles splattered around the room. “Settle it down,” Riddell said.

  We slept, lullabied by the drizzle and the new boy’s muffled weeping. I woke before dawn. It had stopped raining. I got my coat and went outside. Under the glow of the lamps, the ground sparkled with frost. I huddled by the barracks wall in the placid yellow light of the lantern, and I finished this letter to you.

  Love you, Bobby. Don’t say it near enough. We’d all of us cry for home if we could.

  Travis Lee

  NOVEMBER 11, THE RESERVE TRENCHES

  Dear Bobby,

  We marched to the reserve trenches today. Tomorrow, we’ll head to the front lines. Not much marching to it, really. It’s staggering, it’s sliding, the mud working every step against you. The rain weighs down your pack so that you can hardly stand upright. Takes a whole day to travel what used to take half a morning. Fighting the mud steals your wind. It leaves your legs quivering and weak. They give us breaks every hour. Every time I sit down I wonder if I’ll have the strength to get up again.

  That afternoon I found myself slogging next to the new boy. Blandish and me struck up a conversation. I’d forgotten his voice. It was only his weeping that I remembered.

  He had a delicate-featured, earnest face and no hint of a beard. “God almighty. How the hell old are you, anyway?”

  “Sir?”

  The new boys and me—always a problem in translation. “You. How old?”

  “Oh. Eighteen, sir.”

  He was lying by two years, if not more. He slipped on a rough patch and went down. I watched him struggle to get up, finally gave him a hand.