by Nancy M Bell
“Oh dear.” Frances’ eyes filled with tears. “Oh dear me.”
Annie leaped up and gripped her arm. “Have you seen one like it? Did you see Steve in hospital in France?” Her heart thundered in anticipation. Steve was alive somewhere, she knew it. Frances saw him, maybe spoke to him. She must know where he was.
“Where did you see this tattoo?” Evan moved closer to Frances.
“I need to sit.” Frances plopped down on the rough bench beneath the tree. “Give me a minute and I’ll tell you.”
“You saw Steve. He’s alive, oh I can’t wait to tell Mother and Father. And Ivan.” Annie fairly danced in place.
Tears filled Frances’ eyes and she looked imploringly up at Evan. Something passed between them Annie couldn’t fathom. Evan sank down on the bench beside her and placed a hand on Frances’ arm.
“Tell us what you know, please,” he said gently.
She nodded and swallowed hard. “It was in France, the Somme.” She paused and closed her eyes. Annie noted her brother squeezed the woman’s hand. “We set up a CCS near the attack on High Wood.”
“What’s a CCS?” Annie interrupted.
“What, oh?” Frances blinked and refocused her attention as if returning from some place far removed from the sunny June garden in the Ontario bush. “Casualty Clearing Station. They bring the men in by stretcher or ambulance, if there’s roads that are passable. Sometimes the lads would show up carrying their mates over their shoulders.” She shuddered.
Evan got up abruptly and stalked to the edge of the garden, back to the girls. “Go on,” he said, voice flat and emotionless.
“One PBI I’ll never forget, Lord I can’t get that boy out of my mind.” She scrubbed her hands over her face. “Tall fellow, came staggering in with his mate over his shoulders. Walked right up to me as if he knew me or had been looking for me and set his burden down at my feet. ‘Fix him,’ he said. ‘I know you can help him. He’s a wife at home expecting a baby. Fix him.’ The poor thing didn’t look old enough to be married, let alone a daddy. He was barely more than a child himself. I tended to him, but there was nothing I could do. Nothing any of us could do. A whiz bang, that’s a shell used by the German seventy-seven millimetre guns that moved so fast the PBI had no time to even duck, it took both his legs. The poor bugger bled out under my hands. I didn’t realize the soldier who brought him in was wounded at first. He just stood there swaying and insisting I fix his mate. When I tried to get him to come in out of the rain, he was plastered with mud from head to toe, that was part of the reason I didn’t see the blood at first, he just crumpled up at my feet. We got him inside and stripped off his wet things.” She stopped and gulped, pressing a hand to her stomach. “He had a gut wound, his intestines were poking out. How he ever managed to walk so far carrying his gear and his mate…well…I don’t know…it shouldn’t have been possible. Somewhere, he’d lost his ID tags, maybe when the shells hit. I don’t know. After he collapsed he didn’t speak at all, except to mumble a name when I asked. It sounded like Steve, but I had no way of knowing if it was his name or the poor boy he carried in. I sat with him until…until it was over. He had a tattoo just like that on his left arm.”
“What did he look like,” Annie whispered, holding Della’s hand so hard her fingers hurt.
“Tall, like I said. Blue-grey eyes, blond hair. He had a scar running down his right thigh…”
Annie’s heart shattered like thin ice on a fall morning. Though her heart refused to accept the fact the unknown soldier was Steve, her head knew it was so. Sobs shook her and twisted her guts. “Oh Steve,” she whispered.
“What happened to the body?” Evan’s voice held a sharp edge. He strode back into the shade and sat on the bench.
“I believe he was taken to Heily Station and buried there. We had to move the CCS quickly and I…I…I’m sorry, I lost track of him in the chaos. I remember the Nursing Sister in charge saying the severely wounded were evacuated to Heily Station. She told me she sent ‘my PBI’ with that lot, just in case.” Frances held up a hand to stop Annie’s outburst. “He’s gone. I was with him when he took his last breath. I’m sure. Now I see it, he looked like you Evan, only a bit rougher.”
“That would be Steve.” A pained smile crossed his face. He straightened his shoulders. “I’ll go inform Father. It is a comfort to know at last what happened to my brother.”
Frances stood and put her hand on his good arm, tipping her head back to look into his face. “He died a hero, Evan. If that’s any comfort to you. He was a very brave man.”
“It will most likely be of some comfort to Mother, she sets a great store by such things. Me, I’d rather he was a coward and had come home to us.” His mouth twisted bitterly.
Annie listened to the exchange as if from a great distance. Nothing seemed real, not the bright sun in the brilliant blue sky or the breeze shaking the green leaves overhead. Her thoughts cast in restless circles much like a hound searching for a scent. Frances’ words painted vivid pictures in her mind. Images the sepia newspaper photographs failed to evoke. The hell on earth George and the others were living in was suddenly all too real. Annie fought to keep from spilling her stomach into the springy grass.
“I’m so sorry.” Frances enveloped her in a hug, stroking her hair. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t help him.”
She wanted to scream and rage. Why Steve, others made it out. Other men got wounded and survived. God was unfair. Steve was a good man, a good brother, good son. What sense did it make to take someone like him when there were all those cowards hiding safe at home. Annie clenched her fists and beat on her thighs. Della put her arms around her from the other side and the three women rocked in shared grief in the shade of the old maple.
* * *
Annie pressed the precious letter to her breast. George’s bold letters scrawled across the front brought him somehow closer to her. He’s alive. He’s alive. Surely the war will be over soon. It’s been going on so long now. The summer of 1918 was drawing to a close. The loft was full of hay, the fields of wheat and oats waved ripening heads of gold in the August sun. The fifth August of the war to end all wars as the papers were calling the bloody conflict. She leaned against the back of the wood shed, stealing a few private moments to read George’s letter and dream of him coming home to her.
My Dear Annie,
Hoping this finds you as it leaves me. Thank you for your last parcel. The socks are very welcome. I don’t think my feet will ever be dry again. I was sorry to hear the news about Steve, so many good men have lost their lives in the conflict it hardly bears thinking about. Please give my condolences to your parents, and of course to Evan and Ivan and your sisters. It eases my heart to know one of your brothers made it back home. Even without an arm, he is well out of this mess. The fighting has been bloody and fierce and the damnable rain just won’t quit. Mud in my face, mud in my shoes, I swear there’s mud in my tea. I had news of Pete, the poor sod was gassed again at
I miss you very much and hope God sees his way to let us be together in the near future. Our company is on the move again, heading to the
ers and over the top we went. Some of the lads didn’t make it back, I’m afraid. But all things considered the casualties could have been far worse.
This may not be the correct time to speak of this, but my heart dictates otherwise. Darling Annie, it is my dearest wish that as soon as I return to you I wish us to be married with all possible haste. Since we’ve been apart I feel I’ve been marking time and wasted years of our lives by being parted. If this suits you as well as it suits me, please reply with all haste, (well as hasty as the army mail service will allow ha ha ). I look forward to your return post with hopeful heart.
The CO is shouting so I will close now.
With all good wishes
Pte George Richardson
Canadian Infantry (Eastern Ontario Regiment)
21st Btn
Annie refolded the smudged pages and tucked them into her bodice, close to her heart. She’d write to him this very evening after chores. If only she could snap her fingers and have George at her side. She would broach the idea of an early wedding once the war was over. She suspected Father would be in agreement, and Mother would be grateful her youngest daughter wouldn’t disgrace her by dying an old maid. Annie giggled. And she must write to Peter, there had been a very short note from him. Nothing the censors even deemed necessary to black out. She grinned; the younger Richardson boy was truly a man of few words. With a happy heart she skipped down the beaten path to bring the cows in to be milked. It was the first time she’d felt truly happy since the news of Steve’s death. The pain was less fresh than it had been, but still a painful spike to her heart, striking at the most inopportune times. To her annoyance, she was prone to break into tears at the singing of certain songs, or hearing a turn of phrase that reminded her sharply of her brother. Nonsense, Annie. Steve wouldn’t want you to brood over it. Let yourself be happy. She twirled in a circle, skirts floating around her. George wants to be married as much as I do. Annie hugged herself in glee before leaning on the pole gate and calling for the cows down in the meadow. In the distance the clack of the reaper in the wheat field carried on the evening air where the patient horses plodded back and forth across the grain field. Evan and Ivan followed behind stooking the long stalks to dry. Once the grain dried, Annie would be busy gathering wood and water for the steam powered threshing machine which would separate the grain from the chaff. Hauling the straw into the storage area of the large barn was Annie’s job as well as Ivan’s. Della and some others from the village promised to come and help. Della claimed it was a good excuse for a party, once the grain and straw was stored. Annie figured Frances would come as well, although nothing was official, she suspected her brother had more than a passing interest in the ex-nursing sister.
She called the cows again to hurry them as they meandered their way toward her. While she waited her thoughts turned to the war effort. The German offensives of the past spring had failed miserably which was, she supposed, a good thing. The newspapers reported the tide was swinging in the Allied’s favour. Someplace called Amiens seemed to have been a major battle ground. She’d overheard Father speaking with some friends about the possibility of the Allieds mounting a counter-attack sometime soon to push the Germans back. I hope George and Peter are well away from that. Poor Peter, how many times did this make it that he’d been exposed to the mustard gas? Annie shook her head and opened the gate to let the cows into the barn yard and followed them into the barn where they filed into their stanchions.
Hooking the milking stool with one foot she settled herself and washed the first cow’s udder with warm water and soap. She’d brought the pails down earlier before calling the cows. Drying the swollen udder she set a clean pail under it and set about filling the pail. Creamy hot milk pinged off the bottom of the bucket quickly turning to white froth as the level rose. Annie leaned her head on the Sue’s brindled flank, her fingers automatically loosening to allow the teat to fill with fluid before closing thumb and forefinger to block the top of the teat then closing her fingers to flush the milk from the teat and begin the process all over again until all four teats were stripped and the udder was slack once more.
The full pail was covered with a clean cloth and set up on the shelf nearby. Giving Sue a pat on the side, Annie tossed her another fork of hay and moved on to the next animal. Sara regarded her with a sideways glance from her huge brown eye. The Jersey was Mother’s pride and joy for the rich milk she produced. While Annie had to admit the creature was certainly lovely to look at with the fawn coloured coat and delicate dished face with the large liquid eyes, the cow was temperamental on the best of days. Righting the stool the beast had kicked over, Annie replaced it and turned to set a clean bucket underneath her. A well-aimed hoof sent the bucket in an arc to smack against the feed room.
“You devil! Keep it up and I’ll rip that leg off and beat you with the wet end,” she cursed. Glaring at the cow who blinked innocently at her, Annie stomped across the straw-strewn floor to retrieve the container. Sara moved restlessly when she approached and Annie gritted her teeth in resignation. Apparently it was going to be one of those days. The boys were all out in the fields so she’d have to manage this single-handedly. Setting the bucket down out of range of even the boldest cow kick, she took the sisal rope down from the hook on the feed room wall.
“There now you silly wench. Stand still now, just for a moment or I’ll roast you for dinner, just you wait and see, you evil creature,” Annie murmured in a soothing voice knowing the words didn’t matter to the cow just the tone. Cheerfully informing Sara of the dire consequences awaiting her Annie ran a hand over the cow’s back and neatly dropped the loop at the end of the rope where the animal would put a hind foot in it without realizing it. She leaned into the cow to encourage her to shift her weight and was rewarded by a hind hoof landing squarely where she intended. Drawing the loop tight she ran the end through the bell collar and wrapped it around a stout beam at the front of the stanchion. Throwing her weight into it, Annie tightened the tension until the rear leg was bent at the hock and the hoof off the ground. Knotting it securely with a quick release knot, she gave the cow a grim smile.
“Fine then, let’s see you kick me now.”
She pulled the stool up again and set a clean pail under the beast. Sara bellowed in frustration but there was no way to kick while standing on three legs. Annie went about the business of stripping the udder as quick as possible. She set the pail of thick creamy milk safely on the shelf before removing the hobble and throwing more hay into the manger.
“Not that you deserve it, you ungrateful creature.”
The other cows were mild mannered and posed no further excitement. It took three trips from barn to house to transport the heavy pails to the back of the milk house. After being sure the separator was clean and not harbouring mouse turds or other foreign material, Annie spent the next hour separating the cream from the milk. The milk went into the stoneware crocks which she carted to the root cellar come cold shed, the cream, except for a container for their personal use, went into the shiny metal containers with the Eaton company name on them. She took those to the cold shed as well and placed them with the others. Evan would take them into the village to the train in order to send them off to the Timothy Eaton Company in Toronto, and collect the empty containers which would be sent back to them. While in the root cellar she checked the squat round stoneware tubs holding the butter. She selected one to take to the house as the crock in the icebox was next to empty. Eyeing the remaining tub, she sighed and added making butter to tomorrow’s list of chores. It was pity she couldn’t send butter through the post to George, he did love freshly churned butter so.
Closing the door securely, she deposited the fresh stoneware tub of butter in the icebox in the back mud room and then went back to the barn to turn the cows out again.
* * *
Next morning found her riding into Sprucedale next to Evan. Early morning light spilled like gold through the pines and littered the sandy road with dappled light.
Annie breathed in the piney air and glanced upward where the arching canopy of maple, birch and oak branches let the blue sky peek through. Tinges of yellow on the birches and fiery orange on the maples and oaks contrasted with the rich array of green. Even though it was still August the edge to the early morning air was like an excitement in the blood and bespoke the arrival of autumn. Not too soon, she hoped, although in the Almaguin Highlands of Ontario Mother Nature sometimes decided to skip autumn altogether and winter could arrive in October, before Thanksgiving. Her heart was light with the unexpected trip to the village. Father needed some medical supplies and Mother sent a list of household items for Annie to pick up. A small pouch sat heavy in the pocket of her skirt, harvest money to bring Father’s account up to date at Mulligan’s General Store. A tiny thrill of excitement sent shivers over her skin. For once she would be the first to see the mail, there would be a packet of Father’s newspapers, and maybe, just maybe, a letter from George. There had been nothing since the letter that arrived early in August. That wonderful missive where he’d declared himself. Annie hugged the memory to her. Nothing had been said to her parents yet, time enough for that once he was safe at home. They would tell her parents together and if they disagreed…well they’d cross that bridge when they came to it. A grim smile crossed her lips before she banished it. Mother was forever making comments to Hetty about despairing that Annie would ever have a man speak for her. Destined to die an old maid, Annie’d heard that old saw so often it was almost easy to ignore it now. Almost.
“You’re awfully quiet this morning,” Evan broke into her thoughts.
“Just thinking,” she replied with a smile.
“I always think about Steve this time of year.” He sighed, his eyes fixed on the horse’s rump in front of him as the buckboard jolted over some washboard ruts. “Remember how he got so excited about bagging a moose? Or the time that old momma bear chased him?” Evan’s eyes crinkled at the corners in amusement.