Mentioned In Dispatches

by P. L. Wytka

  In the early morning light, Bill inspected his supply of bombs. The split-rings keeping the spoons 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. 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 sure have 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.

  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, drie
d, 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.”

  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 moving soon. The last man to receive the message confirmed this by stating the number “one,” with each subsequent man replying with “two,” then “three.” By the time the man nearest 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.”

  “For what?”

  “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.”

  “Wo
uld 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, Post?” 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.”