by P. L. Wytka
The scouts all knew that they would need to rely on hasty directions from the men they relieved, and their own good judgement and sense of direction. It wasn’t the ideal way to execute an attack, but the Canadians had only been brought to Belgium to deliver the final blow at Passchendaele. Hopefully they would be in and out before things had a chance to bog down.
Stepping north off of the Gravenstafel Road, the ground soon took a turn for the worse. Shellholes filled with water dotted the fields, while bits of dry ground were few and far between. After a minute, each man had been at least up to his shins in mud or water, at least once. After four hundred yards, the men stopped at another pillbox.
“I don’t think this one has a name, but I’ve christened it ‘Canine House.’ Why? Well that pile of drenched stumps and matchsticks due west of us is called Wolf Copse. Beyond that is Wolf Farm. I don’t think the name has really stuck yet, but it will! We’re not far from the front now, and it’s about to get wet...ter.”
They carried on another few dozen yards, which seemed more like a few dozen miles.
“To our front, we see Woodland Plantation. It’s another stump and matchstick style swamp that nobody owns, but we patrol it more than Fritz. Think of it like a no-man’s land that conveniently divides our line. It’s customary to tip patrols ten percent.”
“Is that sarcasm?” Turner asked.
“I assure you, Sir, I don’t even know the meaning of the word ‘sarcasm.’ Beyond that, we now see the latest objectives our boys have taken: Source and Vapour Farms. They’re really more like small lakes with a few bricks stacked up in the middle. Source is on the left, Vapour on the right. They were taken by the Seventy-Second, fellow Highlanders by the way, a few days ago. The Fourth Canadian Mounted Rifles might have helped a little too. Well, from here you can see it all, and it would be foolish to get a closer look. To the southeast of Vapour Farm is Vine Cottage, which, I’ll go ahead and guess, is your objective. It’s up on the Goudberg Spur, but I think you’ll be jumping off from level ground. Has this been satisfactory, Sirs?”
Captain Reid and CSM Turner looked to Corporal Post, who had been meticulously writing down each landmark, and pacing out each distance as the journey had proceeded.
“I’ve got a pretty good sketch here, Sirs,” Post said, suddenly realizing that his cigarette had gone out some time ago, and that what he thought was smoke had actually been his breath in the November air.
“Have you got one as well, Corporal?” Reid asked.
McLaren pulled a piece of gridded paper from his pocket and compared it to Post’s. “Well, your spelling is atrocious, but you’ve marked every road, pillbox, and swamp perfectly.”
“Good enough for me,” Reid said.
“Alright, we’ll return overland westward via Yetta Houses and Kronprinz Farm, so you’ll know the whole area.”
Toronto, 1923
A knock at the door brought Bill and Post back into reality.
“Okay, hold on,” Bill called, without standing.
Post opened the door and was surprised to see a familiar face. At least, as far as unfamiliar faces went, it was familiar. Post recognized the man from Carter’s funeral. And his stiff posture had marked him apart as a veteran from the aristocratic civilians that had polluted the service with their fancy clothes and bombastic chatter.
“You’re Gary Post?” the man asked.
“Yeah, you knew Bob, uh, Carter, the Mister,” Post stuttered in reply, too confused by his recent recollections with Bill to know how to refer to the deceased.
“Yes. He was my cousin. May I come in?”
“Of course, of course. Go sit with Bill; I’ll get you a drink. What would you like?”
“Have you got any white wine?”
“Sure, I always keep a bottle for the ladies–my apologies, Sir, it’s just that we normally drink beer or whiskey.”
“Hell, it’s been awhile since I had a stiff drink,” Carter’s cousin replied. “Make it a big one.”
“I’m Bill,” he said with only a slight slur.
“Ben Carter,” the man responded, politely shaking Bill’s hand. “It’s very nice to meet you.”
“You’re a veteran I take it,” Post said, returning with a drink.
“Yes, I was a few years younger than Robert though. I didn’t get to the front until near the end.”
“An officer?”
“Yeah, but don’t worry; Robert always told me to listen to my platoon sergeant, so I did. He and I got through some pretty tough times together.”
Ben paused and stared at his drink. It seemed strange to be talking about ‘tough times’ when he was in the middle of one. “Well, cheers. To Robert.”
All three men raised their glasses and emptied them.
“Bill, would you refill us, please? And don’t drop any glasses on your way.”
“Three boozes coming up,” Bill replied, nearly dropping one of the glasses, but miraculously catching it.
“Is that the Bill. ‘Bombproof Bill?’” Ben asked.
“Yeah, just don’t call him that; it sets him off sometimes.”
“Well, Robert spoke of you both, often. That’s why I’m here.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I want to figure out why my cousin killed himself. He came through so much more than I did, I know, but he was never a melancholy person. I thought you might be able to shed some light on the whole situation.”
“November Sixth, 1917.”
Ben nodded. “When he was wounded at Passchendaele. Obviously it has something to do with the date he chose. But that was six years ago. If he was having nightmares, or feeling depressed, why didn’t we realize it earlier?”
Bill returned with the drinks and set them down.
“Bill was with him the first time he was wounded,” Post said. “I’ll let him start the story.”
“First time?” Ben asked.
Bill lit two cigarettes, handed off one to Post, then motioned towards Ben, who shook his head. “The battalion had been split in two. We’d spent the last couple days running around like idiots. Half of A and all of B Companies were being held back along with some men of the Fourth Battalion to form the brigade’s manpower reserve. C, D, and the other half of A were up north, but Gary will tell you about that. Anyway, we ended up at Second Battalion Headquarters; a pillbox two hundred yards from the German line. After their boys made their attack, we were sent up to sit around in the old German frontline and standby for a counter-attack, which never came. This is where Carter got hit the first time. It was in the left shoulder, a shell fragment, not too bad, but not something a bandage was going to fix either. So he started back towards the casualty clearing station at Waterloo Farm, about a mile back.”
Post’s turn. “Meanwhile, we were up near Vine Cottages. Being a scout, I didn’t belong to any particular company; I just went where I was told. A few hundred square yards, two pillboxes, six machine-guns. A single platoon along with that madman Barron, you know, Barron VC, had just taken the area,” Post grimaced as the images came to him, crystal clear. “No, that doesn’t do it justice. Picture this: it’s a three battalion attack on our side of the Ravebeek, and we’re separated from the other two by a swamp, way up on the north flank. Now, the area is so small that only one platoon makes the attack, the rest are just in support, ready to join in if they have to, but mostly they’re for consolidation afterwards. We can’t just pile in hundreds of men, they’d be killed, but a few can work their way through the broken ground and get close. The attack gets stalled, but then this Lewis Gunner named Barron gets into it. He sneaks right up to a German machine-gun crew, and empties a drum into them. Then he does it again, and again! Once they got to Vine Cottage it was mostly bayonets and rifle butts. They took about fifty prisoners, no idea how many they killed. We took a beating too though, I think two hundred or more killed or wounded.”
“We felt like hell being down there with the Second,” Bill interjected. “We knew damn
well you all were getting cut up. We were hoping we’d be called in to reinforce C and D, instead of sitting around doing nothing. No, not reinforce: reunite, anyway, go on, Gary.”
“Most of our runners had become casualties, so they used us scouts too. They would pick two or three men, depending on how important the message was and how much shellfire was going on at the moment. Then they’d give you identical messages and send you off at thirty second intervals. The idea was that at least one of you would get through, sort of like that scout who guided us in a few days before,” Post’s throat had turned dry, but a sip of whiskey remedied that. “Well, I get through alright, and I’m on my back when I was hit by a stray shell. Nothing permanent, but I had a Blighty for sure; I could smell England already.”
“Where were you hit?” Ben asked.
“Gravenstafel Road, halfway between Bellevue and Meetcheele,” Post replied, the scout’s map still in his head. “Actually, it was more like two hundred yards from–”
Ben couldn’t help but laugh; it had been the first time in the last few days. “No, I mean what part of you was hit?”
“Oh, of course. My right shoulder, just opposite of Carter, can you believe it? I joked to him afterwards that we made a matched set. Anyway, when I was getting my wound dressed I met a stretcher man from the Fifteenth. He saw my scout’s badge and told me there was an officer of the Third that was dead at the side of the road, and that I should make a note of it. But I went to see for myself.”
Belgium, 1917
He had the look of a worried deer: stalked, exhausted, and ready to accept the inevitable. Carter had been struck by a second shell fragment in the centre of his chest, a jagged piece of metal protruding from his blood-stained tunic. A dozen stretcher-bearers had passed him by, assuming his wound to be fatal, and busy with men who stood a better chance at survival. It was with large, hopeless eyes that he caught sight of Corporal Post.
Without a word, Post began to strip away the officer’s gear. Post was a big man, but with one arm now useless, it wouldn’t be easy to carry the officer away. And there was no way he was going to allow a member of his battalion to rot. Every pound that could be shed would help. It was only when Carter’s revolver had been dumped on the ground that he spoke.
“My sidearm,” he managed between sporadic breaths.
“What about it?” Post asked.
“An officer doesn’t leave his sidearm.”
Post fumbled for the revolver with his left hand, flung open the cylinder and let the rounds fall to the ground, then shoved it into Carter’s tunic pocket.
“This is going to hurt, and possibly, no, probably kill you; but I can’t carry you without getting rid of this shrapnel,” Post said, preparing a field dressing. “Ready?”
Carter forced his teeth together, while his lips shuttered with fear. In an instant, Post had ripped the shell fragment from his chest. A fountain of blood shot upwards, and Post scrambled to apply the bandage as the wounded officer rolled about. Post was surprised to find that Carter was still alive by the time the bandage was in place, and hoisted him up and over his left shoulder.
It was only a half mile to the casualty clearing station at Waterloo Farm, but for both men it felt like an eternity.
“You dead yet?” Post asked after a hundred yards.
“Fuck you,” Carter replied.
“Good for you, still alive and cursing.”
Toronto, 1923
“Wait a moment. Was it a Webley .455?” Ben inquired.
“What?” Post asked, surprised to have been jolted from his story so soon.
“The revolver you put in Robert’s pocket, the one he insisted stay with him.”
“Yes. Why?”
Ben finished his drink in one gulp and fought back tears. “He told me the same thing: that an officer and his sidearm should never be parted. I buried it with him.”
“What?”
“His revolver. The one he carried in the war, the same one he took his own life with. I slipped it into his casket before the funeral.”
All three men turned their eyes to the photograph on the table. A young, confident, and happy Second Lieutenant Robert Carter stared back at them blankly. The real man was in the ground, already putrefying. They breathed lightly, afraid that the slightest sound or movement would send them all to the floor wailing.
After awhile, Bill broke into the conversation. “They went to England together,” he said, his voice cracking, but steadily firming up. “They met my wife, Kate. There’s a great story there, but you tell it, Gary, the one with the white feathers and all.”
Post wiped a tear from his eye and forced a smile. “Have you heard this story, Ben?”
“No. Robert and I barely spoke about the war once we came back, but I’d like to hear. Tell me, please.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
England, 1917
“Mister Post, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
Post recognized her face from a photograph. Bill had gone on and on about how beautiful his wife was, but no words could properly describe it. His heart quickened as he looked her up and down. A blue skirt and jacket; professional, but feminine. She was young and healthy, with clear skin and determined eyes. The opposite of the hopeless, broken-down men he had kept company with for the past three years. Post sat up in the hospital bed and extended his wounded right arm. “Missus Brown, please, call me Gary.”
“Kate,” she replied, shaking his hand.
With military precision, Post leaned in and kissed her hand. “Bill’s a lucky man.”
“Thank you. How is William?”
“Well, he’s... Bill. You know?”
Kate sighed. “Still ‘Bombproof?’”
“Don’t worry about him getting crocked.”
“Oh, I’m not. I’m worried about him – never mind. I came to invite you and Mister Carter out.”
Post tried to hide his blushing with a grin. “But you’re a married woman.”
“For a friendly drink, Gary,” Kate replied warmly. “My friends tell me that Mister Carter is ready for day leave, and I thought it might be fun to get you two out of the ward and into a pub. I think you’ve both earned it. Tonight.”
“Tonight? Yes, Ma’am.”
“Mister Carter will be glad to see you. He talks about you all the time.”
“That’s funny, I didn’t think he liked me, and I hadn’t heard anything about him. Every nurse I ask promises to look into him but never gets back to me.”
“There are a lot of men in this hospital, I should know. In fact, I brought both of you here, but you were both sleeping soundly at the time.”
“When was that?”
“Two weeks ago.”
“What time of day?”
“About three in the morning.”
“They make you work at three in the morning?”
Kate smiled. “Yes, Gary. We work whenever we’re needed, just like the boys.”
Boys. The word struck Post all at once like an admonishment and a term of endearment. “Girls don’t normally wear uniforms,” he replied, trying to sound clever.
“No, we don’t. Speaking of uniforms, I’ve managed to get some civvies for you and Mister Carter; borrowed from some friends of mine. I thought that when we go out you two would enjoy not having to salute the ‘brass hats.’ Besides, most pubs are informally designated for either officers or enlisted men. Not both.”
“And you’ll be wearing...girl stuff?”
Kate cocked her head and fixed a faux-smirk on Post. “Yes, Corporal. Girl stuff.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound, whatever the word is,” Post stuttered awkwardly. Normally he was great at talking to women, but normally he was trying to sleep with them. “Uh, where’d you get the civvies?”
“Some British drivers I work with. There’s a very nice suit that should fit you, it belongs to Rachel’s husband; an officer in the Artist’s Rifles. Sarah’s brother was with the London Regiment, but he was...in
any case, his old suit should fit Mister Carter nicely, even if it is a little commonplace.”
*
Post hadn’t worn a suit since he was a boy; his adoptive brother’s second-hand Sunday best. He had no idea that his temporary clothing had cost more than he would make in a year of soldiering, but still strutted about like an overzealous peacock. It was the first time he had worn civilian clothes in over three years. Carter, meanwhile, was less than impressed with the cheap, ill-fitting sack coat and trousers that his geniality had obliged him to accept. A little cologne, something that he had not applied in over two years, had somewhat alleviated his feelings of inferiority.
They were the only two men who were not in uniform, apart from the bartenders, who were either too old for service, or wore badges indicating their status as disabled veterans. The pub was full of low-ranking British soldiers and civilian women. It wasn’t an awfully nice place, but near the hospital and easy to locate.
Kate must have been running late, and both men waited at a table, barely making eye contact. Carter drank white wine, while Post sipped whiskey. Almost nobody in the pub was drinking beer: the latest regulations to discourage its production and consumption meant that a weaker, near-tasteless pint cost much more than it would have before the war. A few couples were dancing off in a corner while a pared-down band played a mix of primitive jazz, experimental ragtime, and well-known folksongs.
“I never had a chance to thank you,” Carter mumbled after a long silence.
“It’s nothing, Sir,” Post replied, staring into his glass and wishing he was anywhere else at the moment.
“Alright, fuck. I’m sorry I had you transferred out of the platoon. Okay? Accept my Goddamned apology. Please.”
There was no conceit in Post’s voice, but neither was there comradery. “I do.”
It was the best Carter could have realistically hoped for, and he raised his glass. “To the battalion.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
Kate had been waiting at the far end of the pub for several minutes. Seeing the two men make amends on their own accord, she decided to join them. She really had been running late, and was still dressed in her Voluntary Aid Detachment driver’s uniform. Both stood when she approached the table, and Post beat Carter to pulling out a chair for her. For men who rarely saw women, every one was a rare and magnificent creature; especially if she happened to be a young, good looking Canadian.