Mentioned In Dispatches

by P. L. Wytka

  Post didn’t know what to say, so Bill filled the silence. “Thank you, Sir. We were proud to call him family too. I hope you know that you’re always welcome here.”

  “You know he bought this place for me,” Post suddenly said, his voice quavering. “As a wedding present. He told me he didn’t think one drink made us even, but a pub was enough to square things flat. The next time you see his parents, tell them they’re welcome here too. And I won’t tell them a story about a poor beggar who was used up and forgotten by a...what’s the term I want, Bill?”

  Bill’s tone was even, hollow. “A malevolent multitude of mindless manipulators. Or something along those lines, I’m sure.”

  “That’s right. I’ll tell them the story of a volunteer. A sometimes vain, but always selfless man who made the world a better place for being in it, even for a short time. And who doubtless saved lives through his leadership. Tell them that.”

  Ben nodded to each man, then walked to the door. Suddenly he paused and turned to face them once again. “Quicksilver.”

  “What?” Post asked.

  “Robert never told you about Quicksilver?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “It was the name of his dog. He was Robert’s birthday present when he turned eighteen.”

  “A dog for his eighteenth?” Bill asked.

  “A very expensive and well-bred hunting dog: a Labrador Retriever. Pheasant hunting is a Carter family tradition.”

  “That makes him twelve years old.”

  “Quicksilver died two weeks ago. Just before Robert. I used to think that Robert was keeping Quicksilver alive with his love and attention. I’m starting to think it was the other way around,” Ben sighed heavily. “Goodnight, gentlemen, and thank you for speaking with me.”

  The Leaf and Crown was empty again, except for two heart-broken men staring at an old photograph.

  “Nails,” Bill suggested.

  Post produced two cigarettes.

  “No, I mean actual nails; we’ll knock two into the bottom of the frame and hang his medals from the pinback. Get a hammer too.”

  Two drinks later, it was done. Both men laid their empty glasses on the table, and poured half of Carter’s drink into each. Post replaced the frame where it had hung previously. The medals slanted a little, and Bill pushed them level again. A few seconds later they slid to one side once more, and Post corrected the entire frame, then the medals.

  “Well, here’s to you, Sir,” Post said, raising his glass with his left hand, and saluting with his right.

  Bill followed suit. “Rest in Peace, Sir.”

  Carter stared down at them with young, bright eyes. It was hard to tell if the feeling it gave the men was one of peace, or disconcertment. The Salient wasn’t the only place with ghosts.

  END OF PART II

  PART III

  MENTIONED IN DISPATCHES

  They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old:

  Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

  At the going down of the sun and in the morning

  We will remember them.

  – Laurence Binyon, CH

  CHAPTER NINE

  Toronto, 1938

  “John, Hal, these are for Czar’s table,” Post said, indicating a collection of glasses filled with everything from beer to wine to whiskey. “Bring them over then take a break; there’s a beer each for you two.”

  The Leaf and Crown was packed with veterans and their families, celebrating the twentieth anniversary of the war’s end. Young legs were an asset to Gary Post, so Bill’s two sons had been ‘volunteered’ to act as waiters. Post’s oldest child, Gary Jr., was greeting guests, while his youngest two, Paul and Pauline, were helping the in kitchen.

  “Don’t let your mother see,” Bill added from his barstool, cradling his ginger ale and wanting nothing more than to add a few ounces of whiskey to it. “And don’t believe a word Czar says, especially about me.”

  “No worries,” John replied.

  “And don’t ask him about the war unless he brings it up.”

  Harold, Bill’s younger son, sighed. “Yeah, we know the drill, Dad.”

  “I mean it, Hal.”

  Czar made friends quickly. He had a strange charm that was as hard to pinpoint as his accent. Currently he was chatting with Francis Green, a man he had never met until tonight.

  “Still not grown back, after twenty-two years? Maybe you need eat more meat, also milk drink for bone,” Witold Kellowitz said, indicating Green’s empty sleeve.

  “I was thinking the same thing, Czar. Say, have you ever thought about having your tongue removed and replaced by a recently deceased Canadian’s? It might help with that accent,” Green replied. “Or a Brit, even; you could move into high society.”

  “Mister Blue makes smart suggestion. Why not we swapping tongues?”

  “Green. And no, I wouldn’t want all of my witty comments suffocated by your Russianese pronunciation.”

  “Red Mister, my accent may make a tough understand, but always it brings the women. Is mysterious and intriggering.”

  “You’re not still a bachelor, at your age, are you?”

  “What you meaning ‘at my age’, Purple?”

  “The colour thing is old...just like you.”

  Kellowitz was going over a variety of responses in his mind. Particularly how he might use his accent to mispronounce something in order to create a double entendre of some variety. Before he could, John and Hal arrived with drinks for the table.

  “These are courtesy of our Dad,” John said.

  “Mind if we join you?” Hal asked. “I want to talk to you about the war.”

  “Your father is the one to ask,” Green replied. “Or Post. They were both there for a lot longer than either of us.”

  “But I’ve heard all their stories, and I know they leave some stuff out, like whenever I ask about the man I’m named after–”

  John caught sight of Green’s expression turning from openness to gloom, and gave his younger brother a slight kick. The boys knew there was something wrong with the story of the Hallicks brothers, but weren’t sure exactly what it was. Neither of Bill’s sons knew if the veterans harboured the same suspicions.

  “I remember day I meeting Hal Junior,” Czar began, also sensing Green’s discomfort. “He was like you, full of questions of things. Better not asking question, but listening to answer, yes?”

  Hal nodded his head politely, though not understanding what the old Russian was getting at.

  “Time we had big situation. This is before Hal Junior, but this is story I want you know about your Ojciec, your papa. It’s a fun story, for kids.”

  France, 1918

  “I hate to ask, Czar, but I’m gonna need to know who the hell you actually are,” Bill said, pencil and paper in hand.

  It was early March, and with the Bolshevik Revolution in full swing, all Russians were being withdrawn from Canadian infantry battalions. They were considered potential socialist agitators and mutineers. The story was that most would be reassigned to labour or construction units. Czar, however, was not so sure.

  “First, am not Russian, am Polish, maybe little bit of Lithuania but mostly Polish. Maybe some Ukraine,” Kellowitz replied.

  “Those are all part of the Russian Empire,” Bill said.

  “You knowing geography, but are you knowing history? We are different people. Different language and things.”

  “What’s the matter with being sent away to a work battalion?”

  “Says man who refuse safe job, you are not one to tell ‘go get safe job,’ Mister Bombproof man.”

  “I don’t know if I can help you. I mean, you’re Russian, as far as anyone else is concerned.”

  “Something else, Lance Bill,” Czar said, ignoring Bill’s restored rank of full corporal. “Am Jewish.”

  “So what?”

  “You know what pogrom means? Always the Jews are being taken away. If they send us back R
ussia, they take me and say, he used to be imperial army, he fought for British, and worse, he’s Jewish. They burn our farms, they steal our things; would kill me with no asked questions.”

  “So you were in the old Russian army.”

  “Yes, was sergeant, left when too many troubles. Deserted, you might say. June of fifteen; very bad times. Nearly killed, then captured, then escape. Come Canada, join army again. Just want be left alone and have war done. Now with way thing is in Russia, we not see peace there many years. Am already decided: I am Canada, and will make a new farm, new life, new everything in Canada.”

  Bill had never felt particularly lucky to be born in Canada. Neither had he felt any special affinity for foreigners. Right now he was feeling both.

  “Alright, if this is all about ethnicity, we can use that to our advantage. Like I said – to everyone else, you’re a Russian, right? But why? Because they don’t know a damned thing about who you really are, so they put you in an easy little group to identify you. But what if Kellowitz is actually a Flemish name?”

  “When enlisted I had say was born in Russia. Recruiting man not heard of Poland.”

  “That doesn’t matter; those papers are probably in a crate in a basement in Ottawa. I bet they don’t see the light of day for a hundred years. What matters is a good story. You were born in Belgium, came to Canada, let’s say, in 1913. When the war broke out, you tried to enlist, but they didn’t want you, because you could barely speak English. You tried again to enlist in 1915, but there were too many younger volunteers in better physical shape. Okay, this can work. When did you actually enlist, and with what battalion?”

  “February twenty-one, 1916; 204th Battalion ‘Toronto Beavers.’”

  “That makes sense. The enlistment rates were already kind of low in early ’16,” Bill mused. “Well, really in late 1916, but let’s just say the year and not mention the month unless we have to.”

  “This all good plan, you think, but who are we talk to?”

  “If we can convince the CSM, he can talk to whoever is administering this whole thing.”

  “You think Turner will believe?”

  “I don’t know if he’ll believe it, but I think he’ll at least pretend to.”

  Toronto, 1938

  “So for rest of war I was Belgiuman,” Kellowitz said. “Of course they still are calling ‘Czar’, but I telling Czar means same thing in Flemish. Also telling all my stories of Russia were only joking. Most of them were made up anyway.”

  Hal stared in confusion at John.

  “That’s a very funny story, Mister Kellowitz,” John said. “Uh, I think Hal and I need to go now. We’ve finished our beers and Uncle Gary will want us back at the bar; we’re acting waiters.”

  “Thanks for listening story, you both good boys.”

  Green leaned in close to John, still looking mortified. “Don’t ask about the Hallicks brothers, and don’t let him either. Their mother is coming later; she’ll be the one with the two silver crosses.”

  When the boys returned to the bar, their mother was waiting. “Your father claims he didn’t hand you those beers, is that right?”

  Bill was sitting just behind Kate, shrugging stupidly and pointing to Post, mouthing “Blame him.”

  “Mister Green and Mister Kellowitz insisted,” John improvised, not wanting to get Bill or Post in trouble. “They wanted to tell us a story and give us a quick break. You know how the veterans are: they can’t tell a story unless everyone at the table is having a drink. It was a good one too, we all had a laugh. Seems the old man saved Czar from something called a ‘pogrom.’ Good work, Dad.”

  Kate knew she was being lied to, but catching sight of Stanley McCreery making his entrance, went to greet him.

  “Get back to work, John. Hal, come here a moment,” Bill said.

  The collar on Hal’s suit jacket was flipped up, and Bill smoothed it down.

  “It’s cold,” his son protested.

  “I don’t care; I don’t want you looking like that.”

  “But I do it all the time and you never say anything.”

  “I know, but tonight’s different. Missus Hallicks is coming shortly. She’ll be very happy to see you again, and she’ll want to talk with you. I want you looking nice.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Yes.”

  “But I want to talk to the vetera–”

  Bill’s tone turned sharp. “Shut up. Listen.”

  Hal went silent as Bill’s voice evened out. “I don’t want you mentioning the war, or her sons, or the battalion, or anything to her. Be polite, and keep the conversation to your studies and your friends, just tell her what you’ve been up to lately.”

  “You know I don’t wanna talk to old ladies, Dad. There’s a room full of heroes I can chat with.”

  As if on cue, an elderly woman entered the Leaf and Crown. Missus Hallicks held her head high. Although not every man in the bar recognized her, all revered her. Two silver crosses, suspended from purple ribbons, were pinned neatly above her heart. These were awarded to the next-of-kin of fallen soldiers.

  Bill turned desperate. “You make five minutes of nice conversation with her, and I’ll take over waiting tables for the rest of the night, and you can hear all the war stories you want. Just not about the Hallicks boys, understand?”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  “One other thing: I’ll call you Harold around her. I’ll go bring her over now and we’ll get this over with,” Bill went on, trying to steel his nerves despite a growing lump in his throat.

  Missus Hallicks was led by her daughter to the same table where Green and Kellowitz were sitting. Green stood and hugged Missus Hallicks, then kissed his wife on the cheek. Kellowitz stood and gave a formal bow.

  “Sorry we’re late,” Missus Green said.

  “We must have been early,” Kellowitz replied, suppressing his accent and actually putting some effort into his grammar and word choice. “Please join us.”

  Missus Green sat. “Francis, is this one of your friends from the war? I haven’t met him before.”

  “From the battalion,” Green replied. “I’ve known him a short while. Mister Kellowitz, please meet my wife, Elizabeth, and my mother-in-law, Myrna Hallicks.”

  “I am honoured. Please, Missus Hallicks, sit,” Kellowitz said.

  “It’s very nice to meet you. But would you please give me a minute? I want to say hello to someone first,” the old lady replied.

  At the bar, Bill had lost his courage, and was cowering behind his son. “Oh God, she’s coming this way.”

  Post leaned over the bar, a shot of whiskey in his hand. “For Christ, Bill, don’t start blubbering now. If that woman can stand it, so can you. Take this, that’s an order.”

  Bill threw back the shot; Kate would understand. All too quickly, Missus Hallicks had arrived at the bar.

  “Billy, so good to see.”

  “You too, Ma’am,” Bill said, giving her a hug.

  “Where’s young Harold?”

  “Right here, Nan,” Bill’s youngest son replied.

  “My how you’ve grown! Why, the last time I saw you, you were just a boy.”

  “He’ll be sixteen in a few weeks, isn’t that right, Harold?” Bill asked, shooting his son a look that threatened to turn from encouraging to murderous if the conversation took a bad turn.

  “That’s right. I have a big party planned out with my school chums,” Hal said without sounding too forced.

  “He’s received very high marks,” Bill added.

  “You must be quite popular,” Missus Hallicks went on. “You were always so clever, and funny. I remember when I was babysitting you one night, you must have been around seven years old, and you had lost a toy of yours. Well, when Billy came to pick you up, you were having none of it, not without the toy. So you listed off everything we had done that night, and when and where we had been, and where you had already searched for it. You realized there was one room you had been nosing around i
n, and when I scolded you for snooping, you had dropped the toy right there and went running to the yard. I knew then that with such a good memory, you’d turn out a very intelligent young man. And instead of just going and grabbing it, you asked your father to get it for you, since I had told you not to snoop around. Astuteness and manners; nobody could ask for more.”

  “Thank you, Nan,” Hal said, grasping for a response an adult might make. “You’re too kind.”

  “Gary, would you get Harold a soda? On me.”

  “On the house, Ma’am,” Post replied.

  “Come see me later,” Missus Hallicks said. “I have something for you. But run along for now, I’d like to speak with your father.”

  Bill indicated his empty shot glass to Post, who only shook his head. Harold left to go find some brave soldier to talk to. He didn’t realize he had just spoken with the bravest person in the room. Now it was Bill’s turn, and he was sweating and shaking like a man about to go over the top; in fact, he would have preferred that.

  “How’ve you been, Billy? And where’s your lovely wife?”

  “Well. She’s around. No doubt being fawned over by some better looking man,” Bill replied.

  “That isn’t possible, Billy.”

  “What about me?” Post added, jokingly.

  “It’s a tie, to be certain,” Missus Hallicks replied. “Billy, have you been avoiding the drink?”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “Then why do I smell whiskey on your breath?”

  “I avoid it, but I’m not so spry as I used to be; sometimes it sneaks up and jumps right in my mouth.”

  “Oh, Billy, it’s nothing to jest over. Just make sure you take it easy, okay? You’ve been doing so well the past few years.”

  “Thanks, Ma’am,” Bill replied sheepishly.

  “Well, I won’t keep you any longer. I promised Francis and Mister Kello–, what was it?”

  “Kellowitz, but you can call him Czar.”

  “I can handle ‘Kellowitz.’ I promised to join them again. And remember, I want to speak with Harold later in the evening.”

  “I won’t forget, Ma’am.”

  Missus Hallicks had told Bill a long time ago that there was no need to address her with such formality. But Bill couldn’t help himself. The woman had lost two sons in the war. The first had been his best friend; the second had been under his command at the time of his death.