by P. L. Wytka
It was only ten miles between the clearing station and the nearest hospital, but over the poorly maintained roads, Kate had to be careful. Even a bump could be enough to shake McCreery and worsen his bleeding. It was while she was slowing down to pass over a rough patch that she heard the now-familiar whine of a German long-range siege howitzer. The crew certainly wasn’t shooting at the lonely ambulance, but rather some nearby depot or railhead. But that didn’t matter.
Kate stomped hard on the breaking pedal as a mountain of dirt was kicked up just fifty yards down the road. A chunk of shrapnel crashed through the windshield, shattering it instantly and embedding itself in the roof of her driver’s cabin. A big shard of glass came inches away from decapitating her, and instead left a deep cut on the right side of her neck, just missing the carotid artery, then cracked into pieces as it struck the seat beside her.
She was lucky. Several larger shell fragments had riddled the engine, which spluttered futilely as she barely managed to steer the wrecked machine away from the gaping shellhole in the road just ahead. The ambulance ended up in a ditch at the side of the road, the front end low and the back slanted upwards at a steep angle.
Kate fought to regain her senses. She was tingly all over and her muscles refused to respond to her directions. There was no pain, only a sense of complete exhaustion. She wanted to sleep, and let somebody else come along and take control. But she had three men in her care.
The driver’s door was dented inward badly and refused to open. Fine grains of glass, almost as fine as flecks of dust, fell away from her uniform as she climbed out of the passenger side. One of the wounded men had already kicked open the back doors and came to meet her. His arm was in a sling.
“Are you okay, Ma’am?” He asked.
Kate nodded. “The others?”
“The fellow with no legs is bleeding I think. You are too.”
Kate felt her neck and inspected her hand, now crimson and sticky.
“I’ve got a spare field dressing,” the man offered. “You’ll have to put it on yourself though.”
“Thanks.”
“Prettier than any necklace,” the man said once it was applied.
The two assisted in pulling another wounded soldier from the back of the ambulance. McCreery had been thrown from his stretcher and lay in a corner. Kate looked the two walking wounded over. The one with the sling was, upon closer inspection, also sporting a nasty bump on his forehead and a black eye; the other had a heavily bandaged hand, and was likely missing at least one finger. They had barely managed to climb out; so retrieving McCreery would be left to her alone.
“Hold my jacket, please,” she told the man with his arm in a sling.
A moment later she had climbed in. The vehicle was at too severe an angle to stand without losing her footing, so Kate had to sit and half-slide her way to McCreery. His bandages were soaking wet with blood, and he was barely conscious. Hooking one arm around his chest, she used the other to latch onto one of the folding benches and pull herself towards the doors. She almost lost her grip a few times, but finally managed to drag him to the doors. All three struggled to unload him, but soon laid him on the ground. Kate disappeared once more to retrieve the stretcher he had been laying on, then returned.
“It’s two miles to the field hospital,” Kate told them, retrieving her jacket and covering McCreery’s torso with it. “And that man will probably bleed to death if he doesn’t get there, soonest.”
The stretcher had two handles at each end. Under fire, usually a two-man team would carry a wounded soldier out. Behind the lines and over great distances, four men were employed.
“I’ll take the front end; you two take a handle each.”
The men agreed, and after a struggle to get out of the ditch and back onto the road, the group was on their way.
Toronto, 1938
Harold was agape. “Is that why mom was–”
“Mentioned In Dispatches,” McCreery said.
“Wow.”
“Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”
“It’s in the basement,” Harold said. “I’ll help you get there.”
“No need,” Green interjected. “Between us we’ve got two legs, three arms, and two crutches. Counting crutches as limbs, we’re only short one between us. And my stump is pretty capable too.”
McCreery tapped his War Amputations of Canada lapel pin, while Green breathed on his knuckles and made a motion as if to polish his own. Both men laughed, repeating their mantra in unison: “Amputees helping amputees.”
Kate had been listening to McCreery’s story. It was her story really; she just didn’t like telling it. And there was a second part to it that she had never told anyone.
France, 1918
Kate was exhausted when she arrived at the field hospital, as were the two walking wounded. Seeing the unusual sight, several stretcher-bearers relieved the unlikely trio of McCreery, and began to inspect the other soldiers. Kate spotted a Red Cross banner and walked to a large table where hot drinks and finger-food were being freely offered. Further from the frontlines such sights were common, and a man could walk from the battlefield to what amounted to a welcoming committee all in one day. She wasn’t hungry, but poured herself a large mug of hot tea and began to swig it down.
“You should have that seen to,” a voice said.
Kate turned and saw a man who could only be a dispatch rider: a motorcyclist whose job was to convey information and hand-written orders when other means of communication proved impractical. In this case, he had come to the hospital to receive a list of items, everything from blankets to bread, that would be needed in the near future. A shopping list of sorts.
“Your neck,” he said again. “And it looks like you’ve had a shock.”
“I’m fine,” Kate replied.
“You’re shaking,” the man said, laying a hand on her shoulder, and making deliberate eye contact. “I’ll go get a doctor.”
Twenty minutes later Kate had a fresh bandage and a clean bill of health. She had been lucky, the doctor said, and could lie down, even stay the night with the Red Cross women if she wanted to. The dispatch rider had offered to bring a report to her detachment to explain her absence.
“There will be more of my crew passing through eventually; I can get a lift from them,” Kate replied.
“Is there nothing I can do?”
“No thank you, Sir.”
“Please, call me Victor, or Vic. And you are?”
Kate knew when she was being romanced. It happened all the time to a young woman operating in a setting where men went for months without even seeing a female. She wasn’t shy about flashing her wedding ring, and would often respond to flirtation by bringing her left hand into view. Scratching a feigned itch, crossing her arms, or in extreme cases, directly flaunting the ring, had deterred many would-be suitors.
But there was something about Victor. He was well-built and handsome, and could have hardly looked more dashing if he tried. Especially when compared to Bill. Bill was only an inch or two taller than Kate, and just a few weeks older. Victor was tall and looked to be in his late twenties. Bill’s idea of being garish was wearing a silly winter hat all year round, and sporting a modified tunic collar that should have been left as it was. Dispatch riders wore a big overcoat with huge pockets for carrying documents, a revolver, and, like Kate, a peaked cap with a set of driving goggles. They were different from other men, just as Kate was different from other women.
Kate had known Bill since the two were very young. His face was familiar, boring even, and after so many years with an infantry battalion, had turned hard and unpleasant. Victor obviously had time to brush his teeth every day, bathe regularly, and enjoyed a healthy diet; luxuries Bill wasn’t afforded.
“Katherine. You can call me Kate. And I could use a ride back to my ambulance; I left behind a few personal things.”
Victor smiled confidently and put an arm around her. He walked her to his
motorcycle and climbed on board. “Just put your arms around my stomach like that, Kate,” Victor said as she got comfortable on the one-seater.
“Promise me you won’t drive too quickly.”
“Top speed it is,” Victor replied playfully, as the engine came to life, and she was soon travelling faster than she thought possible.
It was strange to pass over the same road where less than an hour earlier she had exhausted herself carrying McCreery. On the back of the motorcycle she was carefree, excited, and wearing a huge smile. When Victor spotted the ambulance and began to slow down, however, her mood soon changed. It was obvious what the dispatch rider wanted, and she wasn’t sure whether or not she wanted it too.
The motorcycle came to a full stop, and Kate stepped off, making straight for the cab where her personal things were waiting. “It’s a shame it happened today. I just performed the weekly maintenance routine.”
“Maintenance can be a bore,” Victor replied, stepping down into the ditch after her. “I prefer driving: the roar of the engine, the wind in your face.”
Kate stepped down from the cab with a small bag across her shoulder, and Victor took her by the hand. “The power and control. The skill it takes to do everything just right.”
Kate only tried to keep her breathing steady, wordlessly failing to resist Victor as he moved in closer and finally kissed her. She kissed him back, their driving goggles knocking up against each other. Before she knew it, Victor had seated her on the outside of the huge side fender that protruded above the rear right wheel, and pressed his body against hers.
“I love drivers,” Victor said. “So tough, yet lovely. But I don’t think I’ve seen one quite as beautiful as you.”
“Vic, wait,” Kate managed as his hands worked their way downwards.
“Don’t worry,” Victor replied, kissing her upper chest gently, his breath teasing her skin. “I never finish up until the lady has been attended to properly. And I’m very good. It’s all about taking our time.”
Kate didn’t know what to do. If it had been only a wild fantasy where all her desires could be allowed to assert themselves, she would indulge in Victor’s lovemaking. But this wasn’t a dream; even if the past hour, since she had nearly been killed, did bear a strange, surreal quality. She could of course manage some kind of justification. After all, Bill had been unfaithful to her – not due to a lack of love – he had simply given into his basest desires. Needs. And she had them too.
Victor was rapidly diminishing her will to resist; she had to make a decision, fast. It was difficult to spurn a knight in shining armour, even if the armour was a mud-stained trench coat, and the white charger a four horsepower, 550cc model 1914 Triumph.
Victor took her face in his hand, and locked eyes. It was his final tactic; one intended to remove any lingering doubts Kate might have. He had, after all, seen the wedding ring on her finger. But instead of the eager, rapacious look he was expecting, Kate turned her vision away, nearly bursting into tears.
He didn’t understand. She was full of pain, not from anything he had done, but from remembering the feelings she had gone through when she had first learned of Bill’s transgression, two years earlier. From her miscarriage one year ago. From being surrounded by people but always alone.
Victor pulled away. “You don’t want to?”
Kate shook her head a little.
He let out a big sigh. “That’s okay. I just thought you knew what I had in mind.”
“I did,” Kate managed. “But I can’t.”
“Your husband. Well, he’s a lucky man. Come on, I’ll give you a ride back to the hospital.”
Victor helped Kate out of the ditch and the two remounted the motorcycle. This time the drive was slower, steadier. Kate had only the simple sense of being transported from one place to another, rather than from one way of feeling to another. At the hospital Kate gave Victor a kiss on the cheek, and he sped away.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Toronto, 1938
“Mom? What are you thinking about?” Harold asked.
“Oh, just how to sort out this situation with the gloves,” Kate replied.
“Always thinking about the store. Don’t you have any fun?”
Kate smiled to herself. “Run along, Harold. You’d best get in all the war stories you can before the old men start falling asleep.”
“I wasn’t supposed to ask about the Hallicks brothers...”
“But you want to anyway?”
“Yeah.”
“If you must, ask Gary; just don’t let your father know that you did. I’m not sure exactly what happened to those poor Hallicks boys, but I know it wasn’t good.”
Harold stood, then looked about the Leaf and Crown. There must have been hundreds of medals jangling from suit jackets; some common, some exceptional. Even as a member of the Voluntary Aid Detachment, Kate was entitled to two medals: one for overseas service, the British War Medal, and one awarded to all Allied soldiers to celebrate the war’s end. Having been Mentioned In Dispatches for her time as an ambulance driver, she was also entitled to wear a small metal oak leaf pinned to the Victory Medal. If she had chosen to wear them, she would have put plenty of the men to shame.
“Why aren’t you wearing your medals, Mom? Don’t you want to show off your oak leaf?”
“Memories, Dear. Besides, your father lost his, so I gave him mine to wear.”
“But nobody will be able to tell that you’re a veteran too.”
“I don’t mind. I know what I’ve done, and most of the people here do too. Some of it at least. I don’t need medals to be happy. I have you and John.”
“And Dad.”
“Yes, and your father.”
The bar had quieted down, and Gary Post was taking a break when Harold arrived. “Ready to get back to work? Your old man is getting tired out.”
“Actually, I was hoping to talk with you about the war. I’ve been asking about the last few months. If I’ve kept things straight, there was only more big battle before the war ended.”
“Who’ve you talked to already?”
“Kellowitz, then Payne, then Stinson, then McCreery.”
“McCreery told you about losing his legs?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re right: just one battle left. Are you familiar with the Canal Du Nord?”
Harold shook his head.
“You’ve heard of the Hindenburg Line?”
Harold nodded.
“Close enough. Now, I’d love to tell you that my battalion smashed the whole work, won the war, and shot the Kaiser in the ass. But we were just a little part of it.”
France, 1918
If the men of B Company knew that they would fight their last big battle that late September morning, they might have been in better spirits. Two of their newer NCOs had been hit in the assembly area, and once more they were scheduled to act as the battalion reserve; staying behind the main attacking force until things settled down and it was time to establish the outpost line. The routine was growing old, but the battered company was still short-staffed, and seemed to lose men, both old hands and new replacements, like water through a sieve.
Corporal Post had been hand-picked by CSM McCloud to escort B Company through the unusual terrain ahead. The Third Battalion was to go forward in the second wave of the attack. The initial push would be made by four understrength battalions. Their task: to climb down, through, and up the other side of the incomplete Canal Du Nord, and secure a stepping stone for the follow-on battalions. While the first wave would have to capture the Marquion Line, and latter waves would take the Marcoing Line, the Third Battalion would only be responsible for pushing the attack further in the space between.
Construction on the canal had begun in 1913, and with the outbreak of war the following year, had been left largely unfinished. The canal bed was roughly fifty yards wide, though this varied in places, as did the depth. On the western edge, it was just a yard or two deep, but bottomed out
nearer to three or four yards in some places. It would be easy to slide into, but difficult to scramble out of, and the first wave of soldiers had been issued with everything from duckboards and ladders to life vests and rope.
The Canadian Corps had been tasked with punching through a mile and a half wide section of the canal, then fanning out and continuing the attack through a final series of fortified trenches and towns. Their ultimate goal was the ancient town of Cambrai – for beyond it lay nothing but open country. It was time to break the Hindenburg Line for good.
The morning of September 27th was grey and dull. While the attack had begun at five-twenty, the Third Battalion wasn’t set to step off until seven-thirty. Post and McCloud had gone forward an hour early to inspect the condition of the canal, and to determine if the initial assault had even been successful. The canal bed was muddy, owing to a steady overnight drizzle, but by no means flooded.
Already engineers were hard at work constructing bridges and moving earth; making it easier for the infantry to climb up either end, and eventually, making it possible for the artillery to move across and continue to support the attack before the ever-shifting frontline moved out of range. McCloud and Post waited for a stretcher team to pass by before walking down a plank ramp. Post stuck his head into a dugout cut into the side of the canal where a German outpost had once been stationed. It was empty except for the usual junk.
“It could be a hell of a lot worse,” Post said.
“Could be better,” McCloud replied. “But you’re right, at least crossing the canal will be simple; the hard work has been done already. By the time we face Fritz, though, he’ll be a little upset at having been awakened so early.”
Post lit a cigarette and observed his surroundings. “It’s a long way from the Queen’s Own parade square, eh?”
“Yeah.”
“Private James McCloud, a sergeant major, and Lance Corporal Post, a full-blown corporal,” he said with a laugh. “Standing in the middle of a dry canal in France, getting ready to fight what might be the last battle of the biggest war ever waged. I don’t think I’ve had dreams this bizarre. It is strange, isn’t it?”