by P. L. Wytka
“That’s a big ‘if,’” Stinson said.
He was right. It was April, and the men had crowded into a filthy dockside pub, waiting to board a final troopship that would bring them home for good. Already there was a surplus of ex-soldiers in Canada, scrambling for what jobs were available. And with the war suddenly over, the economy had yet to react and stabilize. The mysterious Spanish Flu hadn’t helped matters: worldwide it had killed more than the war itself, and shut down all but the most vital operations. For soldiers anxious to return home, a filthy dockside pub was of course considered a vital operation.
“Fine, it’s a pretty big if. Still, I could dodge the temperance types, I think. I mean, who would shut down a veterans club for serving a few pints of beer?”
“Only a filthy prohibitionist,” Bill said.
He was now sporting the ribbon for the Military Medal and the 1915 Star sewn to his tunic. Just above it, an oak leaf indicated his status as having been Mentioned In Dispatches – a distinction that came with no official citation, but probably had to do with his leading of B Company during their last battle. The MM had also been awarded without a citation, a common occurrence near the war’s end, and was probably an accidental excess award for the same deeds. Another new badge sat on his lower right cuff: one red and four blue chevrons indicating his years of overseas service. Only 1914 men were entitled to the red stripe: he could finally wear his status as an Original on his sleeve. Much to his chagrin, he had been called forward on four separate parades to receive his decorations in dribs and drabs. He preferred the unceremonious field promotion when he had inherited Post’s lance corporal insignia. Presently, he returned his attention to the now-faded and heavily-creased note Kate had placed in his paybook the last time he had seen her, re-reading the three words for nth time.
“We’re supposed to get a gratuity, also,” he went on. “Should be about a year’s pay for the old hands. Maybe get a house.”
“If ever we getting back Canada,” Kellowitz said. “Maybe boat drowns, and us too! No moneys, no jobs anyway, just lots of water.”
The HMT Olympic, the ship that would bring the men home had a storied past. Sister ship of the Titanic, lost in 1912, and the Britannic, lost in 1916, she had nearly been sunk herself in 1918, but had instead managed to ram and sink a German submarine. While it made some men nervous, Bill considered the ship to be bombproof. A few months later while being retrofitted for civilian use again, it would be discovered that the Olympic had been struck during the war by a German torpedo that failed to detonate, leaving a large dent in her hull.
“I do hate water,” Bill replied, downing his diluted war-time beer in one gulp. He especially hated the Atlantic Ocean right now: Kate had crossed two weeks earlier, and he didn’t appreciate being so far apart. “Barkeep! Another, and throw some damn whiskey in there!”
A few minutes later, Carter arrived. He was no longer acting company commander, just as Bill was no longer acting company sergeant major. They were merely Six Platoon men again. Carter’s appearance was instantly noticed, and it was obvious without him giving any orders that he had been instructed to round up his men. Their ship would be sailing in a few hours.
But Carter didn’t bark orders, or go from one soldier to the next politely asking them to finish their drink and form up outside. Instead, he made his way to a well-worn piano, and began to play. Bill recognized the piece: it was the same duet he had played with Lincoln two years earlier after the battle of Fresnoy. Carter was playing the unchanged four-hands arrangement, hitting only the low notes, while the higher keys went untouched. It was an elegy, and an apology. Carter had gotten Lincoln killed trying to make a decent officer out of Second Lieutenant Harrison, but the world didn’t need any more Second Lieutenants now. By the time he had finished, the entire place was silent. Carter stood and left, followed by his men.
Toronto, 1938
Missus Hallicks and Post hadn’t been the only people to secure a relic before exiting. In fact, the street outside looked like a neighbourhood rummage sale was taking place. Photographs, medals, and all variety of war souvenirs lay about, as the assembled veterans and civilians silently watched the Leaf and Crown burn.
Bill was still drunk, and on the verge of bursting into tears at seeing the Leaf burn down; but forced himself to be merry. He pretended they were all at a great bonfire and made his way to Kate. “May I have this dance?”
Kate took his hands. “Let me lead, William, you’re drunk.”
“I sure am,” he replied, leaning his head on her shoulder.
“You’re not bleeding on my jacket, are you?”
“No,” Bill replied slowly, not moving his head, and beginning to hum Daisy Bell. “I don’t think so.”
Soon the clanging of bells filled the air as fire trucks began to approach, and the crowd moved to the far side of the street. The firefighters were young, tough, and sharp-looking in their uniforms. Many of the veterans were balding, and turning either heavyset or scrawny in their old age. Even the youngest veterans were middle-aged. Bill, under-aged when he enlisted, would be turning forty-two in a few weeks.
Post, McCloud, Kellowitz, and Stinson tried to assist the firefighters but were graciously waved off; they would only get in the way. It was difficult for the veterans to stand back and do nothing. Shortly, the men who smoked cigarettes began passing time the same way they had done in the trenches. All their combat experience was useless now; there was a new enemy, and new men to fight it.
A newspaper man from The Star wasn’t far behind the firefighters. He recognized Bill from the office, but had no idea that the cynical, often hilarious film critic was a veteran.
“Bill,” the man began, pencil and paper already in hand, “what’s the scoop?”
“Can’t you see I’m busy, Fred?” Bill replied.
“Come on, Bill, give me something.”
Bill didn’t stop dancing. “Veterans club burns down, all are safe, but memories lost forever. There, that’s your by-line.”
“That’s not what a by-line is.”
“Fuck yourself, then, headline. By-line: by Fred. Okay? Bye, Fred.”
Fred was taken aback, and began to search the crowd for a good story. Settling on Francis Green, he began his interview. A minute later, he had his story. “‘Crippled veteran saves the day’: that’ll do nicely.”
“Crippled?” Green asked, not amused.
“Well, you’ve got no arm.”
Green whacked the newspaperman in the chest with his stump. “I have an arm and a half, and I am not crippled. I am the manager of the largest retail store in the country, not a cripple.”
“Sorry.”
“Now, go talk to that big fellow, Kellowitz. He’ll tell you everything you need to know; the man cannot tell a lie.”
Harold and Missus Hallicks had sat together on the sidewalk. Having finally discovered the fate of both her sons, he felt a profound sadness for her. Not pity, but empathy.
“Remember I said I had something for you?” she said after a long silence.
Harold nodded.
From a red and green striped ribbon hung a simple metal cross, two intersecting swords filling in the hollows at each corner: the Croix de Guerre. Missus Hallicks stood, and Harold did too.
“This was George’s. He was awarded it in 1916 for helping the battalion escape after a failed attack. Twenty years ago the war ended, and I still feel like I’m waiting for George and Edward to come home. It’s time to accept that they’re gone. I want you to have it.”
Harold steadied himself as Missus Hallicks pinned the medal to his chest. He could swear he saw two young civilian men, shabby suit collars flipped up standing on the roof of the Leaf. They seemed to nod their heads in approval, then disappear.
“Your boys were very brave,” Harold said.
Missus Hallicks surveyed the street, men of the Third Battalion scattered in little groups. “They still are.”
*
It was early the nex
t morning before the fire was finally out. With the exception of Bill and Post, everyone had gone home.
“It’s a miracle that nobody was hurt,” Bill offered after a long silence.
“Yeah,” Post agreed. “Must be those bedtime prayers the wife makes the kiddies say.”
“We’ll get a new place. Fix it up just like the Leaf. Better.”
“I was just about to get a piano and a billiards table,” Post said dejectedly. “Good thing I didn’t. No, Bill; that was it.”
“But where will we go for Armistice Day next year?”
Post shrugged. “I don’t know if we’ll be in the mood to celebrate next year. Stinson’s a prophet.”
If another war really was on the horizon, both men had sons old enough to be involved. The thought disgusted and horrified them.
Once the firefighters left, the two began to sift through the rubble of the Leaf and Crown. The hand-painted sign was nowhere to be seen, an especially bitter loss for Post, who might have been able to save it had he only thought to at the time. A light rain began to fall, mocking the burnt out Leaf and Crown, and turning ash to sludge.
“I shouldn’t even be surprised,” Post said, shifting a pile of bricks.
“What is it? Did any booze survive?” Bill asked anxiously.
Post held up two smashed helmets, leather liners and chinstraps somehow still intact, the red rectangle and green triangle of the Third Battalion still easily distinguishable.
“What else should I have expected?” Post asked, smiling. “Bombproof.”
Bill smiled back at him and placed his original helmet on his head. “Put your tin hat on, Lance. Don’t you know all these things are good for is keeping the rain off you?”
END OF PART III
EPILOGUE
Toronto, 1919
The parade had brought the men of the Third and Fourth Battalions from North Toronto Station on Yonge Street, a mile north of Bloor, down and along Queen’s Park, to the University of Toronto Stadium. The grandstands were filled with veterans, family members, and well-wishers; among them Francis Green, Missus Hallicks, and her daughter. As the battalions formed up, the cheers from the crowd became too loud for shouted orders to be heard. There would be no formal dismissal, as thousands of civilians rushed onto the field in search of the loved ones they had not seen in years.
When Post caught sight of Laura, she had a young boy in her arms. “This is your daddy,” Laura said to her son.
“What a handsome green-eyed boy,” Post said, taking Gary Jr. in his hands, well-aware that both he and Laura had blue eyes, and could not have created such a son. Besides, for a child supposedly conceived in 1914, he seemed awfully small. But he didn’t care.
Bill smiled to himself as Gary became acquainted with his “son,” then turned about. It was strange to see CSM Turner embraced by his wife and children, the giant of a man seemed to turn to jelly. Kellowitz had nobody to greet him, and simply walked out of the stadium alone. Fyles was inexplicably surrounded by beautiful young women. Stinson’s parents had come from out of town to bring him back home, and after a few handshakes and waves, he was gone. McCloud, his face badly disfigured now, nearly brought his mother to tears when she laid her eyes on him; his father kept her stable. Carter was being introduced to some business acquaintance of his father’s, shooting glances back to the men whose welfare used to be his greatest responsibility; he hoped they would be able to take care of themselves without him around. Reid was shaking hands with the commanding officer and the other company commanders. Payne had already reunited with his family, meeting his daughter for the first time. Anne had taught her to say “Dada.”
Kate led Bill’s parents to him. They had had trouble picking him out in the khaki crowd. It didn’t help that it had been well over four years since they had last seen him in the flesh. Bill was numb the whole time. He had left Toronto with John, and returned without him.
The men had said hello and goodbye so many times before. When a friend went on leave, or to the hospital, or on a temporary assignment outside of the battalion, they usually came back. Only the dead were never seen again. That’s what gave the whole experience such a strange feeling. The men who survived had looked death in the face so many times, and after each it was like living a whole new life. They had not only grown old together, they had spent lifetimes together; sleeping under the same leaky roofs, eating the same boring meals, laughing at the same bad jokes, grieving over the same losses, and wearing the same badges on their uniforms. And now, in little groups they were going their separate ways. On April 23rd, 1919, the Third Battalion of the Canadian Expeditionary Force died.
*
It was a hot July day when Bill met Post at their favourite pub; one of the many that openly flaunted prohibition in return for free drinks for local police officers. The men had dedicated each Saturday evening to meeting up; and that always involved beer, whiskey, and cigarettes. Like so many veterans, he was wearing his father’s clothes, and had still not bothered to buy new ones that fit properly. After living in government-issued uniforms for so long, it seemed silly to actually pay for textiles. But today the bar was empty, the door locked. Bill knocked repeatedly, and at last someone came and unbolted the door: Gary Post.
“What’s the idea? Are you the new janitor or something?” Bill asked.
“Better,” Post replied, pointing up to where the old bar sign used to hang, but was now absent. “I own this place.”
Carter was inside, meticulously painting over the old bar sign, but set it down and ran to greet Bill as he entered. “How’ve you been, Bill?”
“Good, Sir, and you?”
“Good, thanks.”
“So what’s going on here?”
“It’s a wedding gift,” Post said, spreading his hands out. “Mister Carter bought it for me. Now we’re square for that time I dragged you out of the mud at Passchendaele. Well, after that sign is done, naturally.”
“What are you going to call it?” Bill asked, overwhelmed with joy for his friend.
“The Leaf and Crown.”
Carter pointed to where the half-completed bar sign lay. “I need to finish up this side, then do the other.”
“Do you know why bars have names like that?” Bill asked, unable to resist.
“No,” Post said, lying – he of all people would know – “do tell.”
“In the old days, back when most people couldn’t read, they needed a way to meet up. You couldn’t say ‘meet me at Gary Post’s Bar’; nobody would know how to read that. So bars just had signs that everyone could recognize: the rose and wolf, let’s say. This way everyone could find where they were going just by recognizing a few common symbols.”
“Enlightening,” Carter said, carrying on with the sign.
While Bill had been telling his story, Post had returned with cleaning gear. “How’s this for a sign: the mop and bucket.”
“I assume we have a beer ration,” Bill replied.
“We do, but you have to earn that,” Post said, walking over to a corner where a recently sanded table was ready to be stained.
Bill got to work. “You know what would look nice? Some souvenirs on the walls.”
Post paused, then went into a frenzy. “That’s perfect,” he said, rushing about from one place to the next. “The flag – right there! And over here I’ll get a Hun rifle. Bill, that’s genius!”
“Does that earn me a beer?”
“Sure, go ahead, you too, Sir. I think we’ve worked hard enough for today. We have a whole week until the grand opening.”
“So, Bill, what are up to? Have you found a job?” Carter asked.
“Yeah, Kate’s uncle has me working in his used bookstore. It’s just a temporary thing.”
“And is Kate...”
“We’re working on it. The wife keeps me busy all night.”
“Good. The world needs more little Bills.”
“Or Billets,” Post added.
Bill and Carter sighed in
unison, faking exasperation.
“Do you guys ever talk about the war to your families?” Bill asked.
“A little,” Post said.
“Not generally,” Carter added.
“When Kate and I came back, we promised to leave all that behind. Close out that chapter and get on with our lives, you know?”
Both men nodded.
Bill wanted to say more, but there really wasn’t anything to say. They had said it all during the war, and were still too new to civilian life to know what else to say. It was in their quick swigs of beer and their long drags off cigarettes. It was in their phoney smiles and forced laughs. It was in their fought-back tears and vacant stares. It was in their premature wrinkles and grey hair. But it was also in their stupid grins and firm handshakes. It was in their knowing glances and slang terms. It was in the feelings every man who had went overseas would keep with him forever.
And they wouldn’t have it any other way.
THE END
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Three poems are featured at the beginning of each part of the novel. The first is “Sick Leave” by Siegfried Sassoon, originally published in “Counter-Attack and Other Poems” in 1918. Sassoon was a British infantry officer during the war, serving with the Royal Welch Fusiliers and attaining the rank of Captain. In 1916 he was awarded the Military Cross with the following citation:
“For conspicuous gallantry during a raid on the enemy's trenches. He remained for 1½ hours under rifle and bomb fire collecting and bringing in our wounded. Owing to his courage and determination all the killed and wounded were brought in.”
Eva Dobell was a nurse with the Voluntary Aid Detachment when she wrote “Pluck.” It was originally published in 1919 in the poetry collection “A Bunch of Cotswold Grasses.”
“For the Fallen” was written by Laurence Binyon in 1914. First published in The Times, the portion appearing at the beginning of Part III is known as the Ode of Remembrance, and is still recited during memorial services throughout the British Commonwealth.
HISTORICAL NOTE: THE VICTORIA CROSS