“Smoke?”
“God, yes,” Danny said, looking up toward the voice.
Because of the lack of light within the wagon, Danny couldn’t see the man’s face until he leaned forward and offered the cigarette. Danny tried to raise himself closer to a sitting position, at least to support himself on one side, but his leg was having none of it. So Danny accepted the cigarette, stayed horizontal, and breathed in, welcoming the rush of smoke as it travelled through his system.
“I’m Danny,” he said, handing the cigarette back. “Thanks.”
The other man nodded, bringing the cigarette to his own lips. “Happy to oblige. Henry’s the name.”
“You’re English, huh?” Danny asked, his mind flashing on Audrey.
Henry smiled, but the smile faded into the leathery skin of his face. It could have been the morphine, but Danny thought the man’s stubbled cheeks seemed almost non-existent, shadowed as they were by the chiselled bones of his face. His fleshed-out skull framed eyes like black diamonds. When he blinked, Danny wondered where one might mine for something like that.
“Tough luck about your leg,” Henry said.
Danny didn’t say anything for a bit. He couldn’t sit up, so he couldn’t see the damage, but that was okay. He’d see it soon enough.
“Guess it could have been worse,” Danny said.
Henry offered the cigarette again, and Danny saw how the Englishman’s hand shook. Like an old man’s hand. But Henry didn’t look much older than twenty-five, Danny didn’t think. Same as him. Danny brought the cigarette to his mouth, paying close attention to his own hand. Did it shake too? Yes. Constantly. Like Cecil’s leg when he scratched the old dog’s furry belly in just the right spot. He wondered how long that shaking had been going on. Had he left more than his leg on the battlefield?
“Been here long?” Henry asked.
“Sixteen months,” Danny said. “Sixteen months too long. But who’s counting?”
“She’s a terrible war, ain’t she?” Henry asked, though he wasn’t looking at Danny when he asked.
At some point along the uneven path, the man lying beside Danny starting screaming. It started out of nowhere. One moment they were bumping along, the next moment the prostrate man was arching his back, flailing his one remaining arm in the air, head thrown back so Danny saw the roof of his mouth when he screamed. They stopped the wagon and a medic jumped in to see what could be done, but the man died quite suddenly. The medic pulled a sheet over the body, and Danny looked up to see all the other men staring down at him.
“Hey, boys. Don’t look at me,” he mumbled. “Just ’cause I’m lying here doesn’t mean I’m following him.”
Scattered laughter bounced around the wagon, and as Danny sank back to sleep, he heard one man say, “You’ll make it home yet.”
The sleep that came upon Danny was no longer a vague suggestion. It sucked him in, like the ocean undertow. His last thought rose from the depths, I’m sorry, Audrey, then he slept until the wagon stopped again.
TWELVE
“Baker?” the orderly called. “Daniel Baker, Twenty-fifth?”
Danny pushed up onto his elbows. “Here, sir.”
“Two letters today, son,” the man said, handing over a couple of worn envelopes. Danny nodded his thanks, but the man had already turned away, seeking the next person.
The first was from his mother. Of course Danny’s parents knew all about his leg. The army called the casualty list every night to the next of kin, so they’d known within twenty-four hours. His mother had sent a parcel of candy and a sweater. Navy blue. He was glad to see the sweater, because he had no idea where any of his other clothes or personal things were. He hoped someone would bring them in before it was time to head home. It hung a bit loose on him—Danny hadn’t eaten much over the past year and a half—but it was warm. Especially over the hospital gown. And despite the miles and miles of separation, it smelled like home.
He slipped his finger through the cut in the envelope and popped it open so he could pull out the single piece of paper. His mother’s writing wasn’t neat and tidy like other women’s. Danny could picture her leaning over the paper, fountain pen in hand, loose brown hair tumbling over her forehead. She had been born left-handed and had spent years stubbornly trying to get her right hand to cooperate, to follow her mind around the curves of letters. Her missives weren’t long, but he knew she spent a long time writing them, thinking through what she wanted to say so she could be economical with the words.
Danny rolled to the side and leaned on one elbow, holding the letter with the other hand. His leg was a constant throbbing, but less so now than it had been before. At least the repair to his stump had gone smoothly. No infection. He glanced down out of habit, a tiny voice in his mind wondering if he might have been mistaken. Maybe the leg would be there when he looked this time. But no. Everything from just below his right knee was gone. The doctor had said it was a relatively simple operation, since Danny had already done most of the work out on the field.
August 17, 1916
My dearest son,
Your father and I are only happy to know that you are alive, my darling boy. We will do what needs to be done when you are home. Your father and I are very much looking forward to meeting you in Halifax. Please keep me informed as to the blessed day of your arrival.
We await your reply, our hearts alight with joy at the prospect of seeing you soon.
All our love,
Your devoted parents
Danny folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope, then held it against his chest. Tears welled, but he swallowed them down. For the longest time he had wanted to go home. He had missed everything about that old chunk of rock. But the idea now . . . the thought of being at home but being only part of a man . . .
Fact was, he was afraid. People he had always known would stare, their eyes dark with sympathy and fascination. His brothers would back away as if he were a stranger. How could he go home?
Danny sighed and closed his eyes, cooling their heat beneath his lids. He shuffled the envelopes so the second one was on top, then opened his eyes again.
Audrey. His heart leapt at the familiar curls of her letters. What would she say? He had wondered if she would answer at all after his last note. Oh, that had been a hard one to write. Had she seen the dark circles left by his tears, or had they disappeared into the paper? She had been the one hope he’d had for bettering his life. Now that hope was gone. Taken by a piece of metal.
“Audrey,” he whispered then very carefully opened the envelope. A sprig of a dried flower tumbled out, and he caught its tiny buds before they could roll off the bed. His fingers squeezed the flower into dust as he read.
August 16, 1916
My dearest Danny,
I am torn to pieces by your note. I cry every night thinking of you in the hospital. I cannot bear to think of you in pain.
I read your letter so many times, hoping you didn’t mean what you said.
Danny, I love you too. I wish I could say it to your face. You think I only love what you were before, but you’re wrong. I love what you are now, leg or no leg. You’re mad if you think I will be happier without you.
If you still want me, I want to come to Canada and be your wife. We shall do fine. I can work hard, and you will feel better over time. You will learn how to live again.
If you still want me, Danny, please write and tell me what to do.
I love you, Danny. I don’t know how to live without you anymore.
Audrey
Danny stared at the letter. He read it again; then, ignoring the familiar streak of pain that jolted up his body as he moved what was left of his leg, he leaned back and stared up at the ceiling. He laid the letter flat on his stomach, keeping both palms open on it. She loved him? She still wanted him? He brought the letter up and held it with both
hands above his face so he could read it again.
I love you, Danny. I don’t know how to live without you anymore.
A tear rolled down the side of his face, blurring the words on the page. He lowered the letter to his chest and closed his eyes.
“Thank God,” he whispered.
He spent six weeks in the hospital learning what he’d become. Six weeks getting to know the peg leg and crutch which would accompany him for the rest of his life. Six weeks of lying in a hospital bed among fellow cripples. Then they sent him home, where he battled every day with the urge to write back to her, persuade her to change her mind. He had nothing to offer her. Beautiful Audrey, with her zest for life, would be swallowed up by his agony. But he never put that in writing. He needed her as he’d never needed anything in his life. She would bring life back to him. She would become life itself.
THIRTEEN
Man was not meant to stand on one foot. He wasn’t a damn heron. Sure, he had the crutch, but it wasn’t the same thing. It wasn’t the other half of him, just a substitute off to the side. But the peg leg rubbed his skin raw. It hardly seemed worth the pain. He still had to use a crutch. After a while he left the peg at home and tried to get past the stares of people who had never before seen a man with one leg. At least it was finally spring. Still slippery, but easier going.
Before the war, Danny had been one of the boys. He’d laughed and teased and was constantly in the thick of things. Now he was most content when he was in the shed, working with wood, away from everyone else. He liked being on his own, away from prying eyes. He was sick of the looks he got, though he was relieved his family had finally stopped staring. Especially his mother. God, the pain in her eyes was too heavy for him to bear. Her big, first-born son with all the promise in the world. Only half was left. What a waste. Johnny’d have to step up now.
Didn’t seem to matter what Danny did, at least three of the littlest Bakers were usually clustered around him. Didn’t even matter what they talked about. Could be the weather, could be the neighbour’s cat, the one that broke into the henhouse and killed half a dozen birds in one night. Could be the big dock spider they’d trapped.
“Don’t you boys ever have anything better to do than bother me?” Danny snapped one day.
Artie, Ross, and little Harvey exchanged a quick glance, then Artie shrugged and shook his head. “Don’t think so,” he said.
“Tell us a story, Danny,” Harvey asked.
Danny was sitting on a log, carving slices from a stick, trying to come up with some kind of practical model for a new peg. Harvey sat on the grass in front of Danny, crossing his legs as if he were in school.
“A story?” Danny asked, looking up from the bit of birch in his hands. He set aside his project for the time being, hoping if he just gave the boys what they wanted, they’d eventually leave him alone.
“Yeah,” Ross agreed. “Tell us something we’ve never heard before.”
“From the war,” Artie suggested.
“Yeah,” said Ross. “You never tell us nothing about the war, Danny.”
“What do you want to know?”
The boys looked at each other and shrugged.
“Okay,” Danny said. “But first, Artie, take my knife and cut me that willow branch.”
Artie took the little blade and ran obligingly to the tree Danny indicated. “This one?”
“The thicker one. Next to it, see? Think you’re strong enough to cut through that?”
The little boy puffed out his chest and nodded. “I’m strong enough.”
“Sure you are. Bring it over when you’re done.” Danny scratched his chin, realized he’d forgotten to shave that morning. “A story, huh?” He sorted through the thoughts in his head, searching for something he could tell. Artie brought him the branch and Danny cut it short with one quick slice.
“Well, there was one fellow over there you boys would have liked,” Danny said.
“Is he still there?” Ross asked.
“Yeah. I think he is.” He hoped he was. He hoped he wasn’t buried somewhere. “His name’s Mick. He’s from Halifax. He worked with the newspaper there. He’s a funny guy, Mick.”
“What did he look like?” Harvey asked, eyes round.
“Well, he kinda looked like Johnny Hartlin, you know? Shorter than me by about six inches, wiry like a rope. He looked like he was nothing, you know? But he could take the biggest guy down with his fists. He was quick.” Danny stopped, lost in thought, a half smile on his face. He stopped whittling and sat stone still until Artie jerked him back.
“Danny?”
“Right. Right,” Danny said, blinking. “Well, you know about the Jerries, right? The Germans? Just as soon shoot you through the eyes if they could. But Mick, he loved ’em.”
“Why?” Harvey asked.
“Do you want me to tell this story, Harvey? Or do you want to ask questions?”
“You can tell it,” the little boy decided.
“Okay,” Danny said. He started carving again. “Well, with Mick, see, whenever there was quiet, he would shout out to them Germans, ask if they wanted to come play checkers. If they wanted to come on over and have a party with us.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” Danny said, chuckling. There were so many things he wanted to forget. But it was bittersweet to realize there were still a few he wanted to remember. “He only did it when it was a clear night, so they could hear him good. Well, one night he got it into his head that they were being rude, not coming over to have a party. He was some funny, that boy. Well, Mick, he takes a peek through the scope—that’s the thing that let us see what was happening outside of the trench, see? Anyway, there was nothing going on that night. It was Christmas Eve 1915, and there was kind of a truce going on or something. We didn’t hear nothing. So Mick, he gets going. He figures we should have a Christmas Eve party. He could make this ridiculous duck call with his hands, and he was just going with that.”
Danny shook his head, and for a moment his brothers saw a real smile. He was painfully aware that they hadn’t seen one out of him since he’d gotten home, eight months before.
“So Mick takes a peek then climbs up the wall. He gets up top and yells ‘Merry Christmas, Jerry!’ then he turns around and drops his drawers.”
The boys gasped, then hooted with laughter. “He didn’t!” Artie exclaimed.
“He did indeed. He did indeed. Well, the Jerries, they started making noises like you boys are doing right now. Mick was dancing away up there, and all of a sudden there’s a shot, right? Just one, though. Not like machine-gun fire. Just one shot to get Mick’s attention. Mick, he freezes. Then one of the Jerries yells out in his German accent, ‘Put that thing avay! Ve don’t vanna see dat ass on Christmas Eve!’ and Mick hollers back ‘It’s the best thing you’ll see this Christmas, boy!’ and then everyone was laughing. We could hear ’em laughing in the other trench, which was real strange. But it was a great night. Like no one wanted to kill anyone on Christmas Eve.”
“Did you kill guys, Danny?” It was Harvey again, asking for truths with his little-boy innocence.
Danny frowned and stared at the carving in his hands. He didn’t want to have to explain, to tell this trusting little soul what his big brother had done.
“Sure he did,” Artie said quickly. He shoved Harvey’s shoulder. “You know that. Dad already told us that.”
“But did you really?” Harvey asked.
“Oh yeah,” Danny said, resigned. “I killed a lot of guys.”
“What was that like?” Ross asked. “To shoot a guy?”
Danny frowned. “Why would you wanna know that?”
Ross shrugged. Danny stared at his little brother, then stabbed his wooden leg with the carving knife. It didn’t bother him, but the boys gasped and paid very close attention after that.
“Killing a
man is a terrible thing, Ross. A terrible thing no one should ever have to do. But the thing is, when they put you out there, when you’re up against the other guy, well, you just know he’s gonna kill you if he can. So you gotta stop him first. I stopped a lot of guys.”
“What about your foot, Danny?” asked Harvey.
“What about it?”
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know. Here you go. What do you think of this?”
He passed Artie the five-inch piece of finished willow and the boy stared at it, uncomprehending. Danny took it back and blew into one end, lighting Artie’s eyes. The little boy reached for the toy.
“It’s a whistle! That’s so—”
“Is it like killing a rabbit?”
All of them stared at Harvey. Then Artie and Ross shifted their attention to Danny, wanting to know, silently thanking their baby brother for being the one to ask the hard question.
“Harvey, do you think it’d be like killing a rabbit?” Danny leaned toward the little boy and locked onto the innocence of his eyes. He clutched Harvey’s arms and held on tight when the boy tried to squirm away. Danny wanted no mistake when he gave this lesson. “Would the rabbit be like a man? Would the rabbit have family that he cared about? Tell me, Harvey, have you ever seen a rabbit’s thoughts before he died?” Harvey shook his head like mad. “Know why? It’s because rabbits don’t have thoughts. They think only two things: eat and run. Men are just like you. Men have thoughts and memories and futures. They love people, just like you do. They have a mother back home waiting to pour them lemonade and mend their britches. And one day they go out there and somebody tells ’em to shoot that other boy.”
The whistle was forgotten. Harvey blinked.
“Now here’s a question for you, Harvey. For all you boys. Say you’re that man, and you meet another man who’s just like you. Say that other man is pointing a gun at you, and you’re pointing one at him. One of you’s gonna shoot first. Say it’s you. You watch him look at you like he can’t believe you just did that. Like you were a buddy who just took something away. Something real important. You see his last thoughts. You see him saying goodbye to his family, his friends, and his future. Then you watch him fall down. And no one ever sees him get up again.”
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