Let Darkness Bury the Dead

by Maureen Jennings

  Sergeant Bailey, already up in front of him, ran up the fire-step into No Man’s Land. Another tremendous explosion and the sergeant was tossed into the air like a rag doll. He landed hard only a few feet from Jack, who could see him writhing. He was still alive. A rush of strength surged through Jack’s body and he managed to drag the sergeant up onto his own back. It was like carrying a sack of potatoes.

  “Hold on, Sarge. Hold on.”

  And he might have. Jack might have saved the man, except that the pilot of the low-flying aeroplane saw what Jack was doing. He banked steeply and, engine screaming, flew over them. Bullets began to rake the ground ahead. As best he could, Jack tried to zigzag, but he was hampered by the weight of the wounded man. They were almost safe when the pilot let loose another round. Jack could feel the impact as the bullets thudded into the man he was carrying. His own back was suddenly soaked with hot blood. He felt the sting in his shoulder and arm as one of the tracers passed through the other man’s flesh into his.

  He reached the trench, and willing hands reached out to take his burden. Then he dropped himself. Like a dog, he rolled in the clay as if he could wipe away the blood that had drenched him.

  FAREWELLS

  If you’re lucky, really lucky,

  You get to say goodbye properly

  Before they die.

  A smile, a touch, maybe

  “See you soon,” you say,

  Expecting you will.

  So when you don’t,

  When you won’t ever,

  It’s a bit easier, the shock.

  ‘Cos they left fondly.

  But mostly

  You don’t get the chance to do it right.

  You just hear

  One night,

  They copped it further up the line.

  Could have been days ago

  And you didn’t know.

  You recall that when they left,

  You were sour and spent.

  Your feet hurt,

  You didn’t care where they went.

  You’ll wish it had been different

  Forever.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  FIONA TOOK OFF HER HAT AND COAT, hung them in the anteroom, and hurried to her station. The other girls were already at their places. Always best to give the impression of diligence and responsibility. She was a little ashamed of the thought. Eaton’s was a good place to work. A half day off every Saturday, natural light from the windows, a heater on cold days. Much better conditions than a lot of other places. She knew the other girls all wanted to keep the job. She did too.

  She saw Miss Lindsay first. The manageress, tall and austere, was standing beside Fiona’s chair in front of the switchboard. Uh oh. That did not bode well. Nor did the expression on Miss Lindsay’s face. A list of her transgressions whipped through Fiona’s mind. Lateness had never been one of them, but today her mother hadn’t been feeling well and Fiona had lingered to make her comfortable. Her bad spells had become more frequent lately.

  “Good morning, Miss Lindsay,” she said, trying to pitch her voice at exactly the right note of politeness and cheeriness. Mr. Eaton liked his girls to appear cheery. It showed they were well treated.

  Miss Lindsay did not return her greeting. “Miss Williams, I would like to have a word with you. Will you please come into my office.”

  “I am due to start my shift in one minute, ma’am.”

  Wrong thing to say.

  “Miss Costin will take your place.”

  A pretty, dark-haired young woman who had been hovering close to the manageress gave Fiona an apologetic smile and slipped into the chair.

  “Come, Miss Williams,” said Miss Lindsay, and Fiona had no choice but to follow her. None of the girls turned their heads, concentrating on plugging telephone lines into the correct extension.

  The manageress ushered Fiona into her office. She took the chair behind the desk but she did not ask Fiona to sit down.

  Fiona had not been called to the office before and she couldn’t help but notice what a great view Miss Lindsay had of the girls through her windows. All goings-on were visible.

  Fiona could feel butterflies acting up in her stomach. It seemed obvious what was coming. At the very least a reprimand.

  Miss Lindsay got to the point.

  “Miss Williams, I have to inform you that your services are no longer required by the T. Eaton Company.”

  Fiona gaped at her. Worse, far worse than she had imagined.

  “Why is that, ma’am? I had no idea my work was unsatisfactory.”

  Miss Lindsay threaded her fingers together rather as if she were praying.

  “Your work is quite adequate. That is not the reason you are being dismissed.”

  Fiona could feel her face growing hot. She was beginning to suspect what the issue was.

  “What is the reason then, ma’am?”

  “It has come to our attention that you have been behaving in a way that is not fitting for a young woman in our employ. The good reputation of Eaton’s cannot be sullied.”

  “Does this have to do with my sentiments about the war?”

  “More than that. We are all entitled to our opinions. We just keep them to ourselves. What is unacceptable is that you have engaged in unseemly and provocative behaviour in front of some of Mr. Eaton’s most valued customers.”

  Fiona took a deep breath. It was not going to help her cause to lose her temper.

  “I would appreciate it if you would be specific, ma’am.”

  “Very well. I have been informed that yesterday evening you engaged in a form of entertainment during the course of which you made remarks that were deeply wounding to some people. And that as a result of this a near-riot ensued. People were injured, or at least seriously inconvenienced.”

  “You are referring to my ventriloquism act?”

  “I am indeed.”

  “May I ask who gave you this information?”

  “You may not. It is immaterial. What is important is whether or not it is true.”

  Fiona didn’t answer right away, and Miss Lindsay regarded her with a frown.

  “Well? Did you perform at Shea’s Theatre last night? With a talking dummy?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “And did you so disturb the audience with your unfortunate remarks that the police had to be called?”

  “I suppose, from certain vantage points, that is indeed true. I was attempting to draw attention to some of the dreadful tragedies of this killing we are engaged in.”

  Miss Lindsay lowered her hands.

  “Miss Williams, my own nephew perished in the first month of this war. He was not yet twenty years old. I know how devastating such losses can be. But I also believe we cannot abandon honour and duty. If we do, we sink to the level of the savage.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I cannot support murder, which is what it is.”

  The manageress frowned. The soft moment had gone.

  “And neither can we continue to employ a woman who creates such upheaval. As of today, you are no longer employed by this company. You will go immediately.”

  “May I say goodbye to the others?”

  “No, you may not. I will inform them of your leaving.”

  Fiona’s anger drained away. She knew enough not to bother asking for a good character reference from Miss Lindsay. She wouldn’t get it.

  “Our bookkeeper will be at the door with your final day’s wages,” said Miss Lindsay. “As in fact you have not worked today, I consider this most generous on Mr. Eaton’s part.”

  Most generous indeed.

  THE DEPARTURE

  I stayed with you while you died,

  We lay side by side,

  In the muddy hole

  Pressed together like brothers.

  Or lovers.

  The guns wouldn’t cease.

  There was no peace

  For dead or dying.

  It seemed a long time

  To be lying there.

&n
bsp; Until night slid down the slope

  And took over.

  I wished you’d hurry up and die

  So I could get back.

  But you lingered

  Until dawn fingered the dark sky

  And you cried,

  “God help me,”

  You sighed once only,

  So soft I almost missed it.

  Did you see the Almighty?

  Waiting with arms uplifted?

  Was it joy upon your tongue?

  Or was the sigh

  Merely Death

  That came at last

  To seize your breath?

  Frankly I was past

  Caring by then,

  Although I do admit

  A certain curiosity.

  Where do they go, the dead?

  I’d rather like to know.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  DAWN HAD HARDLY BROKEN. Jack went to the wardrobe and rooted at the back for his old toy box. They had stashed it there when he was a young lad, and he knew his father wouldn’t have disposed of it without telling him. Sure enough, there it was. He carried it over to his desk and opened it. What he wanted was still inside. Some pieces of cardboard, a pair of scissors, a pot of glue that had somehow survived the years of neglect. He removed those things, then was caught momentarily by the sight of a lead toy soldier wedged into the cup of the cup-and-ball game that he’d once played with by the hour.

  He stood the soldier on the desk. His rifle was missing its tip and his red pantaloons had faded to a blotchy pink, but there he was, perpetually poised and ready to fight.

  Jack went to the chest of drawers and took out a pair of socks. Basic army issue, khaki, rather rough. He put those too on the desk.

  His hair was still short, army style, but he was able to snip a few strands from the top of his head. He placed them beside the socks.

  The only other thing he needed was in the kitchen. Ever since he could remember there had been a tin box underneath the sink, supplied with the gauze and salves needed for the minor cuts that a young, energetic boy incurred regularly.

  Again he paused. Still silence.

  He looked at the shabby tin soldier. He gave it a flick with his finger and it fell over, lying stiff and immobile. He stood it back on its feet then flicked it again. And again.

  He left his room quietly and went downstairs.

  A SOLDIER’S DECLARATION

  I am making this statement as an act of wilful defiance of military authority, because I believe that the War is being deliberately prolonged by those who have the power to end it. I am a soldier, convinced that I am acting on behalf of soldiers. I believe this War, upon which I entered as a war of defence and liberation, has now become a war of aggression and conquest. I believe that the purposes for which I and my fellow-soldiers entered upon this War should have been so clearly stated as to have made it impossible for them to be changed without our knowledge, and that, had this been done, the objects which actuated us would now be attainable by negotiation.

  I have seen and endured the sufferings of the troops, and I can no longer be a party to prolonging those sufferings for ends I believe to be evil and unjust.

  I am not protesting against the military conduct of the War, but against the political errors and insincerities for which the fighting men are being sacrificed.

  On behalf of those who are suffering now, I make this protest against the deception which is being practiced on them. Also I believe that it may help to destroy the callous complacence with which the majority of those at home regard the continuance of agonies which they do not share, and which they have not sufficient imagination to realise.

  Captain Siegfried Sassoon

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  MURDOCH DEALT WITH THE Italian situation as quickly as he could decently do, but he was all too aware that the hour of the medal ceremony was rushing toward him. He was sure now that the murders of Aggett and Carella, as well as the attack on Morris Swartz, were connected. Perhaps even the death of poor Daniel Samuels. The chalk mark on the clothing of two of the men pointed to somebody who had knowledge of the war. It might also have been an accusation of cowardice. Like a white feather. All four of the young men had been given exemptions from conscription. They were not soldiers.

  Yesterday, when he had been at the Armouries, Murdoch had been skeptical that any theft had taken place. Now he was afraid that the explosives had, indeed, been stolen.

  Soldiers knew how to build jam-tin bombs.

  He got to his house as fast as he could, and just as he got to the door Jack emerged in his dress uniform. He was wearing the black sling.

  “Pa. I was heading off for the ceremony.”

  “The one you didn’t tell me about.”

  “Sorry. I was intending to, but we haven’t seen each other.”

  “You seem able to write clear enough notes,” said Murdoch. “You could at least have done that.”

  “Sorry,” said Jack again. “Well, I’d better get to the end of the street. I’m being picked up.”

  “Hold on a minute. We’ve got to have a talk.”

  “Pa. I can’t right now. The corporal is a stickler for punctuality.”

  He actually started to move off but Murdoch stopped him.

  “Why are you wearing the sling?”

  “My arm was sore this morning. I don’t feel like aggravating it. We’re marching from the Armouries to Queen’s Park. Not far by infantry standards but far enough if you’re out of shape like I am.”

  A motor car turned onto the street.

  “There’s my carriage,” said Jack. “I’d better go.”

  “Wait. I’ll come to the ceremony.”

  Jack’s eyes met those of his father. “No need. Just a lot of dull speeches, more than likely.”

  Murdoch heard the telephone ringing inside the house.

  “Damnation,” said Murdoch. “Listen, son—”

  “You’ve got that expression on your face, Pa. Try not to worry. We can talk later.” The telephone continued to ring.

  “You’d better answer it,” said Jack.

  The army car came to a halt in front of them. The driver gave a short blast of the horn and Jack turned and got in immediately. They drove off. Jack did not wave.

  Damn. Damn.

  Murdoch went to answer the persistent summons of the telephone.

  It was Dr. Howitt calling from the hospital.

  “Detective, I am glad to catch you. I am the deliverer of good news. Morris Swartz has turned a corner.”

  “Thank God for that.”

  “Not only is he conscious and asking for food, he has recalled a little more about the attack. He says he heard somebody across the road. It was a man coughing.”

  “Coughing?”

  “That’s right. He said it was most distinct. His attacker had a cough.”

  “Is he certain it was this man who attacked him?”

  “Quite certain. He heard the cough and seconds later he was hit. Had to be the same person.”

  Murdoch wanted to sit down.

  “Detective? That should be a big help to you in this investigation, shouldn’t it?”

  “Yes, indeed, Doctor. It should.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  THE CEREMONY HAD DRAWN A large crowd, and Murdoch had to push his way through the throngs toward the flight of steps that swept down from the main entrance of Queen’s Park. He used his police badge to gain access to a section of the risers just to the right of the assembled dignitaries.

  “Are you one of the fathers?” asked an older woman as he squeezed in beside her.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “You must be so proud. Your son is obviously a hero.”

  Murdoch fervently hoped that was true. He focused on the scene in front of him, searching for God knows what.

  The gracious sandstone building was festooned with multicoloured bunting, and stretched across the entrance was a large banner flapping in the gusty wind. “SI
GN UP NOW. YOUR COUNTRY NEEDS YOU.” The mayor and other dignitaries, in silk top hats and cashmere overcoats, were already gathered, their wives well bundled up in furs. At the head of the group was the lieutenant-governor, Sir John Hendrie. The crowd, many children among them, was contained behind a rope barrier across from the lieutenant-governor and his party. A few mounted police officers were waiting under the archway, their big horses standing stoic and steady.

  Then Murdoch saw a young woman was waving at him from the bottom of the risers. It was Fiona Williams. Immediately, he gestured to her to join him. She stepped forward, but one of the aides stopped her. She pointed at Murdoch, who showed his badge again, and the aide let her through. She climbed up the riser and took the spot beside Murdoch.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “Not at all, Miss Williams.”

  She glanced at him mischievously. “Do you think you could call me Fiona? We’ve known each other since I was ten years old. I can’t get used to you addressing me so formally.”

  “Of course.” He glanced at her. “Did you get the morning off?”

  She clenched her teeth. “You could say that.”

  Coming from across the park they heard the sound of the pipes and drums. The soldiers were arriving.

  “I’ll explain later,” Fiona added.

  The mounted officers moved forward with a jangling of bridles and snorts from the horses. Around the bend of the avenue came two landaus. A huge cheer went up from the crowd. The men waved their hats in the air, and some of the women twirled their boas and scarves. Following the carriages was a marching band, small in number but energetic enough.

  Fiona squeezed Murdoch’s arm. “Isn’t it exciting?”

  He nodded. He was sick with apprehension. All he wanted to see was Jack.

  You have raised a good and honourable man.

  The first carriage, drawn by two coal-black horses, was carrying seven women in mourning garb who were to accept the medals on behalf of the deceased soldiers who had earned them. Six mothers, one wife. The face of one was hidden by a long black widow’s veil. Behind them came the carriage with the only two honourees who were alive, Corporal A.R. Mendizabal and Private Jack Murdoch.