The Cartographer of No Man's Land: A Novel

by P. S. Duffy

  “A German? Saved you?”

  “Oui. He was my pal. You are also?”

  Angus nodded. “I am that. And you’re as brave as any soldier I know.”

  Paul gave a faint smile and blew on the milky coffee. “What happened to your . . . ?” He rephrased. “How is . . . Lance Corporal Havers?”

  Angus shrugged. “Fine, I’d guess. Back with his unit now. Here, give me another swig of that.”

  Paul handed him the cup. “He is . . . Lance Corporal Havers?”

  “Yup,” Angus sighed, “he is.”

  “It is okay?”

  “I think so. Havers is . . . his pal. Someone he made up. Havers makes him feel strong. Brave like you. Can you understand that? Pretending, no, believing he’s Lance Corporal Havers helps him stay alive.”

  Paul nodded gravely.

  “But it has to be our secret. Understand? We can’t tell anyone. If we do, it will be very bad for him. And he won’t be brave.”

  “Shhhh. It is done.” Paul crossed his arms, one after the other, over his chest, and cocked his head up at Angus. “You are okay? You are . . . you are thinking?”

  “Yes. I am thinking,” Angus said, folding his arms, eyes on the horizon. “I’m thinking how things are not black and white, only gray. Like your pal, the German private, and my pal, Havers, and this whole bloody war.”

  Paul whistled a long falling note. He took a big swallow of coffee and said, “You are thinking many things. You will draw them? With your only chalks—noir et blanc? Gris?”

  “That’s right.” Was there nothing this boy did not understand? “The only ones left—black and white. Mix them together and you’ve got gray. Where the heck did you come from, anyway?”

  Paul smiled shyly into the mug. “Finish?” he said, lifting the cup.

  “You have the rest.”

  “Smoke?”

  Angus shook his head again. “Later. You’ve got chores to do and God knows what scavenging, and I have a class to teach.” Paul took a last swallow and tossed the rest away. A meadowlark swooped past a stand of splintered trees and landed on a rusted wire sticking up out of an old fence post where she broke into song, varied and lyrical. Paul, who had turned to go, stopped. “Là! She makes herself happy. You, too?”

  “Me, too—she makes me happy. So do you,” Angus answered. As if in response, the lark puffed her chest out, tipped her head back and trilled out a varied flutter of rippling notes. Across the field, the cow stopped and lifted her head.

  THE NAMELESS AND the named, Angus thought as he and Paul walked back. He wasn’t about to tell Hettie about Ebbin nor about Havers. That much he’d already decided. It was impossible to explain and far too risky. Even if he could find some coded way to share the news, how could she in the remotest stretch of imagination, reading a letter over a cup of tea, understand Havers? Besides, to tell her was to expose Ebbin, and open himself up as well, to her renewed hopes, her insistence that something be done when the only thing to do was to do nothing. She’d lost Ebbin once. Could she bear it again? Could he?

  But he did tell Juliette. Not surprisingly, Paul had kept his vow of silence. And, not surprisingly, she, like Paul, accepted the story. She understood escape. She understood survival. He told her he was going to stay out of Ebbin’s way. She agreed it was best. She understood love.

  ELEVEN

  March 27th, 1917

  Arras Sector, France

  The month of March had broken without a hint of spring in the air nor a blade of grass pushing through the iron-clad earth. Angus didn’t search for Ebbin again, though there were times he thought he saw him—elusive sightings—loading ground sheets onto a truck, horsing around with his mates at the YMCA canteen, and once riding bareback in the ring by the stables.

  The spring offensive was drawing near, and throughout the camps and villages of Pas-de-Calais and Picardy, everything and everyone was gearing up for the Battle of Arras, and what would be, for the CEF, the battle for Vimy Ridge—all four Canadian divisions, 100,000 men, with an additional allocation from the British 1st Army on either flank, not to mention mules and 50,000 horses. Rural roads were clogged with streams of lorries, automobiles, mule trains, general service wagons, motorcycles, bicycles, Red Cross carts, anything with wheels. The home-front factories had finally produced enough shells to bomb the world to kingdom come, which Publicover said was fine with him as long as Jerry went first. Heavy artillery was moving up to assigned destinations, cannons pulled by teams of sixteen draught horses, heads down, eyes bulging. Angus had seen their knees buckle.

  Below ground, engineers dug through the old French and German trenches, shoving corpses aside as they laid their cable. Medical corps dugouts were under construction, some said to be sixty feet deep, able to accommodate up to three hundred men, with a windlass to raise and lower the wounded. Tottenham, Cavalier, International and Vincent tunnels were nearing completion, extending beyond the forward trenches and butting right up to the German line. Preparations worthy of Caesar’s army, it was said by everyone. Conlon preferred allusions to Troy—victory a long time coming, but coming nonetheless. Patience, diligence, duty, he reminded them.

  Diligence, duty. These were the watchwords by which Angus carried out his daily rounds. He was up the line with his men three times. Back of the line, he and Publicover were housed with their men. Paul was such a ubiquitous presence in the camp, running errands, making trades, that Angus was surprised he wasn’t in uniform. Whenever he could, which wasn’t often, Angus went back with him to visit Juliette.

  Angus immersed himself in teaching soldiers who could barely write, let alone draw, how to duplicate the physical world in distance, depth, line and perspective. Terrain mapping, “an invaluable asset,” Stokes called it when, to the astonishment of that day’s class, he’d poked his head inside one afternoon. Hands clasped behind his back, eyeing the drawings, he circled the room and reminded Angus of Mr. Heist. Finally, he came to a stop, faced the men, and cleared his throat. “Listen here,” he said. “Once we’re over that ridge, we’ll be in uncharted ground, and it’ll be days before we’ll be able to bring our heavy guns to firing range, during which time Jerry will reorganize, build new defenses. Our observation balloons are just slow-moving targets, and Jerry’s crackerjack at shooting down our planes. So we’re going to need sketches of those defenses just like the ones you’re making—quickly drawn, copied and handed back to command. So pay attention and keep up the good work.”

  “Good” work, Angus reminded himself. He was a cog in the machine of war, it was true, but the great war machine had narrowed down to his men and he would not degrade the sacrifice to come nor jeopardize their safety with inner struggles about morality, though struggle he did. The month had begun with an event that nearly broke his resolve—a massive raid and a weapon that the CEF had thus far rejected—gas. White Star, it was called, a mixture of chlorine and phosgene. One thousand canisters of it had been transported to the front lines.

  Not surprisingly, everything about the raid went terribly wrong. The minute the gas was released, the Germans put on their gas masks and laid down a barrage that decimated the first wave of Canadian troops. When the wind shifted, the second round of gas was canceled. But the order failed to reach all the gas specialists on the Canadian line. Clouds of poison drifted back onto the Canadians who, gagging and choking, were forced to run toward German gunfire to escape it. Others were killed by their own artillery. When dawn broke, more than six hundred Canadian infantrymen lay sprawled across No Man’s Land, many of them piled in shell holes, suffocating to death from the after-effects of White Star.

  His father’s words about God’s retribution rang in his ears when Angus heard what happened. But there was more. God had not yet finished raising the moral stakes. Angus and the other officers learned that the following morning, a German Reserve commander had crept through a low-hanging fog and under the barbed wire, risking gunfire, with an interpreter and a white flag. Ten minutes later, he and a
Canadian major exchanged silent salutes in the center of No Man’s Land. The German gestured toward the bodies. He suggested a cease-fire until 2:00 that afternoon to recover the dead and wounded. Though rare, it wasn’t as if cease-fires hadn’t been negotiated for such a purpose before. But this time almost all the casualties were Canadian, and on top of it the German commander indicated that his own soldiers would help. For hours, using trench ladders and whatever else was at hand, they carried the Canadians from the German side of the line to the midpoint of No Man’s Land. When 2:00 came and the field had been cleared, the German commander then suggested that the cease-fire continue until 6:00 that evening to ensure that the wounded were safely removed to the rear of the Canadian line. The Canadian and German officers shook hands. At 6:00 hostilities resumed.

  Andy Loftus, who had survived the raid, told Conlon that the German commander had offered cigarettes to each of the Canadian officers as they stood together in No Man’s Land and that when the Canadian major had pocketed his as a souvenir, the German had offered him another one to smoke. Recounting the story for Angus, Conlon put his hands on his hips and stared at the ground. Behind him a stockpile of brass-colored shells nosed out from their camouflage netting like so many giant pencil tips. “A German general forgiving a gas attack—how do we deal with such appalling humanity?” He looked up with a sardonic smile, but Angus knew his question was in earnest. It was the same question that burned through him, sapping not his courage, but his will.

  “I figure it this way,” Conlon continued, as they began to walk together. “We can reject it as an aberration . . . or accept it as a sign of normalcy. The latter view should assure us there’s still something among us mortals worth fighting for.”

  “One day the lamb will lie down with the lion . . .”

  “Well, I was thinking of Germans and Allies sharing some beer,” Conlon answered. “Wouldn’t mind if it was with that German commander,” he added. “But let’s face it, short of every man on both sides laying down their arms, the best way to end the madness is to win the war. That or surrender. I’ll take winning.”

  “Here’s another way to think of it,” Angus said. “God set the stage for just such an act—to remind us that in the darkest night, light shines.”

  “Ha. I knew your seminary training would pay off at some point,” Conlon said. “Apparently, God doesn’t mind six hundred dead to make a point.”

  “Right. Can’t expect small acts from God,” Angus replied. “Show me the dark and I’ll show you the light.”

  “It’s insights like that that make this war worth it, eh?”

  “Exactly,” Angus smiled. “Where would we be without irony?”

  “Continuously drunk, I’m afraid.”

  As they walked on, Angus found himself so at ease in Conlon’s company that he almost told him about Ebbin. But to unburden himself was to put Ebbin in jeopardy, not to mention himself. And Conlon would choose duty over all else—anything less would go against all Angus knew of him.

  In Angus’s pocket was a letter he’d gotten from Hettie that morning. She’d devoted a few of her spare lines to the memorial for Ebbin. Her words “everyone was very kind,” “there were quite a few tears shed,” “it was hard on them,” sounded remote, even for her. She didn’t come out and say it, but he had the feeling she wasn’t one of the mourners. As if in her denial, she knew the truth.

  THAT NIGHT, he found himself standing under the darkened windows of Juliette’s abandoned house. He could see her in his mind, across from him, her dark hair loosely tied in a ribbon, her three silver rings catching the firelight. Her English was far better than he’d thought. His French made her and Paul laugh out loud. The three of them, with their shared knowledge of Ebbin, never mentioned his name.

  On his last visit, Angus gave Paul a drawing he’d done for him of pigeons holding a chimney-top meeting, and Juliette, a detailed charcoal of the house. She studied it for a long time and said that she had a sister, Sabine, on the coast, who’d married a man from Alsace, now dead. Paul interjected that Sabine had some very perfect pigeons and so would also like a pigeon drawing if he could manage it. Juliette said she’d heard that if the Allies didn’t break through the line this time, the Germans would make an end run around it to the coast and on to Paris, and there would be no safe place left. But there was no money to be made staying in Astile alone with no boarders. Her husband’s pension was too shabby to manage. She would go to Sabine’s. “It is coming, no? The battle?”

  “Yes,” Angus said, meeting her eyes. “Soon.” To get away from the moment and all it portended, Angus suggested one more lesson in terrain-mapping and took Paul down the street to a clearing across a tattered yard. The night was sharp and bright. On the way, Angus explained how fog could make half-hidden objects seem farther away; how in clear air, a straight-on sighting down a narrow path, or over water or snow, could make things seem nearer. As he’d done long ago with Simon Peter, he pointed to the moon hanging low and huge, and explained how objects are interpreted in relation to one another and how deceiving it can be. Paul stubbornly argued that the moon was smaller when it was high up in the sky because it was farther away. Angus nearly gave up until Paul said doubtfully, “So, it is not what we think we see?”

  “Exactly,” Angus answered. “Nothing is. We both know that.”

  “Nothing is,” Angus repeated now, staring up at the blank windows. The day Juliette and Paul left, Angus had raced up the steps to empty rooms, calling her name, then heard his own. There she was at the foot of the stairs, out of breath, looking up. He descended slowly, each step taking him closer to her and farther away.

  “I wanted to say to Paul, to you—I wanted a chance to . . .” He sank down on the steps, then searched his pack for the thin oval board he’d sanded to smooth perfection and on which he’d penned a lark in black ink, head back, throat up, beak open in song. “I wanted to give Paul something more. A lark—he’ll understand.”

  She knelt on the step below him and he pulled her in and kissed her hair. “This will end,” he whispered. “We’ll be over that ridge, and you’ll be on the coast. Safe. No more guns. No more soldiers.” He held her for a moment more, then swung his pack up. At the end of the hall, he gripped the door frame and hesitated, but he could not look back.

  Looking up now at the house, Angus thought of the last drawing he’d made—tended graves in a field, row upon row. Through the silence he could hear the wind moan across a future landscape, sharing Earth’s sorrow, unable to bind up her wounds.

  When he got back to camp, Hiller, every man’s fear come to fruition, was cowering on his bed, eyes wide in the dark. “Get some sleep, Hiller,” Angus whispered to him and lightly touched his head. Hiller hunkered under the covers but did not close his eyes.

  Only when their orders came and he was marching out of town with his men did Angus realize he still had the drawing of the lark in his pack.

  TWELVE

  March 27th, 1917

  Snag Harbor, Nova Scotia

  Early morning sun filled the kitchen. Hettie lifted the hot iron off the stove and pressed it against the dampened, wrinkled sleeve of the shirt on the board. Simon, looking up from his drawing, sighed audibly. The shirt was Ebbin’s. She was humming.

  Ida was just outside the window forking up sheets from the copper pot on the fire into the rinse tub. Her face was red with the effort, and strands of her faded red hair were plastered to her neck.

  The humming persisted. Simon left the kitchen and went out to the yard. Ida wiped her forehead with her apron and told him there was nothing, not one thing better, than a fresh clean sheet after a long hard winter. He asked her why she’d washed one of Ebbin’s shirts.

  “Well,” she said, “now I do that every week for your mother.”

  “But why?”

  “She’s been goin’ about fairy-led, han’t she? Drowsing here and there like one soft in the head. Picking up a fork or spool of thread like she never seen one before. And
now you see how she’s in there, upright.”

  “But she’s ironing his shirt as if he’s coming back.”

  “She’ll get that shirt ironed every week and then one day she’ll see it’s all smoothed out, nary a wrinkle to it, and best laid up to rest.”

  “You think so?”

  “Either that or he’ll come walking up that hill and thank her for it.”

  “So, you think he’s alive, too?”

  “Well, if he is, he’s fooled the Army. God, too, maybe. Wouldn’t put it past him. But you let your mother be. Some things take time. Peas in a pod, her and Ebbin. Or more like, her thinking that way. Here,” Ida bent down and yanked up a sheet in the rinse water. “Hold this end and I’ll twist. Gotta get these on the line. C’mon now.”

  Simon did as he was told. “What do you mean, her thinking that way? Didn’t Uncle Ebbin feel the same?”

  “Oh my yes, as youngsters. But he’s hardly been around since he grew up, has he? When he does choose to light here for a day or two, he charms the socks right off you.” She pinned the sheet on the line. “I think once Elma Hant produced them four other boys one right after another, and was all caught up in them, Ebbin and Hettie, well, they stood apart and held on to each other. Your grandpa Hant couldn’t make enough of Ebbin, but Hettie just brought him back to the wife he’d lost. So she took her shine from Ebbin. And there’s your father, as strong and patient as they come, holding her hand whenever Ebbin lets her down. And now gone off to find him and . . .” She caught up the corner of her apron and wiped her eyes.

  Amazed at these revelations, Simon realized that he’d somehow always known that Ida didn’t approve of Ebbin. Still, it was a shock to hear it voiced, and also exhilarating. He decided to reveal a confidence of his own. “What if I told you that George Mather is sure he saw Uncle Ebbin alive after he was supposedly dead? And that he helped him on the field when George was wounded.”