by Paul Almond
Jim unfolded his scrawny body, hoping we wouldn’t notice, but of course we all did.
Red tore around the table. “No, Jim, you’re not going nowhere with that girl!”
Jim looked mortified. Red was certainly much stronger, not someone to disobey, let alone by a bean-pole like Jim.
“I just want to go up for ten minutes,” said young Jim. “I just want to.”
Oh-oh, I could see an altercation developing.
“Not a chance,” insisted Red, his hands curling into fists. “No one here is going to get their hands on that young lady.” See, he’d downed several glasses of wine by now and I think he was pretty drunk. “You’re going to leave my sister alone.”
“That’s not your sister, Red,” exploded Harry. “Just let him be.”
Red could barely see straight, let alone see reason. What should I do? Up to now, we had all enjoyed the evening, and I wasn’t going to have a fight in a tavern break down this tight gun’s relationship.
Fortunately, Ed spoke up. “Listen, we’ve all had a nice drink, and we’ve all celebrated. Why not leave together and try out some other place? I’ve heard there’s more than one estaminet. Let’s try them all.”
I jumped up. “Great idea,” I said. “Let’s all go somewhere new.”
Well, the idea did have appeal. Jim got up. “I’ll just go and relieve myself.” Edward joined him. After they left, Harry turned to us. “Jim has been telling me the last while: he doesn’t want to die a virgin.”
Well, we all sympathized with Jim’s wish. So it wasn’t another estaminet we visited, we wandered down to the first of two Approved Houses (as they were called). But we saw a queue of about ten men outside. Did that mean it was the cheapest? Or the best?
In any case we decided not to wait, and went to a second place, more on the outskirts. On the way, Ralph sheepishly explained that his father had died before the war, and being the eldest, he’d more or less had to raise his four siblings himself, with his mother. His little sister, Jeannie, was a favourite — he even hauled out a picture of her. We had to admit that in certain ways, she did look like that other girl.
But learning of his four siblings, I wondered how they all survived on Ralph’s meagre army pay which he sent home like the rest of us: not much use for it on the firing line. We earned so little, though even Ralph’s assignment of thirty bucks a month would be something.
When we reached the second Approved House, no queue outside, so the five of us debated: was it the most expensive or the least desirable?
“We can have a drink and wait around while Jim gets satisfied,” I suggested.
Inside, the ground floor was much the same as our previous estaminet: several long tables, one of which contained four or five of the most horrible-looking ladies I’ve ever set eyes on. None under thirty, one real fat, one skinny like she had TB and the others, well, you’d hardly be caught dead talking to them, much less going upstairs.
But all four of us sympathized with Jim’s desire. Indeed, who would want to go to his death at eighteen and still a virgin?
So we sat down at an empty table and began to encourage Jim by extolling the various charms — a hard job, but we outdid ourselves, weaving the most atrocious fibs.
But just as we were reaching our creative peak, down the stairs came one who, if not exactly attractive, looked slightly presentable, apart from a cleft palate.
Harry pointed. “Jim!”
“But she’s just come downstairs,” Jim complained. “She’ll need a rest.”
“Nonsense” Harry shouted.
So we decided to split a bottle of wine, but Edward insisted he’d pay — it was still his treat. It ended up being nearly seven francs, but worth it because up Jim went. As he left, we lifted our glasses for a generous toast.
So at least Jim would not die a virgin. And I had to reflect, as we later staggered back to our tents in the rest area, here was another reason for me to hate this last great war for civilization. Something so beautiful as being with a woman for the first time had been turned into an entirely unattractive event, unpleasant, fraught with disease, and for sure devoid of love.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Passchendaele
Nr Vlametinghe, Oct 23rd 1917: A Gunner, 35th Battery, was killed in action today. Also a Gunner who had won honours for his Battery and his Brigade in the Divisional sports in June was severely wounded and died later in the morning.
25th: All batteries are packing ammunition for tomorrow’s fight. Barrages were carried out.
26th: First operation for the capture of Passchendaele Ridge by the Canadian Corps took place today. Barrage kept up well on into afternoon. Our Infantry consolidated a line not far from their final objective. There was no lull, however, and fire was kept up during the night with occasional intense bursts of fire.
War Diaries: 10th Brigade CFA
“Where’s Edward?” I asked. He was always one of the first to line up for breakfast, the most enjoyable meal of our monotonous rations.
“I saw him coming over, but he veered to the latrine,” Ralph replied. “Poor fellow, diarrhea again. Had to go twice in the night on the way here. So hard in the dark.” Ralph helped himself and moved on.
Lots of us had been a prey to diarrhea, as well as other obnoxious diseases. So much filth, rats, and rotting flesh, we were always getting sick in one way or another. I got my serving of bread fried in bacon fat, and then, such delight — jam! Putting my fried bread on top of my porridge, I watched Jason measure out a spoonful of real raspberry jam.
“Where did you find this, Jason?”
“That Jonas, he’s some scavenger. Does it to surprise us, I think.”
“Where would we be without him, eh?” I moved off to join Ralph where he was sitting, his back against the plain cement walls of the small pillbox looking out over a fresh shell hole and beyond to the trenches, much further away. From where we were, they seemed just jagged slices in the ground. No grass or anything, just earth, mud, the ruined detritus of battle. Any trees were certainly leafless, reduced to limbless trunks. Afraid of lurking mustard gas, we were careful to keep our feet out of water.
“Well, at least Edward got some good news.” I put my mess tin on my knees, and started eating.
“You mean about being designated for officer training in Blighty? Yeah, pretty nice. I’ll miss him.” Ralph scooped up a big mouthful of porridge.
“Oh no, I meant his letter,” I said. “It came just before we left the Wagon Lines. Sure made him excited.”
“Yeah, he couldn’t stop talking about his Katie all the way to the Front last night.”
We heard a 5.9 rumbling over and instinctively flopped sideways and covered our heads. It exploded a little ways off. Damn, oatmeal everywhere and mud all over my precious bread. Why couldn’t we all have kept up that gentlemanly stance where we never fired till after breakfast. This war was getting really savage. We picked ourselves up as Harry came to join us, also covered in mud. Not so argumentative of late. I saw signs that he was nearing his breaking point. But then, so were we all. Too much and too long. If this war didn’t end soon, we all would.
“Yup, I can almost quote from his letter by heart,” Ralph went on. “Told us about it so many times. ‘Edward forgive me,’ she said, ‘I just got a bit crazy, but I’m all right now. The old Katie is back and she knows for sure, you’re the one.’”
“That’s right,” Harry chimed in. “Bet you don’t know the next line?”
Ralph shook his head.
“She went on, ‘I’ll be yours forever.’” Harry shook his head. “Corny line. But that’s what he kept repeating. I’ll be yours forever. You think he believed it?”
“Damn right,” I said. I took another bite of my fried bread; Lord, it tasted good, even smeared in mud.
I looked out over the land stretching back towards the Wagon Lines. Just as flat as could be, with black geysers spouting as shells hit the mud and then subsiding. Each one carried its
message of death to anyone at that spot. Behind us at the Front, the everlasting din of machines guns and roaring artillery kept thudding against our ears.
“When any girl says to me, I love you forever,” Ralph said, “I get suspicious. It never happens.”
“Well, from what he’s told me about Katie,” I said, “she’s loyal. For a lady alone, it’s not hard to get diverted back there.” And for a flash, I wondered how Rene was doing — had she been ‘diverted’?
We heard another Jack Johnson coming and all of us fell sideways, covering our heads, letting the food go to hell. Those damn heavy, black German 15-cm artillery shells weighed some two hundred pounds, probably what Mr. Johnson, that heavyweight boxer in the US, weighed himself.
Woosh! It impacted in a bloody great explosion just twenty yards away, enveloping us in black smoke, spraying us with mud, fragments whining past.
My ears were ringing, but I heard screams.
“The latrine!” shouted Ralph in my ear and jumped up. I forgot about my food and followed. Another might be coming but I didn’t care. We ran over to the shell hole where the latrine used to be.
A Gunner torn to pieces made me stop in horror. I saw he was dead, but then beyond him, another was doubled over, stifling screams. Ralph reached him first. The body was covered in shit from the latrine and disease-ridden mud.
Ralph bent and put his hand on the shoulder and lifted him. Edward!
Then I saw his stomach. Torn open.
“Ralph,” I said. “Get help, the medics, a stretcher... run!”
He was off, I’d like to say in a flash, but the going was so hard he just slogged away through the mud.
Now what?
“You’re gonna be fine, Edward,” was all I could think to say as I knelt beside him. That’s all you ever say to a wounded man. You never say, you’re finished, prepare for the Great Crossing.
Edward stared up at me. He shook his head. “Eric, I know, I’ve seen it before. It’s over. I know. And so do you.” He looked down and tried to push some of those entrails back where they belonged. Shit clung to his hands. It all smelled even worse than the normal battlefield stench. “Eric, Eric, do something.”
“I will, Edward, of course.” But what?
“Shoot me, Eric. Shoot.”
Shoot him? What was he talking about?
“For God’s sake, please...” he gasped. He held up one hand covered in blood and shit and stared at it as though he couldn’t believe it was his own. “I don’t feel anything. Look,” he bent and tried to stuff his guts back in again. “Eric... Eric, tell Katie I love her.”
“Yes, yes Edward, of course. I’ll tell her. Ralph’s gone for a stretcher bearer, we’re gonna see you’re okay.”
“No, no, take too long. Want to see me die like this? Please Eric. Don’t leave. Shoot me.”
“I won’t leave, don’t worry, you’ll be okay.” I’d never leave him. But shoot?
“Before the real pain hits...” He wretched and a gob of black blood shot out of his mouth. He caught it in his hands and stared down. “Why doesn’t it hurt?” He looked up at me again like an innocent little boy, then suddenly gave a twist. “Aagh.” Not a shriek, a terrible groan. “Spoke to soon...”
I lifted him in my arms, and held him tight.
He grabbed at me. “Hurry, Eric. Hurry. Shoot. Please.”
Shoot him? My best friend? Never.
I think he could see the answer on my face. “Eric. Look.” He nodded down. His stomach was such a mess. All mixed with the dross of the latrine. No no, he wouldn’t last long. Not the day. Maybe not even the hour.
“See Eric. See? Please. When the sun comes up, the heat... and the rats... they’ll come, they’ll eat... I can’t move. Eric, your gun...”
One hand went down to my revolver, and I started to unsnap the buckle. But then I stopped myself. I just could not.
He saw that. “Hurry. You’ve got to.”
Yes, yes, I had to. But how? How could I kill my best friend? I just sat there wishing he would die. But those eyes, begging me. Without thinking, again my hand went to the steel pistol. This time, slowly, it came out of its holster.
Edward saw, and stopped panting. A faint smile crossed his lips. “Oh thank you, Eric. Thank you.”
I froze.
“Go ahead,” he said, “Right in the forehead. Quick!”
Oh my God. In his forehead? How could I do that?
He looked up at me, waiting. I shook my head.
He grimaced. “Hurry. Hurry up.” He groaned again. “I can’t take it, Eric.”
I looked down at my revolver. How could I? But...
Another faint smile crossed his face.
I stared at him, and he nodded. He tried to keep from crying out. He nodded again, face scrunched up with pain.
I lifted the gun.
“Thank you Eric, thank — ”
Before I could force myself to pull the trigger, he gave a lurch, a torrent of breath leapt out of him, followed by blood, and a terrible, terrible guttural sound, and he fell forward.
He was gone.
My best friend at the Front, Bombardier Edward Whitehead, was dead.
***
We were all deaf, deafer than ever, if that’s possible. We’d been firing all day, even though our boys had made their first objective early this morning, well, around eight I guess, and here we were — still loading and firing, loading and firing. But one man short. We’d been placed on a bit of high ground, completely exposed in full view of the enemy — well, our Jumbo had such a small area to choose from, with all the flooding everywhere. Sure made the job of the German gunners easy. The trenches lay before us, and then No Man’s Land, and beyond, within eyesight, the German trenches. Those enemy gunners would have a field day.
Our gun drill lays down what happens with a reduced detachment so I now set the clinometer and operated the breech, and the loader rammed his own shells home, so that we kept firing. I just wondered how we had gone through the day without another Jack Johnson finishing us off. Heinie was targeting our guns and hitting the plank road, but on the front line our Infantry had dug into their new positions while we broke up counter attacks. The big guns behind us hammered away on counter-battery work. Lieutenant Overstreet was in the telephone pit sending the signallers running out with new orders on slips of paper. No point in talking. All deaf. And what was there to say, anyway?
In between firing, we had wrapped Ed and the other Gunner’s remains in their wool blankets to be taken back on ammunition mules to the Wagon Lines, after we were re-supplied that night. We had no time to dig him a decent grave here.
Edward’s death weighed on all of us. It dragged us all down even more than the mud. I hoped he would end up in a decent grave. Katie, who had resolved to wait for him, would now wait forever. But most of all, I imagined his elegant mother, in that big Westmount house, having now lost both sons. How ever would she overcome this tragedy? Rich and poor, I guess this damned war got to everyone, us out here at the Front, or them in their own safe beds back home.
On through the night it went, harassing fire, barrages, counter-batteries and SOSs called for by our Infantry. At least in the dark, you couldn’t see the death and the corpses all around. But you sure smelled them. You never get used to the stench. Well, a lot better complaining about the stench than not being able ever to smell it again. We had survived. But for how long?
***
“For sure. She bring in conscription, oh yes oh yes oh yes. My father, he write. She not definite, but she comin’ for sure.” Michel Lavoie, Edward’s replacement, seemed adamant. Two days later we had finished our dinners and were grabbing a moment of relative peace; a general pounding still drummed in the air but right here, we’d been given respite. Soon, another barrage, or counter-battery, would be called for. But part of Passchendaele ridge had fallen, an important section apparently, though not the village yet. Another attack in a few days, for sure.
“Why do you say that?”
I asked.
“Well, she come in last year in England.” Michel had become our political expert. As such, he beat out Harry, who had never been strong on politics, preferring other venues for his sarcasm and attacks.
But Harry, not be outdone, continued, “You know, we Canadians, we’re just like sheep. Wherever the Old Country goes, we follow.” Harry looked on the dark side of everything. But I kind of agreed with him on this.
“But Borden, he say he never to bring conscription,” Michel averred.
“Prime Ministers always lie, didn’t you know that?” Harry said. “It’s Laurier anyway who’s really against it, but he probably won’t win.”
“So what do you think will happen?” I asked. I must say that politics and elections had never interested me. But I knew I should keep up.
“Well, when we vote in a month,” Harry explained, “just before Christmas, we’ll be able to put our votes into whatever constituency we want. Of course, they’ll tell us where.”
Michel went on, “Oh yes. And the wives of servicemen, my father say. She vote for first time, women. Big t’ing.”
That was news to me. “You mean, we now have everyone voting in Canada?”
“No,” snorted Harry, “only wives, and even mothers, of soldiers. Yeah, soldiers dead or alive. Sir Robert Borden, he knows which way they’ll vote, of course. What a way to steal an election! That’s how the Conservatives will get in. Stealing. Highway robbery.”
“Quebec, by damn,” Michel swore, “she gonna revolt. You just watch. Nobody gonna make us French-Canadians go fight if we don’t want.”
“Why don’t you want?” Harry prodded Michel just as he did all our team. None of us resented it; that was just his way. And after he had gotten over his initial fears those first months, Harry could always be counted on. Poor little bugger, his body was covered with lice bites all the time. He was always scratching himself. I don’t know why they liked him — he was so skinny, but then, chats like blood near the bone, so they say. Well, wherever they bit him, they’d be near one.
“Oh we want, but nobody tell us we HAVE to.”