Home Fires

by Susan Cameron

  “I’m feeling much better now. I still ache all over and feel feverish, but I’m on the mend thanks to my wife’s well-timed parcel and your kindness. Here, take some tea for yourself. I like a man who appreciates a good cup of tea.”

  He held up Henry’s scribbles and shook his head, “You know I barely know this little son of mine. I signed up when he was just a newborn. I wonder if he’ll ever get to know his own Da.”

  Jim’s reprieve was soon over and he was back in the trenches. His unit pushed north on orders to take control of a power station. The Germans used bombs, gas and heavy guns in retaliation and after a long, hard battle lasting several days, the tremor in Jim’s hands returned.

  He reached the safety of a deep shell hole and sat down beside Sam. “I seem to fall apart after the missions. I barely remember any hand-to-hand fighting. I look at those dead Germans and I can’t help but think it’s as if we’re fighting our own brothers. They look no different.”

  Sam nodded. “Yeah, we’re all on a slow descent to hell. I’ll bet the enemy think the same about us. I once saw a dead German with the same red hair and freckles as me and my cousins. He could have been family.”

  The Canadian troops pushed farther north and the enemy retreated to higher ground, but both sides were cursed by high winds and freezing, torrential rain. The engineers built cork footbridges over the quicksand of carnage and mud, but if a man stepped off the improvised walkways, he would sink up to his thighs.

  Jim worked laying light rails to bring the heavy artillery forward. It was dangerous work, out in the open, and through constant fire from the enemy. One night a shell landed right beside him. He froze, waiting for his death. It failed to explode. Once again, he patted the Bible in his left pocket and whispered a prayer of thanks. Like Jim, most men were superstitious. Each carried good luck charms or pictures of loved ones to ensure their survival.

  Several feet ahead of Jim, a Canadian machine gunner fired his weapon. Suddenly a huge explosion cracked the air, and he staggered back a few steps after. It took Jim a second to realize the gunner’s head had been blown off; blood began to pump out of his neck as he collapsed. Horrified, Jim looked away and continued to advance mechanically in the torrential rainfall.

  He and his fellow soldiers walked over and around hundreds of bodies. They attacked with the fury of berserkers using machine guns, grenades and bayonets. The Canadians had earned the name Shock Troops for such battles. The field became a mass murder site of both enemies and allies.

  Jim crawled to the safety of a captured German trench. It was well constructed, drier and better drained, but once inside, Jim was shocked to find that some of the dead enemies were little more than boys. These German troops were the same age as Bobby, or even younger. Not caring who heard him, he cried out, “This is insane! We’ve become animals, and for what?”

  One dark, moonless evening around midnight, Jim rested on his ground sheet in a trench. For once, it was silent in the battlefields beyond. Jim searched for matches and cigarettes in his greatcoat. As he sat up, a movement in the field caught his attention. He looked hard and rubbed his eyes in disbelief. There, across the field, was a large grey, smoky mass passing over the dead. The cloud-like vision separated into several shadowy shapes. They looked strangely like floating men on horseback, patrolling and advancing towards the enemy.

  Jim turned away to look at the men beside him, and the stunned expressions on their faces told him they had seen the same vision. The men were silent for a few minutes, then began to whisper. Sam reminded them about the angels of Mons, ghostly shapes on horses that were said to have appeared in the battlefield in Mons on August twenty-third, 1915, protecting the British forces from a German attack. The men all agreed that they believed in them.

  “I heard about them from a respected lance corporal, who was there and actually witnessed it,” Sam added.

  Jim was quiet while the others discussed the visions at Mons, and then he said, “Have you ever heard of the fairy flag of Dunvegan?”

  The men all looked at Jim and shook their heads, but they were eager to hear what he had to say.

  “Well, on the Isle of Skye in Scotland, there’s a castle called Dunvegan. It’s the ancestral home of the MacLeods. They say that a MacLeod brought back a magic silk flag from the Crusades, and some say that a fairy gave it to him. Whatever its origin, the flag is very powerful. If ever a MacLeod’s life is in peril, he has only to wave the flag and a host of armed spirits will come to defend and protect him. I know the fairy flag exists because my grandfather saw it when he was a young man visiting a MacLeod. The clan became impoverished after the potato famine, but they never lost Castle Dunvegan, and they still have that silk in their possession. When I first heard about the angels of Mons, I wondered if a MacLeod had been with the British troops, and had unfurled the fairy flag to summon the medieval ghost army. That would certainly explain the angels of Mons.”

  The men nodded their heads and looked out over the field again. They wanted to believe that they were protected by supernatural forces, but now all they saw was a vast field of murdered men.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Annie came outside to investigate a commotion in the yard. Bobby called out, “Look what we found!” Jack held out a clump of earth supporting a small, struggling lilac shrub. She looked at him for a moment, and then it dawned on her that her sons had brought it from the old farm site. They were likely still searching for Mike, she realized. She didn’t know how the tiny plant could possibly have survived the fire but she tenderly replanted it by her front door, anticipating the sweet aroma of lilac blossoms for many springs to come. The flowering plant had been a gift from Jim and it was all that was left from their farm.

  In June, Annie finally found a buyer for her five acres of land. She had paid the mortgage fee regularly so Jim wouldn’t lose his farm land to the bank, but the five acres were hers to do with as she wished. She had advertised for months on a cork board in the post office and told everyone she knew that the place was for sale. She believed she got a fair price considering there were no buildings on the site, except the remains of the root cellar. When the sale finally went through at the end of June, Annie arranged to have the new house wired for electricity. After she received her next monthly separation allowance from the army, she purchased an electric pump and had some plumbing installed in the empty bathroom. Every couple of months she made another purchase, until she had a working bathroom with a large hot water tank. The dining room and sitting room were still without furniture but she could finally have a hot bath whenever she wished. Won’t Jim be pleased with how I’ve managed our home? Then she felt a pang of guilt for having these comforts to enjoy while Jim was still away living in miserable, life-threatening conditions.

  She routinely scanned the newspaper for news of the Western Front, and forced herself to check the casualty list for proof that Jim was not injured or killed in action. She wrote to him twice a week, and sent parcels at least once a month. She knew he was receiving them and that he enjoyed hearing even the most trivial family news. He always wrote to thank her, though his letters were sporadic. Sometimes she wouldn’t receive one for several weeks, and then she might receive two or three together. Some notes were written in his neat script, but sometimes they looked like they were written by a child, or a very old person.

  In November, she received a missive written in that shaky, old-man scrawl.

  Dearest Annie,

  I hope this letter finds you and the children well. I had a bout of trench fever a while back but am feeling much better now. We are still fighting in this ancient battlefield. We push Fritz and he pushes back. I can hardly wait for this war to be finished. It is a little disheartening to figure out that I’ve been here for nine months without a break.

  I have some very sad news to deliver. Please sit yourself down, dear. I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you this. I just got word that George was killed in action on October twelfth. I know what a shock t
his news will be to you. Try to be strong and know that your brother died a hero.

  Annie had to put the letter down. Her vision was blurred by her tears and shivers went up her back. I was being so selfish, fussing over our home, while George died. Why didn’t I feel that something was wrong?

  She got up to retrieve the biscuit tin that held her treasures. A month earlier, George’s wife had mailed her two photos of him in his Cameron Highlander uniform. Annie took George’s photos out of the tin, lovingly touched his handsome face and cried fresh tears. George was standing tall with his left hand lightly touching an x-framed campaign chair. His regimental kilt was covered by an army-issue apron and his long, strong legs were visible above his puttees and boots. She tenderly placed the photo on the kitchen table, then picked up Jim’s letter to continue reading.

  I confess that I took the news hard myself. I’ve witnessed so much carnage in the battle field, I began to grow numb to the death all around me. I thought I had become less than human, but to lose George was a terrible blow. I was told that his death was swift and he did not suffer. You should be proud of your brother. I am so sorry to be the one to tell you of this loss.

  Annie suspected that Jim had written about a swift death to spare her feelings. Jim’s life was threatened every minute in this war, she knew, yet here he was protecting her from additional pain. The letter was smeared in water marks, and she knew they must be Jim’s tears. She impulsively kissed the spots where his tears had fallen.

  I promise that I will do everything in my power to come home to you after this war. I am heartened to hear that I may be up for a two-week pass to England in February. That would give me enough time to take the train up to Shields and see Ma. Take very good care of yourself. I wish I could be there to hold you in my arms and comfort you, and have you comfort me as well. Love to the children.

  Jim

  Annie dug through the old newspapers in her kindling box. At the bottom of her wood pile, miraculously saved for her, was a copy of a paper dated October thirteenth. She took the paper to the table and smoothed it out.

  From the front page she learned exactly where George had died; a place called Passchendaele. She read of viscous mud, yards deep, and a drenching sheet of rain that the British troops trudged through. The attack was to begin at daybreak, but the Germans must have found out somehow. During the night, the enemy heavily shelled the British communication roads and front lines, and threw gas shells along the British forward positions while maintaining a heavy machine-gun barrage. The Germans had held strong positions along the slopes of the Passchendaele Ridge. They had concrete pillboxes and machine-gun forts, and the fire from these strongholds was incessant.

  Annie wept at the horror. Why would the British army continue to advance when it was obvious the Germans were well-prepared, had the advantage of being on higher ground and obviously had prior knowledge of the British attack? George had had no chance of survival. He was murdered.

  She went to bed angry. Not only was she angry about George, but angry at the British government for deporting the mother of one of their lost soldiers. She worried that George wouldn’t have a proper burial site.

  That night, she had a dream about George so vivid that she felt she could almost touch him. He told her that Jim was safe. She woke up crying, but strangely comforted.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  The Western Front

  Autumn, 1917

  The morale among the Canadians at the front was at its lowest point. Men grumbled about their commanders being safe in the rear, while continuing to order the troops at the front to battle. Many were haunted by the number of their comrades killed since the beginning of the war.

  Jim’s unit continued to restore communications, roads, and railways, often working at night under fire. Once, Jim and Sam were stranded for three days with only a day’s supply of food. Jim pointed out the irony of being so bloody thirsty when there was so much water all around. Everywhere they looked, there were craters filled with fetid, contaminated water. When a group of men had finally brought food and water, Jim had had to force himself to eat amid the stench of decaying bodies and the filth of the trench. The drinking water came in an old gasoline can, which gave it a peculiar taste, but Jim was desperate to quench his thirst and drank deeply.

  One night, several weeks later, Jim was sheltered with a group of Canadians in a large, reasonably dry crater. They entertained each other with whispered stories of their homes back in Canada. Jim told his mates about Annie.

  “My wife’s just a bit of a thing, but she chased off a bear when she was picking blueberries. She said she thought it was just a big dog – and she just told him to shoo and banged her pot! But, when she first came up north, this same woman screamed like a city girl when a little field mouse ran over her shoe.”

  Over the course of the evening, they all tried to outdo one another with stories of wolves and bears and hardships they had overcome, back home. Later on, the men tried to get as comfortable as they could, and one by one drifted off into an exhausted sleep.

  Jim had just barely fallen asleep when a tall Scottish soldier rapped him on the shoulder. Jim slapped the man’s hand away and growled, “Piss off!” Feeling uncomfortable, he sat up and cursed. The kilted Cameron Highlander urged him to get up and follow. Jim looked closely at his face and swore again - it was his brother-in-law.

  “Jesus, George, it’s good to see you!” he cried in relief. “I heard you were killed in October.”

  George put his finger to his lips and turned, signalling again for him to follow. Jim climbed out of the slippery shell hole and cautiously crawled behind George. They travelled several hundred feet to another large crater and lowered themselves to the bottom. When Jim reached the muddy floor of the hole, he found a spot to lay his ground cape and turned back towards his wife’s youngest brother. He wasn’t there. Puzzled, Jim called several times for George but there was no reply. Suddenly he heard heavy shelling coming from the enemy, so kept his head down. The firing continued throughout the night and through the next day.

  Finally, under the cover of the night sky, Jim crawled out of the hole and returned to the crater he had been in before George found him. To his horror, every man with whom he had shared stories and rum the night before was dead, half-buried in the muck of the shell hole. He saw Sam’s red hair in among the mangled bodies. His face grew pale.

  “Oh God,” he moaned. “Why should I have survived?” He knew in his head that George had died at Passchendaele, but his heart told him that his brother-in-law had saved him. Jim pulled Sam’s body out of the mud and fetid water, swearing with the effort, and dragged him to a groundsheet. “I won’t leave you here, mate. I’ll take care of you.” He mechanically gathered all the nametags for identification and searched pockets for letters and photos. He stopped at last at Sam’s body and broke down and cried uncontrollably. It took a half-hour before he had the mental strength to move on.

  He slung Sam’s body over his shoulder and slowly walked the two miles back through the battlefield to the command post. He almost wished that a sniper would train his sites on him, and end his pain. He reverently placed Sam’s body beside a tent, insisting that his friend’s remains be treated with respect and that he be given a proper burial.

  Jim had planned to keep the story of the ghost of his brother-in-law private, but did not anticipate the heavy questioning he received. He broke down in tears several times recounting the death of Sam and the others, and finally he reluctantly told of the ghost that saved him. The officer shook his head, patted Jim on the shoulder and said, “You’ve been hallucinating from lack of food, soldier. Go back to the cook tent and get yourself a bowl of hot stew and some tea.”

  On the way to the cook tent, Jim had to stop and kneel down on the ground. He could not keep his body from shaking. He buried his head in his hands and wept for the senseless loss of his mates, especially for his friend Sam and, once again, for his brother-in-law.

  Over the
next few weeks there were subtle changes in the war as new conscripts arrived from Canada. There were fresh American soldiers as well; the States had finally entered the war. The addition of robust, strong troops was a great advantage now and the Germans were pushed back towards Belgium. Morale was boosted, and men were getting their long-promised passes to Britain.

  Jim finally received notice that he’d been granted his two-week leave to Old Blighty, the slang the men used for England. The welcome news lifted his spirits; it also helped to have a bath and be issued a new uniform. His old uniform was filthy, torn, and crawling with lice. Jim eagerly anticipated the short crossing to England, then a train ride north, back to the sanity of his mother’s home in South Shields. Hoping his leave would not be postponed yet again, he celebrated with a mug of rum-laced tea.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  The war had caused many changes in Bear Falls. When the government brought in conscription, Annie heard that some men disappeared into the bush. The story was that they didn’t view the war as their battle and that some did not feel any allegiance to Britain. Sixteen-year-old Bobby came back from the hotel one evening, quite excited with a story about a local Irishman.

  “They say that he refused to report to duty when he received his draft orders. He was at the hotel, and said he would not wear a khaki uniform until Ireland was free. Two military police came in and arrested him!”

  Annie shook her head and was torn between thinking these dodgers to be unpatriotic cowards, and envying their wives, who would know that their husbands would remain alive and unharmed. These men were guaranteed to be with their wives at the end of the war.

  Later that month, she read in the Toronto paper that the Irishman from Bear Falls had been court-martialled and sentenced to two years in the penitentiary. He’s a lucky man, she couldn’t help thinking. He knows he’ll still be alive when his two years are up. He’s in a safer place than Jim.