Flanders

by Anthony, Patricia

  Travis Lee

  * * *

  DECEMBER 13, THE REST AREA

  Dear Bobby,

  The night after his arrest, Miller slept in the glasshouse. I asked to see him, but the red caps turned me away. I went back to barracks. I couldn’t eat, but I wanted liquor the way I had wanted it when all I could think about was the next sip of rum, when I needed it as strong as I’d ever needed a woman. See, if I got drunk, Bobby, I could forget what was about to happen. If I got drunk enough, I could finally sleep.

  I asked Calvert for rum. I begged Hutchins. I begged Goodson. Uncle Tim said, “Easy on. Don’t have none, mate. Can’t see that? Nobody ’as none.”

  I booted my pack, sent it sailing across the room. I slammed my cot into the wall again, again, until the wood turned to splinters. I fought that room until I was so tired that my muscles went to jerking. That’s when I noticed the sixteen survivors of my two hundred and forty-strong company. They were sitting on their bunks, watching me.

  Calvert got up, offered me some tea. Blandish asked if I wanted dinner, and I told him no. They left for the mess hall together. I sat in the ruins of that room, and when the boys came back an hour later we played a little cards. I laughed once or twice. That night I lay on a dead man’s cot and didn’t sleep; and the next morning I walked out to see if I could stop it.

  The YMCA pavilion was already being prettied up for the court martial. The doors and windows were open. The long table where kindly women once served lemonade had been cleared, a straight-backed chair set to its front. Enlisted men bustled around the huge room, sweeping the floor, carting carafes of water, bringing in paper and pens. Soldiers I’d never seen were coming and going, sergeants I didn’t know were barking orders. And in the middle of that commotion, that mute and lonely chair.

  The boys wandered out of the mess hall and gathered around. Blackhall and Driggers walked up. Blackhall looked natty in his dress uniform.

  Driggers cleared his throat. “Men? May I have your attention, please? Lieutenant Blackhall and I have spoken with Major Dunn. As of this moment, you are ordered confined to quarters.”

  Not a one of us moved.

  Blackhall sidled up to me. “Me tie straight?”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Flaming ties. Never could get the knack.” He fiddled with his collar. “Requested permission to address the board. Somebody needs to speak up for ’im.”

  Driggers asked loudly, “Well, men? What are your plans?”

  Hell, I didn’t know. I doubted any of us did. Stand there until Miller was tried and shot. Until the whole goddamned war was over.

  Blackhall leaned toward me again. “Anything you want me to tell Dunn?”

  “LeBlanc was guilty of those rapes.”

  The busy pavilion. Our motionless knot of men. A misty morning, and the horizon lost in fog.

  Blackhall caught my elbow, led me out of earshot. “Listen, Stanhope. Know you and Miller ’ad something between you. Don’t need to know what it was. But don’t want you to get your hopes up. Others would follow you, and that could start a riot. Miller’s own fault, anyways. ’E was a fool.”

  I pivoted, started back to the others. He grabbed my elbow.

  Blackhall’s grip hurt. His voice held no room for doubt or charity. “ ’E was a fool.” A voice so full of indignation that spittle sprayed my cheek. “ ’Ad too many witnesses. Poor, damned bloody fool. If only ’e’d asked, I’d have done it for ’im.” He let me go.

  A captain came riding up and reined in by Driggers. His chestnut gelding was lathered. The horse crab-stepped away, danced. The captain grabbed mane, held his seat the best he could. “Lieutenant!” he called. “Order these men into barracks! “

  Driggers said, “Won’t go, sir.”

  The chestnut fought the reins, tossed his head, blew noisily. “Men!” the captain said. “As of this moment, you are confined to quarters!”

  I left Blackhall, walked over to the group, and stood beside the somber-faced Blandish—a small boy who’d grown up in a hurry.

  The captain’s face flamed. “Sergeant!”

  Riddell, sitting on the corduroy road, shook his head. “Sorry, sir.”

  With a look of disbelief, the captain whirled his chestnut and cantered away. Through the open windows of the YMCA pavilion, my eyes riveted on a splash of color: a Union Jack.

  We stood there for a while in the sprinkling rain until Blackhall looked over his shoulder, snapped to attention and barked, “Steady on, men!”

  From the mist came marching an armed squad. Without a word, they surrounded us. Their commanding lieutenant stepped forward, ordered us to surrender our weapons.

  Riddell raised his hands so they could take his side arm, then sat back down. Blackhall handed his pistol over. After some frowning indecision, Driggers gave them his, too.

  “You are ordered back to quarters,” the lieutenant announced. A well-spoken boy, like Driggers. Too unseasoned for his rank. He held Driggers’s pistol, the barrel pointed at the ground; and his fright was so strong I could smell it. “That is a direct order from Colonel Caraway. Well? Did you not hear me?” He looked us over. I looked us over, too, saw the hard faces, the long-cast stares. Dear God, Bobby. We looked like convicts.

  The boy cleared his throat. “The colonel has instructed me to warn you that noncompliance with his order may be construed as mutiny.” A kid. Not much starch to him. “Do you not hear what I am telling you?” His voice broke, rose out of his control. “You men are under arrest! Fall out! I said, fall out!” He whirled to his squad, ordered, “Fix your bayonets!”

  They were a green squad—clean boys, just out of training, ones who were good at orders; boys full of piss and vinegar and patriotism. They instantly obeyed. I looked around that ring of bayonets, at those blank, earnest faces.

  The lieutenant said to us, “I shall give you to the count of three.”

  Outside the ring, Blackhall and Driggers were standing, calm and attentive. At the edge of our silent group, Riddell sat, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

  “One!”

  Riddell raised his head, looked straight at the boy who was holding a bayonet to him. The kid’s face was full of a disturbing and simple-minded innocence.

  “Two!”

  So loud that Driggers flinched.

  I watched the boy near me—his expression held in such tight check that his jaw was knotted. The tip of his bayonet trembled.

  I lifted my face to the sky. The air smelled of damp and grass. Cool, light-fingered rain touched my forehead. I closed my eyes and thought how nice it would be to walk through the sunset of the graveyard and watch the angels shimmer, to talk to Dunleavy and Marrs again, to see the leaves falling slow.

  The lieutenant screamed, “Surrender or I shall have them shoot you! I shall order them! I do not wish to do this! Dear God! What is the matter with you men? Are you insane?”

  I opened my eyes. Beyond the circle of weapons, the lieutenant stood, his bottom lip quivering. “Do you not hear me? You must hear me!” And then he whirled to his men and shouted, “Blast! Damn! Stand down!”

  The squad lowered their weapons. The lieutenant stalked away. A while later, the captain galloped back. “This will not do,” he said. “Court is to convene, and the officers of the board are hesitant to appear. This simply will not do.”

  It was funny somehow: sixteen unarmed men. I knew I should have laughed. I glanced over at Calvert. There was a strange, baffled smile on his face.

  Blackhall went up to the chestnut’s side. Him and the captain talked in whispers, the captain bending down, frowning. Then the captain kicked his mount and trotted back toward the officers’ quarters. Blackhall followed.

  The rain fell harder. It drummed against the shoulders of my greatcoat. It splashed and tinged on the new boys’ helmets. In a while, Blackhall returned. He stood at parade rest in front of us and said, “Bringing in the court now. Promised the colonel there wouldn’t be trouble. Promised ’
im you’d stay where you was.” His eyes caught mine. “Promised ’im you wouldn’t hoorah nor jeer.” He said, “I promised ’im. Agreed?”

  I nodded. Around me, I heard a smattering of quiet “yes, sir”s.

  Across the yard the officers came: Colonel Caraway, Major Dunn, Captains Wilson and Dunston-Smith. I watched the two captains pass and thought I saw Dunston-Smith cast a furtive glance my way. Then, so very soon really, and without much ado, they were inside the pavilion. A batman and two aides went to the windows, shut them with heavy caliber bangs. Into that featureless and enigmatic building they brought Miller. I saw him cross the yard, nearly hidden by mist, a red cap to either side. I caught one clear-edged glimpse as he looked around at the sixteen of us. Dangerous men. All of us killers.

  They went slowly up the three steps and entered. Blackhall entered after them, shut the door. We stood, let the rain fall, and watched the day slip into afternoon.

  Driggers came by, stopped at Goodson’s side, stared out at the shut pavilion. He took stock of us, and said into Goodson’s averted face, “Come into the warm, man. Have a cuppa. The cooks have made us lemon biscuits. Why stand out here in the rain? There is nothing you can accomplish by it. Why, there is not even anything here to watch. I simply don’t see the point.”

  Goodson ignored him. Like he was tired of standing, Calvert sat down on the logs. Hutchins did, too. The rain pattered down, soaked our knit caps, rolled into our eyes. After a while, Driggers went away.

  A long time later, the door of the pavilion opened. Blackhall came out alone and walked toward us across the soggy grass.

  Hutchins called, “What happened?”

  “Don’t want yer crying out,” Blackhall warned. “Don’t want that.”

  Goodson stood up. “What’d they say?”

  Blackhall nailed me with a warning look. “Captain’s been found guilty. ’E’s to be executed in the morning.” I sat down hard on the logs. I didn’t cry out. Blandish sat down beside me.

  “ ’E was always nice to me,” Blandish said. “A real gent, like.”

  I told him to shut up.

  The door opened again and two red caps led Miller out.

  His chin was high, his gait loose and easy, his expression calm. He cast one look at us as he passed. The afternoon was dark, but I thought I saw him smile.

  Next the colonel came, and Dunn. Then Wilson with Dunston-Smith. Wilson stopped in the meadow and let the others walk on. He stared at us a long time.

  Blackhall sat down beside me. “Blandish? Dismissed.”

  “Want to stay, sir,” he complained.

  “Go get the men sommit. You and Goodson. Men ’as to eat. “

  The two walked away in the gathering dark.

  “Was wounded around who seen it,” Blackhall said, “but they was our company, and wouldn’t speak against ’im. Was only that med aide what served as witness. Fool admitted to it, right in court. Didn’t ’ave to, you know. Officer’s word against an enlisted. Anyways, I stood up and showed all me evidence, but the women wasn’t an issue, that’s what the colonel said.”

  Rain pattered down, soaked Blackhall’s British Warm. He took his dress cap off, shook it, wiped the wet from his balding, close-cropped head. “Tomorrow, when it ’appens, you’re to keep your mouf shut, understand?”

  I pictured the firing squad in that broad meadow. Puffs of smoke from the barrels. The weary Miller slumping.

  “Promise me,” Blackhall said.

  I did.

  “The men can stay ’ere or can go to barracks. Tomorrow, when it’s done, they can watch; but they’ll need to keep to the road. That was the agreement. I guaranteed it. Stanhope, don’t make me out a liar.”

  I hugged my knees, let the rain wash my face.

  Blackhall said, “I got a way you can visit.”

  There in the mud he drew a map, showed me where the sentries passed the glasshouse, what times I could expect them. When he was finished, he scratched over the lines he’d made, said he was going to get dinner, said he had plans to sleep in quarters.

  Then he shook my hand. “Miller’s the best man I ever worked for, copper or army. But ’e’s the kind of fool tries to make life right for everybody. ’E fiddles at things. Breaks ’is back trying. That sort of goodness always comes back on you.”

  He got up, groaning, knees popping, and walked over to Riddell. He bent down and they whispered back and forth for a while. The rain let up. When smoky dusk rolled over the meadow, when warm, welcoming lights came on in the barracks windows, Riddell got up and left with him.

  Calvert sat down beside me, jerked his chin toward our guard. “Scared of us.” The squad had dwindled to three cold-looking boys.

  He lit up two Woodbines, passed me one. We smoked and watched the last of twilight leave the meadow. Night came on. Hutchins and Goodson left, returned with a lantern and tarps.

  “ ’Ow’ll it be, you think,” Calvert asked, “to stand ’ere and watch ’em kill ’im?”

  The wind was brisk. The cold buried itself under my coat, dug under my vest, and lodged in a place near my heart. The chill hurt. It made me shiver.

  I got to my feet.

  Calvert looked up at me. “You all right, Stanhope?”

  I walked away, down the corduroy road and past the paddocks. I went into the warm of the stables and stood, my hand on the door, staring into the glow of the lantern and the empty golden straw.

  Memory got so big that it pushed me out. I left, went down past the officers’ quarters. Everything there was contained, the doors and windows shuttered all except for one. Inside a room Wilson sat on a straight-backed wooden chair, arms hanging so limp in his lap that it looked like he was dead.

  I broke into a trot, then into a run. Past the place where the officers had once practiced their show—Dunston-Smith on the ill-tuned piano, Miller laughing in his chorus line—past the weeping willow and the bridge-Dunston-Smith and Miller close, the smell of beer heavy in the air. I didn’t stop until the sentry challenged me.

  “Talk funny,” he said. He was just a dark blot in the night—a shadow soldier, same as me.

  “I’m an American.” Funny how proud it made me. Right then, right there. It made me homesick, too. I thought of the limestone hills, the Perdenales. I pictured the pavilion and its red, white, and blue flag; the stripes turned the wrong way, all the stars extinguished.

  “What’chur business?”

  “I’m in Captain Miller’s company.”

  I heard the clank of his gear as he moved. Too dark to see, but I knew he’d aimed his rifle. “Best be getting on.” The fright in his voice amazed me.

  I turned around and walked away.

  I followed the memory of Blackhall’s map, squeezed between the wall of a storage building and the latrines. I came out on the far side of the glasshouse: a long dark rectangle, one square of meshed yellow.

  “Sir!” I whispered. The window was high. I took off my gloves, reached my arm up far as I could, grabbed the sill. “Sir!”

  Rustling within. Miller’s voice, first a dull “What?” then a disbelieving “Stanhope?”

  Fingers met mine through the mesh. I jerked my hand away, then realized what I’d done. I reached out for him this time. The warmth of his touch made my eyes well up. It sapped the strength out of my legs.

  “Aw, goddamn you,” I said. I leaned my head against my arm, hung onto the wire tight. “Why didn’t you just bald-faced lie?”

  I didn’t expect the laugh. I didn’t ever think that, from a dying man, it could go on as long or could grow so loud. Then a “Shhh” from Miller, and the boom of footsteps on hardwood boards. From somewhere in the building, mutters.

  I took my hand down from the mesh, stuck it in my coat to warm it. Across the way, lanterns winked slow and lazy the way the lights in the graveyard do.

  Then from the window, “Stanhope?”

  “Yeah?” I put my hand back up. His hand was waiting. I remembered Pickering in the hospital, unconscious
but still holding on.

  “I had to stop him,” Miller said.

  “I know that, sir.”

  “And I was caught at the thing fair and square. Aide said he’d seen me. Now no one else can be blamed. At least there’s some justice to it.”

  “Ain’t no justice, sir. That’s just goddamned bullshit. Wasn’t no justice when my pa came looking for me with the belt. Never saw a lick of justice, ’cept for what came from you.”

  He sighed. “Well. There is justice. I wish you’d believe that. Wish you’d try to bring it about. Otherwise what I’ve done has no meaning, you see.”

  We stood for a while, just touching.

  “You scared?” I asked him.

  His fingertip rubbed lightly up and down my knuckle and I let him. I wouldn’t move my hand away. Never again.

  “There’s this graveyard,” I told him. “It’s a place I go in my dreams. Dunleavy’s there. And Marrs and O’Shaughnessy and the others. It’s pretty. There’s a girl who watches over. That’s where we go when we die, I think. I think we sleep for a while.”

  He sniffed. “Thoughtful of you, but I don’t need any hope of Heaven. Most kind of you to try. Still, one turns to religion at the end. Must be inevitable, I suppose. I have been sitting there considering what sort of Jew I have made.”

  Miller, tinkering at goodness.

  “Tell you one thing, sir. The guys in your company respect the hell out of you. Looks like they’re going to hang around outside the pavilion until it’s all over with. Funny the way it happened. Nobody’s said anything. Nobody’s made no plans. Haven’t talked about mutiny. They just stand there, like everybody’s too tired to move.”

  “You must persuade them not to do anything foolish. Shouldn’t want any of you hurt for my sake.”

  We had jumped the bags for him. We had faced shelling and not run away. We had walked head-on into machine-gun fire. “I’ll tell ’em.”

  “Kind of you to come.” His fingers went away.

  “Sir!”

  His voice was faint with distance. “Best get back to barracks. Do persuade the rest of the men to go with you. Tell them I am perfectly well.”