by Paul Almond
Jack nodded and secretly prayed that it might be true: Let him not meet a sharp-shooter’s bullet; let him have many more autumns before he takes his leave of this earth.
Looking past George, Jack saw Private Eamon McAndrews, the Cape Breton jokester. George turned as Eamon called out: “Hello there, Padre. Enjoying the voyage?”
“Private, don’t you know regulations?” George barked. “Where do you get off forgetting to salute an officer?”
“Oh, George, never mind. Friends should greet me as their padre, not their superior officer. I don’t deserve — ”
“Jack, if old Brown catches us, there’ll be another dressing down, which you want to avoid. You’ve gotten in enough trouble —”
He stopped to return the snappy salute that Eamon had given them both, winking at Jack.
“All ready for the fray, Eamon?” Jack asked. “We’ve been discussing poetry together.” He noticed George seemed ill at ease with this friendly meeting.
“Passes the time, I guess. Now how soon do you think it will be before we strike landfall, Padre? Some of the fellas get seasick even when the sea’s like a millpond. We sailors never bother, but them farmers — ”
“Careful what you say about farmers, Private! You’re talking to one,” George exclaimed.
Jack couldn’t tell if he were joking or being unnecessarily serious. “Well,” he interrupted, “we’re all off on our glorious mission together, fisherman, farmer, tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, beggar man, thief.”
“Dunno about glorious missions, Padre. I told you, some of us joined because of the three square meals and a decent roof. I never expected to be going out so soon to kill a bunch of Africans, no matter how bad they’re supposed to be.”
Jack nodded and drew in a deep breath.
“I have to agree with that sentiment, Private,” George muttered. “But we mustn’t lose sight of our mission, must we?”
Eamon nodded. “Yes sir. But there’s so much talk of us beating the daylights out of the devils...” He seemed to hesitate, and then turned to Jack. “Sometimes in the night, I kin as easily see them devils beatin’ the daylights out of us. What do you think?”
Indeed, that was the question to be asked. “Well, in warfare,” Jack replied, “somebody wins and someone else loses. But we’re doing our duty, supporting the Empire, an ideal ingrained in all of us very early.” The last thing he wanted to think of was Eamon, or George, finding a premature grave. “Let’s hope we all live to a ripe old age, Eamon.” Jack smiled. “Now that seems to me like an easy cue for a few seconds of prayer? No harm in that — maybe a short silent supplication for an quick and easy victory?”
“I’d better get back to my company, Jack. Seems as if the shooting has stopped.” With that, George took his leave.
Jack closed his eyes. Eamon was a stranger to church. But why not try?
When he opened his eyes and glanced across, he saw Eamon still sunk deep in... well, perhaps prayer, why not. A tiny pastoral victory?
They stood looking out into the waves, the day cloudy, a far-off fogbank menacing them, when Jack saw on his friend’s face a new look that told of distress. “Anything else troubling you, Eamon?”
“Well, now that you bring it up, yes, Padre. Every time a bloody officer walks by, we have to spring to attention and salute. I’ve talked to me mates, and we agree Old Bill has to put some discipline into us, all right, we are a mangy bunch of bastards. But we drill hard, we learn how to shoot, we right-turn, left-turn, quick march, slow march, do all this here rubbish which, Father I tell you, might not be all that necessary when we lie on our bellies and aim at those bastards over there. But when we’s takin’ a rest, or shining’ our shoes or maybe just having a doze, why leap up every time some bloody officer passes?”
“That does seem rather excessive,” Jack remarked. He had heard that the men were beginning to resent Otter for his stream of orders, intended to instil discipline in men, most of whom had never received any form of military training.
“Excessive, you said it. What’s worse, it’s making me dislike the buggers, when some of them officers, like Lieutenant Dorsey there, are kinda human and maybe even nice. We don’t want to get disrespectful — specially with us all going into battle together, eh? Why don’t that Colonel come out on deck himself, and see what it’s like? He’s always back in his damn cabin writing reports. Some say he’s just trying to get in with the Brits so’s he can join one of their regiments. As if there’s something wrong with being a Canadian. The troops are calling him Black Bill!”
As he was speaking, another thought struck Jack. Why not stand up for these boys? But how? Well, at least he could make a stab at it.
Chapter Eight
From the moment he walked through the orderly room door, pith helmet under his left arm, Jack knew he was in trouble. The grousing of the men had surely reached the Adjutant’s ears, and Jack saw that Brown was already in a bad mood, one he always seemed to wear along with his badge of rank. Jack found himself regretting his sudden impulse, but he’d taken the plunge and now had to make the most of it.
He voiced his concern at once. “I’ve heard that this particular discipline of saluting has been relaxed on other ships transporting the Imperial army. So Major, perhaps a little slack should be given our men at this point.”
“That is really not within your purview, Padre,” Brown stated. “You’re supposed to be looking after men’s souls, not their military performance.”
“But shouldn’t our Colonel make it easier on the men who, after all, have volunteered to lay down their lives in the service of freedom? It may not be my place, I agree, but sometimes, the men need an advocate and isn’t that what a padre is supposed to be?” It was coming out in a rush, which Jack regretted, but then, he’d become rather nervous. “We do have the example of the One who came before as an Advocate for the whole human race.”
“Pretty grandiose ideas for some young curate just out of college and now elevated to the rank of Honorary Captain.” Was that a sneer?
The look on the face of the Adjutant only built Jack’s distaste. He wanted to fling back an insult, but held himself in check. “In these army manuals that I’m trying to absorb, I read that a commanding officer puts his men first, even before himself,” Jack maintained firmly. “In any case, would you be kind enough to pass my concerns along to Colonel Otter?”
With that, and before any rude words could escape the Adjutant’s mouth, Jack whirled and left, committing a rather ungraceful exit as the ship gave a lurch that threw him against the wall.
Oh yes, another enemy for sure.
* * *
For his sermon at his second service on Sunday, Nov 13th, he took as a text Joshua I, verse 7: “Only be thou courageous and very strong.” He was saying it more to himself than the others. In fact, this voyage had begun to wear on him. He told the men to turn to their “true source of strength.” Weren’t they crossing the great ocean on behalf of the cause of liberty, equality and freedom? These impulses would sustain them on the long march, in the dreary night watch, and in the wearisome waiting. “The eye of your Canadian home is upon you,” he finished, “the eye of the world is on you.”
During the service, he noticed many looking over the port bow. And indeed, that morning they had seen the craggy rocks of San Antonio, the first of the Cape Verde islands, seven thousand feet high and twenty-two miles long. The service over, Jack doffed his surplice and joined the Officers and men scanning with every sort of binocular and glass the oncoming landscape. Would they go ashore? The weather had turned a deal warmer and the sun was often their companion in the sky now, burning down on them, for they’d soon cross the equator and enter summer.
The islands produced coffee and bananas; Jack borrowed field glasses and made out some goats browsing on the hillsides. The ship ran down along the east side and soon got close enough for Jack to make out a couple of fishing villages in the breaks of the high, jagged, red rock that sloped shee
r down to the sea. Their square white houses with black windows beckoned, but then the men had received orders: no stop-overs.
Sailing slowly past, the Sardinian soon came in sight of the next island, St. Vincent, with its decent harbour gracing a small coaling village. Heavy mountains scowled down on the many troop transports and cruisers lying at anchor. A small crowd had gathered on the quay, and Jack thought he made out the sound of distant cheering as they passed.
Back in his stateroom for the afternoon, Jack realized that he was at sixes and sevens. In a quandary, he realized that he had not yet found his true direction. One way to calm his thoughts he decided was to write a letter — how remiss he had been in keeping his family informed. When his departure had been approved, he’d just had time to scrawl a hasty note for his landlady to post, telling his parents he was leaving for South Africa. What must they be thinking?
Dear Poppa and Momma,
Here I am on the good ship Sardinian heading for the South African war. I guess by now you have heard a lot about the struggle. I have been made an Honorary Captain, which I hope will make you proud. No doubt you are wondering why I have taken up this challenge. Sometimes I wonder myself.
Snow must be all over the farm now, and drifting up around the house. I guess you’re all nestling down in our wonderful old Homestead. I wish I could be with you, but I have cast my lot with these lads who will be needing my help in their hours of peril approaching all too soon. In a couple of weeks we reach Cape Town. I have often wanted to travel, and this was my chance. I cannot wait to see what the African continent will be like.
How does Lilian like teaching in Shigawake? Has Winnie gone off to Montreal to be a nurse yet? Mac is working in the woods this winter, I bet. You always said you wanted logs piled ready on the bank to float down to the mill in the spring floods. I hope Earle is studying hard so he can go to college, too.
Do not worry about me. I am well and happy, and love this new experience, though it’s not all rice pudding. I expected I’d be seasick, but so far I’m fine. I shall write from the battlefield next month, in the Cape Colony or the Transvaal, when the fighting begins. A fine Roman Catholic priest, Peter O’Leary, has come to look after the French fellows, and a rather forbidding clergyman from Prince Edward Island to look after those from the breakaway churches.
I send you my love and prayers. Your loving son, John.
* * *
In the morning of November sixteenth, another ship, the SS Rangatira on her way from New Zealand to Southampton hove into view. A lucky encounter. Soon, Jack heard the Captain announce over the loudspeaker that letters would be taken over and thus posted from a British port. Jack was pleased to see his missive go off so soon.
The Rangatira also brought news from the front that was not good, having encountered another ship coming from the Cape. The British had faced more setbacks in the struggle, but this cheered the men greatly, for they knew that sooner rather than later, they could be thrown into battle.
For the crossing of the line on the next day, oddly cruel weather, cold and overcast like an October day, was interrupted by the celebration of whistles and the discharge of a large rocket from the captain’s bridge. A holiday was declared and the men gathered around, celebrating.
Jack was approached by his friend from the sheds, the grizzled Corporal Ferguson. “Well, hello Corporal, haven’t seen you around much, except for being a loyal attendee of my services.”
“You preach fine sermons, Padre. I like to listen to ’em. So do all the boys.” And they fell in beside each other as Jack wandered over to the rail where Lieutenant Dorsey was looking out to sea. The Corporal saluted him as was proper and they fell to talking.
Again today, Jack noticed the flying fish. Broaching the surface, flocks of them would go skittering for many yards, white forms flashing against the dark waves, like fisher faeries trying to break their spirits free from the freezing depths. Escape! They seemed to cry; such curious flutterings.
“Won’t be much longer now, I hear,” Jack said.
“Just as well!” The Corporal growled. Jack looked round. “You wouldn’t believe what it’s like below decks.” He kept looking at Jack.
Lieutenant Dorsey turned to glance at the Corporal.
“I hope it’s not too uncomfortable,” Jack mumbled as the Corporal continued to look at him.
“Something wrong, Corporal?” George asked.
Ferguson shook his head, continuing to look at Jack.
Well, something’s up, Jack thought to himself. “Corporal, if you have time now, why don’t I come down and see your quarters before lunch?”
No sooner were the words out of his mouth when somehow he realized that the Corporal had been waiting for precisely that reaction. Indeed, he should have mingled with his men, much sooner.
The Corporal muttered under his breath, “About time. We’ve been waiting for our Padres to visit.”
“What’s that you said?” bristled George Dorsey. “Our Padres do quite enough. Their Sunday services are first rate; evening prayer always fresh and interesting, with words that we need to hear. What more do you expect?”
“No, no, George, he’s quite right. I have been neglecting my duties.” Jack followed the Corporal to the companionway.
“Jack, there’s no need for to you go down there,” George said. “Everything’s being done for them that is needed.”
Jack glanced around. “But it’s not the same accommodation as we officers —”
“No question of that Padre, we’re in the army now, and the ship is only so big, eh?”
“The rank and file,” Jack persisted, “have some very bright men, I’ve heard. Some could even be officers.”
The Corporal broke in, “I been making a list. In the ranks we’ve got thirty-one university students, eleven teachers, thirteen lawyers, and twelve professional engineers...”
Jack and George traded looks. “Quite worthy men, no doubt about that!” Jack agreed. “Let’s go check, George.”
George hung back. “Jack, let it be.”
Jack frowned at his friend, and dove on into the companionway.
“But I don’t want you to get into more trouble...”
Jack stopped. “More trouble, George?”
“You the Adjutant don’t get on too well. Best not to push that too far.”
“You think I care what the Adjutant says?” Jack’s black eyes blazed.
“No, Jack, I’m sure you don’t.” George towered over him, looking concerned. “But you should try harder to keep in the good graces of the higher-ups. Makes for a more effective go-between, when you’re really needed. On that battlefield, it might be important to have a powerful advocate.”
“Aye,” said the Corporal, turning to look up the stairs as Jack and his companion had begun to follow him down. “You watch how the brass is looking after us — I’ve seen enough already. And I’ve heard enough. Water scarce. No more washing. Some of my men not even issued kharki uniforms yet. What’s it going to be like out on that veldt?”
Jack took note: the Corporal probably knew what he was talking about. He followed him into the ship’s steel belly and reached the level of the troop deck. Jack looked around. The stench of food, fresh paint, seasickness, and the fug of sweat, almost made him gag.
Hundreds of hammocks were slung over the tables where the men ate. Much too close together, Jack thought, for in rough weather they’d bang into each other as they swung wildly in their meshes.
But an even greater shock came as Jack reached the second level. Here, the air was so thick and rank that Jack could imagine picking his way through with an axe. This vast birth deck was well below the level of water. In long stationery rows, these sleeping compartments had narrow passages with scant room to walk between. The men lay packed like eggs in a crate, and whatever air ventilation sent down into this black hole had to be conveyed by means of canvas air shoots from the upper decks.
Jack was further taken aback by the greetings
from those soldiers who found the sun too strong and the deck too cramped, and so had come down for a rest. “Hello Padre! How d’ye like our dungeon? Padre, you should come down to see us more often! We all like your sermons, Padre.” A warmth Jack now felt he did not deserve.
It was an oddly dispirited cleric who climbed those stairs, after having thanked the Corporal for this eye-opening tour. What have I been doing all this voyage? Jack asked himself. Why have I not spent more time with my men? Look at me, up there in my comfortable cabin, albeit with that confrontational Captain, eating my hot officers’ meals in the mess — and paying no attention to the very men I’ve been sent to succour.
As they reached the top of the stairs, Lieutenant Dorsey said, “It’s rough Jack, I know, but we all have to fit on this darned vessel, and it’s by no means a real troopship. They’re trying to do their best, I’d say. That Corporal Ferguson is a complete gem, though. I take my hat off to him.”
“Well, make sure you tell him that,” said Jack ruefully.
Chapter Nine
The next night, when the opportunity arose, Jack leaned across the table at dinner and said to Kelsie — and he didn’t care who was listening, “I’ve got to talk to you, Kelsie. When you’ve finished, please join me on deck.”
She looked at him, frightened. What on earth was he going to say? But he didn’t care. He was so disheartened by his manifest lack of diligence, his selfishness, enjoying himself as if he’d earned it by years of army service instead of having just joined up. Not only had the visit downstairs chastened him, it brought to mind all sorts of indignities the men might be facing that he hadn’t recognized.
He stood at the railing, waiting uncomfortably. The lanterns threw a low light across the loaded deck. Why was she taking such an age? Was she afraid to come? Had she decided that this sporadic relationship should go no further? Had he been neglecting her?
When she finally turned up, he wasted no time in pouring out all his worries