by Paul Almond
“The quicker we give those Boers the whipping they deserve,” Stanley declared, “and the sooner we get back to Canada, the better.”
“Amen to that,” echoed Jack.
The bartender looked at them askance. “It may not be the Boers who get the whipping. They beat the blazes out of the Imperials — what do you think they’ll do to a bunch of rag-tag recruits from Canada?”
“My worry exactly,” echoed Kandinsky.
Jack was taken aback to hear of skepticism about the ability of soldiers who’d shared with them a month-long sea voyage. “I, for one, have every faith in our lads,” he snapped.
“Those Boers, they have the advantage of the Germans’ guns and munitions,” the bartender countered. “They know how to make a gun, I’ll tell you. Soldiers have been in here talking about that six inch Long Tom — and those pom-poms: sixty rounds a minute, shells the size of your thumb, and four times the range of a rifle bullet! Oh yes, and their Maxim guns are much better than ours, from what I hear.”
“Rumours are flying everywhere. You just wait,” Stanley said. “We were told our boys have a nine inch gun —”
“A lot of use against roving bands of kommandos,” the bartender sneered.
“So the Boers are not alone? The Germans are supplying them?” Jack had heard something about this from Kelsie, but it still shocked him.
“O’course. Everyone knows the Germans are backing the Boers,” the bartender snorted. “They send down arms, they’re doing everything they can. Don’t want any spread of British influence in Africa. Age-old rivalry, o’course.”
“Not so age-old, my friend,” Stanley countered. “That dastardly Kaiser has wound it up a lot since the departure of Bismarck.”
“You mean to say Boer bullets,” Jack felt his ire rising, “made in Germany, will be killing our Canadians?”
“You’re right they will,” said the bartender, moving off to bring drinks to another group of soldiers rowdily demanding attention.
“Imagine going back home with a beaten regiment!” mourned Stanley.
“Those who are going home...” added Kandinsky.
“Well, I have every intention of making it through,”Stanley replied. “I think that goes for the Padre here too, doesn’t it Father?”
Jack nodded. “Yes indeed. No bullets will stop me doing my duty, even in the front line.”
“I wasn’t talking about being finished off,” Kandinsky interrupted. “I was talking about choosing not to go back.”
They both whirled. “You’re not?” Jack asked.
“No sir. Why do you think I took this job cooped up in those awful conditions on that boat? Because like you fellows, I felt a surge of pride? No sir. I wanted a new life.” The drink, Jack saw, might have loosened his tongue. “I’ve left behind a wife, sure, and I promised to send her money. But like all the others, she’ll find someone else pretty quick, you watch. I’ll be only too glad to get rid of her. All this talk of sweethearts and wives crying? The one thing I’ll tell you is: most of them will be laughing themselves to sleep — in another man’s bed.”
Now this kind of talk Jack had not heard along the Labrador, nor in the tightly knit villages in Quebec. He was, quite frankly, shocked. But he held his tongue.
“I know, I know,” said Stanley, ever the pacifier, “several recruits I interviewed intend to start new lives here.”
All this was news to Jack. Should he have listened even more to his men on the voyage? But to egg on Kandinsky and learn more, he said, “Well, you may not be alone, Kandinsky, but you’re certainly rare among these folk.”
“I don’t give a damn what the others think, nor you, Padre. There’s some with lives so rotten, we’d do anything for a change. We cry out for it. You grew up with a silver spoon in your mouth. Most of us didn’t.”
Stanley shook his head. “You’re wrong about that. They say Jack here was a poor farm laddie.”
That reply got Kandinsky more worked up. Jack wondered how to pour soothing ointment on the bitterness.
Stanley tried. “Well, Kandinsky, you’ll be well quit of that rag you write for in Montreal.” He had intended this as a way of placating him, but in fact it just spurred him on.
“That rag, it might not be not up to the level of your high and mighty Mail and Empire back in Toronto,” the swarthy journalist said, but from what I’ve heard, I wouldn’t be working for them either. Bloody slanted paper, switching around everything you write, telling you what to do...”
“They certainly do not!” Stanley said. “We have all the freedom we need. I write whatever I please.”
This friendly drink was turning into quite a verbal brawl. Jack gulped his ale and made ready to leave. “Boys, boys, you’re both here to write about our gallant lads who have crossed the sea to vanquish some misguided beasts attacking our noble Queen. So let’s keep a sense of proportion! Kandinsky, you’re at liberty to stay here afterwards, of course, and we both hope you’ll find a wonderful life in this good land. And Stanley, surely you’re going to be fêted on your return after all those fine accounts, which I haven’t read, of course, but which I know will be quite enlightening.”
“And you, Padre,” Kandinsky looked at him, somewhat mollified, “you were preaching that rubbish as though you believed in it. I do find you convincing. I went to hear you twice.”
“Oh,” asked Jack, “you’ve come to my services?”
He was about to go on, when Kandinsky cut him short: “Only to report what you said as a duty to my readers. Not because I belong to the C. of E., no sir, I was brought up Catholic, my parents are from Europe, and a hard time they had of it. But you gave me no reason to slander you, because I would’ve. That’s what the readers love — misadventure.”
“No they don’t!” snapped Stanley. “My readers like heroism, bravery under fire, cheerfulness in the face of hardship, all the finer qualities of mankind.”
Kandinsky sneered. “Arrgh, you think your readers are any better than mine? No sir, you just don’t know them, and I do.”
Oh dear, thought Jack, this is never getting any better. “Lads, shall we wend our way back? We might discover something interesting on the way. This bar, we’ve dredged for all the information we’re likely to get. And it’s bad enough hearing about the German nation, and how quickly those ruthless Boers are using European armaments to beat our plucky Imperial troops.” He stood up.
Kandinsky nodded, and downed his pint; Stanley left half his on the bar and slid from his stool as well. The three of them waved goodbye to their somewhat confrontational bartender, and made their way back to the Sardinian.
Once on board, Jack stopped before going into his stateroom. The moonlight made everything almost as clear as day, and the scene was one he’d never forget: the harbour crowded with shipping, huge troopships and men of war. On shore, myriad lights sparkled from the city. Jack stared up again at the steep, scarred sides of Table Mountain, its top capped with fleecy moonlit clouds. He was not the only one awake; everyone was much too excited at going ashore the next morning to sleep.
He leaned back against the steel bulkhead, watching and thinking, his mind now full of Kelsie and the friends he had made on the voyage. What would the future bring to them — a long life ahead? Or a lonely grave in the sandy desert. He prayed for them silently, and then made himself retire, to be ready for the morrow.
Chapter Eleven
Thursday morning, November thirtieth, Jack disembarked with the regiment to an enthusiastic welcome from cheering crowds, and marched up through the town, along Adderley Street to the Green Point Campground, four miles away. On this, his first parade, he quickly got into the rhythm, swinging along with the best of them, carrying the heavy pack into which he had switched most of his belongings. Finally they reached an immense plain of kharki-coloured dust under the shadow of Table Mountain, and pitched their tents. Although the chaplains had marched together, by mutual agreement they joined their separate companies for tenting, Jack w
ith H Company from Nova Scotia, Fullerton with G company from New Brunswick and Prince Edward Island and Father O’Leary with the French in F Company from Quebec.
While settling themselves four to a tent, the men were issued kharki uniforms, together with greatcoats, puttees, three days rations from the stores and large jack knives useful for eating, as well as other chores. Jack was delighted to get his British Issue of a chaplain’s insignia: a Maltese Cross raised in relief on a flat metal base, so the badge looked square from a distance. The men had fun learning to put on the puttees, thick woollen bandages about three yards long to swathe the legs from shoe to knee. Besides being hard to get right, Jack found them to be deucedly warm. Of course, he thought sarcastically, why else select them for use in a hot tropical country facing an unpredictable enemy who won’t send a postcard warning of his next early morning attack?
The next day, the men went into town for their one day off, which saw a good deal of merriment, drunkenness, and visits to certain nameless establishments, which were doing a flourishing business. The serious business of war lay ahead, and to make matters more exciting, they had received orders to entrain the next day for the North. Jack’s first concern was for Kelsie and the other three nurses. He had heard the upsetting news that they might not be coming with the battalion into the high desert to meet the foe.
After some inquiries, he found that the women had been billeted in a hotel in Cape Town, whither he went before even treating himself to lunch. As he was leaping up the steps who should he see coming out but Kelsie herself.
“Jack!” she cried. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to find you, of course,” Jack replied, “just as soon as I heard you might not be coming up into the interior.”
“No.” She paused. “We just heard ourselves.” She looked a little crest-fallen.
“So... this means goodbye for the moment,” Jack ventured.
She nodded.
He felt a wave of affection, looking at her soft, lovely curls falling about a plain face, which it must be said contained a long nose. A bit chunky, like himself — well, solidly built — which would probably stand her in good stead during the long hours of physical work nursing. She wore the regulation tunic of a Canadian nurse: a kharki “bicycle skirt” with a blouse equipped with shoulder straps and service buttons, and her kharki hat sported a little red cockade. As with Jack, a thick brown belt encircled her waist and she wore similar leather boots. “I had been wondering how I would get to see you,” she murmured.
“Do you know where you’re going yet?”
She nodded. “A hospital in Wynberg. It’s a suburb of Cape Town, very nice, they said. A lot of the wounded from the front are expected. They need us there.” She again looked as if tears might appear. Then she pulled herself together. “I’ll do my best. But I thought I would be looking after our own boys. I’ve gotten to know quite a few. That’s why I came, Jack, to care for Canadians.”
“In the weeks to come, may your wish come true.”
“But still, I don’t like to think of anyone being so badly hurt he has to be brought by train all the way back to Wynberg. Let’s hope this old war comes and goes, and no one gets hurt.” She actually smiled, and then giggled.
Jack joined in. “Oh yes, if only that could be true,” he said. “Now tell me, have you heard from your family? By the way, do you have time for lunch?”
“Thank you, no, I have to buy supplies, and then we’re going off. And yes, I get the odd letter. All is well there. But come with me now if you like.”
They set off down the street together. “We’ve been asked to try and equip ourselves. So I’m going to find some liniment, and whatever other medicines there are. I’d like to get a good scrubbing brush box, little things, but they’ll make a big difference.”
What a wonderful nurse, Jack thought. She had definitely been growing on him, but that was the way of things in wartime: you meet, and you part.
“Now Jack, look out for yourself, won’t you. I’ve heard tales of chaplains going out onto the battlefield to help the wounded, and getting shot themselves.”
“Well, I do expect to be going out under fire. But for some reason, I’m not dwelling on that now. On the battlefield, fear might well be my own worst enemy, but I’ll face it then. Right now, let me put danger from my mind.”
They stopped at an apothecary where she bought a number of items. They found a couple more shops, and she gradually filled her large pouch. They walked back slowly, Jack carrying her bag like an old friend.
“Funny, I’ve heard it said,” she mentioned, “in wartime you get closer to a person in a much shorter time.”
“True.” Jack wished he could find words to express what was in his heart. “Maybe I’ll be posted to your hospital, and then we can work together.”
She nodded. “That would be nice. Though they’ve warned us against becoming too attached to anyone. You see, one could just be torn in a million pieces by seeing soldier after soldier pass away, even while we’re looking after them.”
They were silent as they walked.
“Enough of all this sombre talk,” Jack said, after a while. “Now, since you work in Halifax, why don’t we think of brighter things. There is a train, you know, comes all the way from Halifax to Montreal and it stops in Matapedia. That’s the junction for the Gaspe. I’ve even heard talk, and a lot of it, that a track may be laid down to Gaspe in the next while. Apparently they’re making plans already. So it will be easy —”
“ — for me to come and visit you!” she cried. “How I’d love that. You’ve told me so much about your old homestead. Won’t it be fun walking back over those fields you told me about, and looking down into that valley where your grandfather built his first cabin in the New World.”
Jack’s mind went back to his farm, and dwelt there: such delightful thoughts, walking back with his little waif — well, no, this tough, wiry nurse — but to him, still a fragile creature who might well benefit from a long walk over his fields.
“And you must come yourself and take the train and see us in Halifax!” cried Kelsie. “You’ll love my little sister Orla. She’s four years younger than me and she sticks to me like a limpet. I’ve written her already about you. She’s quite religious, too. You know, I’ll be back working in my hospital there as soon as this ghastly war is over. You must promise to come.”
“Of course I shall,” Jack agreed, “of course. I’d love to meet her. And all the family.”
The two of them continued walking, relishing those delightful pleasures, which both of them, in their heart of hearts, knew would end up being so unlikely.
* * *
Bedding down in a tent on Green Point was no novel experience for Jack, who was used to sleeping out in the open. But this hard baked ground had a different feel from light crunchy snow with pine branches spread upon it. And having to get ready for sleep in a small tent with three others was also new; he’d been joined by George Dorsey, now nicknamed Big George, and two other lieutenants, Robert Willis and Harry Burstall, also a giant of a man. They managed after a bit of a struggle to erect the tent, but knew that soon they’d be doing it in a flash. This night, however, the troops had been carousing, so little was said before heavy sleep claimed all four.
Friday morning saw them striking their tents, packing, and marching off to the Cape Government railway station, passing the summer residences at Somerset Road, this time through ever more vociferous crowds. When the men drew up at the end of the march, Jack and the other two chaplains manoeuvred closer to hear His Excellency, Sir Alfred Milner, the Governor General of the Colony. He wished the soldiers a pleasant trip and a happy and speedy return, which seemed to Jack a rather fatuous send-off for men about to risk their lives for him and his Colony.
Two trains had been commandeered. As the men mounted the carriages, the ladies of the town distributed sandwiches, tobacco and canvas water-bags. Jack shared a compartment with other officers, slightly cramped, bu
t after all the excitement of leaving, he was able to sink into his own thoughts.
As the little narrow-gauge train moved out from the station, he had a fine view of the City Hall against the distant Table Mountain. Soon, they trundled along past the marshlands of the Cape Flats, and then through a most beautiful succession of farms, gardens, orchards and forests. Orange trees, just past their blossom, glistened in the sunlight; vineyards with newly formed clusters stretched in regularity; orchards of figs and apples gave place to bits of forest, usually pine. In the distance, Paarl Mountain came into view, probably thirty miles away, and then they wound through beautiful wine lands stretching from the railway to the Hex River Mountains, enormous ranges, bigger than anything he’d seen in Quebec Province, for sure. At appointed stations, the men were served with coffee biscuits and bully beef.
Much later, the little train began to climb the winding mountain pass to reach Touws River Station and finally, at the top, the plateau of the high desert.
When Jack woke the next morning, out the window he saw the endless landscape of boulders and scattered low bushes: all the dreariness of the Karoo desert — broken admittedly by mounds, or “kopjes” as hills were called hereabouts. He also spotted distant islands of green centred by a windmill, which showed that farmers could tackle this desolation and carve out large, irrigated properties. Occasionally they passed a Kaffir kraal with its mud huts and naked youngsters, and hundreds of goats plucking a living from the stunted growth of the veldt.
Jack’s eyes widened. What on earth was that — trotting along beside the train catching bits of bread thrown by soldiers? Two spindly legs, round, feathered body, long, long neck, two huge eyes above the big beak — an ostrich of course. The first he’d ever seen.
My lord, it ran fast! Up to forty miles an hour, he’d heard. After a few minutes, it lost interest and stopped. And in the course of the trip, Jack saw others, mostly alone, some in twos or threes and a few in a flock. Certainly new wildlife for him to contemplate en route to death and destruction.