Back in her time

by Patricia Corbett Bowman

  “Sometimes you just know things. Like when you feel you’re being watched on the street. Ever have that feeling? You know — when the hair on the back of your neck rises?”

  “Nope. Never.”

  “It’s like I’ve got a sixth sense. Sometimes I know things. I don’t know how. It just happens. You know?” Is he going to believe this line of crap?

  “You’re kind of weird sometimes, Junior. But I guess you’re okay.”

  “What do you mean, ‘weird’?”

  “Well, like you just appeared one day out of nowhere and you didn’t even know what unit you belonged to. But you know stuff now, so everything is swell. The Sarge thinks so, anyway.”

  “Did he say something?” Pops said something good? About me?

  “Yeah. Something like, ‘You men have to take more initiative, like Junior.’ Don’t get a swelled head, though.”

  “No. I won’t. Thanks for telling me, Mac. I appreciate it.”

  “Come on, the chow wagon made it here today by mule. There’s a rumour that there might be some ale for us, liberated from an overturned supply truck that got stuck on some mountain.”

  “Be right there.” Taylor slung her rifle strap over her shoulder and lagged behind. Ale delivery. What was it Pops had said? The beer was always tepid when they could get it, but the guys were thirsty and would drink anything. They never turned down Eyetie vino, either. Taylor knew just what to do.

  The chow wagon was parked next to a field, behind the church. Taylor’s grumbling stomach found it by following her nose. The men complained enough about the food but they all showed up at mealtimes. I’ll probably get sick of the food, too, if I stay here much longer.

  A wave of sadness passed over Taylor as she thought about home: her mother, Margaret, with her drinking; her friend, Dieter, who had his own family problems; school, where she was an outcast; and her sick grandfather, maybe dying. They’re so far away, like they’re just a dream. At least here I have Pops, Whitey, Mac, Red, and the other guys. They’re real now.

  Approaching the mess wagon, Taylor said, “I hear there is beer. Try burying the bottles in the ground. It will have a cooling effect — you know, like refrigeration.” I’ve done it again — he won’t know about refrigeration!

  “Get lost,” snapped the cook. “Do you see any beer?”

  Taylor begged, “Just one bottle, that’s all I ask.”

  The cook, like a schoolteacher, had heard every line before. He scowled at Taylor.

  “Then you try it yourself,” said Taylor. “What will it hurt? I’m leaving. You hide them while I’m gone and see if it works.”

  “Out of here, soldier, or I’ll have you doing KP faster than — ”

  “I’m going, I’m going.” Taylor turned and strode away. It would work. She had the cook’s curiosity aroused. She’d find out later.

  After Taylor had eaten her M and V congealed in grease the others called “tallow,” she joined her group out of the drizzle, under the partial roof of a bombed-out building.

  “So, any more news about moonshine?” Whitey smacked his lips.

  “I heard it was ale. We sure wasn’t offered any with supper — not even rum, tonight,” said Red.

  “Something’s up. We’ll see,” said Mac with a disarming crooked smile as if he knew what was up. Rumour had it that Mac had a connection to the black market for most goods and services.

  “I don’t wanna see. I wanna drink,” said Whitey. Everyone laughed. Taylor lit two Red Cross cigarettes on one match and passed one to Whitey. She coughed as she inhaled. Mac glanced her way but didn’t say anything. This tastes gawdawful. At least at home I smoke filtered. She continued smoking. What am I doing to my lungs? Why do I care, now of all times?

  One of the soldiers pulled out a deck of cards. “Deuces are wild. Who’s in?” The men gathered around. Taylor checked in her trouser pockets. She had some paper money and coins. The two-dollar bills were strange. No loonies or toonies. No one questioned the picture of King George VI instead of Queen Elizabeth II when they threw a bill into the pot. Glad Pops taught me how to play poker as a reward after rifle practice at the farm.

  Just as the firepit was running low on fuel and Mac’s pockets were bulging with winnings, a shout was heard. Everyone scrambled for their guns except Mac, who dove for the money on the dirt floor and shoved it, too, into his pockets.

  “The cook wagon. There’s cold beer,” yelled a soldier as he ran past.

  Taylor was left standing alone but she knew what the fuss was about. After all, it had been her idea to tell the cook how to cool the beer. The cook would surely save one for her.

  She sauntered over to the men, some swigging, others just sipping, enjoying their barley drink.

  “How’d you know how to do that, Junior?” asked Whitey.

  “Science class, back home,” said Taylor modestly. Pops told me this story, and we tried it in science class with pop bottles.

  “Cook says he just buried the bottles in the ground for a couple of hours, and we got cold beer, just like Junior told him,” said Red. “I’d of stayed in school if I’d knowed we’d learn good stuff like this.” Everyone laughed.

  “Pass a cold one to Junior. He deserves it,” said Mac.

  The cook said, “He may be under twenty-one, but what the hell. Let the boy have a drink.”

  Taylor grabbed the stubby bottle and swallowed a big mouthful. It isn’t my first taste of beer. Here’s something else Pops won’t be too happy about. Me drinking. This is nothing compared to the junk I’ve tried. If he knew …

  After Taylor and the cook received several pats on the back, the men finished their beer, found their bedrolls and pup tents, and went to grab a few hours’ shut-eye. Taylor slipped out of her tent and headed to the bushes to relieve herself. Buttoning up her trousers, she bumped into Mac outside his tent.

  “Shy kidney, eh, Junior? I was like that for a while. You’ll get used to peeing in front of the guys. Takes practice.”

  Not likely.

  * * *

  “Are you finished with the news, Junior? I was wondering if I could have it now.” said Red as they marched north with the spring sun warming them. But he can’t read beyond grade three, the guys say.

  “What do you want it for?”

  “The cartoons, of course. That Blondie and Li’l Abner. They make me laugh till tears roll down my cheeks. And Herbie. Did you see the one where he’s holding that antenna thing and shaking outside the radio shack? The voice inside says, “It’s working now, Herbie.”

  “Oh, sure, take it,” said Taylor, “but I’d like it back. I didn’t get too much time to read it.” And I still need to see what’s going on in this century.

  An explosion a few miles straight in front of them silenced the ranks. Flames spurted into the sky almost as high as the CN Tower.

  “Jeez,” said Whitey as they ran for cover behind their own tank brigade.

  “Sonovabitch,” said someone.

  Sarge yelled over the noise of the heavy artillery, “Leave the tanks! Take cover wherever you can. Panzers are up ahead blowing us to bits. Our tanks are going in.”

  “Shouldn’t we go too, Sarge?” said Taylor.

  “There’s not much infantry can do against tanks with just a Bren, a PIAT, rifles, and a few grenades. Give our Shermans a chance to shoot them up.”

  The men felt useless, some lying in damp fields and others in an olive grove, waiting for the battle up ahead to conclude. Taylor stared up at the white flowers and silvery green leaves of the tree she was under. This sucks. How can these trees flower with this war going on? Messerschmitts caught her eye through the branches as they raked the sky overhead but were soon tailed by Lancasters and Mosquitoes. A moment later, a thunderous roar could be heard. They must all be deaf over there, or soon will be.

  The men changed posi
tions when rocks pressed into their bodies as they lay on the uneven terrain. Red appeared to be napping, eyes closed, mouth open. He was probably snoring, but Taylor couldn’t hear it with all the racket. It seemed to go on for hours, but had been probably only twenty minutes when silence finally ensued.

  Taylor watched as the guys sat up, one by one, held their noses, closed their mouths, puffed up their cheeks and blew, lips pursed. Taylor followed suit, not wanting to ask what they were doing. Soon her ears popped and she could hear clearly. Didn’t realize I couldn’t hear. I’ll have to try that if I ever get to fly on a plane back home. If I ever get home.

  Before Taylor had time to think further, she heard a different roar from down the road. “What is it?” she asked Red, who blinked his eyes open.

  “We’ve won this round, Junior,” said Red.

  “That is the sound of victory!” Mac shouted. Cheers erupted all around them.

  Taylor put two fingers in her mouth and blasted a shrill whistle.

  “Teach me how to do that, will you?” said Sarge nearby as he stood up and joined a long line of infantry plodding toward the former battle site.

  “Sure — it’s easy. My grandfather taught me.” She smiled.

  Chapter Eight

  Passing on the way out of a small town, the enemy having long retreated, Taylor beheld a strange sight. Oh, no! Where have I time-travelled to now?

  Lined up in a row on the right side of the road were penguins. Can it be? Taylor glanced around her: she was still marching with her unit. As she neared the penguins, she fell into a fit of laughter. Soon the soldiers all around were doing the same. Good, they’re having the same hallucination.

  Whitey was the first to recognize the apparition. “It’s nuns. They’re offering us something to drink.” Whitey reached out a hand as a small pewter cup was presented to him. Cautiously he took a sip. “Hey, guys, it’s red wine. And really good!”

  Soon the whole platoon was reaching out for a proffered cup. The eight nuns in their long black tunics, white coifs and wimples, with black veils covering their hair, wiped each cup clean with a cloth and poured again for the next soldier.

  “Who speaks spic?” asked Whitey. “How do I say thank you?”

  “Make the sign of the cross like this and say, ‘Rigatoni,’” said Taylor, suppressing a grin. She crossed herself as she remembered seeing Catholics do in the movies.

  Whitey, then Red, Swampy, and a few others ran their right hands clumsily over their chests and mumbled, “Rig-a-something,” as they handed their cups back to the nuns. Red made a little bow as well, which a couple of others copied. Taylor was bent over with laughter. The nuns bowed their heads and murmured, “Prego, di niente.”

  “You pulled a good one, Junior,” said Mac as he came up alongside of her. “I think the word is ‘grazie.’”

  “Just couldn’t help myself,” said Taylor as she smiled broadly, her step a little lighter after the wine tasting. “Boy, that wine sure was good. I thought Eyetie wine was supposed to be so terrible.”

  Mac laughed heartily. “That’s what some of the guys will say so they can keep what they find all to themselves.”

  * * *

  Something was wrong with Taylor’s stomach. She flinched again at the sharp jab. Doubled over with cramps, she headed for some bushes. Instant latrine. Emerging, buttoning her trousers, she felt weak and appeared pale.

  “Somebody’s got the trots, have they?” Mac nodded sympathetically, running his tongue over his lips.

  “I guess. Is there anything to take for it?” said Taylor. Mom would have something in the medicine cabinet at home. She’s big into pain relief.

  “The medics have gone on ahead. Try drinking some water to flush it out. That may help,” said Sarge, falling back to see what the slowdown was.

  “Junior’s trying to crap out of the war,” said Red. Laughter erupted from those in hearing distance.

  “It’ll take more than that to get you to sick bay, soldier. Stop when you have to.” Sarge moved forward again.

  Taylor wasn’t listening as another cramp tore through her.

  “There he goes, trotting off to the bushes again.” Mac laughed at his own humour and was joined by Whitey.

  “Poor bastard. Gyppy tummy ain’t fun, eh?” said Red.

  “Usually only new recruits get that. Strange Junior has it now,” said Mac.

  “Heard those Highlanders have better grub than us. Must be his tummy’s not used to our hash,” said Red.

  The march through a deep, brownish muck, formerly a riverbed, only reminded Taylor of her condition. She soon fell farther behind. Whitey slowed down to keep an eye on her.

  They crossed a small creek by foot, using moss to clean some of the mud off their recently issued rubber boots. Taylor stared at the water. She had never seen red water before. As red as blood. Splashing through, she raced to the far side of the creek looking for a bush. Ah. Relief.

  “We’ve got them on the run,” Sarge said when they rested later near a still-hot, burned-out German tank. “Communications sent fake messages that we were going to make an assault by sea, so the Jerries only left a small contingent here and sent their big guns to the coast.”

  “Now what, Sarge?” Red said over the newspaper as he glanced at the cartoons.

  “We follow orders, that’s what. The lofty generals, like Crerar in Sicily, will decide our fate.”

  “I hear that Yank, General Eisenhower, is a good man,” said Mac.

  “It was nice of the Americans to finally join us in forty-three,” said Whitey.

  “The Allies are all working together.” Sarge tipped his canteen. “General Eisenhower is a fine leader.”

  Red pored over the paper again and started chuckling.

  Taylor collapsed on the ground, missing the rock she was aiming to sit on.

  Sarge glanced at Taylor. “Could be dysentery. That’s pretty serious.” Speaking to the group around him, Sarge said, “Next transport that rides by, try to hitch a ride for Junior to the nearest field hospital.”

  Taylor protested. “But, I can’t leave you, Pops. I mean, Sarge.”

  “Hear that, men? Junior doesn’t want to part with us. Honourable, Junior, but you just need a shot of sulphaguanidine or two and you’ll catch up with us.”

  “I heard rice water and tea with sugar helps, too.” Mac said.

  “But, Sarge …” I can’t leave you, Pops! I have to stick with you until I figure out how to tell you who I am.

  “No buts, soldier. That’s final.” Sarge stood and the others followed suit. Whitey helped Taylor up, and the men continued their march.

  A beep from behind startled Taylor. Whitey grabbed Taylor’s arm, pulling her out of the way. Mac waved both arms at the slow-moving open jeep and ran along beside it, yelling, “We got a sick man, here. Needs some meds. Can you drop him at the next field hospital?”

  The two men, one a corporal, the other a lieutenant, agreed reluctantly after a quick debate, and Taylor was hoisted up into the back seat. Her friends were soon left behind and became small dots as the jeep passed the infantry line. Gawd, will I ever see Pops and the other guys again? Friggin’ diarrhea. Why’d I have to get this now?

  Chapter Nine

  The building where the jeep dropped Taylor off had large chunks of plaster missing from the siding and a weathered, red-tiled roof that looked like it leaked. It did. If it hadn’t been for the homemade Red Cross sign over the doorway, Taylor would have thought the driver was just dumping her to get rid of her and her gaseous problem. When she opened the door, she smelled air thick with disinfectant. It was the right place.

  Women in white uniforms and starchy hats with black bands, looking more like postulants than nurses, were everywhere, moving furniture around, making beds, carrying trays of medicines, and directing soldiers where to put a stretcher with wou
nded. Canadian women. They sound just like mom and the girls at school. And ME when I’m not forcing my voice down an octave. The lyrical song of their voices froze Taylor in the doorway. All business, one of the Florence Nightingales rushed by Taylor. Kyla? She looks just like her, her former friend who didn’t like Dieter and the Goth crowd. It can’t be.

  Taylor caught the nurse by her sleeve. “Can you help me, please?” Taylor stared into the brown eyes of the attractive nurse. Kyla’s eyes, too.

  “We’re busy here, soldier. What is it? More incoming?”

  “No, Miss. I just need something for my — ” Taylor was embarrassed to tell this pretty young nurse about her stomach problems.

  “See Sister over at the desk,” said the nurse, who hurried away on her errand. A largish woman manned the centre of the warehouse-like room. Taylor dragged herself over to her slowly, grimacing as her stomach churned and knotted. As she grabbed her stomach for relief the sister rushed to her side and assisted her to a wooden chair.

  “Are you wounded, son?” She asked in a gruff voice, clouded by too many cigarettes.

  “No, Ma’am. Just need some sulphaga … something for my tummy.”

  “Diarrhea is it? We’ll have you fixed up in no time and back to your company. Sister!”

  The same young woman Taylor had met at the door rushed to her side.

  “Get this soldier a dose of sulphaguanidine and give him some hot Bovril or tea. He looks like he could use a couple of biscuits, too. Pack some in his kit for when he’s feeling better. And hurry up with it. We’ve got more serious matters here.”

  “Thanks, Ma’am,” said Taylor; but the older nurse was back at her desk directing some other nurses before she could get the words out. The young nurse patted her on the hand.

  “Sit tight. It’ll just take a minute. Lucky for you our supplies just came in.” And she disappeared behind a pillar.

  Good! This won’t take too long and I can get back to Pops.

  The name embroidered on her uniform was A. Harris, Taylor read when she returned.