The Long November

by James Benson Nablo

  Invite her over, Joe...tell her yourself. She likes young lads, likes to find them alone. Nice, healthy lads, clean lads. Ask her over, Joe, and tell her yourself. No, the filthy old bitch can stay where she is. Why should I want to look at the end of everything? Tell her if she’s waiting for me she’d better sit down because she’s in for a long, cold wait. God...how she smells! Like a rotten log when your axe bites into it. I’ll bet she hasn’t had a bath in years...maybe she hasn’t ever had a bath. Take it easy, Joe, she’s a busy woman. She hasn’t much time to “fix-up” these days. Who’d look after those kids with the stuck-out bellies? Those women who’ll do anything for a loaf of bread, or half a loaf, or a crust? Who takes care of all the guys...like Phil, or Togger Benton, or Jimmy Valentine? Who looks after the people in the shelters when they get a direct one? If she’s a little dirty it’s because she’s got so much to do. And Joe...down the front of her dress are smeared the guts, and the hearts, and even the souls of twenty million people.

  They were young once, Joe. All those people were babies once. Grinning, gooing babies, fat and shining. Some woman sweated and strained, prayed and cursed, pained and bled to get each one of them into this world...and now they’re just greasy spots on the front of that old slut’s dress. They were so young and helpless...they even had to be changed, Joe, and their happy mothers looked at them, looked at the product of all this effort and felt a little sad that one day the kid wouldn’t need the mother any more. When does that day come, I wonder? I’ve seen grown men mess their pants, blubber for their mothers, and die with their guts hanging out in their laps. I’ve seen the mothers, too, lying in ditches, cold and stiff but still clutching some little dead bundle in their arms. They were all young once. Maybe even I was young once...but Jesus, it must have been a long time ago.

  Who wins? If this is all an unhappy means to a great end, when does it end and how? Does it end when everybody’s dead? Who wins then? Who waves the flag and has the parade...who is there at the end? What end, Joe? What ever ends? Haven’t you learned there’s never an end to anything? There’re always means—good means and bad means—but no ends, Joe, no ends. As the good man may do lives beyond him, so does the evil...how can it stop, how can it end? What has ever ended in all history? But there might be rest for some. That’s the old whore’s job, Joe...she takes them out of it, she lets them sleep. She isn’t so bad, Joe, she just smells bad.

  It’s cold and damp and dark. Pretty soon it’ll be as dark outside as it is in here and I can get out...and if she wants to stay, she can. I want to get home. It’s a long trip but it starts from this room and it ends in Steffie’s arms—I won’t stop in between. It’s so quiet in here—only the scurrying of the rats. I haven’t heard a sound in hours. Maybe the platoon’s been pushed away back, Joe? Maybe the Jerry’s cleaned them all out...Bill and Mullins and Sanderson and the others, maybe they’re dead. Maybe you’re the platoon, Joe? No, there’s been no noise, no firing. I’d have heard. Heard it, Joe? They could have fired a barrage of Long Toms and you wouldn’t have heard it; you’ve been dreaming halfway around the world. No, I’d have heard, unless the Heinie has finally whipped out with a secret weapon. The good old secret weapon, eh, Joe? Like the “act of God”—very handy guff when you can’t find an answer fast.

  I wonder if the scent of clover was an act of God, or a secret weapon? Any damned fool knows there’s no clover in November. And yet it was right here in this room. Steffie was here, so close I could reach out and touch her, but she’s gone now. No, bub, don’t write off the acts of God, they’re pretty effective. There’s no one here now except a dirty old whore standing over in the corner, wasting her time and filling the room with a moldy smell. There’s darkness and dampness—cold, clammy dampness. Like England. Cold wet, like England in December of ‘39. Like being wrapped in a wet sheet. Wet streets, wet houses, wet beds. Wet, until I wondered what kept the ridiculous little island from dissolving into a great big ocean. Wet, until I hoped it would. Fog and rain and the standard Limey remarks about the weather...”I thought Canada was cold, yet you chaps do nothing but complain about the weather.” Fog forming beads of rain on the collar of my tunic and falling in icy cascades down my back. Dampness crawling through doors and windows, up through floors and down through ceilings. Working into our bones, into our hearts, and into our souls. It works through bodies as it works through the tar paper shacks they call barracks. Mean huts, a few inches off the ground—a few inches that the damp can jump without half trying. I could stay drunk or sober, wear all the issue I had or go bare-assed—I could do anything I ever heard about, but I couldn’t get warm. And I didn’t until May...then it starts getting cold again in October.

  Bill and I devised our own method of staying warm. It was pretty much the same as our method of staying cool in hot weather; we stayed as drunk as possible. On the week ends in London we’d get as much whiskey as we could pack, and for the in-between periods we’d add it to the watery beer in the canteen. It didn’t help us get warm but it got us to where we couldn’t feel the cold, and it helped a lot in stomaching the English. The Limeys are like their weather—cold and clammy. Now, Joe, they aren’t so bad...you almost came to like them. No, I never liked them, how can you like them? They won’t let you like them...it interferes with their sense of what’s orderly. But I learned to understand them a little. What about Nancy Benton, Joe? You liked Nancy...Nancy was different, she was warm and human. She was...The hell she was, Joe. Nancy was just like the rest of them until all hell was blown up around her. Think about it, Joe. Remember the first time you met her, was she warm and human then?

  I met her at a dance the Dominions Club gave for us. I didn’t want to go, but after we’d lowered a few Bill got a gleam in his eye.

  “Let’s see if any of these English frails can trip the light fantastic, chum?”

  “Nix, Bill.”

  “Come on, who knows? We might find a couple who’ll do their bit for the Empire. One Throne, One Flag, One Fleet...and somewhere, I hope, One Babe for Bill Preston who is strictly from hunger.”

  I guess I wanted a woman, but every time I thought of it I thought of Steffie. Somehow having another woman would be like making a mess in church; but there was no reason for my problems to spoil Bill’s love-life. We went.

  Nancy was a few years older than I. Two or three, I think. She had the high, ruddy darkness of the Scotch, but the rest of her was solid England. Good family, good schools, and exactly the correct remark for anything. I don’t think she was beautiful...it was more the way she held her blue-black head and the arrogant assurance of her that struck me.

  She made me think of a prize bitch. A Gordon setter who can be generous to lesser canines, for she knows her own blue-ribbon quality. She asked me if I would like to dance, with an air of doing whatever was necessary to be kind to these lesser animals. As we danced I noticed she was quite a lot taller than Steffie.

  “What is your name?” she asked.

  “Joe Mack...what’s yours?”

  “Benton...Nancy Benton.”

  “Hello, Miss Benton.”

  “Sorry, it’s Mrs. Benton.”

  “Well, say “hello’ to Mr. Benton for me, will you?” She laughed, and unlike most of England, she had her own teeth. Even and white and lovely.

  “Togger expected to be here tonight, but he...”

  “Who’s Togger?”

  “Mr. Benton, of course...”

  “Of course.”

  “He’s off bird-nesting for the week end.”

  It must have been the way the whole place reeked with the studiedly generous attitude that got me. I didn’t like Nancy Benton and quite suddenly I was aware of it.

  “That’s a new angle. What’s bird-nesting, or shall I guess?”

  She stiffened, and spoke coldly. “I don’t think you are very nice, Mr. Mack...shall we stop dancing?”

  I felt silly, like a smart alec kid that’s been sharply spoken to. It made no difference to me what the hell
Togger was up to, and I tried to square it, mostly I guess because the other guys seemed to be having fun.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Benton. That was rude. Please let’s finish the dance.”

  She melted ever so little. “My husband is a great authority on bird life, Mr. Mack. Bird-nesting is finding the location of birds’ nests. Togger always starts first thing in the spring.” And the dance ended.

  I asked her for another dance but she suggested a drink of punch instead, and we went into the lounge. When we were seated she started the usual routine.

  “How do you like England, Mr...”

  “Mack, and I don’t.”

  “What’s wrong with England?”

  “The climate, the country, the war, and the people.” She stiffened again but this time I didn’t care. I’d squared the first crack and that’s all I felt I had to do. But her voice wasn’t cool when she answered, it was just indifferent.

  “And you’re homesick for America?”

  “Canada.”

  “Of course, Canada. I’m sorry you don’t care for England, Mr. Mack, but I doubt that you’ll be here long. Togger says we aren’t at war in the accepted sense. Russia is really the enemy, you know. We’re simply going through a technical state of war.”

  “You can tell Togger that if I’m here on a technicality I’ll go home tomorrow...or tonight.”

  She laughed again.

  “It’s a pity it isn’t quite that simple. But really, you know, Germany is a civilized country. We knew their foreign minister when he was ambassador here, and he’s quite a good chap, really. He assured us they only want to destroy Communism. We had to declare war because of Poland, but no one takes it very seriously.”

  It was too pat. Too much like something someone had said that she thought sounded right, and fitted what little reasoning she gave the subject.

  “Is this your idea, or Togger’s, or just something he found in an old bird’s nest?”

  She looked at me then, pityingly, as though I could hardly be expected to understand these things.

  “No, really,” she said, “that’s how it is. We know people who are close to the government.”

  “And sinking the Athenia, Mrs. Benton...that was part of a good act?”

  “Now, now, Mr. Mack, I’m sure the German Government regretted it...some fool in a submarine.”

  After she’d moved on to someone else, I sat there watching the crowd. On the far side of the room I could see Bill looking down into the smiling face of his “One Babe.” I wondered how long it would be until he came over and borrowed the price of a hotel room from me, and the thought was hardly finished when he did just that. He left saying he’d see me in the morning. The girls were all of Nancy’s type. Most of them were bored with the evening and going through the motions because someone had trapped them. The odd, attractive Canadian lad would slip one of them out, but the rest put in the evening being kind in a slightly nervous way. I’d started to wonder what I was sticking around for when Nancy Benton came back, and we danced once more.

  “What did you say your name is?” she asked.

  “Mack...”

  “I mean your first name?”

  “Joe.”

  “Joe? Joe....It doesn’t seem to go anywhere, does it?”

  “No, just round and round.”

  It’s just a technical state of war, Togger. Nothing to get alarmed about. After all, the Russians are the “real” enemies, aren’t they? Don’t let it interfere with your bird-nesting...there’s probably a lark’s nest over near that hedgerow, Togger. Just over there across the clear stretch, not two hundred yards. But you won’t get there, Togger. Watch your dog, Togger, or he’ll frighten the lark up too soon, and you’ll never find the nest. But you should have looked up, Togger, for in the skies was another bird. A mechanical bird, and it’s flown all the way over from Germany. Sitting alone in it, Togger, is one of your “civilized” friends. He doesn’t want to return to his base with his guns unfired...might look bad to one of his “civilized” officers. You can understand that, Togger, can’t you? And the pilot in the plane sees a man and a dog walking across a field below him. What did you think of those “civilized” people, Togger, when the eight slugs hit you...when you kicked in the surprised, futile way, and noticed just before you died that your dog was kicking, too. Yes, Togger, there’s probably a lark’s nest in that hedgerow, but you won’t get to it...there’s another bird in the sky.

  And fifty million Toggers waited on that island for a war to end that hadn’t started. A hundred and fifty million more waited in America. And Joe Mack sat in a pub and wondered what it was all about. The rotting dampness finally gave way to what England calls a spring, but I don’t remember much of it. They trained hell out of us and each day meant sweating like a doped race horse while the alcohol of the previous evening worked its way out. At night Bill and I would start again, and so a half year went by. A dull gap in time until the civilized Germans decided whom they’d take on next. The training and the waiting began to work on the Canadian lads and they started to crack a little. They tired of England quickly, and England tired of them. Guys like Sergeant Valentine—“Jimmy” Valentine, a good little guy with a face like a broken plate and a squeaky voice. He tried to give us a break one night when he found Bill and me sneaking in late, but Bill started to sing and the orderly officer came over. We wound up with fourteen days “confined-to-barracks.” I felt a little obligated to Valentine.

  He came to see me one night. It was a warm evening early in April. He was upset and his gnarled hands kept clenching and unclenching.

  “Joe...come on an’ take a walk with me. I got something I gotta talk about.”

  I expected a touch, and I’d be good for it in Valentine’s case, since it’s always handy to have a sergeant in your pocket. He didn’t say anything until we’d gone some distance down the road.

  I asked, “What’s on your mind, Sarge?”

  He hesitated a minute, and when he spoke his voice seemed deeper.

  “It’s my wife, Joe. I got a letter from my ma...Ruth’s living with some guy.”

  His homely face knotted for a moment, then he went on. “I gotta get home, Joe...an’ I’m going.”

  “Jesus, Jimmy...I’m sorry, but how the hell are you going to get home? It’s a long swim.”

  We’d stopped and were leaning against a truck. He spat into the mud.

  “I got it all figured out, Joe. A pal o’ mine’s in the Merchant Marine an’ his ship’s in Liverpool. He’ll hide me an’ feed me goin’ across for a hundred-an’-fifty bucks—that’s where you come in. You’re the only guy with any scratch around here.”

  It was a sucker stunt, a hell of a dumb trick. If he did get to Halifax they’d catch him...but the damned thing was busting him up and I knew I’d give him the money, I just hated to see him try it.

  “You can have the money, Sarge, you know that....but I’m damned if I can see what good it’ll do you to get home. If your wife’s with another man it’s because she wants to be and you’ll only grab a mess of trouble.”

  He looked away again, then he gulped and said, “I know my wife, Joe. I know what the trouble is...I slept with her for years an’ if she’s with another guy it’s ‘cause she had to. If I could talk to her...if I could just see her...I think I could get it straightened out all right. Or if she really likes this jerk I could get her a divorce.” Jimmy Valentine got home, but I guess he couldn’t get it straightened out. Maybe he thought he might not be able to, because he took a shiny black service .38 with him. The police found the three of them together...Jimmy and Ruth and the guy, but they were dead. Valentine had only used three bullets.

  The damp smell of mold crept through that year, and fell across the world. And as it moved it took on new taints; suffering, pillaging, burning, rape, starvation, and murder. And that old bitch in the corner just smiled more, and laughed more, and cackled more because the show was getting better and better, and the better the show got, the
more customers she had. And the busier she became, the more she smelled. It was the start of a whole new concept in her business. Oh, she’s seen lots of wars...some nice, bloody ones, too. But she never got one like this before. Yes, it was a big year for the old whore. Apart from the usual run of work she gets from the disease and poverty of peace, the war was opening up in a big way, and this war started early to produce some profitable side avenues. Little avenues that never used to be part of even a good war. Avenues like Jimmy and Ruth Valentine, three thousand miles from a battle front. Avenues like a man walking a dog through a field. Extra profits, extra business...and she rubs her scaly hands while everything man believes in disappears in a moldy smell.

  It takes a little time for the smell to reach everyone’s nostrils, though, and we had to wait. The boredom was broken at least once every day by a rumor. Some happy little bit of misinformation that floats out of nowhere, grows to fantastic proportions, fades, and returns to nowhere. Each time the rumor changes hands its authority increases, until at its peak it’s credited to no less a person than Handy Andy, the commanding general. Rumors are part of the Army and accepting them is part of soldiering. One day in April, we were going to Norway. Three times in May, we were going to assault Germany directly, with the Canadian Army acting as spearhead in the attack. I decided not to string along with the rumor about going to France in June, and in three and a half years of rumors it was the only one that came true. One day in June we were loaded on a boat and given a ferry ride over to France, but we were back in three days. To our Joe it was a dull boat ride, and then a dull train ride through a country that was becoming hysterical. We were twenty-five miles from Paris when they turned the train around and took us back. The German breakthrough was getting too close. Bill was attached to the motor-convoy group and he made the trip in France by road. His truck got separated from the rest, and he had some fun. He babbled about it for days, and each time he told it, the number of women grew.