The Broken Sword

by R. Mingo Sweeney

  A car pulled up just ahead of MacQueen. It was the only one on the road and his heart lifted. Hitchhiking was forbidden, but a ride was permitted if offered. A door opened and a tall sergeant in battle dress emerged. MacQueen hesitated, then sprang to attention. The riding crop slipped out and fell onto the road. The sun had settled behind the hills but MacQueen could see the sergeant’s face quite clearly. He had high cheekbones and a sharp jaw that shone but had a blue-black shadow underneath. His eyes were intense, and his hawk nose made MacQueen immediately think of the profiles on Roman coins he had seen in schoolbooks. MacQueen’s entire summation took only seconds—he had been born aware of the unusual and he prided himself on his peripheral vision. This man was no parade-stomping militia sergeant from Nova Scotia, of that he was sure.

  “Want a lift?” asked the sergeant with a smile that dramatically changed his facial landscape. He had long teeth and looked like a jolly wolf.

  MacQueen noticed that the car was one of Kentville’s few taxis. The unimaginable luxury of taking a taxi to and from camp certainly impressed him. “Thank you, sir,” he replied in some confusion and started forward.

  “Don’t forget your stick,” said the sergeant. “And cut the bullshit outside of camp. Anyway, I’m not a ‘sir’.” His smile broadened. MacQueen retrieved the riding crop and, even more astonishingly, the sergeant held the door as he climbed into the rear of the taxi. The sergeant settled beside him, slammed the door, and the driver switched on the headlights. MacQueen could smell the sergeant’s shaving lotion. He offered MacQueen a cigarette and held the match for him.

  “Got a date?” asked the sergeant.

  MacQueen rather regretted now that he had one. “Yes,” he answered. “For a little while, anyway.”

  The sergeant chuckled and held out a long, bony hand. “My name is Bill Cyples,” he said.

  MacQueen shook the strong, entwining hand. It was dry and cool. His own felt warm and moist. “Signalman Pat MacQueen,” he replied. “Thank you for picking me up—er—Sergeant.”

  “Where d’ya want t’go?” asked the burly driver.

  “I’ll drop you off,” said Sergeant Cyples. “Where are you going?”

  MacQueen reluctantly gave the address to the driver. They drove in silence, watching the poplar trees stream by. Eventually, the car swung over a bridge and turned right down the main street. Rail yards were down an embankment to the right, and residential streets rose up a hill to the left. They swung up one of the house-lined streets and turned into the driveway of a two-storey frame house. The porch light was on.

  “I have to be back at midnight,” said MacQueen.

  “Just like Cinderella,” said the Sergeant. “Meet me in the soda parlour at eleven or so and I’ll give you a lift back.”

  MacQueen climbed out of the car—and it was gone. He was intrigued by his new acquaintance, but apprehensive of his rank. There was the slightest whiff of sulphur about him that piqued one’s curiosity, he thought. It would be a dull evening after that.

  As for Barbara, MacQueen’s older brother had dated her older sister. His brother was very adroit in such matters, and Pat had followed along in his wake. He was on his own now—and the prospects were not too bright. He had already lost his virginity to a young lady from Vassar the previous summer in Bermuda, but he felt that his chances here were slim.

  Barbara was blonde, compact, and liked to sing—and she was still in high school. Her older sister disdained “the child” and they had an ebullient great-aunt who couldn’t rise from her chair. Barbara’s father was a businessman with a shop in the town.

  “Good heavens!” exclaimed Barbara as she helped him off with his great coat. “What is this? Pat, you look wonderful!”

  MacQueen pulled on his blue tunic and glanced into a hall mirror. His brown hair was short and stuck up into the air. He quickly produced a pocket comb and flattened it. “Do you like it?” he asked. He was pleased at this fuss.

  “It’s beautiful, Pat.” Her round blue eyes were burning with sincerity, and she held her hands clasped in front of her coral dress. “Show yourself to Auntie—she’ll never let you go.”

  The aunt was bobbing up and down in her chair with excitement. She had been disabled from birth and could know romance only through books, or vicariously, through her nieces. She took a great interest in their callers. She clasped her hands and rolled her eyes in delight. A brick fireplace was in the room, along with a tall piano, candlesticks, and a Victorian painting above the mantel. MacQueen glanced out of the bay windows that looked out on the street. The sergeant’s car had gone.

  “Pat, let me give you a kiss!” exclaimed the aunt. He dutifully bent forward into her scent of musky age, and she planted a kiss on his cheek. “You are dazzling. My brother used to be in the band, but he wore a red coat!”

  The evening wore on. He had forgotten to buy cigarettes, and Barbara’s sister—the only smoker in the family—was out. He accepted a cup of tea and some cookies, and listened as Barbara accompanied herself and sang “The Roses of Picardy”. It was too cold for a walk, and he couldn’t afford to take her anywhere. They played a game of checkers, stole a kiss under the stairs, and then he left.

  He hurried to get to the soda fountain early. He would buy some cigarettes and maybe a Coke. He couldn’t treat the sergeant, but that did not distress him. Just the sight of a sergeant accompanied by an ordinary soldier would be rare enough without him standing the treats. He noticed two military policemen standing under a lamppost at the corner of the main street. There were a few places open, and the sound of music drifted across the night air from a dance hall near the railway station. They were trying to sound like Artie Shaw but not doing it very well. Soldiers in big boots don’t make good dancers, anyway.

  6

  MacQueen entered into the bare lights and familiar vanilla and chocolate smells of the soda fountain. He bought a package of Sweet Caps from a youth wearing a white apron behind the marble counter. Round leatherette stools stood in front of the counter, and a couple of fellow soldiers were drinking Cokes. MacQueen glanced over the array of knob-topped shiny nozzles and caught his own reflection in the giant mirror against the back wall. His cap had a slight angle and shaded his face. He looked just as dapper as he’d hoped he did. Two girls were standing at the jukebox. They whispered to each other and giggled. The machine was playing “Moon Over Miami”. He unwrapped the cellophane and opened the white box, slicing the stamp with his thumbnail. Twenty-five tailor-made cigarettes. The two girls started to dance together, each looking at him in turn as they rotated together. He lit a cigarette and walked through the archway, farther into the restaurant.

  The sergeant was sitting in one of the booths that lined the wall, reading a magazine and nervously tapping a cigarette in a glass ashtray. A big pendulum clock high on the wall registered eleven-fifteen. MacQueen removed his cap and walked to the sergeant’s booth. He was sitting with his legs crossed and squinting abstractedly at the magazine. He looked up and his face creased into that startlingly wide grin. “Sit down,” he said and waved his cigarette at the opposite bench. His field service cap, bearing a shiny West Nova Scotia Regiment badge, lay on the table.

  MacQueen took off his greatcoat and placed it on a coat hook with his forage cap on top. He placed the crested riding crop on the bench and sat down. “Have a drink?” asked the sergeant. A flask of Gilbey’s Gin was on the bench beside him. “It goes well with stone ginger beer.” MacQueen readily agreed.

  “There isn’t one goddamn place to get a drink in this town,” complained the sergeant. He ordered two stone ginger beers and measured the drinks. His eyes were dark blue and his hair black, with a pronounced peak on his forehead. His jawbones were wide and his lips narrow. He leaned back against the booth with a devil-may-care air about him. MacQueen felt rather intimidated. The sergeant raised his glass. “To the only important thing,” he said. “A comrade.”

  The combination of gin and ginger hit MacQueen in the back of h
is throat. He coughed, and tears welled in his eyes.

  The sergeant sputtered then laughed. “I should have warned you,” he said.

  The jukebox had stopped and everyone looked at MacQueen. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his nose. The silence blessedly ended, and “Chattanooga Choo Choo” started up on the jukebox. The military policemen entered from outside and surveyed the room. The sergeant gave them a brief wave. They both nodded sternly and went out.

  “I heard your name in the sergeants’ mess,” said Sergeant Cyples. This startled MacQueen. “You want to be an officer? Well so do I.”

  MacQueen smiled nervously. He didn’t know much about the procedure but he thought his chances slim if he had to compete with a man like this. “Are you from Nova Scotia, Sergeant?” he asked. The sergeant laughed again, and when he did, it seemed to be with his entire body. He seemed to mock himself.

  “I was born in the old country,” he replied. “There were a lot of us in the family. We moved to the west when I was four, near Winnipeg. I spent the Depression drifting around out there then joined the navy.”

  “The navy!” MacQueen said. He had been born in Alberta, and his family had left during the Depression to go to Bermuda. He could remember the hobo camps outside Drumheller, and the endless freight trains covered with men like flies. Could the sergeant have been one of them?

  “The navy,” confirmed the sergeant. “And call me Bill when we are alone, for God’s sake.” He lit a cigarette with a nervous sort of impatience and inhaled deeply. “I got drunk one night in Nicaragua and they left me on the beach. I got tired of their tin-pot wars down there. I hope we’ve got a real one at last, if those politicians don’t fuck it up and pull out.”

  MacQueen hadn’t heard sentiments like that from anyone in the army. Here was one man that wasn’t looking for a soft job.

  “The sergeants’ mess here is full of nothing but a bunch of shits,” continued Sergeant Cyples, bouncing his cigarette up and down on the rim of the ashtray. He seemed to want to be nonchalant, but wasn’t very good at it. “There’s one old guy who was a major in the last war. He’s okay but he won’t last the course. He dyes his hair every morning.”

  MacQueen digested this outburst of subversive talk. He shifted uneasily and tried another sip of gin and ginger. It certainly warmed his stomach and began to course a little through his veins. His muscles relaxed minutely, and he felt better—more drawn to this outspoken sergeant. “Why do you want to be an officer?” he asked. He glanced at the sergeant’s eyes. They were looking straight into his.

  “Have you seen any of that new bunch?” asked the sergeant. “I know more about soldiering than all that crowd put together, yet I have to salute them. Well, I’ve saluted worse in my day, but we are fools to get into a war if we don’t intend to win it. Winning wars is a man’s game, and that bunch has a lot to learn. I could show them, but they’ve got me training the awkward squad!”

  “The what?” asked MacQueen.

  “The awkward squad,” repeated the sergeant. “Every bastard who can’t tell his right foot from his left!” He signalled for his companion to drink up. He poured another round and emptied the flask. He replaced this into a paper bag and placed it under the table.

  “I will soon be on the parade square,” said MacQueen.

  “I know,” replied the sergeant. “You go to Number One Platoon of A Company. That son-of-a-bitch Browne is going to be your sergeant. You will never end up with me—I am Platoon Number Five. Mine all have webbed feet.” He snorted and took a drink. “I’ll call the taxi. Don’t worry if we’re a little late. As long as one of those new second lieutenants isn’t there, I’ll get us in.” He rose and walked to the counter. The youth in the apron called for the taxi. The sergeant gave him a cigarette and left a quarter on the table—enough for a whole package of tailor-mades.

  The sergeant carried his bitterness with astonishing outbursts of good humour. He had shown his hand to MacQueen because he was lonely and hoped that he could buck the system and make him a friend. The boy will certainly need some protection when he gets into the hands of Sergeant Silas Browne, thought the sergeant grimly. The remarks in the sergeants’ mess had concerned MacQueen’s relationship with the departed colonel. Browne had said that everything was too easy for Signalman MacQueen, and that he would make him or break him, and that the idea that MacQueen might be headed for an officer’s commission infuriated him. He had been in the militia for ten years and was still saluting officers. MacQueen’s fine new uniform had arrived at an inconvenient time. The sergeant knew the sight of it would send Browne into a frenzy.

  Back at the camp, the sergeant argued with the corporal of the guard, who finally relented and roused a sleeping sentry to escort the taxi into the camp. Favours are debts in the army, and the sergeant knew it well. MacQueen got out of the taxi with him at the sergeants’ mess; he wouldn’t dare arrive at the headquarters hut in a taxi. The sergeant paid the taxi, gave the sentry a cigarette, and thrust his hand at MacQueen.

  “Thanks for joining me,” he said. MacQueen hesitantly offered him the riding crop. His previous plan to give it to Barbara had not even occurred to him. “It’s against regulation now,” he said. “Take it for a souvenir.”

  The sergeant’s face was a pale disc. The lights were out in the camp, and tattered drifts of dirty snow were still piled under the buildings. The sergeant accepted the riding crop. They shook hands. Without another word, they parted.

  In the hut, the sleepy telephone operators were getting dressed to go on duty. MacQueen urinated into the bucket outside the door. He gave his buddies some cigarettes and they left to get some hot tea and something to eat. Twenty-five men were sleeping in their bunks. The coal carrier came noisily in to fill the stoves. No one woke. The gin had smoothed MacQueen’s mind, and he went to bed feeling more content than he had in some time.

  7

  The following morning, MacQueen pulled on his battle dress and went to the noisy mess hall for breakfast. He was served two tough sausages, an egg boiled like a rock, three slices of limp white bread, and a mug of steaming tea sweetened with condensed milk. He still wore his peaked khaki forage cap, although he knew that he wouldn’t get away with it for long. His head didn’t seem shaped for the little side caps that someone had nicknamed “cheese cutters”. Later, he marched past the parade ground. The A Company was just falling in for parade. He noticed the sergeant shouting at his Number Five Platoon. This had all been background noise before, but it was now coming into focus. As he passed he noted Sergeant Browne out in front. He was calling the roll of Number One Platoon. The Permanent Force sergeant major stood immaculate and erect to one side like a shadow of doom.

  The new second lieutenants were straggling down the hill to assemble on the parade square and assume their leadership duties. MacQueen saluted each one as he passed, and each punctiliously returned the salute. Most of these men were brand new at the job, and the sergeant had been harsh in criticizing them. However, he certainly had a point. They seemed uncertain and terribly vulnerable. They had little experience in leading men and now had to meet them face-to-face. Some men are natural leaders, but for most it is a painful process to learn. The sergeants were much more experienced, but an officer is also, in theory, a gentleman. No one salutes a sergeant—but no one trifles with him, either. The sergeant major is in a realm of his own.

  MacQueen stomped to attention and reported to the weary staff sergeant for duty. “Good morning, Staff,” he said cheerily. The staff sergeant grunted, squinted through the smoke from his eternal cigarette, and handed MacQueen the handwritten daily orders.

  Captain Dribble’s door was open, and he was nervously shuffling through a basket of piled papers on his desk. The gruff new colonel had not improved his temper, and the two of them were sinking in paperwork. The paper descending on the adjutant’s office was inexorable. There were anti-tank regiments and medical units and other infantry units scheduled to assemble under canv
as at Aldershot Camp very soon. It gave the poor captain nightmares as he dreamed of enormous piles of paper cascading down out of the exploding windows of headquarters building. His grim conclusion was that Canada’s secret weapon was its forests. Germany could never defeat us in the paper war.

  MacQueen’s salvation was a bottle of pink correcting fluid. His typing was self-taught and laborious. He pecked out a stencil on the old upright typewriter and ran it off on the ink-splattered Gestetner machine. His mechanical aptitude with the copying machine was negligible at best. MacQueen squeezed the black ink from what looked like large toothpaste tubes then fitted the stencil and cranked out copies of the orders. He put a dispatch case over one shoulder, placed two dozen copies in it, and started on his way to pin them on every noticeboard in the camp. They didn’t even provide a bicycle. He wore the gauntlet gloves of a dispatch rider without a motorcycle. In the old days, he would have ridden a horse.

  Thus, MacQueen was a familiar figure in the camp. In the present context that meant that he was a ready target. Sergeant Browne knew who he was, although MacQueen hardly knew one sergeant from the other, and Bill Cyples was a newcomer altogether. MacQueen was not aware that all of A Company might envy him and his easy job. As he cheerfully went around posting up orders, they were sweating on a parade ground under bullying sergeants. Everyone was still a volunteer, of course, but some were luckier than others. MacQueen wanted to get into the war, and was still naïve enough to think that this ambition would find favour. Sergeant Cyples understood, but he was caught in the system too. Sergeant Browne bided his time.

  Signalman MacQueen loitered for a few moments to watch the men on the parade square. The first thing these men had to learn was to distinguish the voice of their sergeant above the hubbub of the others, all shouting at the same time. MacQueen focused on Bill Cyples’ voice. He issued a stream of profanity, but it wasn’t vulgar like the others—it was really rather amusing. He wasn’t rigid either. Unlike the others, Sergeant Cyples ranged up and down with his men. The awkward squad was trying desperately to please him. He chided them and verbally assaulted them, but underneath was a tone of jollity. In a way, he was pleading with them to improve. They were of varied ages and sizes, all intently trying to get the knack of this ritual. Cyples threw his hands up in mock despair and winked at MacQueen. MacQueen moved on with the more sombre notes of Browne’s voice in his ear. He noticed the dye running on the old ex-major’s brow. The sergeant major stood by haughtily and didn’t utter a sound.