Sergeant Browne was aware of this little gathering, of course, but he evaded any contact with Sergeant Cyples. He busied himself on the firing line with false solicitude towards his troops, and cast wary glances at the Regimental sergeant major. He knew very little of the background by which these men were assessing one another, and he was always apprehensive when a superior was nearby. Sergeant Cyples laughed in his staccato manner and jerkily puffed on a cigarette.
Private MacQueen sat in the high grass holding his rifle and idly watching the performance at the far end of the firing line. With no officers present, the Regimental sergeant major was striking the pose of a field marshal, which rather amused MacQueen. The dread inspired by the rumours of a terrible fate in the detention barracks seemed at odds with the Pickwickian aspect of the Imperial RSM. It made Sergeant Cyples look like an angular youth beside those two venerable old warhorses, thought MacQueen. The idea rather startled him—he had never really thought of his friend’s age before.
MacQueen knew enough members of the British hierarchy to mentally catalogue them. With Canadians, it was more difficult. Discounting the natives, which everyone did, the only truly feudal caste were the Quebec and Acadian seigneurs. The old “family compact” bunch in Toronto were tradesmen grown large, and MacQueen knew what the Brits thought of trade. The officers of the militia aped either the English or the Scots, depending on their regiment. The loyalist families were really transplanted Americans. Except for the Governor General, who had been born a German prince, it was a second-hand and slightly fraudulent county fair, and he couldn’t help puzzling over the importance his friend attached to it all. Without the king, they would be nowhere—except possibly rich…. Even their dollars had his head stamped on each one.
MacQueen snapped out of his reverie with Sergeant Browne shouting his name. He jumped to his feet and, holding his rifle, ran to the firing line. Taking his rifle in his left hand he spread his right onto the groundsheet and kicked his legs out behind. The sergeant threw a clip of five rounds beside him and said, “You’re number two.” MacQueen opened the bolt and forced the cartridges into the magazine well. He closed the bolt, forcing one cartridge into the chamber, then adjusted his helmet and peered along the gunsights with his right eye. He aligned the front and rear sights with the target, held his breath, and slowly squeezed the trigger. The rifle recoiled against his shoulder with a crack. The disc signalled that he was slightly to the left of the bull’s eye. He quickly slid the bolt open, ejecting the empty casing, then thrust it forward again to reload. He had not compensated for the breeze that was fluttering the red flag.
When MacQueen had expended his rounds, he rose onto one knee. His score had been fairly good, and he was a quick shot. He watched the other targets as the little discs scored for his fellows. Five feet away he noticed his neighbour, Andy, was wiggling and angling his rifle awkwardly. In an instant, MacQueen turned his head and saw the arched back of Sergeant Browne.
“I’m goin’ to kill that bastard,” Andy muttered, squinting along the rifle.
“Andy, no!” shouted MacQueen. He flung himself towards the other soldier just as the rifle exploded.
MacQueen felt as though he had been hit with a baseball bat. He could smell something burning, and his left shoulder pulled him into a grotesque cartwheel that threw him off the bank of the firing line. He landed sprawled directly at the feet of the startled Regimental sergeant major. The gravel was ground into his face. He then rolled over and saw the tree line disappear from his view. The face of Sergeant Cyples appeared as though at the end of a long tunnel. MacQueen opened his mouth to speak, but then knew that something had gone terribly wrong. Then it was pitch black. Then there was a woman’s face smiling at him. He asked for a cigarette. Then it was black again. He saw his friend Sergeant Cyples standing on a dirt road, aiming a gun at him. He cried out and it was night again. There was no pain, there was no tomorrow, and there was no yesterday. It must have all happened to somebody else, and the darkness was eternity. Then there was not one star in the sky.
20
When Private Patrick MacQueen began to assess what had happened to him, he was in a ward of the old stone military hospital at Cogswell Street in Halifax. It was in that hospital his father had briefly served before going to France in 1916; his mother had been an emergency nurse there after the Halifax Explosion in 1917. They did not meet until 1919, upon his father’s return from France.
MacQueen was in a long ward with high ceilings and a view of the top of Citadel Hill. His left arm was in traction and a heavy cast. Some bones in his left shoulder had been splintered, and he had been treated with the new sulphonamides, blood transfusions, and shock therapy. This had been a continual process until he reached Halifax, where the surgeons had cleaned the wound and mounted him in the bed. His memories were sporadic…he couldn’t yet tell which were facts and which were fantasies. He shared the ward with a sailor who had lost an arm in a winch, an army transport driver who had coasted into the harbour and broken his neck, and a merchant seaman whose foot had been removed for frostbite and gangrene. Others roamed about in the gaudy hospital patient’s uniform of bright blue with a scarlet necktie—presumably to keep them from running away; it was just as effective as a ball and chain.
Wounded soldiers were still somewhat of a novelty, and there were visitors from various associations bearing cigarettes, candies, and writing material—one nice lady even gave MacQueen a shawl. A brief letter from Sergeant Cyples said that Andy had been put into the detention centre, where he had tried to hang himself. He added that the A Company would soon be shipped overseas, and that he would visit the hospital. And that Barbara sent her love.
More surprisingly, a telegram arrived from his mother with an invitation to recuperate in Bermuda. Her cousin, one of the family’s retired colonels, also paid a visit, accompanied by the stern chief nurse of the hospital, who tried her best to smile. The colonel was now employed mustering names for possible conscription in the province. He told MacQueen that he would be lowered in category to “F”, which meant that he was medically unfit for further military service.
“You were too young, anyway,” said the family colonel. “Visit your mother, then come back and if your arm is okay we’ll see what we can do to get you into officer’s training. Your brother seems to be doing well enough, I hear.” That duty being performed, the family colonel left for lunch at the officer’s mess in Artillery Park, on the other side of Citadel Hill. He never reappeared.
Time dragged on and MacQueen lay quietly. He didn’t really care what happened now. The hospital routine and his companion’s vulgar jokes became the pattern of life, punctuated infrequently by a letter or a visit. His father wrote to tell him to visit him in Charlottetown, but not until a trip was arranged on one of the Lady Boats to take him to Bermuda soon after. The idea that a U-boat might sink it en route did not seem to occur to him, or at least it wasn’t mentioned. A fixed departure date would allow him to do his fatherly duty, discuss Patrick’s future, and avoid the strain of a prolonged visit. He received a postcard from his brother stating that he was going to get married, but he neglected to say when, where, or to whom. It was postmarked BROCKVILLE.
The leaves had fallen from the few trees that were visible at the foot of Citadel Hill, and the sun set behind it earlier each day. The yellow tram cars clanged all night as they passed the corner, and the lights of traffic reflected off the ceiling. Unlike Saint John’s, Halifax was not blacked out, to the despair of silhouetted mariners whose ships might unluckily be framed in a periscope. MacQueen read pulp magazines of the Great War imported from the United States, his favourite hero being a hard-drinking aviator named Terence X. O’Leary, who reminded MacQueen of Sergeant Cyples.
Finally, his arm was put into a sling, and MacQueen rose unsteadily to his feet. For a day or so he shuffled about like an old man but then gradually became more sure of his footing. His shoulder ached at all times, but it was bearable. He looked out of the wind
ows and watched the sailors passing the windy corner with their square collars fluttering and their girlfriends turning their backs to the wind and laughing. Clang-clang warned the tramcars, whose every conductor looked like a two-dimensional woodcut framed in the large front window. In the distant sky, the Red Ensign flew outright above the Citadel, now pointing north and then pointing south as more troopships were loaded. Destroyers entered and left the harbour with a whoop-whoop-whoop, and begrimed Halifax prepared for another winter of war.
Finally, the hospital orderly helped MacQueen to get dressed in his battle dress uniform. The orderly goosed him in front of the bathroom mirror, which sent a tremor of pain through his shoulder. “I’ll miss washing your pecker,” said the orderly with a naughty leer. “Keep it in your pants.”
There was no privacy in the army, and MacQueen accepted this familiarity with stoicism. This orderly had taken a motherly interest in MacQueen’s welfare, and there wasn’t much he could have done about it anyway—under the circumstances everyone just helped themselves. He put his right arm into the sleeve of the tunic, and the orderly draped it over the cast and belted it around his waist. “You now look just like a hero,” he said in admiration. MacQueen had forgotten the weight of army boots; they felt like large lumps of lead. His personal gear had been sent from Aldershot and was now all packed in one brown canvas kit bag and a haversack. His greatcoat lay on the bed and he was ready to leave. His orders were to report to the Wellington Barracks for a medical discharge from the Canadian army, which would take a week or more to complete.
He wrote a postcard to Sergeant Cyples, stuck a three-cent stamp onto it, and left it at the desk. Another orderly heaved his bags into an army pickup truck and shook his hand. “We didn’t think you’d make it,” said the orderly. “But I’m glad you did.” A cold wind whistled around the corner of the hospital, scattering dead leaves. MacQueen held onto his field service cap and climbed into the truck, beside the driver. He felt exhausted and his shoulder hurt.
“Wellington Barracks!” said the driver cheerfully. He was an army service corps corporal and the most contented man in MD No. 6. Halifax was his home grounds, he lived with his family, and he could moonlight as a taxi driver. He did not care if the war lasted forever. “For your sake, I hope you don’t have to stay in there for long—it’s a cold dump in the wintertime.” They bounced onto the cobblestones of Cogswell Street and MacQueen winced. The stitches had just been removed and he hoped that his shoulder wouldn’t start to bleed.
Wellington Barracks was a three-storey brick quadrangle, surrounded by a high stone wall. One entered through an arched passageway that penetrated the building and exited onto the parade ground. It was located on Gottingen Street and overlooked the harbour at almost the exact spot where the munitions’ ship had blown up to cause the Halifax Explosion in 1917. The concrete parade square was surrounded by a stone drive with upended cannon as marking posts. Between it and the harbour view were a long row of brick senior officers’ residences. It had been built for the British garrison in Queen Victoria’s reign, and the explosion had cracked it from top to bottom. The wind moaned eerily through its long corridors and the windows rattled in their frames. A sentry from the Halifax Rifle Regiment waved them through the gate and they drove under the arch. A spit-and-polish sergeant, wearing a forage cap tilted over his nose and short puttees, stepped from a half-open Dutch door and held up his hand. He held a clipboard in his other hand.
“Name?” he asked briskly.
“Private MacQueen, Patrick, F26453.”
“Get out m’lad,” said the sergeant. MacQueen eased himself into the drafty archway, slung the kit bag over his right shoulder, and reached for the duffle. The service corps corporal got out and lifted it to the stone walkway. “Okay, Jim, get the hell outta here,” said the sergeant. “You’re holdin’ up traffic.”
The truck rolled ahead, and a staff car drew abreast. It hesitated, and the sergeant sprang erect and saluted smartly. The staff car rolled ahead. “Jesus, it was the general!” muttered the sergeant. His hand shook slightly as he traced down a list on the clipboard. “MacQueen? Right, here we are…discharge, eh? Lucky boy! You’re for room 211. Through that door and up the stairs, turn left. Any bunk, there’s only one other in there. Standing orders on the wall. Supper at five over there.” He pointed to a door under some arched cloisters facing the parade square. Two platoons of soldiers were assembled on the square but did not seem to be doing anything. It was a cheerless outlook, and the sky looked laden with snow.
“Can someone help me with the duffle bag, Sergeant?” asked MacQueen.
“Drag it inside the door,” replied the sergeant. “Ask your roommate to get it for you.”
A large truck was gingerly navigating the archway, and MacQueen could see an old freighter slowly making its way through the narrows towards Bedford Basin. He held the door with his back and dragged the duffle bag over the doorstep. He felt dizzy and mounted the worn stone steps slowly, holding the iron railing. The place smelled of cement and decay. The corridors were high and gloomy and totally bare. It’s like a nightmare, thought MacQueen, and a brief ghost vision of a red-coated British soldier flickered through his mind. He had heard that the coats were red so they would not show bloodstains. If history is written in young men’s blood, he reflected bitterly, they shouldn’t have had to wear red coats.
211 was stencilled in dirty yellow on the door. MacQueen pushed it open. The room contained a dozen iron double-deck bunks, each with a rolled mattress and three grey blankets. There was a high, dirty window facing a stone wall, and two bulbs hanging bare from the ceiling. A soldier lay sleeping on one of the bare springs with his head propped on the folded blankets with a towel spread over them. MacQueen read on his shoulder flash CAPE BRETON HIGHLANDERS. He selected a bunk that would give him some light for reading, put his kit bag on the floor, and laid down without removing his greatcoat. He was asleep in an instant.
21
When MacQueen opened his eyes, he looked directly into the laughing gun barrels of his friend Bill Cyples. “Jesus Christ, MacQueen,” said the sergeant, dumping the duffle bag onto the floor. “What a gloomy fucking hellhole to end up in! Who built this place, William the Conqueror?”
Patrick MacQueen was never so glad to see anyone in his entire life. He lay stupidly on the bunk and tears sprang foolishly into his eyes. His throat constricted and he couldn’t utter any sound except to gag. He lifted his right hand and the sergeant took it in both of his.
“I went to the hospital,” he said, “and they sent me here. That cock-sucking little sergeant gave me your gear to carry up those stairs. Christ, MacQueen, we’ve got to get out of this dungeon and have a drink somewhere!”
The Cape Breton Highlander opened his eyes then sat up with a start and bumped his head. “Shit,” he said. “I mean shit, Sergeant…oh, what the hell!” He rubbed his head and they all laughed.
MacQueen struggled to his feet. There was no furniture in the room and a gust of wind slammed the door. “This is the end of the road, Bill,” said MacQueen with a tight-lipped smile and a slight wave of his right arm. “This is where I get off!”
The sergeant squinted his eyes and shook his head; the muscles in his wide jaws twitched. “You’ve hardly got on yet,” he said. “And besides that, your brother is in town. He left a message for you at the hospital. He’s on his honeymoon at the Lord Nelson Hotel.”
“Holy Christ!” exclaimed MacQueen. “So, he’s done it! Can I get out of this dump?”
The Cape Bretoner rubbed his unshaven chin. “You can come and go until they pay you off,” he said. “I wouldn’t be here now if I wasn’t broke.” He accepted a cigarette from the sergeant and stood for a light. His uniform was crumpled and his hands trembled.
“What’s the matter with you?” asked Sergeant Cyples.
“I got flat feet,” said the Cape Bretoner. “Nobody noticed them for six months. They just sent me back from Newfie.”
The
sergeant laughed, rifled into a trouser pocket and passed a two-dollar bill to the astounded Cape Bretoner. “The canteen is open,” he said. “Go and get rid of those shakes.” The Highlander reached for his glengarry.
“I’ll pay you back, Sergeant,” he said. “As soon as my discharge comes through—I’ll have lots of money then, I promise.”
“Forget it,” said the sergeant. He turned to MacQueen as the Highlander opened the door with a grunt and a cold draft swept through the room.
“Come on, Pat,” he urged. “Your brother must have some booze if he just got married! We’ll take a taxi and pay him a visit—I’ve never met any of your lofty family.” He grinned.
MacQueen felt anything but lofty, and he didn’t entirely appreciate the sergeant’s gentle sarcasm.
They searched out the washrooms and latrine. The sergeant brushed the private’s boots into a respectable polish, and he washed his right hand. “You can still salute,” he said. “Your brother will soon be an officer.”
The sergeant obtained an official, handwritten chit for MacQueen in case any military police might question them. “Stepping out with the buckoes now, are we, Sergeant?” asked the spit-and-polish martinet from his half door.
“Shove it up your arse,” said Sergeant Cyples, and they walked under the vault and through the iron gates. Large flakes of snow were gently drifting and the sentry from the Halifax Rifle Regiment looked into the sky with impotent disapproval. A yellow tramcar clanged, its myopic headlamp pale and barely visible in the dusk. Three taxis were at the curb on the opposite side of Gottingen Street. They hurried across, MacQueen’s dull greatcoat enlivened by a stark triangle of white bearing his injured arm. The snowflakes swirled about them as the tram passed, and a little blue flash was emitted where its rod connected with the wires overhead.
The Broken Sword Page 9