by Paul Almond
THE
HERO
or
Shell Shock: A Love Story
Paul Almond
Rev. Eric and Rene
For my mother and father,
whose journey I never knew,
until I wrote this book.
PART ONE: 1926 AND ON
C H A P T E R O N E
That man at the end of the platform — he’s the key. But something about him denies access. Unlike the others waiting for the train, we’ll have to approach him and his story cautiously. No plunging ahead with—“Hey, how are you?” No confrontation — oh no. So let us draw near slowly, wend down any long lanes of memory, ease along trails that might render clues, even use his own writings which we shall discover, and make our way gradually from observation to participation, fact working with fiction, until we can confidently move beside him...
First, let’s watch from a distance. See how he stands, smoking his pipe, khaki haversack resting on his hip, apart from the group, staring out into the wide bay beyond. Note those newly washed trousers. And his clean cloth cap, flannel shirt collar freshly pressed, and the knitted wool sweater and heavy jacket. Well, it’s June, and the weather here in on the Gaspe Peninsula is still chilly: across the railway tracks, tiny buds are only now reaching out from winter limbs to grasp the last rays of the modest sun. Beside him on the rough platform boards, a worn canvas bag (tied shut with a rope) leans against a frayed suitcase. So he’s going on a long journey. But why?
The others in the station cast covert glances in his direction. It seems they know him. Why don’t they go over, engage him in conversation? They all appear, even for farmers, rather well-off, and substantial.
The red-ochred wooden station with its overhanging roof sits on the curving wooded shores of an estuary. Around it, Port Daniel stretches half a mile east, stopping at a hill that rises into the badlands, and on through them to Gascons, Perce, and finally, the end of the line, Gaspe. Behind the village, a lagoon gathers the river from the highlands in the interior: haunt of moose, caribou and wolves. This whole wooded peninsula, rarely pierced by any local, is framed on the north by the great St. Lawrence River and on the east by the Gulf of St. Lawrence, bounded itself by Newfoundland.
Look, our man has turned, taken a few steps, and eased himself onto the loaded baggage cart. Look at those boots. Army boots. Resoled a few times, doubtless, but still serviceable. And did you catch that quick gleam from a small button on his lapel? A crown, topped by the curved words, For Honourable Service, above three maple leaves. A significant detail, no doubt. It shows he fought in the Great War, 1914-18, almost a decade ago. Indeed, that hunched figure on the cart emanates a world of experience — that few others hereabouts have undergone. So yes, they would all know him to be a veteran. Perhaps they can imagine what he’s been through and that’s why they leave him alone.
Passengers are chatting among themselves, some saying their goodbyes, others taking a short train ride up to New Carlisle or Bonaventure, and three or four heading to the big city, to Montreal.
Right now, our veteran is staring out over the blue waters of Chaleur Bay. As usual, the ever present gulls are cresting waves stirred up by the beginnings of a storm; no fishing boats this late in the day. No great leap to surmise he is not looking at anything in particular, but rather backwards into the past.
A storm is coming. Let us think... The only major event told by the old-timers was of a British 74-gun man o’war, sheltered in this estuary from a similar spring blow in the early 1800s. Could our veteran be thinking of that? That moment when a single midshipman jumped ship: James Alford, his grandfather? Our veteran might not know the full story: that this huge ship with its three gigantic masts and twenty-one sails, the Bellerophon (famous for the battle of Trafalgar and later bringing Napoleon to Portsmouth) was only 180 feet long — a quarter the length of HMS Dreadnought, the WWI battleship our veteran would indeed know.
His grandfather had leapt off that ship into the same icy waters his grandson is now staring at, collected himself, made his way through these same woods ringing the same shore, past where this railroad station now sits and back up the Port Daniel River, to eventually settle in Shigawake.
Had we been on this station platform half an hour ago, we would have seen that midshipman’s youngest son, Jim Alford, now stooped and grizzled in his 80s, shaking hands with his shorter, and it must be admitted, handsome, departing veteran son. We’d have noticed how quickly the old man turned away to hide the moisture starting into his eyes and how his tall figure hobbled stiffly back to the waiting express wagon drawn by Lively, a horse also approaching the limit of his earthly existence. Once aboard, Jim certainly slapped the reins, for Lively was not tied up, being accustomed to obedient waiting. Then Old Poppa, as Jim Alford was known to his family, would have set off westward along the main gravelled road over Port Daniel mountain, and thence to Shigawake, an hour’s ride. Fathers and sons, at partings like these, don’t stand around mumbling inanities if the train is late. Oh no, old Jim would never delay when his heart was breaking; he’d push on home to help their hired man and Earle, his son, finish up some last minute harrowing on their rolling farm.
But what’s this? The station crowd has stirred and become animated. Have they heard something?
Our veteran gives a quick glance down the platform, seeing their excitement quicken. They have heard something he has not. A distant train whistle perhaps? Is he slightly deaf? Another clue. Might he not have served in the Artillery? A definite possibility, for those howitzers banging away every day for months on end would surely cause a hearing difficulty. He takes the last puff of his pipe, taps out the contents against the iron shelf of the baggage car, blows into the barrel and puts it in his pocket. Glancing up, he sees two crows chasing a hawk. Just as they did on his first departure from Port Daniel Station, in the autumn of 1915, twelve years ago. He straightens, takes off his cap to smooth the neatly-parted black hair, a smile flavouring his lips. Is he remembering that first excitement as he left for university? But we can now assume that our prospective undergrad never got there — diverted by enlistment officers to join up and head over the Atlantic into the battlegrounds of France.
From his pocket he pulls a much creased blue envelope. Another clue to his destination? He stares at it briefly and then carefully stuffs it back into a jacket pocket. His black eyes, almost smoky, shut out further questions as might a furnace door conceal a well-stoked fire within.
A train whistle — this time closer. The former soldier eases down from the baggage cart and stares out across the waters. Yes, between the trees a plume of smoke funnels into the windy sky. He stoops, hefts his belongings closer and straightens, glancing at the others who are now beginning to mill about, exchanging farewells. But he remains, as before, apart and alone.
Before we join him on the train, shall we find out what brought him here, where he is going, and more particularly, why? For this we must turn to his own writings, and conjure up his recent past.
C H A P T E R T W O
Our enigmatic gentleman on the platform has filled a worn black looseleaf with scraps of writings. His own words (hereinafter rendered in italics) written earlier in the autumn of 1926 on his battered Underwood portable at Bishop’s University, some hundred miles south of Montreal, tell us about his view of “Life”.
A beautiful flower garden overlooking the Bay de Chaleur — lilacs, tulips and roses, the most wonderful colouring and sweet perfume, a haunt of hummingbirds and wild canaries.
But the wee laddie did not care to weed in this Beauty Spot — although his mother was trying to teach him to love her flower garden — Mother’s Paradise. Oh, no it was almost as bad as going to school, but sometimes when pulling out a weed by the roots, he found a
fat angle worm. Then the young laddie’s eyes would glisten and immediately the worm would go into his pocket to keep company with his jackknife and fishing tackle. Then when mother wasn’t looking, he would sneak back over the hill to the wonderful trout streams and small lakes, the wee laddie’s paradise! Mother worried when he went off on these solitary hunting and fishing trips, alone except for his faithful collie dog, Charlie. But the excitement of those silent pools where the big trout lay on the bottom, refusing the tempting angle worm...
Happy memories of childhood — the only perfect happiness because free from worry, care and sin.
That was life
In their steel helmets, with gas masks, pack sack, rifle and bayonet, a line of khaki-clad troops were struggling over shell holes and dead bodies, through barbed wire, trying to dodge the bursting shells on their way to the Front. The Great War for Civilisation: England at death grips with Germany.
Coming back from the trenches and passing our line of troops lay the men on stretchers: ghastly, awful faces and mangled limbs. Machine-gun and rifle fire opened up as a Hun plane flew over on a bombing raid. It was raining a downpour, and the mud was simply dreadful.
The young officer looked at the drawn, tired faces of his men and thought of the garden at home on the Bay de Chaleur. Next morning they were going “over the top” on a raid, which meant that many would never return to their flower gardens in Canada but would sleep instead among the Flanders poppies in faraway France, “pushing daisies” as soldiers say.
In that soul-destroying half hour before dawn, waiting for the attack, while our artillery was pounding the German trenches and cutting lanes in the barbed wire entanglements, he heard, “God I am fed up,” as someone said, “this awful shelling and mud...”
The young officer thought of his old rugby coach and spoke a few words to the men in his section. “I believe, boys, that God Almighty hates a coward, so I would rather die than be a quitter! Our objective is the German third line...”
The whistle blew, the artillery fire lifted, and over the top went the raiding Canadians through that Hell of No Man’s Land. The objective was never reached because German machine gunners mowed them down. The wire had not been properly cut — there was no retreat, simply because there was nobody left to retreat. They had all died in front of the German wire like heroes, faces to the foe.
The young officer was lying wounded in a shell hole waiting for death, when a comrade crawled over and said, “I can help you back to our lines. Anyhow, we will either get back or die together, for I will never leave you.”
Divine unselfishness! Magnificent heroism!
This too was life.
A marvellous sunset, pure red, lit up that Western sky in British Columbia. The sun was going down like a tired old man who has done his work well and left behind a wonderful glow in the memory of his friends for kind deeds and unselfish acts. This afterglow thrilled you with silent wonder — so beautiful that it almost hurt: words would have been profane. Marvellous colouring, purple, rose, and little clouds like islands of pure, bright, shining gold in a deep blue sea, the islands of departed heroes.
The man was smoking his pipe outside a tent belonging to the Geodetic Land Survey of Canada — a government party of land surveyors. His friend was lying on the grass at his side. Perfect companionship, where words were unnecessary because mood speaks to mood, sense to sense, feeling to feeling.
Just below the camping ground lay one of those mountain lakes which are unequalled in Canada for sheer beauty: snow-capped peaks towering up into the blue. A slender stream ran down from the hills, winding its way along and falling — a cataract of sparkling, bubbling spray — into the silent lake, surrounded by the mysterious forest with its tall Douglas fir, murmuring pine, white birches, maples and poplar, with rustling, shimmering leaves.
God’s own peace! Mother Nature in one of her charming, restful moods trying to banish scenes of war from the lined faces of the returned men, whispering to them of love, peace and happiness. A delicious sleep on pine needles, so absolutely sound and restful. What a contrast to the noise of the raging guns and artillery fire on the Western Front only two years before.
In the first streaks of dawn in the eastern sky, a bird broke that blissful stillness, followed by the wonderful chorus when they sing their morning hymn at dawn — what musician could attempt to rival them with his mechanical instrument?
The joy of existence; the feeling that it is just good to be alive.
And this also was life.
Revealing about his life up to now, certainly, but no hint as to this present voyage. Nor to the origins of the blue envelope.
Perhaps we should speed up this process by going back seven years to Shigawake, our man’s home, to a scene that well have taken place, though nowhere recorded.
***
In 1919, right after the war, our veteran was raking up fallen leaves in the garden of his family farm, known as the Old Homestead, when a horse and buggy came down the road from Paspebiac at a fast trot. Slowing, it turned in. He paused to watch it go up the driveway: a woman driving, smartly dressed for sure, but no one he knew, so he went back to raking. Some of these leaves he would deposit on certain plants as mulch against the winter frost.
“Eric!” His mother’s voice rang out.
He turned. The little white-haired lady on the front steps waved. He dropped his rake and headed towards the house as around the veranda came the visitor.
He reached the foot of the stairs and stopped. There, on the top step stood a vaguely familiar figure. He frowned as he took in her stylish boots, the fur collar above a long straight coat open to reveal a dress with descending patterns, her brown hair neat under a fitted hat, obviously from the finest milliner in a big city. Clever makeup heightened her cheekbones and accented her lips.
Both figures stood staring at each other. Tears welled up in the lady’s eyes. “Eric. Thank God. So you survived...”
Eric looked at her in wonderment. “Raine? Are you my Raine?”
As she nodded, he leapt up the stairs and put his arms around her and hugged tightly, his mother watching.
After a time, Eric loosened his embrace and held her at arms length, still staring. “Raine, how you’ve changed!”
“And so have you, dear Eric.” She took a handkerchief from her small, elegant clutch purse and wiped her own tears from her cheeks. Her formerly skinny frame had fleshed out into a fully formed figure.
“Well, I’ll just go in and get yez both a cup o’ tea.” Eric’s mother opened the front door.
“Wait! Thanks very much, Mrs. Alford, but first, I’d like to take Eric back to the Hollow. I’ll have the tea when we return, if that’s all right?”
Moments later, Eric fetched the well-worn staff leaning against the back wall and walked with Raine up the slanting path that cut across the hill behind. Not speaking, hearts full, they could feel the silence between them laden with promise. Halfway up, Raine said, “You’ve been through so much, Eric. I heard from others what it was like over there. Terrible.”
“And I guess you have been through a lot, too,” he replied.
They stopped at the brow to look back down on the Old Homestead. To the east, St. Paul’s white wooden spire caught the sun; to the west, other farms of Alford lineage, and just below, the Temperance Hall soon to be moved below the road to host a United Church congregation.
Eric gestured: “Women’s Christian Temperance Union. WCTU. Stands for: Women Combined to Torment Us.” He laughs. But seeing Raine’s smile fade, he went on, “I’m dying to know...”
After a time, Raine began, “Well... the day after you left — that night really, because I was afraid that ‘family’ o’ mine would follow me in daylight, and bring me back — I set off. I was so tired, because I hadn’t eaten, bein’ upset at your leaving. And anyhow, there never was anything in our shacks to eat.”
“I hoped and prayed,” said Eric, “after what those relatives had put you through, that y
ou’d soon get away.” The past, its incest, hunger and deprivations, remained unspoken between them.
Raine nodded. “I guess I musta walked all the way to Paspebiac by dawn, and I felt like dropping, but I kep’ on. I had to lay me down to rest from time to time, but I made it to New Carlisle by nightfall. It looked like rain so I wanted some barn where I could find me a haymow. When the farmer seen me, and I guess I looked pretty bad, he and his wife, they took me in and fed me a darn good meal. They had me sleep in the house, and after a big breakfast I went on, and you know Eric, I got to Bonaventure the next day!
“I figured by now I was pretty safe. So, I started to look for work and you know? The second store I went into, the man’s wife had taken sick, and I started helping out, sweeping and cleaning. But I couldn’t get you outta my mind.”
“I had an idea, Raine dear,” Eric mumbled, “that once you got away, you’d be fine. And did you stay in Bonaventure long?”
“Well...” Raine set off with him across the flat field atop the hill, “I’ll try to make this short, because I want to finish before you and me, we go down to see that family of mine.”
Eric’s sudden look betrayed his anxiety. He had made sure to avoid those folk in the shacks and their side of the brook since his return. They might well have blamed him for Raine’s departure. But now, he’d stand by Raine, no matter what.
“You see, one French fella who kept coming in, he had a club foot so he couldn’t go fight no war. But he was good-looking, and kind, and his head was sure full of ideas. I kep’ waiting for a letter from you, but none came, and finally, well ...” She paused, and glanced at her companion.
Thoughtfully, Eric walked on with his staff, thumb hooked in the notch.
“Well, he was going off to Quebec City in the summer to make his fortune, and he asked me to come. I’d been seeing him all winter, off and on, and we’d been pretty good friends all spring, too. When I seen no letter was likely to come, I took off with him.” She paused. “We were married in Quebec.”