by Paul Almond
Up ahead, Eric whirls. He sees the men holding back. He bawls out through cupped hands, “God Almighty hates a coward. It’ll be ours! The Brits tried, then the Scots, and now us. We’ll take Passchendaele! Charge!”
A great peal of thunder echoes his cry. Some start through the gate, others hold back, baffled.
Eric sees the confusion. He fires twice over their heads.
That does it. The men crouch and run after him.
He leads the way, then he stops and whirls. “Spread out!” he cries. “Those guns, they’ll mow us down. Keep low, run zigzag!” He does so himself as he charges ahead of them all.
As commanded, thirty chilled and shivering trainees attack Moulton Hill over ploughed pastureland turned to squelching mud by autumn rains. They chase one another, stumbling and grumbling.
“I see what he’s doing — making us feel what real battle’s like. Perfect!” And “Yeah, enough of that parade-ground drilling. This is the real thing!”
Others object loudly. “He’s gone crazy.” “No, no, he’s pretending.”
“Those shots, you think that’s pretending?”
But they keep on, sliding and slithering up the hill, growing steeper. Eric turns, gratified by his men following. He brandishes his revolver again. “We’re making it! Keep it up! We’ll take the Ridge yet!”
Zigzagging back and forth as commanded, the squad runs, tripping over the furrows, some falling, others jostling together, all panting hard.
Eric reaches the top and starts firing wildly in all directions. Some duck, others drop in to the mud.
Delbart runs up. “Sir, sir, I don’t think we should be shooting. We’ll disturb the neighbours.”
“The Germans — you think they’ll quit without a fight? You’re wrong, Delbart, dead wrong!”
“Germans, Sir? No Germans here — closest is thousands of miles away, over the Atlantic. We’re on Moulton Hill. Don’t you see? Look, there’s a farm house.”
“Oh, so that’s where they’re hiding! Lying in wait?”
Before Eric can charge towards the farmhouse, Delbart grabs his arm. “Sir, Sir, hold on! Look, we were there yesterday, remember? Getting fresh eggs. He’s our friend. Sir, they’re all friends.” Eric relents, confused. “It was a grand exercise, but now, Sir, look at the men, they’re all muddied, they’re worn out. It’s over.”
“Muddied? Of course they are.” He stands for a moment, perplexed but alert.
“Sir, the hill has been taken.”
“But where is the enemy? They wouldn’t just disappear.”
“No Sir, there is no enemy. It was a grand exercise. The men have learned a lot. We taught them what real battle is like. But now, let’s form up and get back to college quick as possible.”
“Back to where?”
“To college, Sir. We’ve got to get out of these uniforms. We have exams in a week. We’ve got to study.”
“Study? College?” Eric appears dumbfounded. His revolver goes back into its holster.
Delbart relaxes somewhat. “Well done, men!” he calls out. “Wonderful manoeuvres. Back down. We’ll form up on the road. Home on the double! We’ll dismiss in the quad.” He turns to Eric. “Well done, Sir. I even... I even believed it myself.”
Eric nods silently. He starts back down the slope with the others, slipping and sliding. But the spark is gone.
He reaches out. Delbart comes to steady his leader and help him hobble down the hill.
Back to the Mitre: “We regret having to report the resignation, due to ill health, of Major E. Alford, under whose enthusiastic leadership the Contingent came into being.”
Our tough footballer, our fine leader, has chosen to resign. Does this write finis to his University career?
C H A P T E R F O U R
Immediately after, Christmas Break allowed Eric to go home, picked up at Port Daniel station by Old Poppa in the buggy and brought safely into the comforting arms of his family in Shigawake. Warned in advance by Canon Alford, Earle and his two sisters, Winifred and Lillian, restrained any criticism of his actions, as did their mother. She would have given him extra care and succour, too, for this is what Eric wrote about her in that 1926 autumn frenzy of writing:
She brought twelve babies into the world; washed, fed and clothed them — taught them their prayers, watched their habits and tried to interest them in the beautiful things of life, especially flower gardens. Tried to make them charitable and loving by bringing them with her when she gave gifts of food and clothing to poor people.
She worked hard to get us all an education, sending us to school and college, writing us letters every week, always with a piece of inspirational poetry inside, chiefly out of a newspaper. Then she sent us out to fight the battles of life, glad when her daughters became nurses and her sons soldiers. But when the War was on, she would walk the floor many nights in silent prayer and worry — no sleep for her.
Her hobbies were three, religion, flower-gardening and visiting the sick. She always had family prayers, morning and evening. Then would read us Bible stories until we dropped off to sleep. She made the most beautiful flower garden in the counties of Bonaventure and Gaspe, helping her neighbours start gardens by giving them plants, shrubs and herbs from her own. One of my earliest recollections was driving my mother to see a poverty-stricken family on Christmas Day.
I have known her to bring a girl into our home to have her baby when her own family had turned her out. I have known her take in two old people when their own selfish relatives had put them out in the cold, and keep them in comfort until they died. I have known her sit up all night with a poor tramp in the middle of winter when our next neighbour had refused him lodging. When anybody was sick in the neighbourhood, she was the first at their bedside.
She had watched her grandchildren and great grandchildren come into the world; now she is a feeble old lady facing west and waiting patiently for her call.
Safe in his own environment again, over the short weeks of his Christmas vacation, with no events to trigger any further flashes, Eric managed to recover. Back he went to Bishop’s — his one means, he believed, of measuring up, of becoming what was needed when, or if, he were ever to see Rene again. Nothing had stopped him during those years of the most hellish war ever fought by mankind, whether bullets, incoming counter-battery shelling, shrapnel wounds in the hand and face, or even the dreaded shell shock.
From all accounts, Eric was accepted back at college as if nothing had happened. He even acquitted himself well, until many months later during the autumn term, he played football again. The team won a good few games, but the last one they played, the most important, they lost, and Eric, as quarterback blamed himself.
Shortly after there came a knock on the door of his room in McGreer Hall at Bishop’s University. Waiting outside was someone Eric described in an earlier essay:
He is a man of about fifty years of age, with dark brown, flashing eyes. Almost five foot eight inches in height, with the erect carriage and noble bearing which rightly belongs only to old army Officers.
A bulldog sort of a face, broad forehead, thick nose, heavy jaw and square chin, lines deeply carved in the cheeks and upper lip by suffering and fighting, but with humorous wrinkles around the eyes. This tremendous strength is offset by the dreamer’s look and softened by sympathetic lines along the forehead. He appears big in every way, a magnetic, dominating personality and immense power of will, and a wicked temper firmly under control. Yes, some awful soul conflicts must have sculptured that face and grooved those lines of character.
He has experienced and observed life: Captain of his rugby and hockey teams at college, four years as a lonely missionary on the bleak Labrador coast, Chaplain Officer with the Canadian Forces in two wars, Rector of one of the largest churches in Montreal. He has travelled extensively, mixed with all kinds and classes of men, observed other races and customs, experienced life in all its aspects: on the lonely Labrador, on the battle-stricken South African veldt, in
those muddy trenches in Flanders, in city slums, hospitals, asylums and jails. He has observed life’s silent heroisms, its blackening sins, its tremendous struggles and soul conflicts, its divine unselfishness, its ultimate peace.
He has held babies in his arms, swearing them into that great adventure for Good, joined many hands in that perfect partnership of married love, closed tired eyes in death and given the last rites to soldiers, mothers, fathers and young girls. Yet he has looked on life with all its glories and failures, its sins and sufferings, and found it worthwhile.
Waiting for a response by the door stood Col. The Rev. John Alford. Was he surprised this late morning to find his younger brother still in bed? Or did he anticipate all this when he knocked hard on his oaken door?
Eric, head under the covers, did not reply. The door opened anyway and in came his visitor. Eric peered out from under the covers, sat up at once, and swung out of bed. “Jack! I didn’t expect to see you here. What are you doing in Lennoxville?”
The Canon took a moment before responding. “Oh, I had some church business in Sherbrooke, and then I thought I’d come over here and visit!” Not hard to see Jack was making this up.
Eric started to dress hurriedly while Jack looked around. Some disarray! Not usual for his younger brother.
Eric grabbed his underwear and loose wool trousers and hauled them on. Then he got down on his hands and knees to look under the bed for his socks and boots. “I’ve got an exam to go to, Jack.”
“Eric, the exam is almost over. It’s nearly noon.”
“Nearly noon? Oh dear, I must have slept in.”
Jack did not reply but crossed to the chair and picked up Eric’s shirt where it had been thrown, haphazardly, and brought it over. Eric hurriedly put it on.
“I asked where you were,” Jack murmured. “They said you haven’t been seen for a couple of days.”
“Oh, I’m fine, Jack. Perfectly fine. I just haven’t wanted to eat. Lost my appetite.” He gave a weak laugh.
“Nothing wrong with that, Eric.” Jack went back to the chair, put his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, staring at the carpet before him.
Eric hurriedly did up his shirt, and then crossed to the cupboard to choose a tie. “Sorry the room is in a bit of a mess.”
“So I see.” Jack raised his eyes briefly and went back to studying the floor. “But don’t worry, I’m used to such things.”
“I’m not usually like this, of course. It’s just that recently ...”
“So I hear.”
Eric turned. “Hear? What do you hear?”
Jack shrugged. “Do you want to tell me about it, Eric?”
Eric took out a tie and started to put it on. “There’s nothing to tell Jack, nothing. I’m perfectly all right. Honestly.”
Jack looked up. “Honestly?”
Eric avoided his look and came across to sit down and put on his boots, which he had found in the cupboard. Jack rose and came to stand above him. “Eric, I know something is wrong. I’m your brother. You can tell me. It won’t go any further. Don’t worry.” Eric didn’t look up, but stopped putting on his shoes, and placed his two feet on the floor and his head in his hands.
Jack spoke gently, “Eric, there are times when it all gets too much. I know. I’ve seen some of our finest veterans, our greatest heroes, I minister to them, this is nothing new to me.” He sat beside Eric on the bed and put his arm round his shoulders. “Come on, Eric, what is it?” He gave his shoulders a little shake.
Eric continued staring at the floor. “Well, we lost a few games.”
Jack said nothing, listening.
“I know you’ll think that’s nothing, but you see, Jack, I’m the quarterback. I’m responsible. It haunts me”
“Eric, games are won or lost, it’s the nature of rugby. You did your best, I’m sure of that.”
“Oh yes. I did my best. Sort of.”
“Go on,” Jack prodded gently.
“Well, that last game, I kept getting these thoughts... As the players hit me, well, that’s rugby, but.... I couldn’t really concentrate.”
“I’ve seen that, Eric — a lot, in fact. I was head of the Chaplaincy Service, so our veterans... they come to me.”
“It happens a lot?”
Jack nodded. “So you can keep on. What kind of thoughts?”
“Well, you see, it’s like I was back there. In Belgium. On the Firing Line. But all the time, I keep seeing them Heinie coming at us. And we can’t fire the gun. For some reason it jams. Or else the team isn’t working properly; they can’t get shells into the breech. We stand there, helpless. And the Hun, they come at us with their bayonets.” He shook his head. “I thought when I resigned the Officers Training Corps, all that would be over. I thought I’d be free. And I was. Most of the year. But things started to pile up... Losing games...” He sighed. “Trying to study, but my focus, all gone...” Eric shook his head. “And they call me Pops, they all look up to me. But often, I just want to be left alone...”
Jack nodded, as if he knew this. “But those images you get, they never really happened, Eric.”
Eric looked at him for the first time, and then stood. “Damn right, they never happened. We had the best gun! Nothing stopped us. Three years I was there. We never let the side down. Those damn Hun never broke through. We worked like clockwork. We were the best Howitzer team in the Brigade.” He paused. His shoulders sagged slightly. “That’s the trouble, Jack. It never happened. But that’s what I keep seeing. These dreams, these pictures, they keep coming at me from all sides. So, maybe, in that last game when I was being hit hard, this damn picture would come at me, Huns with their rifles! And bayonets. I didn’t play as well as I should.”
“Nobody blames you for that, Eric.”
“No, nobody blames me. In fact...” He walked around the room and then sat in his one deep armchair. He leaned back, stared at the ceiling, and then shut his eyes. “Last week, last Saturday, we had our picture took. We were in Sherbrooke for a celebration. End of the season. All the fellows got to drinking, we were cutting up fine. And then ...” He scrunched his eyes shut.
Jack leaned back on the bed, adjusted his pillow and looked at his younger brother. After a time, he said, “Go ahead, Eric.”
Eric took a breath, and continued. “Well, we were celebrating and a young fella came up. I was sitting talking with a pipeful and my glass of whiskey. And he leaned down, tapped me. ‘I’m coming to Bishop’s — My older brother was killed in the war. I want to join your Officers Training Corps.’ I turned to look up — and Jack... Jack, I saw Ralph Rideout, the spitting image. At the Front, y’see, I’d picked up his bloody head from the mud to give it a burial, just his head, and I’d carried it to a pool yellow with mustard gas, I can’t forget that, never, I just can’t. I said a prayer and threw it in... Well, I thought this was Ralph — back from the dead. I let out a great holler and the room went dead quiet. And then I heard them coming up the stairs to our hotel room, heavy feet. The Hun! Jack, I was damn sure the Hun was coming for us all. I had to save my team. I hauled out a revolver and aimed. I ordered the team under the table. Hide behind chairs!” Eric yelled now. “I’ll blast that damn Hun when he walks through the door!”
At this, Jack, shocked, said nothing, trying to keep his composure.
“Well sir, I told our coach, Alfred, ‘Get behind, I’m gonna blast him!’”
“And then ... then Alfred, he grabbed my hand, he knocked the revolver away, grabbed it, called, Come in! And put the gun behind his back.
“In came the night manager. He told us to keep the noise down. That’s all. And he was right. But Jack, I coulda killed someone...”
“So no harm was done, then?” Jack sighed, relieved.
“No, no harm done. But, I can’t stop these flashes, no matter how hard I try. I don’t know... It might well happen again, y’see. There’s just nothing I can do to stop them. I don’t know... what to do. I’m... a bit lost,” Eric finally confessed. He l
eaned back in the chair, breathing heavily.
Jack sat up on the bed. “Well, Eric, the best thing for us right now is to head off back to Montreal, and I’ll get you on the train home. Last time this year, you had four weeks at the Old Homestead. And you felt much better.”
Eric nodded. “But the exams, Jack. I gotta write the exams.”
“You’re not ready for that, Eric.”
“Damn right I’m not. Every time I go to study, I find I can’t concentrate, the flashes. The war. The explosions. I... I just can’t focus. And worse, sometimes I’m so alert, for no reason, just wide, wide awake, as if anything might...” He lapsed into silence.
Jack nodded to himself and got up. “Eric, let’s get your things together and we’ll head off on the three o’clock train. You know how much better you’ll feel at the Old Homestead.”
“But the exams?”
“Don’t you worry about them. Your Principal, McGreer, he was one of my chaplains in the war. I’ll have a word. I’ll try to make it all right...”
Eric nodded and, with a new lease on life, got up and went around tidying his room. He grabbed a suitcase from the shelf above the cupboard, put it on the bed and began to pack.
Jack watched his brother. “Eric, if this holiday doesn’t work, there is a new military hospital out at Ste. Anne de Bellevue, not far from Montreal, just an hour’s train ride. They look after veterans. If the Old Homestead doesn’t do it, after Christmas, I’ll make sure you can get in for some tests.”
C H A P T E R F I V E
In hospitals in every province of the Dominion of Canada, soldiers disabled in the Great War for Civilization are living in endless suffering and death in life, which is worse than death itself, Eric wrote on his portable typewriter. I had the opportunity of spending eighteen months in a locked ward of one of these so I claim first hand knowledge of my subject. I will liken this hospital to a gigantic man and divide this imaginary person into several parts.
The bones and skeleton are the returned soldiers - the wrecks of the Great War. To clothe this skeleton is easy, only a few suits of grey and blue with locked doors and barred windows.