The Hero

by Paul Almond

  This upper-berth passenger introduced himself as Adam Hadley, eager to talk and full of energy. He began asking Eric questions, where he was going, and so forth. Although his eyes went straight to Eric’s veteran pin, he did not venture there. Eric admitted that he had just graduated from Bishop’s University.

  “You’re so lucky! No hope of a higher education in our family. And being the oldest, I had to support us. I only made it to Grade 10.” Adam grinned, and went on proudly, “Got my first job in 1921 delivering groceries for $5 a week. From that, I moved up to delivering engravings for seven bucks, and then landed a job as an office boy in the Grain Exchange at ten a week!”

  Eric gave the expected look of approval, and Adam went on, “Yep, I was convinced I was on the road to success. You know about the Grain Exchange?” Eric shook his head. “Ten storeys — it’ll be the biggest office building in the British Empire! The status place to work in post-war Winnipeg, I’ll tell ya. I delivered morning papers to the big houses of wealthy Grain Exchangers. Those fellas had come west to Winnipeg with nothing and made their fortunes. If they could do it, so could I.” Adam paused, and went on, “Only thing we thought about was money. See, I grew up in poverty. Our family knew nothing else, like a lotta folk in Winnipeg during the war.

  “My first big job was running messages back and forth between our office and the telegraphers on the trading floor of the Grain Exchange.” Adam loved going on at the mouth, Eric saw, but he enjoyed listening to the eager young man. “Soon I was helping with the books and learning how to run an adding machine, and how to make out insurance policies. The office opened at nine and closed whenever the day’s work was done, usually towards midnight. I sure got tired, but by Christmas I had won a hundred buck bonus!” He nodded, thinking. “Ran all the way home with an envelope of five dollar bills.”

  Eric smiled. Adam was enjoying telling of his own history, so representative of many Winnipegers.

  “When navigation ended on the Great Lakes in December, the vessel-brokerage business came to a dead stop. I picked up some extra money as a part-time bookkeeper and by the time I was nineteen, I was making $150 a month, and my Christmas bonus reached $500.”

  That certainly impressed Eric. “Quite a story!”

  “Oh yes. Bank accountants made less. You know, those banks refused to let employees marry until they were earning $1,000 a year! That took maybe ten years...” Adam looked concerned. “Am I talking too much?”

  “Not at all, Adam. Fascinating, this life of yours out on the prairie.”

  “Well, sir, I bought a half-interest in a couple of race-horses, but I’ve been falling for one swindle after another. I even sent good money after bad to promoters of oil wells in Louisiana, gold mines in Colorado, and silver mines in Ontario. In between times, I took flyers in the grain market and lost. But you know, last year I had a nearly-new Ford sedan and smoked two-for-a-quarter cigars.” Adam paused, remembering. “Now I’m on my way to Calgary because of something that could make even more money. Well, why not? Everyone’s getting rich. Might as well keep at it.”

  Later that night in his lower berth, Eric reflected how out in the big world, all the talk seemed to be about money, people making it, and how bright the whole future looked. He wondered why he’d never been touched by that. You certainly needed money to survive. But not a subject to dwell on, so he drifted off.

  After an early breakfast, Eric waited in an adjacent seat until Adam finally slid down from his upper berth and went off to eat. The black porter, Charlie, made up their berths: he took the sheets from below and above, threw them in a big laundry bag, folded the blankets neatly and placed them on the upper bunk, along with the brown wooden partitions he had slid from their slots. Then he pushed hard and folded the curved upper bunk into place in the rounded ceiling of the car. He grinned good-naturedly at Eric and they exchanged a few words, as they had been doing every so often. Eric liked the old fellow — well, not so old, but in his fifties at least — grey frizzled hair beginning to adorn the good-natured but slightly weathered brown face.

  Eric opened his new Greek Travel Guide, hoping to unearth at least something on classical Greek dancing, but no luck. Adam, on his return, saw that Eric was engrossed and lazily watched the featureless fields roll by.

  On the train went: 9:40 AM Sunday, Regina, Saskatchewan; 11.05 Moose Jaw, and soon —

  4:10 PM Swift Current The train was sailing past great broad acres reaching toward infinity, it seemed, light green with spring shoots. Imagine farming out here, thought Eric — none of the rolling land at home that their horses had to deal with, hauling the mower or reaper tilted sideways, slipping, always slipping, so hard to keep going in a straight line.

  Eric gestured out the window. “That prairie, it sure stretches far and wide. You know, I used to wonder what gave those cowboys such a free, fearless, sweeping look. It’s this boundless land with its mighty distances. I worked near here, you know.” He proceeded to light his pipe.

  “And how did you like that?” Adam prompted.

  “All right. But one special morning, well, she started off fine: meadow larks on every pole sending up bursts of song. Adam, that melody caught my soul and tore it right up into the clouds. But when the music stopped, back came your thoughts with a thump.”

  “Oh yes, I’ve heard them larks — not often, mind. Spent most of my time, as I told you in the city.”

  “Well sir, towards noon the wind started.” Adam nodded; he’d seen it. “We hurried to our tents — just impossible to hold a precise level instrument in that gale.”

  “Sure can blow on the Prairies.”

  “By and by the gale increased to a darn prairie cyclone. That sand pelted us like a harsh cloud of furious, drifting snow. The lights in Swift Current blew off their posts.” Eric drew on his pipe. “No man could stand upright. Our tents were laid flat and we buried our heads in the sand like ostriches, praying for mercy.”

  “I’ve heard of them cyclones.”

  Eric sat back. “Well sir, she finally stopped and, all of a sudden, there was this great peace. Some farmer’s wheat crop, young sprouts all about three inches high, had blown over onto the railway tracks, poor fella. Glad I’m not back there now — give me the forest any time.”

  At the dinner service that night, Adam told him, “You know, I’m getting off in Calgary. Four in the morning. I hope that black fella, he remembers to wake me. You just never know with them Negroes.”

  “Charlie? I find him reliable. I’ve seen a few of these black fellows over in Europe, too, all fine. A shame the way they’re treated — some awful stuff going on south of the border.”

  “They can stay down there, as far as I’m concerned.”

  Eric shrugged this off. He remembered that sort of intolerance during the war, specially where other nations’ troops mingled in the odd estaminet. Never could understand it, even though no coloured fellas on the Gaspe Coast. He hoped on these travels he’d get to meet up with some and get to know them.

  At last they piled into bed and said their goodbyes.

  7:55 AM. Monday morning. Banff. Before arriving, Eric woke up and went into the dining car. Eating his breakfast, he saw out the window great snow-covered peaks and still lakes that heralded another good day of sight-seeing. He drank it all in, happy to be a real traveller, and at last they crossed into British Columbia. Eric soon fell asleep, but with a rest broken by dreams and worries — so much lay ahead: his arrival in Vancouver, and then... just so long as his shell shock stayed quiet, he prayed, more adventures.

  C H A P T E R N I N E

  In a state of repressed excitement, Eric got down his bags much too early. But right on time, at 7:45 AM, they pulled into Vancouver’s Union Station. He breathed deeply and stepped onto the platform, helped by Charlie to whom he handed a handsome tip. Head for the information kiosk, he told himself, and ask for any veterans’ organizations. Must be one here, he thought, and there was. He was directed to it, and carrying both bags, he
found the makeshift sign: Canadian Legion Branch 60. Breathing hard, for he’d been carrying a good weight, he went up the wooden steps and opened the door.

  Inside, a gruff old legionnaire got up to greet him, introducing himself as Alf Powys — Eric figured he’d been a Sergeant Major. He indicated a chair, so they sat and Eric took out his tobacco pouch and offered Alf a pipeful. “I thought it best to come straight here, from the train station.”

  Alf pulled out his cigarettes and both veterans lit up, chatting about their part in the Great War. Alf had been in the infantry, but after a severe wound had spent his time training recruits. Then he launched into his favourite subject: the Legion. “This here branch just got formed last November. We got left this house by one of our members, but we’re looking to build a more suitable place. I’ll tell you, Eric, we’ve had some history with the Legion.”

  “I bet,” Eric replied. “We had quite a time too, in Sherbrooke, Quebec, where I was at college. Different bunches of veterans getting together, some French, some English, but no one could agree on what to call our organization or where to locate — I’ve heard it’s been the same all over.”

  “Yes indeedy. Finally, a couple of years ago, out west here, we started crying a shame we couldn’t all get together. So in Winnipeg, in November of ’25 — went there myself — a bunch of us formed the Canadian Legion of the British Empire Services League, known as the BESL. Got it incorporated just last year in ‘26.”

  News to Eric, though he’d heard of some such formation taking place.

  “Yep, before that, we was called the Dominion Veterans Alliance. So now, we’re all together under the Canadian Legion.” Alf, cigarette in his mouth, took his coffee cup over to a table with brochures and maps and asked, “I guess the first thing you’ll want is somewhere to stay?”

  “I’d be much obliged.” Eric was pleased when the old fellow told him: “Best for you, being a former officer as I can see, would be this place up here.” He jabbed his finger at a map. “Mrs. Collins, her husband was killed in the war, such a fine Colonel, left her with two children and a big house, but nothing else, ’cept of course that tiny widows’ pension they gives. So she turned it into a boarding house, special rate for veterans. She prefers officers, she told me,” he gave a wink, “but she’ll take anyone. Not too expensive, friendly atmosphere, I think you’ll like that.”

  “I surely will. Good to be around other military men; they understand what we all went through.”

  Eric stayed for a bit more chat, then set off in the taxi that old Fred rang up for him, there being no public transport to Mrs. Collins’s fine old mansion on a leafy side street.

  Once welcomed, he distributed his belongings in drawers, thinking all the while how remarkably good the Lord Above had been. This was all he needed.

  After a bit of a rest, he followed Alf’s advice and walked down towards Gastown, the old part of the city: full of bars, lots to see, but more especially, to a hotel known as the Europa, where Alf had mentioned that a former Brigadier, Sam Holtby, often took his whiskey. He had visited the Legion just a couple of days before looking for workers.

  Eric reached the tall and most peculiar wedge-shaped building, a flatiron style, as he was to learn inside, and paused. Framing its wide doorway, two plain columns were adorned with an ornamentation of leaves —, didn’t that look Greek? Rene always hovered, as one might imagine, at the edge of his consciousness.

  Once inside the long and clubby bar, Eric ordered his drop of scotch and asked the bartender to point out Sam Holtby. Right away he took his tumbler over to where Sam leaned against the bar talking. Eric introduced himself and the other man moved off.

  Luckily, Sam Holtby had also been a Gunner, and so they had quite a time discussing their Regimental service in the Great War. Sam had even known Andrew McNaughton, the Artillery genius, now a General, that Eric revered, and he vaguely remembered Dick Overstreet, Eric’s former lieutenant. And indeed, after a couple of pipefuls and another whiskey, Sam Holtby turned to his new project.

  “After that terrible fire at our athletic ground, a friend of mine on the city council asked me if I could do something about it. So I got together a bunch of men to fix it up. But Eric, my foreman’s not so good; had to get rid of him yesterday.”

  “Sorry to hear that, Sam.... Anything I could do to help?”

  “Exactly what I was thinking. You managed a Howitzer under fire, and got wounded setting up a forward observation post in those last Hundred Days, so you’ll sure know how to handle a bunch of ne’er-do-wells. Not to say they don’t work hard — they’re mostly from the Prairies, and also from the backwoods up Island.”

  “But, Sam, I know nothing about construction.”

  “No matter, it’s not the building part I need. It’s someone to stop them going at each other, keep them in line, make them happy. They’re well paid: I got the contract from the city, and I’m not looking to make myself a millionaire out of other people’s money. And as we both know — if you need someone to rely on, don’t look any further than an officer from the Canadian Field Artillery!” Eric grinned at the thought. “But I reckon you’re looking for something more permanent?”

  “No, not necessarily. This will do me just fine, Sam. I’m staying up with Col. Collins’s widow. I just need to make sure I pay her rent every Friday, while I look around this wonderful city of yours.”

  “Well then, that settles it.”

  C/o Mrs E.L. Collins,

  14 Nottingham St.

  Vancouver, BC.

  July 1927

  Dear Rene,

  Remember your letter with that new surprise address? I’m going to give you a surprise, now. I’m here in Vancouver, having crossed our great Dominion on a wonderful train called the Imperial, from Montreal to Vancouver. I already have a job, some friendly accommodation, and now I wanted to send you my new address, because for sure letters will reach me here quicker than in the Province of Quebec.

  I even bought a guidebook on Greece, in the hopes that it would have something about that kind of dancing you’re doing. No luck. But I also got Kangaroo, by DH Lawrence. They told me in the bookstore he’s a pretty good writer, from the coalfields in England. I’m going to start reading it right away, to find out more about your Australia.

  I’ve been noticing how many of the new buildings here are built in what the guidebook calls Neo-classical Style, which seems to be just Greek Architecture. The provincial courthouse here, well, it’s a regular Greek-looking building, recently built too. I guess that all fits with your dancing, for sure.

  Well, I’ll close now, and hope this letter finds you in good health. I’ve burned my bridges, and I’ve begun a new adventure. Who knows where the future will lead?

  That future took a sudden turn two or three weeks later when Sam said to Eric one night, “In a couple of days, my son Kenny gets here from Honolulu.”

  “Does he now? What’s he been up to? Holiday?”

  Sam nodded. “After his degree from UBC, he got a kind of wanderlust. Took off for a while, with my blessing, mind. So I’m going down to meet him at the boat. The SS Makura. Pretty splendid ship, I’m told. Its arrival is sure to cause some first-rate excitement. Might you like to come?”

  Eric had been seeing Sam at the hotel bar after work, a friendly way to exchange views of the job that Sam rarely visited, perhaps once a week, occupied with other projects. So Eric went with him to the Vancouver’s port and watched the ship’s arrival.

  Having twice crossed the Atlantic on common troopships, Eric had never encountered the banners and noisy celebration greeting this great ocean liner. Crowds had turned up on the dock, some to meet relatives or friends, but many for the excitement. Long, sleek, huge, a tall mast forward of the bridge and one great funnel leaning back, the Makura looked to Eric a thing of majesty and beauty. What must it be like to travel on a ship like that?

  So imagine his surprise, when having a drink later with Sam and his son, Ken, he found that the b
oat had originated in Sydney, Australia. He stifled his excitement and listened politely as Ken told his father what he’d been up to, and started on the history of a curious sport called surfing. “And after Duke Kahanamoku started it all — he lives now in California — there was George Freeth, an Irish fellow, but from Hawaii. Those sixteen foot boards they all use? He cut them almost in half; that’s what I’m using. It’s so much fun, Dad. You paddle out lying on the board, and then you turn around — this is at Waikiki Beach — and then, when you see a wave coming, you paddle with your arms to keep up and then once you get the hang of it, you stand up on the board and let the waves carry you in. I actually did it a couple of times before I had to come home. Can’t wait to try it again.”

  But all the while, Eric was dying to ask him what it was like on the boat. When he got the chance, the youth filled him with stories of the shipboard accommodations and romances.

  The next evening, something drove Eric to pass by the shipping office and enquire as to the price of a ticket to Sydney.

  The pretty young saleswoman told him about the next ship to leave. “It is the SS Aorangi,” she gushed, “the largest ocean liner afloat! It leaves in three weeks, July 27th.”

  Eric frowned. “Say the name again?”

  “Aorangi. It was named after a mountain on New Zealand’s South Island. Aorangi is from the Maori language: ‘cloud in the sky’.” Eric smiled. Nice name, he thought. “And what a voyage it will be! It’s as big again by half as the Makura.” She seemed filled with pleasure at this handsome young veteran wanting to go across the Pacific to Sydney. “Do you know anyone there?”

  Eric didn’t really want to reply, but for some reason blurted out, “Yes. A young lady, in fact.”

  The girl blushed. “How exciting! Have you told her you’re coming?”