In his time fighting after his injury, Jimmy hadn’t gotten close to anyone like he had to Robbie. Oh, he’d become chummy enough with the lads, but he couldn’t stand to see another close friend of his blown up before his eyes. Better to keep to a friendly distance.
He tried to bolster his spirits for what was going to be a long haul.
Everything huge is more manageable when thought of in chunks, Jimmy decided.
So, he outlined the two steps they had gone so far—the Battles of Pilckem Ridge and Langemark. There were a few more positions in between here and Passchendale, he’d been told, but he would think of the fight one step at a time.
His stomach rumbled. Times for eats, such as they are.
He sighed and slogged away in the rain to get some grub.
Early October 1917
Near Ypres
“Come on, y’old timer.” Daithi wore smeared mud on his face and a fire in his eyes. “Time we teach ‘em Krauts how we Irish fight.”
“We?” Oshki shook his head at his young friend’s enthusiasm.
His calling him “old timer” made him think of Luis. He hoped he was safe. If he had lived, maybe they had sent him home. He’d ask Mauve in his next letter if she’d heard anything.
“Waal, I think of ye as me brother now, don’t I?”
“And a ratty, little brother you are too.” Oshki flicked Daithi’s ear with his middle finger and thumb.
“Ow! What’s ‘at for?” Daithi rubbed his ear.
“For being you. Anyway, since I’m so old, I must be the one in charge and, thus, within the law to dole out punishment.”
Oshki teased him mercilessly. It was so much fun, for Daithi constantly took the bait—hook, line, and sinker. But, in reality, Oshki did like the kid.
Daithi curled his lip up in a fake snarl and tried to look mean, but he ended up breaking out laughing instead. “Ah, ye had me there.”
“All right, enough tomfoolery! Look sharp! What do you think this is, Private, playtime?” Sergeant Jenkins had come up behind Daithi, who cringed in his helmet. “Well?” He positioned himself in front of Daithi and shouted into his face.
Jenkins is laying it on a little thick. Wonder what’s got his goat? Oshki thought.
“No, sir.” Daithi had the sense to reply firmly with a salute and a straight face.
The sergeant turned to Oshki. “Do your job, Cota. Take charge of this sewer rat before ‘e gets caught. Understood?”
Oshki nodded, saluted, and replied, “Yes, sir.”
Jenkins turned and walked back the way he’d come. Oshki heard him muttering to himself.
Suppose I’d be frustrated if I was the one sending young kids to their death, Oshki thought.
He sympathized with the weight of guilt some in charge must carry.
“Best get to it.” Oshki turned to Daithi. “The light’s starting to dim. Ready?”
“Ya.”
Oshki and his company had orders to cut around and see if they could surprise the Germans on their flank. It was to be more of an advance of stealth, so the cover of evening was perfect. The line of men crept along for some time until a shot rang out of nowhere. A groan and a thud followed. A sniper had spotted them.
Oshki flattened himself to the ground. He couldn’t tell who’d been hit. A volley of more shots followed. He saw the motion from the lieutenant to turn back. He signaled to Daithi, but the fool kid shook his head.
Oshki watched in horror as he wormed his way through the low bushes towards the enemy. He wanted to scream at him, but that would only get them shot, so he did the only thing he could do—went after him. He crawled, crouched, and rolled his way forward. Standing up was too big a risk with a sniper lining up his bead on anything that moved. He looked up at the sky. Soon, it would be too dark, and they could move more freely.
Finally, he caught up with Daithi. He grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.
“WHAT do you think you’re doing, defying an order? You must be crazy or just plain stupid! You’ve put us all at risk,” Oshki accused in a tight, loaded whisper.
Daithi shrugged, grinned, and pointed. Oshki turned to look.
Dang if he hasn’t found a way through.
Oshki marveled at the kid’s scouting abilities. How Daithi had known there was a tunnel in this location was beyond him. Oshki looked around and wondered what to do.
Should we turn back or investigate?
All the others had turned back. That would be the smart thing to do, but something in Oshki told him to keep going, so he did. It was just him and Daithi. No, it was Daithi, him, and a bagful of explosives the sergeant had handed him with a look that told him he knew what to do.
All they needed was to get close enough to cause a major distraction and leave a hole in their defenses. He was a walking bomb.
Oshki led the way through the tunnel, and Daithi followed. They made their way as best they could.
The tunnel was long, but, finally, Oshki saw a light ahead. He hoped there weren’t sentries posted at the end. They were nearing their destination. He made sure Daithi knew what to do. Oshki would go one way and he another. They planned to toss the explosives as they went. Oshki hoped Jenkins would figure out it was them and send another attack. That’s what he banked on anyway.
Oshki divided his booty. They looked at each other, too afraid not to move. On the count of three, they dove from the tunnel, throwing grenades and small hand bombs as they went. Oshki lit the trail of cord to the bundle of explosives he had rigged in the tunnel.
There’s no going back now.
He hoped, after they had depleted their resources, there would be enough of a break for them to circle back undetected.
He’d guessed wrong. He was almost in the clear, but a man in a German uniform appeared out of nowhere. Oshki ran but heard the shot and felt the hot, searing pain of a foreign, metal slug being branded into the flesh of his arm. He grabbed his limb and ran as fast as he could for cover. A nice outcropping of rock provided what he needed.
By his calculations, he wasn’t far from the Allied trenches. He heard the roar and clash of men fighting and knew Jenkins had taken his cue. And all because of one smart-alecky kid.
I hope he made it.
Oshki looked down at the blood spurting from his wound. The shot had caught him in the forearm. He ripped off his belt and applied it to his upper arm as a tourniquet in hopes of staunching the flow of blood. He tried to pick himself up but felt woozy. He staggered back down against the rock.
I got to get back. Got to find the kid.
His thoughts kept coming, but the loss of blood took its toll. Oshki fell into a heap, oblivious to the fight around him. He dreamt of Luis and home. Of them playing war as children.
“Got you!” He shouted at Luis.
“Got you first,” Luis shouted back.
He looked down at his little boy arm and saw a large, red spot spreading. Then he felt himself floating.
When he landed, returning from the images in his mind, he heard Daithi yell his name. There was the pelt of guns, bullets falling like rain, the grunting of men, and then . . . quiet.
He felt free. Free from it all.
Late October 1917
Halifax
As Rose went about her rounds, she watched him. Luis. She liked the name. It sounded so regal. She could imagine him as a king and she a queen.
Lavender’s blue, dilly, dilly, lavender’s green. When I am king, dilly, dilly, you shall be queen. The nursery rhyme rang clear as crystal in her mind. She had always liked it, but now it made her flinch, for there was no imagining herself a queen and Luis a king anymore.
She knew who he was. He was the man at the docks. The artist whom she had given the feather to. The one who had looked at her with such surprise. Such affront. Such revulsion.
Over the months he’d been a patient at Victoria General, they had grown fond of each other—more than fond. She thought of him more and more and couldn’t wait until she completed
her shift so she could sit by him. But no more. What had almost come into bloom would be crushed before it opened. Nipped in the bud.
But he hadn’t recognized her yet. She’d kept her distance after his bandages had come off for good. Her heart had almost stopped the day she unwrapped his head and realized who he was.
Now his father, or uncle, she couldn’t remember which, had come for him, and he would return home. She didn’t want to say goodbye. It seemed from Luis’s actions that he didn’t either.
Luis had asked her to meet him after her shift, and she had said yes. She thought about not going, but she couldn’t do that to him. She owed him the truth, at least. She hoped he wouldn’t hate her, but odds were—he would.
Rose quietly tended to the wounded soldier’s needs in bed seven, but she thought about Luis and wished it was him that she touched. She wanted to be near him, to feel his arms around her and his lips on hers.
“Nurse? You’re looking at me awful funny.”
“Oh, sorry, Private. I was . . . lost in thought.”
Rose told the truth, but it was also more than that. She had lost her heart to a man who would detest her. What an irony.
That evening
Rose stood in the hallway and leaned against the man who had stolen her heart, which thumped in her chest.
This is where I want to be, she thought, so close to him that there’s no separation between us. But it was not likely to last.
Luis tucked his head down to hers and kissed her.
His lips burned and branded her a traitor. She pulled back and tried to gauge his feelings. She listened as he told her he cared.
The moonlight fell against her face, but his was in shadow.
“Luis.” Rose spoke as she reached one hand up to his face, cupping his cheek. With the other, she cradled the back of his neck.
His hair is long; he needs a cut. Regardless, she liked his hair that way. She felt its smooth texture glide under her fingertips.
If only my words come out as smoothly, Rose hoped.
She gulped and told him the truth. Seconds ticked by on the hall clock. He let go of her, and she felt cold and torn in half.
“You?”
Rose could hear the blame in his voice as he backed away.
“Me.”
It made her feel poisonous. She tried to explain, to beg his forgiveness, but he turned and walked away.
“Luis! Luis!” Rose’s calls accompanied Luis’s blind shuffle down the hall back to his bed.
She felt like her feet were cemented to the floor. She couldn’t go after him. She couldn’t see that look of aversion in his eyes again. Rose choked on a cry and ran from the hospital into the night without even bothering to get her things.
This had been her second chance at love, but she had messed it up. It had been doomed from the very beginning.
Therefore, do not worry about tomorrow,
For tomorrow will worry about its own things.
Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.
Matthew 6:34, NKJV
Chapter Eighteen
December 3rd, 1917
Webaashi Bay
“What would you think of enrolling in a school for the . . . blind?”
I can tell Mom reluctantly said the word “blind”.
“But I’m not really blind. I am . . . stuck in between.”
“I don’t think that matters. There’s actually a place in Halifax. Didn’t the doctors tell you about it?”
Mom’s voice sounds strained and frustrated.
“Yes, but I wanted to come home to see you all. At that time, they were uncertain just how much of my sight I would recover.”
I try to be patient with her. We sit at the kitchen table sipping tea. Opal is gone for the day. Michael is at work, and Terrance left for town. We are alone.
“Oh,” is all she says.
We slurp our tea in the silence.
“I just want what’s best for you, Luis.”
“I know, but I’m an adult. Just because I’m injured doesn’t mean I need to be treated like a child. You don’t have to manage my life, Mom.”
I want to be gentle with her, but I must be truthful.
“Is that what I’ve been doing?” She bends her head down over her teacup, and I hear tears in her voice.
“Sort of.” I don’t want to hurt her, but I am capable of taking care of myself, just with a little assistance when I require it.
“I’m sorry, but what if they can help you more, teach you more? Your father and I can only do so much. I have bouts with my vision, but nothing like you experience.”
“I know. I’m grateful you care, but it must be my decision. Actually, my sight has been a little clearer of late. I didn’t want to say anything in case it was just a fluke.”
“Oh? That’s encouraging.” She stands and rounds the table and drapes her arms around my shoulders. “Oh, Luis, you don’t know what a grief it is to watch your children struggle, no matter how old they are.” She kisses me on the cheek and backs up. Then she busies herself with something on the counter. “Shall I make us some lunch?”
“Ah . . . are there leftovers?” I remember her cooking days, and not with fondness.
“Afraid, are you?” She laughs, and I’m glad to hear it. “Don’t worry. Opal kindly left us some fixings.”
“You did have an affinity for burning food. Remember when we first moved here?”
“In all fairness, the stove was partially to blame.” She opens the icebox and draws out last night’s ham.
“Excuses, excuses.”
It feels good to joke with her. Life has been far too serious, and, even if for a only few moments, it’s nice to put it aside.
Mid-November 1917
Webaashi Bay
Ellie held her granddaughter on her lap. “She’s grown so big since I seen ‘er last.”
Pearl flapped her stuffed-toy rabbit back and forth, which resulted in smacking herself in the nose. She whimpered.
“’Ere now. Ye must not ‘it yerself, lass.” Ellie stilled her toy and kissed the tip of Pearl’s nose.
“Gaga?” Pearl uttered.
“Gaga” was Pearl’s name for her Grandmother Ellie.
“Yes, ye listen to yer gaga now, won’t ye, darlin’?” Ellie hugged her granddaughter tightly.
Mauve felt such happiness to see her marm alive and feeling well. “So, what do the doctors say?”
She had worried for months about Marm, and she wanted to make sure the cancer wasn’t going to come and surprise them all again.
“’E said ‘e didn’t find no other lumps. ‘E said it all looked good.” Ellie held Pearl’s hands and clapped together with her.
“Are they sure?”
Mauve wished her marm would be more serious. This was her life they were talking about.
“Wall, nothin’ is for certain.” Ellie looked at Mauve with a serious face. “Only this moment we have is certain, Mauve. We can’t fret about what tomorrow may or may not bring.”
“I know, Marm . . . but you could have died.” Mauve tried to keep the tears at bay, but they came anyway.
“But I didn’t.” Ellie set Pearl down on the floor and went to hug her daughter around the neck. “Now, now,” she soothed. “Ye love me after all, then?”
“Of course, I love you. How could you doubt it, Marm?” Mauve succumbed to a slight sob.
“We ‘avn’t always seen eye to eye, ye know.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”
“No. I suppose not. Yer da says it’s cause we’re so much alike and stubborn as mules.”
A little laugh burst through Mauve’s frustration. “Da sees right through us, doesn’t he?”
“And probably always will.” Ellie sighed. “Yer da’s a good man. I ‘ope and pray ‘at Oshki will be as fine a husband for ye when he comes back ‘ome.” Ellie relaxed her arms and straightened up.
Mauve started to cry afresh. “Oh, Marm. Oshki is on the injured l
ist. I don’t know how badly yet. I hope for a letter from him soon.”
“I’m so sorry, me lamb.” Ellie hugged Mauve and stroked her hair like she’d done when Mauve was small.
“Ma, Ma. Belly! Belly!” Little Pearl stood and demanded.
“What’s she goin’ on ‘bout?” Ellie let go of Mauve and bent down to try to interpret her granddaughter’s wishes.
“Belly, Gaga.”
“She says that when she’s hungry.” Mauve smiled at her daughter. “Such a silly thing you are.”
She stroked Pearl’s cheek. Pearl responded with a giggle and marched away towards the kitchen.
“Moo moo,” she said next.
“Ah, I am guessin’ ‘at means milk,” Ellie figured.
“Sure does. Pearl has proclaimed it time for lunch.” Mauve gave her mother a firm peck on the cheek, wiped her tears, and took in a deep breath. “The chores of motherhood are never done, it seems.”
“Nor t’ joys.” Elle tipped her chin up and smiled. “Wall, we better get her fed afore she chews off a table leg.”
Mauve laughed and followed her mother into the kitchen to prepare lunch.
Early November 1917
Western front, France
The doctor at the Canadian base hospital examined Oshki’s arm. “It’s got to come off.”
A nurse on the left side of Oshki spoke. “Yes, Doctor. Should I prepare for surgery?”
She clutched a chart in one hand and a pencil in the other.
“Now, wait just a minute. You can’t go chopping my arm off. How am I supposed to . . .?”
Doctor Felding interrupted him with a firm question. “Do you want to live, Soldier?”
Oshki looked back at him. The sweat on his forehead made him feel cooler.
It’s that bad? he wondered.
“Look, you have a fever, your wound is infected, and the beginning of gangrene is evident. If we don’t amputate, you die. Simple as that.”
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