Beckoning War Read online

  On and on he went, down this street and that, turning right at Wellington as ahead of him rose the Gothic revival Parliament Buildings behind the grille of a wrought-iron fence, the stone walls clad in hanging garlands of ivy and flowers, the clock-faced Peace Tower and the dome of the Library of Parliament both capped in a rusty green copper verdigris; the buildings together commemorating and enshrining the unlikely covenant of the Dominion of Canada, the leap of imagination in the unity of French and English. He walked onward, over a bridge spanning the Rideau Canal, past the turrets and spires of the palatial Chateau Laurier hotel, past the stately columns and grand façade of Union Station.

  Left turn onto Sussex and then a right, into the barnyard world of the Byward Market, the low-lying market buildings and cattle sheds and shops and produce tents commanded by the promontory of Parliament Hill, the sweet earthy scent of manure tinging his nostrils. He walked along the wide streets crowded with people and lines of parked cars; by bins and baskets piled high with apples, tomatoes, silken-haired green ears of corn; by parked flatbed and pickup trucks, some laden with produce, heaped with baskets of onions, leeks, lettuce, cabbage. Men and women, Ottawa valley and nearby Quebec farmers and their families, called out to sell their wares: “Fresh tomatoes, ripe and red and ready to eat!” “Getcher cauliflower here, folks, getcher cauliflower here for yer salads!” “Sirop d’érable, frais du Québec!” Aproned apprentice boys were hanging smoked sides of meat on hooks in the windows of Jewish butcher shops and grocers. A discordant chorus of coos and clucks and squawks announced a parliament of fowls: caged chickens cocking glances and pecking at the floors of their cages, ruffling their feathers, hooking their dry, spindly and sharp curved claws into the wire mesh of their cage fronts; fatted turkeys gobbling, their hooked beaks and wrinkly heads bobbing atop their creased, elderly necks and sprouting from their plump, dusty feathery bodies that tapered into dry reptilian stalks of legs and gnarled dusty claws; mohawked pheasants cooing in confinement and ruffling their tailfeather bouquets.

  And onward past the one-storey sheds, inside of which were more fowl and other animals: the snot-shine of wet-snouted pigs snorting and squealing in their pens, and horned cattle sweeping their tails from side to side, fluttering their ears at the buzzing irritation of flies, chewing slowly, methodically. The manure and earth smell from the sheds was rich, intoxicating, moistly suggestive of spring rain, summer sun and autumn harvest all at once. He wished as he walked he were a farmer, or at least something else than that which he was. He wished to be tilling the fields, wiping his brow with his sleeve, riding atop his new Massey-Harris farm tractor as it sputtered, puffs of smoke pushing up the lid of the little chimney on the hood on a day awash in yellow sunshine; a horizon of land, his land, before him, shaped and furrowed by him, seeded by him to grow into a bounteous harvest. He enjoyed the summers he spent doing work on his Uncle Gabe and Aunt Theresa’s farm as a teenager, loved the work, baling the hay, feeding the pigs, driving the tractor, waking up with or before the sun, riding the natural wave of the day. He yearned for purpose, and saw and heard and smelled it in all that he walked by, all that was not his, all that he did not do. A teacher? How did I become a teacher? Because you got the job from your father. Because after you left university, your father felt he had to set you up, concerned for your future, as you in his eyes would not do so for yourself. He enjoyed the work, that was true, looked forward to it even, but he was living out his father’s contingency plan for him, an interim life. And with it came Marianne, the best thing, the best person, who had ever happened to him. But his newfound domestic bliss was only a bubble born of his father’s insistence that he do something, that he engage in a profession and rise through its hierarchy. Maybe, just maybe, he would be headmaster one day. On a boring day in the withered years of the autumn of his life, this bubble would burst. And with it, perhaps this life. What did that make Marianne? An interim wife? He was sickened by the thought of it, by the words that had formed in his mind. But if he was not careful, that moniker may bode true for her. Still, he yearned to be consequential, yearned for something to prove himself at once and for all, yearned for something chosen by him, yearned for a theatre in which he could demonstrate his abilities and put his convictions into action. The war was this opportunity. He hated the Nazis and feared the shadow they were casting over Europe, and very possibly, the world. He was a Canadian patriot, a loyal British subject. For freedom, for peace, order and good government, for the king, for his countrymen, onward ho to victory! Ready, aye, ready! He was going to consummate his restlessness, damn it all, he was going to consummate it and that was that, despite whatever consequences may befall him.

  On the way back home, he made his way around to the shops and restaurants of Elgin Street. He popped into the King George V restaurant and sat down at a table by the window, ordering a clubhouse sandwich and a coffee, munching and sipping in silence and crumbing on the checked blue and white gingham tablecloth. After his pensive and somewhat messy meal, he made his way for home.

  When he got home, Marianne was not there. There was a note on the kitchen table, and he sat down at his chair as he read it. After, he stepped out into the parlour and dialled Marianne’s sister.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Rhonda. Is Marianne there?”

  “Uh huh.” She could not mask her displeasure. Moments later, Marianne picked up the telephone.

  “Yes, Jim?”

  “How long are you staying there?”

  “Perhaps the night. I think we need to cool off for a day, you know.” She sounded stern but caring. There was a moment of silence. In the silence of the moment, they both knew he was joining.

  “Hmm. Alright, then. Um … I’m going to do it.”

  “I know. I know you’re going to do it. I can’t stop you, Jim.”

  “Look … I’m applying locally. At the Cartier Armoury. I won’t be going anywhere for a while yet, if they even send me overseas at all.”

  “Mm hmm.”

  “Marianne, I’m sorry.”

  “So am I, Jim. So am I.” The image of her father in his armchair sipping rye, wearing an eye patch, looking hollow and lost, entered his mind. She’s sorry indeed, he thought.

  “Goodnight, Marianne.” He fumbled a moment and added, “I love you.”

  “Goodnight Jim.” She hung up with a click that to Jim resembled a slamming door. He hung up in turn. He felt so suddenly alone and so suddenly free, all at once. A strange elation filled him, and an electric tingle sizzled upward through his spine. He had made a decision.

  Join he did, the following Monday, strolling up to the armoury wearing a light tan jacket, wool pants, green slouch cap and two-tone shoes, with a spring in his stride. He was weighed and fitted, given an eye test, made to sign some forms, and was inducted into the Cameron Highlanders regiment. He was now in the army.

  11

  The next night, Major Gordon, the battalion’s second in command, visits to relay the commands of Colonel Hobson, the colonel having departed to the rear to meet with his own superiors.

  “Hello in here!” he shouts.

  “Good evening, Major,” someone answers in greeting. “Lovely night for a stroll, isn’t it?”

  “Why on earth you’d want to visit this shell magnet is beyond me,” criticizes Jim with a cynical smile as he emerges from the shadows, the bouncing bead of his cigarette conducting his words in the dark in a pyrotechnic illumination of disdain. “Why didn’t you just ring me up by field telephone? We’ve been hit more times than I have fingers and toes.”

  “And hello to you too McFarlane,” is Gordon’s rejoinder. He is wet and miserable; it has begun raining again. “I would have called you up, but the wire’s been cut by an explosion. I bring you all good news. It looks like we will be moving, at last. The 5th Armoured is to punch through and seize the ridge.”

  “When?” Jim asks, incredulous that the b
attalion has finally received marching orders. “I was beginning to think we’d be stuck on this hill forever.”

  “The whole regiment moves in the next few nights, in the wee hours. We know this much from our intelligence, from prisoners and local informers—the local German commanders in this sector wonder why we have not bypassed the ridge to take Rimini by the coast. They probably think we’re too petered out to go on now, that we need some time to lick our wounds. Or they expect us to bypass the ridge in order to capture Rimini at some point soon. Who knows? We get relieved tomorrow night and rest for two days.”

  Jim exhales a lungful of cigarette smoke, and answers with a tone of tired reluctance, “We do so need time. And the Germans are right—we are too petered out. Christ, we’ve had thirty casualties in my company in the last week alone. I’m leading a company that’s about, oh, two-thirds strength. And we’ll get no fuckin’ reinforcements, because we’re just a shadow now. Those boys up in France and Belgium get the resources.”

  “Every rifle company and every tank squadron and what have you in the Canadian Corps right now are exhausted. But we have to move forward. That’s our orders and we have to follow them. We’re in the middle of a major offensive, we can’t stop now. It is not as if I make these decisions, you know.”

  “Our company can’t put up with much more over the next bit,” Jim states matter-of-factly. “Not without reinforcements. We’re getting whittled down just sitting here.”

  “You will. After Coriano is taken, likely we’ll get some from the holding units. We could even get some before that. And starting tomorrow we get a momentary reprieve.”

  “Uh huh. A reprieve? That can mean anything. I have one of those every time I take a leak.” He smiles at this to try to show he’s not demoralized.

  “It’s the best we can get. This is a big push we’re on, and we have to be back in the game soon. Sorry.” He looks at Jim intently for a moment, and adds with words chosen and enunciated carefully, “And McFarlane, remember for the moment that you are not the only company commander around here. The others all have the same manpower problems you do, have been in the same action you have, and yet you don’t see them whinging for special treatment. And those boys in 1st Division and 1st Armoured Brigade, they get double our action. Do you see them screeching for a break?” Pardon me? He shoots Gordon a look from under a furrowed armour of brows. He relaxes before saying anything stupid. Insufferable fusspot Gordon, with his martinet’s moustache, all disapproving twitch and huff. Orange Order uppity bastard. Never got along with him much.

  “Duly noted, sir.”

  “Yes, we’ll just be going into reserve for a couple days. Most likely, I’m sorry, for one day. But who am I to know? Once we take the ridge, I think it is fairly obvious, and incumbent on the brass, to give us leave. That’s how it always works.”

  “Huh. Still in artillery range. So in effect, no reprieve, because that’s just the standard rotation of units. This is not because I feel under the weather, you know. I just realize that we can’t keep carrying out these offensives without significant reinforcements.”

  “Understood. But there is little I can do about it. That, I am afraid, is the reality of a volunteer army. Reinforcements are thin, and every man must thereby do the job of two.”

  “True,” Jim acknowledges thoughtfully. He shifts on his feet, coughs, and declares, “Well, I’m afraid I’ll have to have a drink now.” He slugs a large mouthful of whiskey, and offers some to Gordon. Gordon, however, is a Calvinist teetotaller and says, with a trace of disdain, “I’d sooner take one in the arm.”

  “I’ve already done that,” retorts Jim, feeling the knotted dent of his healed arm wound from the Liri Valley battle, “and I’ll tell you, I prefer booze, thank you very much.” He notes on a glance that his wound resembles a closed sphincter.

  “Damn you McFarlane, you’re a smartass.” Within his stance of supercilious disapproval can be detected a modicum of good-natured banter. At least he tries on occa-

  sion, Jim thinks, at least he tries. The whole church shakes violently under the impact of a shell. Everyone hits the

  floor. Dust and masonry crash from the ceiling and coat everyone and everything. Stunned, the soldiers pick themselves up.

  “Everyone okay?” Jim calls out into the pall of smoke and dust, his voice shuddery. “Casualties?” There are none, this time. Jim holds out his flask to Gordon and asks him with a wry grin while waving it in his face, a wellspring of whiskey sloshing within, “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a drink?” Gordon scowls, stung.

  “Oh, can it, McFarlane. Just get back to your duties. The sooner you do so, the sooner we can end this conversation.”

  “The feeling is mutual, Major.”

  “I am out of here.” With a nod and a salute. “Captain—”

  “Major.” Jim returns the salute. Gordon eyes him carefully a moment, officious doubt in his eyes. He does a smart about turn, stamps his right foot, and marches out of the church and into the rain in exemplary parade square fashion.

  “Gentlemen!” Jim addresses the hollows of the ruined church with a stentorian echo. “We are being relieved in one day’s time!” The men cheer.

  “Briggs!” he shouts to one of his orderlies.

  “Yessir!” answers Briggs from his card game in the corner with Cooley and Lafontaine.

  “Go out and inform Olczyk and Therrien that we are pulling out tomorrow!”

  “Yes, sir!” Briggs immediately drops his cards and excuses himself from his game, leaving through the main door.

  As he exits the rain increases in intensity again and is soon cascading through the holes in the roof and slanting through the shattered windows. Artillery thuds in the distance. Jim moves to a dry alcove next to the altar where is set the company No. 18 wireless set and field telephone, Private Thibeault monitoring transmissions from his headphones as if divining ethereal messages from a deep and meditative trance.

  “Anything new?”

  “No, sir, other than Staff Sergeant Nichols wired in and asked how we are for fresh water.”

  “Tell him we’re fine, as we’re out of here tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As he turns around to face the door a fusillade of artillery bears down on their position in a terrific overlapping thunderclap. Everyone standing or sitting hits the floor for cover. Stones crash to the floor. Jim looks up from the floor and sees a flash beyond the door, the stunned silhouette of a soldier framed in its exposure. The soldier falls to his knees in the doorway and wobbles like a bowling pin before collapsing backwards. Cooley and Lafontaine and several soldiers from Doyle’s platoon all run to the man in the doorway as outside the shells flash and flicker.

  “It’s Briggs!” shouts Cooley over his shoulder from a squatting position. He cradles Briggs, and Lafontaine joins him, and Briggs writhes in the hands of his comrades, face blackened, eyes white, shivering. Several soldiers crowd around in a protective hunch. There is a cluster of explosions outside the door in the distance that captures their faces in its staccato flicker like a great bursting of flashbulbs. Briggs’ breathing is rapid, his hands are trembly, and his eyes shine wide with pain. But he scarcely whimpers, perhaps because of the morphine styrette with which Lafontaine has just pricked him in the thigh.

  Cooley speaks softly to Briggs, soothing him as though he were his mother or his nurse as he applies the dressing, “It’s okay there Briggs, you just hang in there buddy, you’re gonna be okay, you just hold on tight and breathe, that’s it, just breathe there buddy, in and out, that’s it, okay, here you go, take a bit of water, you still gotta cash out that full house you were holding,” and he dribbles water from his canteen into Briggs’ mouth, the water splashing on his trembling chin, glistening in the flare of a bursting shell, “that’s it, nice and easy, take it in, soak it up, that’s a good sport there Briggsy—”

  �
�My legs,” Briggs interjects with a hint of rising panic, “My legs, they’re bad, aren’t they?” His pronunciation is off, his face taut and stiffened with pain, “They’re really bad, aren’t they?” At this Jim sees through the weave of supporting arms and hunched shoulders that Briggs is missing both legs at the knees. The stumps shine in the flare of an explosion.

  “Jesus, get a shell dressing on there!” Jim shouts, and Lafontaine pulls one looped to his belt and unwinds the gauze. “Make a fucking tourniquet or something! Are there no medics in here? Goddamnit, where are the medics?”

  “Stretcher-bearers! We need stretcher-bearers here on the double!” hollers Witchewski into the howling thunder night beyond the door.

  “You’re gonna be fine, Briggs,” Jim says, joining in, “You’ll be good as new, you get to spend some time with the nurses, you lucky bastard, it’s off to Blighty for ya, and then you’re homeward bound.”

  “No, I won’t, I’m broken aren’t I, I’m broken and all messed up and they won’t be able to fix me right will they—” His voice is whimpery and swimmy with panic and pain and morphine. Cooley calms him, shushes him, speaks softly to him as he gently cradles him.

  A pair of exhausted stretcher-bearers enter the church, having just tended to wounded from other nearby positions. Cooley and Lafontaine and Jim defer to the medics as they tie a tourniquet around Briggs’ stumps, stemming the flow of blood that has soaked the bandages, and they jab him with more morphine and speak soothingly to him, “That’s it buddy, hold on tight, we’ll get you back to the aid post good as new there boy, don’t you worry,” patting his shoulders as he looks up and shakes and clenches his teeth. They slide him onto their well-used, bloodstained stretcher and hoist him up and carry him away into the night in a low hunch.