Back in her time (7 page)

A march no harder than usual commenced. Mac, Taylor, and Whitey walked one behind the other, quiet now as they concentrated on their footing as they made their way over the mountainous terrain toward their next battle. Taylor was lost in thought as usual.

I might be here forever. It's not too bad, though, if you don't count this friggin' war. This guy Reid has a mother waiting back in Toronto, apparently. She could be my great-grandmother, I think. It would be nice to meet my birth relatives. How many people get to meet their biological “greats”? That's if I survive this war. I know Pops does, 'cause he's around back in my time, but I could still die, couldn't I? If I'm killed here, will I still exist back at home? Wait. I will survive back home. I have to because Reid goes on to father my kin. Unless he's already fathered them? Then, I could get killed here. That corporal talked about sending a letter to Reid's mother, not his wife, so Reid's not married yet. Reid could have fathered a child, though. That doesn't add up. Reid's son or daughter would be too old to have me, wouldn't they? He could have had my parent later in life
—
or he is my great-grandfather. This is so confusing!

Taylor added and subtracted from 1944 to her birth date in the 1990s. Mumbling to herself, she didn't hear Sarge come up beside her.

“Just heard another story about you, Junior. Is it true you saved an American soldier from a minefield when you were returning from the field hospital?”

“I didn't actually save him, sir. He jumped into the jeep I was in and saved himself.”

“That's not quite the way I heard it. You gave one of your predictions again. Something about knowing where the enemy had planted those mines, wasn't it, Junior?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How did you know, Junior?”

“Sir, I could tell you, but you wouldn't believe it.”
This is the moment I've been waiting for. I'll tell Pops who I really am now.

“Look, I don't want to get the men all riled up with this hocus-pocus nonsense. It was probably a lucky guess that saved that American's life. Let's keep this to ourselves. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir.” Taylor lowered her head and marched on by rote as the sergeant fell back toward the rear.
He'll never
believe
me. He's as stubborn here as he is back home. Will I ever get a chance to tell him who I really am?

* * *

The top of the mountain was in sight. A castle-like building loomed above them in the darkening sky.

“How come the enemy didn't establish a fortification here?” Taylor asked Whitey.

“It's probably too easy to get to. Look how easy we climbed up here. The Krauts only dig in when they know it's hard for us to get to them, like at Monte Cassino.”

“It's getting dark. Hope we make camp here. It would be nice to have a real roof over our heads for a change,” Taylor yawned.

Two scouts were sent ahead to check for occupancy while the rest of the soldiers sat around the steep path, waiting.

The captain appeared. “Forward, men.”

The soldiers entered the gates under the silent, watchful eyes of several monks. An older one standing to the side in his hooded brown robe nodded to the first men to follow him into the main building. Here, in a cavernous, high-ceilinged room with rows of tables, the monk indicated they were to stay.

“It's no palace, but it's nice to get away from the mosquitoes and bugs,” Red said, settling in.

“Now, if there was a nice feather bed, it'd be perfect,” said Mac, laying out his blankets.

“We're lucky they let us in here. Nice billet,” said Taylor.

A door at the side of the room banged shut, and the monks disappeared.

“What say we check out this old place? It looks to be a hundrit years old,” said Red.

“Sure, but don't let Sarge catch us scouting around or he'll give us what for,” said Whitey.

“Coming, Junior?”

“Nah. I'm going to catch some sleep.”

“What about you, Mac?”

“No, thanks, I have to check the stock market in this old paper Cook gave me.”

“Stock market? Is that like the stockade?” asked Red.

“Go, you guys.” Mac threw the newspaper at Red.

Red and Whitey disappeared quietly through the door at the rear of the room while Sarge was engaged in a conversation with some other NCOs.

Mac retrieved his dated newspaper while Taylor settled down peacefully on the floor nearby. Whitey appeared about twenty minutes later, peeked through the door to see if all was clear, and crept up to Mac and Taylor.

“Wake Junior up. We've got something to show you,” Whitey said.

“Yeah, what's up?” asked Mac, laying his newspaper down while he gently shook Taylor awake.

“Huh?” Taylor said, squinting her eyes. “What?”

“Get up, sleepyhead. Follow me.”

Mac pulled Taylor up and pushed her toward the door through which Whitey had disappeared. Mac looked around the large room as he shoved the door open. Sarge had his back to him, writing a letter, it appeared, and most of the men seemed to be sleeping, paying them no attention.

Once through the door, Whitey led the way down a dark hallway, retrieving a single flaming torch.

“Watch your step,” he said as he led them toward a staircase of steep, slippery, stone steps lacking a railing.

Down they went, stepping cautiously. The air was pungent with mildew and dust. The wet walls were useless as supports, so they used their open arms to balance themselves.

Reaching the bottom, Whitey whispered, “This way.”

They followed, wondering where Red was. A bright light appeared before them and they made their way toward it. And there was Red, grinning lopsidedly, sitting on a large barrel.

“Beer?” asked Taylor.

“How lowbrow, my boy. Only the best for you. Brandy!” Whitey waved his hands like a magician and held his torch closer to the walls to reveal rows upon rows of dark bluish bottles.

“Brandy? Let's sample the wares, boys. Opened one yet?” Mac said.

“Is George the King of England?” said Red as he pulled out a bottle he had hidden behind his back.

Mac looked questionably at Red and Whitey. “Glasses?”

“Well, the brewmaster must taste, mustn't he?” said Whitey, pulling four pewter cups off a shelf.

Mac rubbed his hands together. “I knew these monks must have had a good reason to live way up here in the middle of nowhere.”

Whitey distributed the cups, and Red poured. The boys sipped the thick, mellow liquid at first and then gulped it down when they tasted the nectar. They were just refilling their glasses when they heard footsteps coming.

Too late to hide, they stood still like deer in headlights as a torch carried by a soldier appeared. “I knew you were on to something when you came back for your friends,” said the man. “In here, boys. They're up to no good, and we're about to join them.”

The room filled with several others from the platoon. The men started pulling bottles off the racks.

“How do you open them?” Then there were smashing sounds as impatient soldiers broke open the bottle tops. The small, cold room was soon littered with broken glass and thirsty soldiers taking their full.

“I think I'm drunk,” Red said and plopped down on the floor on a pile of glass. He hadn't spilled a drop so he tilted his cup toward his mouth and finished his drink. Struggling to stand up, Red tripped on some more glass and fell forward. Taylor caught him before he hit the floor.

“Somebody help me, here,” Taylor said as she tried to drag Red toward the door.

Someone shouted drunkenly, “Gawd. Look at the poor bugger. He's been hit in the arse.”

Mac crossed the room and assisted Taylor in pulling Red up so he could look at his back. “Cripes! You've gone and cut yourself, you chump,” he said. “Your backside has more cuts than Junior's face.”

“Will Sarge string me up?” Red smiled and leaned into Taylor, almost knocking her over.

Taylor took charge. “Come on, everyone. The party's over. Let's try to return upstairs quietly and find a medic for Red.”

“I'm a medic,” said a man with slurred speech.

Mac and Taylor lifted Red and carried him toward the stairs. The others followed, but not before grabbing numerous bottles off the racks and stuffing them in their pants and under their shirts. More than one crashed to the floor, soaking the men's feet and pants cuffs.

Struggling with their charge, Mac said, “You seem awfully sober, Junior. Weren't you drinking?”

“Can't stand brandy. Got into my grandfather's liquor cabinet a few years ago and got sick. My grandfather left it open to teach me a lesson. Haven't been able to stand the smell or taste of it ever since. While you guys were busy drinking, I was finding places to dump mine.”

“Such a waste,” Mac grinned.

The stairs seemed more slippery than before as the two carried and dragged Red up them. Finally they reached the top and dragged him to the lit torch Whitey had replaced.

“Lay him on his stomach here, Mac. Let's see if we can pick out the bigger shards under the light.”

The other soldiers staggered by not quite as quietly as Taylor would have liked and disappeared back into the sleeping room. Taylor worked, diligently pulling out glass.

“We'll have to pull down his trousers,” said Mac.

“We'll need tweezers to get the rest,” said Taylor. “Can you slip into the room and find that medic and get some gauze and tape?”

“Yes, sir, Junior, sir.” Mac stood, saluted, and stumbled toward the door.

Taylor slid to the floor from her knee position and patted the semi-conscious Red on the head. “You're going to have to go to the field hospital, pal. There's no way I can get all these pieces out. You won't be able to sit on a horse for a while, cowboy. I don't know if I'll get a chance to see you again if they send you away, so try to remember what I'm telling you. You will find a great girl with black hair to marry and all your children will have dark hair. You won't have any redheads in the family like you until you have grandchildren. You'll do very well at the Calgary Stampede for a few years and then gradually get into management there. Several years of hard work later and you'll be in charge of the whole thing. Your first car will be a used 1947 Hudson that you'll crack up in a serious accident where you'll injure your legs. You'll still ride and will encourage others with handicaps to do so. That's all I can tell you as that's all I remember Pops telling me about you.”

Taylor stared as two shoes appeared in front of her. She had been so intent talking to Red she hadn't noticed. She looked up into the face of her young grandfather.

“Hi, Sarge.”

“We'll discuss your part in this later. How bad is he hurt?”

“I think he's going to need more help than we can give him, Sarge, but I'm no medic.”

“I heard your little speech, Junior. Who is Pops? Your ghostly medium?”

Taylor pulled herself up. “That can wait. Let's get Red some decent help.”

Sarge sent Taylor for a stretcher, and she returned quickly with it and two sober soldiers. They gently hoisted Red onto it on his stomach and carted him off. As they passed Taylor, Red called out in an amazed voice, “Me, the Chief of the Stampede.”

Taylor mock-saluted her friend and watched him being carted away.

Early the following morning, three of the brandy drinkers were roughly awakened and sent down the mountain to get some items from the supply truck. They were to replace the monks' stolen and damaged horde. They returned much later in the day, exhausted, but with several pairs of leather boots, which were ceremoniously awarded to the monks. The monks stared at their own sandalled feet but graciously accepted the trade and the cleanup job that Taylor and company did in the brandy cellar.

Sarge could be seen laughing and sharing something with the lieutenant and corporal the next evening. It looked suspiciously like a brandy bottle.

Red was bandaged up, but blood continued to seep through, so he was sent on to the nearest field hospital for treatment. Taylor was saddened by the loss, unsure if they would meet again.

Back on the road, Whitey and Mac were quiet, too. They marched steadily down the mountain until they came to a broad river. The engineers were called, and a Bailey bridge constructed after several hours. The crossing was uneventful.

The men marched all day, with brief stops, and finally came to a small, bombed-out village. They were ordered to find shelter for the night. After the usual dinner of M and V and some dark, hard bread scrounged from some locals, most of the men settled in where they could find an overhang.

A shapely, dark-haired woman of about twenty approached Mac, Whitey, and Taylor as they were searching doorways for an abandoned building. “Me spick englash. Coma mi casa and spick englash mi papa. Veni.”

The boys and Taylor looked at each other, nodded, and followed the attractive woman to an intact house that was a mansion by any standards. They were led inside to a grand parlour and introduced to an elderly, stout man who rose when he saw them. “Welcome, welcome. My friends,
la mia casa è sua casa
. Bette, get these good soldiers some drinks. What will it be, gentlemen?”

“Whatever you have the most of, sir,” said Mac.

“Whisky then, Bette. Get the whisky. Hurry, these men are in need of some libations. Sit, please.”

“Sir, your English is excellent. Where did you learn it?” asked Whitey, settling on a divan next to Mac.

“The University of Toronto, back over forty years ago, young man. Long ago …”

“And your daughter Bette? Isn't that an English name?”

“Right you are. Named after that lovely American movie star, Bette Davis. And Bette is my granddaughter. Her father, my son, is a guest in a German prisoner-of-war camp.”

“Sorry to hear that,” said Mac as he accepted a crystal glass from Bette served on a slightly tarnished silver tray.

“Your home didn't sustain any damage that I can see, sir. You've been very lucky.”

“Luck had little to do with it. I'm the provincial socialist leader. My house has been spared by the Germans. They have been the only ones to bomb in this area so far. I hope you Canadians will follow suit.”

“Well, they won't if we have anything to say about it, sir,” Whitey said, smacking his lips after tasting the fine liquor.

“Please, call me Antonio. You'll stay for supper?”

“We've alread — ” Whitey started to say, when Mac kicked his shin with the force of an irate donkey.

“We'd be honoured, Antonio,” said Mac.

“Yes, yes, we would,” said Whitey.

Taylor nodded approval, her mouth full of the strong drink.

Antonio stood up and gestured widely. “Bette, show the gentlemen the way to the dining room.”

She did.

The boys stuffed themselves on delicious homemade pasta, a salad of lettuce, plenty of fresh black bread, and a glass of full-bodied red wine. How the old man had managed to hide and keep these precious items was a mystery. Taylor had thought her stomach had shrunk on the miserly army rations, but surprisingly, she was able to stretch it for this tasty meal, prepared, their host informed them, by Bette.

“Unfortunately, my staff has abandoned me, but Bette is doing a fine job taking their place. A toast to Bette. Long may she live, in good health and beauty!”

The soldiers raised their wine glasses. “To Bette.”

Bette demurred and left the room through the butler's swinging door. The house soon filled with the sweet song of a tenor from a scratchy phonograph record in another room. Taylor and the boys sat back in their chairs, full and relaxed.

“It is always a pleasure for me to get to practise my English, gentlemen. May I ask, do any of you fine men reside in that great Canadian city called Toronto, when you are not soldiering?”

Whitey piped up, “Junior here lives in Toronto. Right, Junior?”

Taylor felt a warm blush rise from her neck to her face.
Shit. What if he asks me about Toronto? How do I know what it looked like in 1944?

“Junior, is it? Are you named after your father?”

Before she had time to answer, Mac said, “No, sir. We call him that because he's so young-looking.”

“Yes, I see that, under those facial abrasions. Been in battle have you, son?”

“Yes, sir. Nothing serious. Just some scrapes and bruises.”

“Tell me about Toronto, son. Is your fine streetcar system still operating in wartime?”

“I guess, sir. Not being home, I'm not sure what is happening over there.”

“Of course, pardon me. Have you ever been to Victoria College? I spent many a studious hour in that fine, Romanesque revival structure. Those arches — ” Antonio closed his eyes and appeared to have fallen asleep.

Bette tiptoed into the room and beckoned to the boys and Taylor. Whitey grabbed his wineglass and swallowed the last mouthful before exiting. Bette led them to the front door and ushered them outside into the clear, star-studded night.

“Mi papa sleeps. You go. Okay?”

“Thank you and your grandfather for the lovely meal, Bette. We hope to return and pay him back sometime. You have been most gracious,” Taylor said.

“You welc'. Go, go.” Bette turned, about to enter the house, when Taylor put a hand on hers.

“Wait. Tell your grandfather: I know Victoria College. We went there once on a school trip to look at the university architecture. Tell him the main stone staircase is old and worn-looking after all the years of students like him treading on them.”

Bette nodded, repeating Taylor's words, “… stone stair old,” then she pulled the massive wooden door closed behind her.

“Most gracious? Treading? Where do you get this vocabulary, Junior?” Mac put an arm around her and the other around Whitey. “You Toronto residents sure talk fancy.”

“You might try reading books instead of numbers, sometime,” said Taylor, squeezing Mac's arm.

Mac laughed, and the threesome stumbled their way from the mansion and found a straw-strewn stable, where they collapsed for the night.

* * *

“Get up, you drunken louts. I can smell the Eyetie vino from here. And what is that other smell? What have you been eating? Garlic? Sarge has had me looking everywhere for you,” said Swampy as he prodded the boys with his boot. “We've got to vamoose.”

Mac opened his eyes first. Whitey sat up fast, grabbing for his rifle, which wasn't there. Taylor moaned. “I think my eyes are glued shut and my head … who hit me with a hammer?”

“Lucky devils. Where did you find something to snort in this rubble of a town? Pull yourselves up by your bootstraps. The Sarge is waiting.”

The boys leaned against each other as they struggled to stand. Swampy rushed around and gathered up their rifles and packs.

“Come on. Sarge will have my hide if I don't bring you back now. Besides, there's a surprise waiting for you guys.”

The three untidy soldiers stumbled their way back to the main group waiting for them beyond the village. Thirsty, the boys gulped from their canteens, not caring whether or not they had added purification tablets since their last refill at a river.

Taylor remembered what the surprise was before they saw it. Pops
had
told him they were separated from Red but he had made it back to them after he was treated.

“Yippee! It's you, Red. You old Zombie. Getting your ass cut up didn't get you sent home, you bastard,” Whitey said, patting Red on the shoulders.

“Yeah, I'm just too tough. After they had a few laughs those sisters plucked me like a chicken and covered me with so many bandages I feel like I'm wearin' babies' nappies.” Red smiled all around. “Of course, sittin' down I don't do so good.”

Everyone laughed.

“It's great to see you again, Red. We sure missed you,” said Taylor. And she meant it.

“I got a message for you, Junior boy, from that pretty little sister.”

“Alma?”
She remembered me?

“Allllmaaaa says to say hello to you and she hopes you'll take good care of her handkerchief, as it was her grandmother's.”

“Junior has a cutie patutie. You lucky devil, right here in Italy.” Mac grabbed Taylor and swung her around. “Shall we dance, oh sweet face?”

While twirling around, Taylor called out to Red. “Did she say anything else?”

“That she loves you, darling Junior,” yelled Whitey.

Sarge sauntered up to the group. “The reunion's over. Get moving, men. All except you, Junior. A word.”

Taylor followed Sarge back to the rear.
Great. What is it
this
time? More Highlanders? Am I to be put on notice for drinking underage last night or at the monastery?