Good Hope Road: A Novel (13 page)

It sound awful noble and so good to me that I feel like I ought to be standin’ straight and salutin’ or somethin’. I don’t bother none tellin’ him why I joined up – La Santé, it don’t measure up so well against Lafayette.

It boo coo crazy how much we got to fit into our knapsacks. We’re strugglin’ with the mountain of gear on our beds, pushin’, tuckin’, foldin’, tryin’ to cram it all. I’m just ’bout ready to chuck the whole damn pile out the window when Gaillard stop by our barracks and show us how it done. Whistlin’ all the while, he pull out shirts, a neck muffler, the white cotton sleepin’ hat from the pile, foldin’ them all in seconds, sausage fingers movin’ fast and clever as a lady’s maid. He smooth the creases and measure the folded pieces, makin’ sure each be the same length, from the fingertip to elbow, before rollin’ them into tight bundles and placin’ them easy as can be into the backpack.

We follow as best we can. We’re to take everythin’ along, even them jackets that are all the same size, too small for most our shoulders. A half-loaf of bread each, a can of sardines, one and a half cans of fish paste. I sniff cautious like at the block of cheese – it don’t smell too appetisin’ to me, but the hunk of chocolate sure is welcome. Reserve rations of two tins of canned meat, hard tack, salt, pepper, tea, coffee and sugar. There’s a blanket, half of a shelter tent with poles, and a hundred and twenty rounds of ammunition. By the time I settle all of it in and heft the sack on to my shoulders, feels like it weigh close to a fine-boned cher.

I lace up them hobnailed boots I been avoidin’ and finally try them on. They heavy and I feel like I got to make a special effort to go liftin’ my feet. Same as a horse must feel, I figure, after its hooves been newly shod.

I don’t want to think too much ’bout the soldier who worn these boots before me, or just how they came to be taken off of him, and for somethin’ to fill my mind, pull them off again and start to count the nails in the soles. I ain’t never been too good with numbers growin’ up, so Pappy, he figured a way to make the learnin’ stick to my bones. He gave the numbers names, he did. I count the nails now the way he taught me and figure there’s just about one hundred and sixty-two in both them soles together. One six two. One and six, sixteen, sweet as can be, and two, shaped like a duck sailin’ by the levee. A sweet duck, and I got me one in these here boots . . .

All that countin’ and thinkin’ ’bout ducks and such gets me ’memberin’ the bayou. From years ago, racin’ barefoot through the mud with the other boys. The ducks, white on brown water, as we go slip-slidin’ through river moss and swamp. I think ’bout Pappy and what he’d have made of me, all spiffed up and fixin’ to head out to war, what he’d have said ’bout the butterflies waltzin’ in my belly.

James is sayin’ somethin’ I realise, and I look up with a start. He hold up his boots. ‘We literally,’ he repeats, ‘are going to walk a mile in someone else’s shoes.’

Them butterflies, turns out they been flutterin’ in other bellies too. Everybody on edge that evenin’, nervous sudden like of the war that coming up right round the corner. ’Fraid we ain’t readied enough for it and angry over being ’fraid at all. Soon enough, a right hearty disagreement broken out between a Greek and a Pole. How they even got to arguin’ I can’t say, ’cause each don’t understand a word of the other’s language. This just make them all the angrier as they yell and holler, Greek to Pole and back, louder and louder, neither even understandin’ what the other’s sayin’, when James step in.

There’s a Pole in the group who understands a bit of French, and James pulls him forward. They should settle this argument before it gets outta hand, he say to him in French. He offer to translate from Greek to French, suggestin’ that the Pole then translate whatever he can back into Polish.

The Yankee speaks Greek too? I always figured him for a smart man, but this I did not know, and I am settin’ up to be all kinds of impressed when somethin’ strikes me as not quite right as I watch. The Greek turns to James and yells all kinds of jibber-jabber for a full five minutes, wavin’ his hands and stampin’ his feet. James nods serious like. He turn to the Polish interpreter and translate all that talkin’ and yellin’ that the Greek just done simply into this:

‘
Ta mère est une pute
.’ Your mother a whore.

The insults just get worse after that, the Yankee translatin’ between Greek and French, and before you know it, the Greek jump the Pole and they begin to slug it out.

James step back, and cool as can be – ‘Who’s up for a betting pool?’ he ask.

We gather around, placin’ our bets and cheerin’ the two of them on. I pick the Greek – I like the way he moves, cat-like he is, and light, while James goes with the heavier Pole. We never find out who wins though, ’cause that fight, it turn hog-wild in a hurry. All the Greeks and all the Poles in the group start hammerin’ away at each other, and more of us jump in, just to keep them company.

I get in a couple of punches and get slugged in return. It hurt good, and feel even better, to move and kick and holler, and get some of those butterflies outta us. By the time the sentries come to break up the fight, it’s a right lively soiree.

‘Didn’t know you spoke no Greek,’ I say later to James.

He hold a bit of ice against his head. ‘I don’t.’

It slowly been dawnin’ on me these past weeks that this here Yankee, he might not be so Sunday school uptight as he looks after all. ‘That translatin’ you did – he never said no such thing ’bout his mother, did he?’

He levels those blue eyes at me, and all of a sudden, they twinklin’.

‘Sonofabitch!’ I exclaim.’What ’bout all them Greek insults you rattled off?’

His eyes twinkle some more as he rub his head. ‘From a book.’

‘Sonofabitch!!’

‘
Poutanas gie
,’ he translate gravely. ‘Got that one from a book too.’

We head out the next mornin’ by train to Camp de Mailly. The fight’s long forgotten and everybody’s loosened up and in right good cheer. I ain’t ’fraid no more – there’s a wildness bubblin’ inside of me. Goin’ to be a right ruckus at the Front, and we just itchin’ now to have a go at the Boche. There’s all kinds of flag wavin’ and hollerin’, and song, plenty song.

‘
Kaiser Bill went up the hill
To take a slice of France
Kaiser Bill came down the hill
With bullets in his pants
.’

We pass wagon trains along the way, and all sorts of civilian vehicles called into service. Paris school buses, fancy automobiles, the kind that should have a comely cher in the back, a covered cart with
Violet Parfumerie
written on the sides and violets painted across.

‘
We’re gonna whip the Kaiser
That’s what we’re gonna do
And that is just as certain
As two times one is two.
We’re gonna whip the Kaiser
No matter what you say
For Christ the Lord is with us
To help us win the fray
.’

Our voices, they wing out the open windows, singin’ different songs, in so many different languages, but all comin’ together in a single tailwind, risin’ above the sound of the whistle as the train rush forward. The last of the summer light in the colourin’ trees, and children run after the train as it race through the small towns, chasin’ along the tracks, callin’ and wavin’.

We at Camp de Mailly for two weeks, drillin’ and marchin’ through the battlefields of the Marne. We practise, firin’ plenty blank cartridges on fields still littered with shell casings from the battles fought here in September. Twisted and broken bayonets in the red and orange leaves startin’ to fall from the trees. The guns firin’ to the north now, from Reims, and the lines around the Meuse, and their sound, it like blood-scent to a hound. Between the
bonds de vingt metres
, when we drop down, ear pressed to the grass, we feel their faraway rumblin’, beatin’ through the ground like percussion drums.

We gather ’bout after sundown, over games of poker and such, but we keep liftin’ our heads towards the north and the sound of them restless-makin’ guns. With the fightin’ moved on, most villagers come back to their homes here, and the smell of cheap wine and fryin’ potatoes in the air. The lamps, they throw movin’ shadows on the walls of the barn we in. The hay on the floors real thick and golden, and here and there, the dud shells we brought back from them fields. Always talk turns to the Front –
how many, how soon, so many, more than you, more than you’ll ever know how to count, oh yeah, well I’m gonna get more than your mama has lovers, that’s how many, more than you, more than all of you, and when the war is done, next summer, we’ll tally our numbers, we’ll party when the war is done, jeez, don’t they ever stop, do they ever stop, the guns, wait for us already, we’ll be there real soon, give the enemy a licking we will, and when we’re done with the war
. . .

We drink more of the wine, and start to spill it on the hay. The sound of them guns in our ears, but we strong, we true. James, he spring to his feet, startlin’ us all, and pickin’ up one of them bum shells easy as if it were a ball, toss it clean out the open window, towards them boomin’, never-sleepin’ guns. The moonlight catch the metal of the shell and we watch it go sailin’ over the hillside, cool and blue, the lamps throwin’ fire in all our eyes.

Our marchin’ orders come at last. We got a three-day road ahead of us to the Front. The first day go easy. We pass through villages so old that there’s gaps in the outer walls where the stones have turned to dust. We sing as we march, and that night, are billeted in warm farmhouses with the scent of fruit and hay ’bout them.

The second day is when our feet start to make a fuss. The
anciens
still cheerfully singin’ but us
jeunes
fallen dead quiet. One foot in front of the other, mile after devil-spawn mile, our sacks feelin’ like they stuffed with rocks, them boots we got on nippin’ and bitin’ at our heels.

James, he sufferin’ somethin’ bad. I can tell from the way he walk, a rollin’ sort of shuffle, shiftin’ his weight to the balls of his feet. He don’t say nothin’ though, and watchin’ him, I’m set on keepin’ right on marchin’ myself. Still, I’m awful tempted when Karan throw up his hands. ‘I’m walking in marmalade,’ he say, fallin’ out by the side of the road.

When he take off his boots, sure ’nuff his feet blistered awful bad, the skin peelin’ off and bleedin’. Now Danny examinin’ his own pulpy feet – one by one, more
jeunes
fall outta the column until I give up too. Our poor, achin’ feet! They in right bad condition, we gonna need medical attention for sure.

‘James,’ I call, but he don’t stop, don’t look left or right, just keeps shufflin’ along. Mule-headed Yankee, when he can get a ride in a medic wagon all the way to our destination.

We sittin’ there, waitin’ there for the medics, when our Colonel come ridin’ up.

‘What is the hold-up here?’ he demand, annoyed.

We limp towards him, salutin’ heroic like. ‘We’re all in,
mon Colonel
. Our feet are pulped to bits, like fresh marma—’

‘March!’ he roar, in such a temper that we nearabout fall over one another in our rush to get our boots back on. ‘March!’ he roar again, and that just what we do, trottin’, pantin’, fast-shufflin’ down the road, until we catch up with the rest of the section.

I steal a look at James, but he don’t say nothin’, just shift his chaw from one cheek to another, his face real tired but a look in his eyes like he laughin’ on the inside.

We billet in the grounds of an old chateau that night. The red brick walls glow hot as coals as we pass with our lamps. There’s chickens, I notice, roostin’ in a corner of the yard. A door opens in the back of the chateau and an old lady steps out. She stare at us, no words of greetin’, no smile, nothin’.

‘Don’t chase the chickens,’ is all she say, and begin to go back inside.

James looks thoughtful like at her. ‘
Poulet de Bresse
?’ he ask quietly.

She starts in surprise on the step. ‘
Oui
,’ she nod then. ‘
Mon fils
. . .’ she clear her throat, turn to look him in the face. ‘My son bred them.’

‘
Poulet de Bresse
,’ James explain, when I ask later. ‘You can tell from the comb and feet.’