Megiddo's Shadow (7 page)

Emily seemed to have pulled a cigarette out of thin air. In one movement she struck a match with her long thumbnail and lit the cigarette.

“Gasper?” She held the packet out to me. It had the card of a Victoria Cross hero inside. I wanted to see who the hero was. I shook my head and she slid the cigarettes into her cardigan pocket.

“Well, Edward, where'd you get that accent?”

“Canada. The prairies.”

“A farm boy? I could've guessed.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

She let out a ring of smoke. “You've got the
eau de farm
about you.” She giggled, though I didn't see what was so funny. “Tell me about your prairies.”

“Well, there used to be buffalo everywhere, but most of them are dead now.” Why'd I pick that to talk about?

“Buffalo? Red Indians, too?”

“Some, but I was born here in England at Aylesby My father had a farm.”

“Aylesby? It's a cozy place. Have you gone to see your old home?”

“I only just arrived.”

“It's a short jaunt. I wouldn't mind visiting the village again.”

Then why don't we go together?
I wanted to say.

Emily stared as if trying to memorize my face.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You're seventeen, aren't you. Maybe younger.”

“No.” I coughed. “I'm of age. I'm eighteen.”

She laughed. “No, you aren't. They used to make the young ones the bugle boys, but the ranks have to be filled. The recruiters see someone old enough to hold a gun, but I see … I don't know … such innocence.”

“I'm not innocent.”

“Have you ever had relations with a woman?”

I blushed, not knowing what to say. The fact was, I'd never even kissed a girl.

“Sorry. I'm being cruel. It's just refreshing to meet someone so pure; you're pure as the Canadian snow.” She snorted at her own joke.

“Did you ask me out here just to make a fool of me?”

“No! In fact, we're very much alike, Edward. I grew up on a dairy farm near Cleethorpes. I've milked my share of cows. See?” She showed me her palms. They were callused and muscular, not the dainty hands of a society girl. “Still,” she went on, “I can't imagine what it's like where you come from. So wide open. It must be breath takingly beautiful! Why'd you ever leave?”

“The King asked.”

“Have you met the King?”

“No, of course not.”

Emily nodded, as though she'd proven a point. She certainly had her opinions about things, but the more I looked at her, the more I liked her. She took a drag of her cigarette
and stared out across the misty hills. “I don't feel like I'm doing enough. I should transfer closer to the front; the men there really need help.”

She blew another perfect smoke ring. The ghostly O floated through the air and vanished. She dropped the cigarette and stepped on it. “I'd better go to my station. Thanks for the chat. You take care of that arm, Breaker Bathe.”

“I will.” She disappeared inside the aid post. All the way back to Remount I pictured her lips in the shape of an O. It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

E
very morning I helped work on the newest shipment of horses and every afternoon I returned to number fifty-eight. Soon I knew exactly how he thought, what he feared, and what to whisper to calm him down. He'd even nuzzle against me, like Caesar did at the farm. Dad would surely be proud if he could see me now. I wanted to name the horse, but he'd just be renamed by the yeomanry.

My arm gradually healed, though I wished for another injury, maybe even one requiring stitches, so I'd have an excuse to see Emily

In the evenings the breakers played cards at the mess, arm wrestled in the barracks, or headed into Gnmsby to the pubs. I preferred to be alone. I'd walk out into the fields; I missed working on our farm. I wrote a short letter to Dad, telling him where I was and not much more. I didn't expect a reply.

Often I'd pass by the regimental aid post, staring, willing
Emily to step out. I dreamed my way through hundreds of chats with her, in which I was witty and she laughed and looked longingly at me, but I couldn't find the courage to walk in and ask to see her.

On December 15 I went alone to a Gnmsby pub and bought a stew pie, the closest thing I could find to a roast beef dinner. I finished with a slice of carrot cake layered with white icing, the kind of cake Mom would make for birthdays, hiding pennies inside. Hector and I would fight over who got the first piece.

The icing at the pub tasted like butter. At first I was going to complain, but it dawned on me that sugar was rationed. Besides, why complain? It was a special day. I'd just turned seventeen.

A few days after that the post corporal arrived as I was leaving for the stables. “Bathe, this has been waiting for you.” He tossed a letter to me. “Check your mail at least once a week. It's not my duty to hand deliver it.”

I flipped the envelope over. It was from someone named Paul Oster, postmarked from France. Paul! News of the Bull Moose Boys. And it had taken only two days to get to me.

I stared at the letter. Paul wasn't training horses, piling stacks of hay, or shoveling horse dung. I folded the letter and stuffed it in my kit bag.

I shivered in my greatcoat as I walked to the horse barn. My infantry skills were rotting away. I went inside and discovered that fifty-eight's stall was empty.

I hunted down Corporal Grimes. “Where's fifty-eight?” I asked.

“You're supposed to be feeding and watering right now.”

“But my horse—the horse— Fifty-eight is gone.”

“I sent him and four other geldings to yeomanry last night. They'll knock his stubborn streak right out of him.”

“But I …”

“But what, Breaker?”

I shook my head. “I should return to my duties, Corporal.”

“Exactly.”

Back at the stable I stabbed the hay with my fork, filling the troughs. I wished I could have said good-bye. My friend was at the front and my horse was gone. What had been the point of signing up in the first place? I might just as well stayed at home and looked after livestock.

That evening I went to the regimental sergeant major.

“What are you here for, Bathe?” he asked. He was a small, turtle-like man. I was surprised he remembered my name.

“I want a transfer back to my old unit, Major.”

“Corporal Grimes says you're a fine breaker.”

“That's kind of him, Major, but I could be of more use at the front.”

“You're needed here, Breaker.” The words echoed in my ears as I walked back to my hut.

I lay on my cot and tried to picture Hector, but all I could get was a bit of an impression of his face, as though he was fading from my memory. Every day was taking me farther away from him. I wanted to know what he'd said over here, what he'd done, who he'd chummed with. I reread the letter from his regimental sergeant major. Since Hector had been his batman, he'd have known him the best.

I pulled out my pen, ink, and paper and wrote:

I took the envelope to the mailbag, all the time wondering if Gledhill was still alive.

I collapsed on my cot, and as the other breakers snored, I closed my eyes, imagined Christ's face, and prayed,
Please let me do my job
.

C
hristmas Day was hard. The officers sent a turkey for us breakers, which we quickly devoured; then most everyone slipped into town to see family or friends. I stayed alone in the hut. The previous Christmas had just been Dad and me. We hadn't even decorated. This Christmas all I could think of was how much I missed Hector. I hoped Dad was getting some turkey.

On Boxing Day, I decided if I couldn't be bold at the front, at least I could be bold at home. I'd walk up to Emily and sweep her off her feet. I hadn't figured out exactly how, but I had faith that the right words would just pop into my head.

Halfway to the aid post the roar of motors cut through the darkness and lights flashed everywhere. Someone began shouting orders. It wasn't a zeppelm attack because bells and bugles weren't calling us to our stations.

When I reached the post, a truck and four ambulances were parked outside, orderlies and nurses unloading stretchers. A man with a crutch leaned up against the back door, smoking a cigarette and staring at the stars. His left arm was a bloody, bandaged stump.

“You there!” A tall, gangly corporal pointed at me, spectacles tight against his eyes. “Grab the other end of this!”

He yanked a stretcher out of the ambulance and I leaned in to grip the handles. The cab was dark and stank of urine, blood, and antiseptic. A man groaned; another coughed. How many were stacked inside?

I held on tight and looked down. Gauze was wrapped several times around the wounded man's head, leaving a hole for his mouth, another for just one eye. He glared at me and I stumbled.

“Watch your step! These boys have been through seven kinds of hell.”

“Wash yur step,” the wounded man slurred, still glaring.

“Where are they from?” I asked.

“Across the pond somewhere. Guess Fntzie decided to give us a poke. These are the lucky ones; they survived the trip home. Hospitals all along the coast are filled up. They're bringing the overflow here.”

Enough wounded to fill all the hospitals in the south? Really. We lugged our man into the waiting room. Cots lined the walls, most of them full. We set our stretcher on one. “Twist your end.” The wounded man slid into place without a grunt. His eye remained fixed on me.

“There's plenty more,” the corporal said. “Hope you didn't have plans.”

Our next patient had left both arms back in France. He'd obviously been hit by a shell and was out cold. He'd be in for a shock when he woke up. Just one look at the man's burned skin told me he'd be in pain for years. At least Hector had been spared anything so horrible.

For the next half hour we hauled the wounded inside. The waiting room looked like a slaughterhouse. Some men were awake and able to stand or sit up; others were unconscious, their bandages red with blood. When the cots were full we lowered the wounded onto the floor, slipping a rolled blanket under their heads.

“Thanks, chap.” The corporal clapped me on the shoulder. “I'm heading back to the hospital ship. I hope it's empty.” He climbed into an ambulance and it motored away.

Inside the aid post Emily stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by bodies. She looked exhausted, her hair slipping out of her bun.

“I'm glad you're here.” She handed me a pile of blankets. “We're trying to deal with the worst cases first, so in the meantime, cover the others. Talk to the ones who are awake. They need to hear a kind voice.”

“What do I say?”

“Tell them they're looking well.” She stepped over an unconscious man and walked down the hall.

A soldier lay unconscious at my feet, his face torn as though he'd been dragged headfirst through barbed wire. I unfolded a blanket, leaned down, and pulled it up to his neck. I could tell by his stink that he'd dirtied himself. I wanted to throw up, but I kept moving. The next patient
was shivering, so I spread a blanket over him, and his eyelids snapped open. “Who are you?” he barked.

“Edward. You're home. In England.”

His eyes darted left and right. “Why is it so cold?”

“You're doing well.” I gave him a second blanket. “The doctor'll be here soon.”