Soldier of the Horse (15 page)

Tom shivered at the thought of crawling across No-Man's-Land, waiting for the machine guns to open up.

Stretcher-bearers appeared and carried off the lieutenant, making hard work of it along the dark, cramped trench. The private splashed after them.

Ferguson was replaced at the parapet by Freddie Martens, the youngster who had been kicked in the balls by Sergeant Planck back at Fort Osborne Barracks.

By now Tom figured there wouldn't be much sleep for him, but he hunkered down in a corner, his Lee Enfield propped beside him, and forced his eyes to close. Luckily, the German gunners were concentrating their fire farther back in the Allied position, and he dozed, in spite of the enemy artillery.

He awoke with a start, his neck sore from the way his head dangled, weighed down by his sopping wet cap. Something was wrong. There was total silence outside the trench. He stood, stiff with cold but fully awake. The members of his section were still huddled in cramped postures, jammed into corners and shallow dugouts in the side of the trench. Martens remained at his post, standing on the platform, but as Tom watched, his head bobbed forward then snapped back up. Christ, Tom thought, he's asleep.

“Martens,” he hissed, not wanting to wake everybody up. At that instant a rifle cracked and Martens was flung backward, cap falling across his face. Ungodly screams filled the air, and a grenade bounced into the trench, landing at Tom's feet. He snatched it up and flung it back over the parapet. Instantly, a sharp explosion buffeted his ears and fragments slapped into the sandbags above his head. He looked up to see a dark figure looming over the parapet, rifle in hand, shooting down into the men below.

Tom swung his rifle up and fired without aiming. The German doubled over and tumbled into the trench. Tom's ears were ringing as he ejected a shell and cycled another round. Shaking, he kept his eyes on the lip of the trench. He was aware of Johanson, now on his feet beside him, as shots rang out from inside and outside their lair. The German on the ground was trying to get up, reaching for his fallen rifle. Johanson shot him in the back of the head. There was a spray of blood and the man fell across Martens. This time he didn't move.

Ferguson was up on the platform, firing as fast as he could work the bolt on his rifle. Sergeant Planck appeared from around a corner and flung a ladder up against the side of the trench. “Up you go, lads,” he shouted. “Give them what for!” He pushed Tom toward the ladder.

Before he knew what he was doing, Tom was over the top and had thrown himself prone on the ground, his rifle at his shoulder, Planck at his side. In the vague light of a murky dawn he saw grey figures scrambling away. He fired and kept firing, not knowing if he was hitting anything. He emptied his magazine and reloaded, firing again and again until Planck tapped him on the shoulder.

“Hold your fire, Macrae. They're gone. Don't worry, you'll get another crack at them.”

A high-velocity shell hit the parapet a hundred yards away, exploding with a loud crack.

“Come get your head down, son.” Planck slithered into the trench as a renewed barrage opened up from the German side. The British guns to the rear responded and shells whistled overhead. Tom crawled backward until he could get his feet on the upper rungs of the ladder and clambered down into shelter.

An ugly dawn revealed three Canadian casualties: Martens dead, and two wounded. The dead German remained face down, blond hair crusted with dried blood. He still lay across Martens, their bodies entwined. Two young men on opposite sides, Tom mused, neither of whom had wanted to die. Both of them would have families, loved ones at home. Planck ordered up medical assistance, and the military machine went about its business. Wounded were helped away, bodies carried out.

Cooks came up the line lugging steel pots of food and gallons of hot tea. Tom was ravenous and wolfed a bowl of porridge and half a loaf of bread, washed down by the tea. He clutched his hands around his tin cup and let the warmth from the hot, sweet liquid spread into his body. Planck conjured up a flask of rum, and gave each man a shot in his tea.

Poor Martens. No, too late for him. Poor Martens's family. And because Martens had dozed off, it was damn near poor a whole lot of other people, too. They could all have been killed like rats trapped in a barrel.

One skirmish, survived. Thank God for Planck, who had been under fire many times. Tom had never liked the man, but now he saw him in a different light. Maybe the Canadians did have a few things to learn. As he finished his tea a light drizzle added to their misery. Tom draped his poncho over his head and shoulders and sat on an ammunition box.

In 1914 everybody at home had feared that the war would be over before Christmas, and the Canadians wouldn't get a chance to fight. God, thought Tom. One night so far. One night at the front, with two wounded and one dead, that he knew about. Three men gone. Now, in the spring of 1915, Tom no longer worried about the war ending too soon; he worried about it going on too long. He dozed, his elbows on his knees and his tin cup dangling in one hand. The cup dropped from his fingers. He twitched but let it lie, as rain pattered on the mud.

♦  ♦  ♦

Lieutenant Tilley led the way out, followed by the twenty-three surviving men of the 1st Troop. They were due for two weeks of relief and training, the pressure of battle off for the time being. Tom hitched his pack higher, and glanced back at the men who followed. His section was last in line, and Sergeant Planck was pushing them along from the rear. They were dirty and they stank, just like the infantry they had replaced two weeks before, their gear and clothing soaked through and caked with mud. Losses had mounted—four killed and eight out of action with wounds. But the noncoms had kept morale high during these first weeks of life in the trenches, and the regiment had given as good as it received.

The plan called for a three-mile march to transport that would take them to their quarters. All Tom could think about was the promise of hot food and dry bedding. Packs and rifles seemed lighter with every step away from the front line, in spite of an ongoing drizzle.

Tom felt rather than heard a high-pitched whine. “Down,” yelled Planck from behind. At that instant there was a tremendous explosion and something banged off Tom's head. Clumps of earth pelted him as he crashed down. He lay as small as he could on the ground, a ringing in his ears the only sound in the otherwise sudden, aching stillness. He raised his head and saw the men behind him all face-down, partly covered with earth.

Ferguson looked up, his mouth moving, but Tom heard nothing. He felt as if he were buried under a layer of blankets, his movements slow and difficult. He got up on his elbows, then his knees. Now he could hear men's voices, muffled but real.

Ferguson came closer. “Are ye hit?”

“No—don't think so. You okay?”

Fergie nodded.

Tom retrieved his cap from where it lay, feet away. He clapped it back on, and turned to look for Planck, who lay on his back beside a raw shell hole, wisps of smoke rising from the ground around him. Tom stumbled over to the sergeant, his feet slipping and catching in the mushy clods of dirt. Planck's cap was missing and his uniform was black and charred. He was conscious, and his eyes fastened on Tom. He struggled to raise his head, enough to look down to where his left flank and hip should be. They were gone, and a great mass of blood and guts flowed from his side.

The sergeant's eyes rolled back in his head, then refocussed. He looked up at the sky, as if there were something there to see. “I'm going, boys,” he said, as his eyes glazed over. He never moved again.

Tom collected the sergeant's cap. Planck, you son of a bitch, how could this happen to you? You, as tough as they come, a survivor of the Boer War, for God's sake. We couldn't stand you back in Winnipeg, but you brought us through. Who will watch over us now?

Johanson and Ferguson marked the spot by jamming the shattered limb from a nearby tree into the muck, and Tom wedged Planck's cap into a split in the branch. Lieutenant Tilley crossed himself, and the troop marched on. They'd send a party back for the body.

Tom held back as the rest of his troop slogged past him. Their route was through a blasted landscape recently torn up by enemy artillery. Two of the youngest members of the troop trailed behind. They were in bad shape, having suffered more than most with the short rations and lack of sleep during the nightly bombardments. Sergeant Quartermain had taken Planck's place and urged them on like a collie herding sheep. Quartermain was carrying one man's rifle for him, and Tom took Liam Fogarty's. In spite of that Fogarty bogged down in the mud; Tom shouldered his pack and helped him along. Anything to avoid thinking about Planck. This war could get any of them, at any time. There was no way out.

♦  ♦  ♦

“I need a rest,” Ellen gasped, and Harry led her toward their table. An evening of square dancing and Scottish reels was pleasantly tiring. Ellen's normal physical exertions involved walking to work at the hospital in good weather and climbing up and down stairs when necessary, so she was relieved to sit and fan herself with the printed dance program.

Three times over the past few weeks she had gone out with Harry and his friends, and this was the most active evening of all. Harry sat close beside her. She leaned back in her chair while she caught her breath. Swirling dancers swooped by, the men in everything from dress trousers and shirts to kilts and jackets. The women wore long, colourful, loose dresses and skirts, with practical, low-heeled shoes.

“Back in a minute. I'll get you something to drink.” Harry picked up their glasses and made his way around the dancers toward the bar.

Ellen watched him go, a lithe figure, assured and confident as he greeted acquaintances. He had been in Winnipeg only a few months but already was an accepted part of the social set. Come to think of it, a part of
her
social set.

The war dragged on, and Tom's letters were still coming, as regular as the weeks that rolled by. They were unfailingly cheerful, in a superficial way. He hoped to go on leave to Paris but would not be allowed to cross the Atlantic. She understood that the men's correspondence was censored by the officers, but couldn't he say something to help keep the home fires burning? Yes, he loved her, she knew that, or least so she told herself. Time was intruding, though, on her precious memories of Tom, of their trip in the cutter with Belle, of the heat of their bodies under the buffalo robe.

She wrote back, at least twice a week, but she found she had less and less to tell him. The work at the hospital was depressing. She certainly couldn't tell him any details; it would be too mournful. He had enough on his mind dodging bullets and God knew what. She couldn't write about her social life: no need to upset him. Not that they meant anything, these outings with Harry.

Harry returned with freshened drinks, and they were soon joined at their table by the Bergers and Hugh and Sandra Jenkins. Hugh worked with Harry at the Hudson's Bay store. John Berger was in the grain business.

Ellen enjoyed the company of the other young women, who were only two or three years older than she was. She laughed at Sandra's story about her children's latest escapades, although what was funny about changing diapers and sweeping up food spilled on the floor she didn't know. I think I'd better slow down with the punch, she cautioned herself.

“Well, I've just about danced myself out,” said Harry, looking from John to Hugh.

“I think the time has come,” John responded. “Come on, ladies. Let's collect our coats.”

“John Berger,” said his wife, Cecile. “It's far too early to go home. What are you up to?”

“You'll just have to wait and see,” and Harry took Ellen by the hand toward the cloakroom, where they recovered their coats. John Berger directed them to a waiting taxi, and they all squeezed in.

The vehicle moved south along Sherbrook to Cornish Avenue, then turned down Assiniboine to pass between immaculate homes to the very end of the street. Harry steadied Ellen as she alighted from the taxi and it glided away.

“This way, everybody.” Berger spoke quietly in deference to the sleeping neighbourhood. He and his wife walked toward the Assiniboine River, where the water lapped at a float tied to the bank. The men gallantly aided the women down the ramp to a motor launch, its engine purring. A man stepped off the boat onto the float and saluted Berger.

“Over to you, captain,” he said cheerfully.

Berger got in behind the wheel, Cecile beside him. Hugh helped Sandra and Ellen on board while Harry loosened the ropes that secured the boat to the float.

“Let go the lines, mate,” ordered Berger.

“Aye, aye, sir.” Harry threw the ropes aboard and jumped after them.

The little vessel chugged downstream toward the Red River, the low banks sliding by in the moonlight. Harry produced chilled wine from a locker and poured generous glasses for each of them.

“To further adventures,” John said, turning in his seat. They clinked glasses all round.

Ellen and Harry sat side by side, watching the silent ripples on the dark river. Occasional lights in houses along the bank winked from behind a screen of willows and elms. Ellen wasn't really listening to the casual conversation around her as she gazed out at the water. Harry draped his arm over the back of the seat, his hand on her shoulder. She turned and glanced up at his face, hidden in the shadow cast by the boat's canvas canopy. He pulled her toward him and kissed her full on the lips.

Ellen's heart raced as she broke off the kiss. What was she to do now? She had promised herself to Tom, but Tom wasn't here, and Harry was very desirable.

♦  ♦  ♦

It had not been a dream, then. Tom had woken to the trumpet, clear and sharp in the chilly air. He stumbled from his tent, snapped his suspenders up over his shirt, and was greeted by a blue sky, scudding white clouds, and the neighing of horses looking for their morning feed. The rain had stopped, the regiment was out of the trenches, and they had their horses. Life was good.