after the girls. And he missed them terribly, he’d always close his letters by saying; at least those pages she, Clair, was allowed her to read. Always there was a page her mother slipped into her apron pocket and took out later in the sitting room or in her bedroom, and read in the comfort of solitude.
And there was the radio. Those hushed evenings with her mother and Missy in bed, it was her favoured companion. Yet not even there in the rapid-fire voice of the broadcaster as he talked of the earth being pulverized, and the millions of soldiers killed and lamed, and the earth being torn asunder as the war circled the globe, could she find a picture of her father. Not even when this blight creeping over the world torpedoed a ferry leaving Newfoundland, killing 137 Newfoundlanders, 2 of them cousins to Johnny Regular’s wife, Rose, could she conjure up an image of her father as a soldier. It was as if he had died. As if he’d never been. And when once she managed to pull a fragment of him out of a dream, he became diffused with the million others from the broadcaster’s report, and lay dying with them on a soil torn asunder.
“I hope the Newfoundlanders does better in this one than they done at Beaumont Hamel,” Johnnie Regular’s boy, Rupert, said to a couple of older boys, just out from a history lesson two years into the war. “Yup, 753 went to battle, and 68 comes out alive—I wonder who trained them to shoot?” he asked as they gathered behind the school around a scuffed-out field, kicking around a soccer ball. Clair was standing nearby, scarcely interested in her two best girlfriends, Phoebe and Joanie, as they turned admiring eyes onto the older boys, yet managing a haughty look whenever one of them turned their way.
“Just as well they never come back, from what I seen of that fellow down Port Ray,” said Phoebe loudly. “Leg cut off to a stump and half-blind. Can we play?” she asked, sticking out a foot, pretending to trip Rupert.
“Go play with your dolls,” said Rupert, nudging her to one side, missing the ball coming at him.
“Legs short as yours, you can use some help,” said Joanie, stopping the ball with her foot as it rolled towards her.
“Here, let it go,” ordered Rupert, cutting in front of Joanie and kicking the ball back to the other fellows. “Get home with ye,” he huffed at the girls, running back onto the field.
“Yup, 753 men goes out with guns, and 68 alive the next day,” said the eldest fellow, Eddie Jones, from in by the church. “Now what kind of fight do ye think was that?”
“A fool’s fight is what,” said Georgie Blanchard, Ralph’s son, red-faced from running down the ball. “You take a man from his own place and put him in someone else’s— and in a different country at that, mind you—and what kind of sense do he got? None, brother! And they had none to start with, going the frig over there in the first place,” he added, a sly glance at Clair, then kicking the ball hard towards Rupert.
“That’s true, that’s true,” called out Rupert. “I used to listen to me old grandfather talk about them men that went to war. Strong as bears he said they was—and matched them, too. Remember old Sammy Jones—ripped his knife across the throat of a bear?”
“Yup, and he with the bear still pawing at him,” said Georgie.
“Yes, now, that’s a likely story,” snickered Phoebe as Georgie ran past her. “Come on, let us play,” she egged him on, running alongside of him. “Girls against the guys. Come on, Clair! Joanie!”
“So, what’s a fellow like that doing getting killed in less than a day, and he with a rifle in his hands and hundreds just like him standing all around?” said Rupert. “Foolish is what it is, going off and fighting in places you knows nothing about.”
“Perhaps he should’ve stuck with his knife and left his gun at home,” offered Clair.
“Yes, now I knows Sammy Jones was too stunned to shoot a gun. Is that what
And there was the radio. Those hushed evenings with her mother and Missy in bed, it was her favoured companion. Yet not even there in the rapid-fire voice of the broadcaster as he talked of the earth being pulverized, and the millions of soldiers killed and lamed, and the earth being torn asunder as the war circled the globe, could she find a picture of her father. Not even when this blight creeping over the world torpedoed a ferry leaving Newfoundland, killing 137 Newfoundlanders, 2 of them cousins to Johnny Regular’s wife, Rose, could she conjure up an image of her father as a soldier. It was as if he had died. As if he’d never been. And when once she managed to pull a fragment of him out of a dream, he became diffused with the million others from the broadcaster’s report, and lay dying with them on a soil torn asunder.
“I hope the Newfoundlanders does better in this one than they done at Beaumont Hamel,” Johnnie Regular’s boy, Rupert, said to a couple of older boys, just out from a history lesson two years into the war. “Yup, 753 went to battle, and 68 comes out alive—I wonder who trained them to shoot?” he asked as they gathered behind the school around a scuffed-out field, kicking around a soccer ball. Clair was standing nearby, scarcely interested in her two best girlfriends, Phoebe and Joanie, as they turned admiring eyes onto the older boys, yet managing a haughty look whenever one of them turned their way.
“Just as well they never come back, from what I seen of that fellow down Port Ray,” said Phoebe loudly. “Leg cut off to a stump and half-blind. Can we play?” she asked, sticking out a foot, pretending to trip Rupert.
“Go play with your dolls,” said Rupert, nudging her to one side, missing the ball coming at him.
“Legs short as yours, you can use some help,” said Joanie, stopping the ball with her foot as it rolled towards her.
“Here, let it go,” ordered Rupert, cutting in front of Joanie and kicking the ball back to the other fellows. “Get home with ye,” he huffed at the girls, running back onto the field.
“Yup, 753 men goes out with guns, and 68 alive the next day,” said the eldest fellow, Eddie Jones, from in by the church. “Now what kind of fight do ye think was that?”
“A fool’s fight is what,” said Georgie Blanchard, Ralph’s son, red-faced from running down the ball. “You take a man from his own place and put him in someone else’s— and in a different country at that, mind you—and what kind of sense do he got? None, brother! And they had none to start with, going the frig over there in the first place,” he added, a sly glance at Clair, then kicking the ball hard towards Rupert.
“That’s true, that’s true,” called out Rupert. “I used to listen to me old grandfather talk about them men that went to war. Strong as bears he said they was—and matched them, too. Remember old Sammy Jones—ripped his knife across the throat of a bear?”
“Yup, and he with the bear still pawing at him,” said Georgie.
“Yes, now, that’s a likely story,” snickered Phoebe as Georgie ran past her. “Come on, let us play,” she egged him on, running alongside of him. “Girls against the guys. Come on, Clair! Joanie!”
“So, what’s a fellow like that doing getting killed in less than a day, and he with a rifle in his hands and hundreds just like him standing all around?” said Rupert. “Foolish is what it is, going off and fighting in places you knows nothing about.”
“Perhaps he should’ve stuck with his knife and left his gun at home,” offered Clair.
“Yes, now I knows Sammy Jones was too stunned to shoot a gun. Is that what
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