Without them, the high and mighty would find another way to settle differences.” To which Angus had countered, “You call a bald-faced grab for Europe, for England, a matter of differences ?”
His father’s white sleeves had glowed against the dark wool vest in the fading light. His white hair, too. His short, muscular frame barely contained his fury. He’d leaned over his desk, and said, “You can’t be serious about this. You’re my son. We’re pacifists, for Chrissake!” And Angus had shot back, “ You’re the pacifist!” He’d refused to repeat that he’d be behind the lines. His father’s response had triggered a foolish desire to be in the thick of it.
And now he was.
Besides dodging whizbangs, his role at the Front had been limited to keeping morale up and his head down, with a lot of supervisory tasks in between. He’d gotten to know his men, not just by their letters, but by their feet as he inspected them for oozing blisters and applied cold whale oil to them. His silent ministrations gave him the chance to check for the dreaded trench foot, which could turn feet to necrotic, misshapen blobs from the damp, from constriction and cold. Afterwards, as needed, he’d hand out clean wool socks sent over by women’s groups at home. The men took them without making eye contact, probably figuring that Angus, like the other lieutenants, would be dead and gone long before the battle took place. Except for Boudrey, who always stuck his feet straight out and said, “Thank you, sir.”
The battle for Vimy was months away. Everyone knew it, including the Germans. In the endless stagnation, the demoralizing term “war of attrition” had been bandied about. “Attrition?” Publicover said. “Heck, I don’t even know what that word means . Don’t care if I do. All I know is we’re getting ready for the big show, and when it comes, oh mother, oh brother , then there’ll be action! Plenty of it!” And so they waited. And across No Man’s Land, soldiers just like them blew on their hands in the cold.
Angus drew a breath, put pen to the page, and in minutes produced a remarkably detailed sketch of the lark, five-inch barbs to either side of it, mouth opened in song. He placed it in his case just as Publicover bounded in. “I just passed Hiller. Pathetic,” he said, and started packing his kit.
“He’s a worry,” Angus agreed. He’d found Hiller that morning, hands in his armpits, crouched in a funk hole. Angus had to shake him to get his attention, and when he stood, the tremors started up again.
“Hiller should worry you. A coward pushing for sick leave is what he is.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because I know one when I see one. He wants out.”
“A reasonable response.”
“Exactly. Faking it. Either way, he’s a danger. Believe me, when one of your own is a coward, you’ll wish him dead when the bullets fly.”
“I’m sending him to a camp doctor when we’re back of the line.” Angus reached for the photo envelope lying next to his writing tablet and ran his hand over the soft leather cover of it. On one side, Hettie Ellen—her high cheekbones, a slight upward turn of her chin, her lips softly parted as if distracted by something offstage. On the other side, Young Fred in short pants looked sternly at the camera. Simon Peter, arm around him, struck a happy-go-lucky pose. “Don’t go,” Young Fred said solemnly to Angus at the station in Chester the day he left. Angus had taken Simon aside, away from old Athol McLaren, who was strolling the platform, wheezing out send-off tunes on the pipes as best he could. Angus had put his hands on Simon’s shoulders and looked him in the eye, intending to say something profound. But all he could manage was, “You’re the best boy in the whole wide world. Not one boy better. You know that, don’t you?” Then he pulled him in tight as the train pulled into the station. Through the clouds of steam he saw Hettie. Her hat blew up
His father’s white sleeves had glowed against the dark wool vest in the fading light. His white hair, too. His short, muscular frame barely contained his fury. He’d leaned over his desk, and said, “You can’t be serious about this. You’re my son. We’re pacifists, for Chrissake!” And Angus had shot back, “ You’re the pacifist!” He’d refused to repeat that he’d be behind the lines. His father’s response had triggered a foolish desire to be in the thick of it.
And now he was.
Besides dodging whizbangs, his role at the Front had been limited to keeping morale up and his head down, with a lot of supervisory tasks in between. He’d gotten to know his men, not just by their letters, but by their feet as he inspected them for oozing blisters and applied cold whale oil to them. His silent ministrations gave him the chance to check for the dreaded trench foot, which could turn feet to necrotic, misshapen blobs from the damp, from constriction and cold. Afterwards, as needed, he’d hand out clean wool socks sent over by women’s groups at home. The men took them without making eye contact, probably figuring that Angus, like the other lieutenants, would be dead and gone long before the battle took place. Except for Boudrey, who always stuck his feet straight out and said, “Thank you, sir.”
The battle for Vimy was months away. Everyone knew it, including the Germans. In the endless stagnation, the demoralizing term “war of attrition” had been bandied about. “Attrition?” Publicover said. “Heck, I don’t even know what that word means . Don’t care if I do. All I know is we’re getting ready for the big show, and when it comes, oh mother, oh brother , then there’ll be action! Plenty of it!” And so they waited. And across No Man’s Land, soldiers just like them blew on their hands in the cold.
Angus drew a breath, put pen to the page, and in minutes produced a remarkably detailed sketch of the lark, five-inch barbs to either side of it, mouth opened in song. He placed it in his case just as Publicover bounded in. “I just passed Hiller. Pathetic,” he said, and started packing his kit.
“He’s a worry,” Angus agreed. He’d found Hiller that morning, hands in his armpits, crouched in a funk hole. Angus had to shake him to get his attention, and when he stood, the tremors started up again.
“Hiller should worry you. A coward pushing for sick leave is what he is.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because I know one when I see one. He wants out.”
“A reasonable response.”
“Exactly. Faking it. Either way, he’s a danger. Believe me, when one of your own is a coward, you’ll wish him dead when the bullets fly.”
“I’m sending him to a camp doctor when we’re back of the line.” Angus reached for the photo envelope lying next to his writing tablet and ran his hand over the soft leather cover of it. On one side, Hettie Ellen—her high cheekbones, a slight upward turn of her chin, her lips softly parted as if distracted by something offstage. On the other side, Young Fred in short pants looked sternly at the camera. Simon Peter, arm around him, struck a happy-go-lucky pose. “Don’t go,” Young Fred said solemnly to Angus at the station in Chester the day he left. Angus had taken Simon aside, away from old Athol McLaren, who was strolling the platform, wheezing out send-off tunes on the pipes as best he could. Angus had put his hands on Simon’s shoulders and looked him in the eye, intending to say something profound. But all he could manage was, “You’re the best boy in the whole wide world. Not one boy better. You know that, don’t you?” Then he pulled him in tight as the train pulled into the station. Through the clouds of steam he saw Hettie. Her hat blew up
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