Megiddo's Shadow (11 page)

I leaned against the tent pole. It was so odd and terrible to know about Hector's last moments. He hadn't been shot through the heart but had had his legs and guts torn apart. To think he had lam there in excruciating pain for so long with none of us, his family, to comfort him. I ached to hug him.

“Bad news?” Cheevers asked. “You don't look so good.”

“It's a letter about my brother, about how he died.”

“You lost your brother?” Blackburn asked.

“Yes. Hector. Last September.”

“Sorry to hear that, mate,” Cheevers said. “We all know someone who's pegged out. Half the chums I went to school with have fallen.” He gave me a soft tap on the arm. “Don't you worry. For every one of us, we'll kill five of them. I promise.”

“We'll win this war,” Blackburn said. “All these grievances will help us carry on.”

“I hope so.” I folded the letter and slid it into my rucksack.

Thoughts of Hector clouded my mind for the next few days. At times I'd even miss a command. Once, Sergeant Applewhite gave me a good going-over for being out of position, but I just couldn't get past the image of Hector in a pool of
his own blood, his legs shattered. The vision of him being shot in the heart had become like a painting in my head. But this news from Gledhill changed all that. Now the painting was a lie. It was true that Hector had died a hero—he'd been rushing a machine gun—but his horrible death wasn't what he deserved at all.

On Saturday evening I walked to the aid post, each step tiring me out. It was hardly how I wanted to feel on my way to pick up Emily, so I told myself that Hector would want me to have a good time. In fact, I decided I would be like him that night, charming Emily from the get-go. I'd start off with something like “You outshine the sun,” or “You're as pretty as a spring rose.” That would get everything off on the right foot. I should have asked Cheevers's advice; he likely had a thousand romantic lines. I wanted my first date to be perfect.

Emily waited on the front veranda, wrapped in a long coat, a blue dress peeking out at the hem. The moment I saw her, all thoughts of Hector disappeared. She wore her hair down; her lips glistened. She looked simply gorgeous.

“H-hello.” So much for my clever patter.

“You're shorter without your horse.”

“I'm not short!”

She chuckled. “Don't worry; you're tall enough for me, Mr. Canada.”

Was she being clever again? I was already feeling dizzy

“Town will be jumping tonight!” Emily exclaimed. “Let's go to the Pickled Boar first, then catch the show at the Palace. All the nurses raved about it. You'll take me, right?”

“Of course! It sounds perfect. Smashing, in fact.”

She pinched my cheek. “Don't try and sound English. Your colonial ways are what make you so interesting.”

Interesting? As we walked to Gnmsby I had an extra bounce in my step. “I cleaned all the windows in camp,” I announced like a schoolboy. I wanted to punch myself.

“How exciting!” she said with a wry smile. I tried to think of something more heroic.

“At the rifle range, I scored the highest. The sergeant even gave me a pat on the back. I have a nickname now— the Canuck!”

“How original! May I call you the Canuck?”

“I'd prefer Edward.”

“All right, my sweet Edward.”

I grinned. “I like the sound of that.”

Things were going well. I was keeping an older girl interested. There was a victory in that!

The sun was setting, casting long shadows over Gnmsby An oddly warm night had melted the skiffs of snow and drawn people out of their homes. The sidewalks grew crowded the closer we got to the market. Soldiers were drinking, belching, and backslappmg on the street. Ladies from the munitions factory sat on benches, their faces yellowed from working with TNT.

“They call them canaries,” Emily said. “Yellow skin is the price they pay for making bombs.”

“It won't wash off?”

“It'll wear away after the war.”

I hoped I'd see Cheevers so I could show off Emily,
but then thought better of it. One look from him might catch her in his web. Then again, she was too clever for him.

We ducked into the Pickled Boar and sat at a pockmarked table. Steak had been dropped from the menu because of rations, so at the counter I ordered eggs and chips for us. I took the plates back to Emily and returned for two mugs of beer.

An attractive girl wearing too much lipstick sauntered up to a nearby table. A trooper gave her a cigarette, and a few seconds later the two of them went arm in arm up the stairs.

“I like the seediness of this place,” Emily said. “It's kind of dangerous, just like a place you'd find in an adventure novel.”

“The food looks dangerous, too,” I said, taking my seat. The boiled eggs were crumbling; the chips were cold. I'd expected Emily to be somewhat dainty about eating, but she appeared to be racing to finish first.

“You've got egg on your chin,” she said, and wiped it with a napkin. “I feel like your mother.”

That wasn't how I felt about her. I wanted to squeeze her against me, or even take her up to a room. If only … Of course, it was a sin before marriage.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked.

I blushed and she giggled, then patted my hand. “The thought of you going to the front frightens me.”

“We'll be fine.” I worked at keeping my voice deep, confident. “Our training will serve us well.”

“Training won't stop a shell.” She waved her hand. “I'm
being a worrywart. Let's have a toast.” She raised her half-empty beer glass. “To our continued friendship.” She clinked my glass.

Friendship?

“Aren't you going to drink?”

I drank, then tore off a chunk of bread. We looked briefly into one another's eyes. What would it be like to kiss her?

“So exactly how old are you?” she asked.

“Uh, old enough.”

“To know better?” She laughed. “Really, you tell me your age and I'll tell you mine.”

I was sweating. “You go first.”

She licked her lips and was about to say something when from somewhere in the smoky haze a clock began to cuckoo. “We'll be late!” Emily said as she stood and hurried out. I followed, still chewing my last bite. Twice I lost her and she had to wait for me to catch up. Exasperated, she grabbed my hand and pulled me down the sidewalk behind her.

Two blocks later I looked up at the spires and rounded corners of the Palace Theatre, a castle in the middle of Grimsby. We joined the line. None of the girls I could see was as pretty as Emily I wished I had the guts to tell her so. I paid for the tickets and we found our seats, which were covered with red velvet and made me think of royalty. I helped her remove her coat, revealing the blue dress.

“That's a lovely gown.”

“Oh, what a kind thing to say.”

We took our seats just as the lights dimmed. Already I was thinking about holding her hand, but I couldn't make
myself do it; I was man enough to hold a gun, but not her hand. What was wrong with me?

The first act toddled out: an old comedian who burbled baby-talk songs. Emily leaned close and whispered, “He was probably quite funny fifty years ago.” I laughed and caught a whiff of her flower scent.

The next performers were a song-and-dance troupe called the Sisters of Mercy. I couldn't keep from humming along. They were followed by a juggling gymnastic act. It ended with a musical about Faustus, a man who sold his soul for power. Every song was so unhappy. I stole glances at Emily, who was completely enthralled.

“I'd go every night!” she exclaimed later, when we were back on the street.

“I'd take you every night.”

“That's sweet! You might get tired of me.”

“Never!”

We walked along the docks and crossed a bridge. The brick dock tower, which was over three hundred feet tall, overlooked the pier. Lights appeared in the distance, and Emily ran ahead.
“A
ship is coming in!”

When I caught up with her she was shivering, so I offered my arm. “You are a gentleman,” she said, and pressed herself against my side. “The stars are glorious tonight. I could almost believe there was peace on earth.”

I certainly felt at peace.

“What did you do at home, Edward?”

“I rode my horse, played hockey and baseball. Farm work, of course. I read. I really enjoy reading.”

“You aren't a budding poet, are you?”

“No! I'm not much for writing. Maybe letters. I do like history—Alexander the Great, the Roman Empire, and Kipling.”

“What is it with boys and Kipling? I prefer Jane Austen myself.”

I hadn't heard of her. “I sing, too.” Sing?

“At weddings and funerals. My mother was a good singer; I got it from her.”

She poked me in the ribs. “You're only trying to impress me. You can't sing.” 1 can!

“Prove it!”

My throat was dry. “I just have to think of a song.”

She was grinning at her little game. I thought of “Mademoiselle from Armentiéres,” but I could only remember the racy version. Finally, I sang:

Her smile grew wider and I grew braver, finding my proper pitch. When I was done, she was momentarily speechless.

“You have a wonderful voice!” She took my hands. “No one has ever sung to me before. Sing it again.”

I did. She gave me a kiss on the cheek, making my heart skip.

“This must be very odd for you.” She took my arm again. “Being here, that is. Ships. The ocean. Not at all like home.”

“Home is just grass and cows.”

“I grew up on a farm, too, remember? We had two Lincolnshire reds, a bull, a milk cow, twelve chickens, and three pigs.”

We settled on a bench that faced the ocean. A ship was passing by the tower.

“Your friend was transferred to Lincoln.”

“Paul?” A sharp pain shot through my gut.

“He asked about you several times.”

I pictured him in his cot. I was such a terrible friend. “I should have visited him.”

“Why didn't you?”

I shrugged. “There wasn't time. And …” I decided to be truthful. “I—I don't know how to explain it. I just couldn't stand to look at him. He was such a go-getter and a very handsome man. Seeing him was … terrible …”

“He needed your company.”

I nodded. I knew, I knew, I'd let a friend down.

She looked me in the eye. “But it's not just about him, is it? It's about what could happen to you, too. If you go to the front.”

“No. Well … maybe. But Paul gave up. That's what I couldn't bear to see. Not Paul. And what will he do with his life now?”

“It's easier when we nurses don't know the men before they come in; then we can only imagine what may have been
lost. It's not that much easier, of course. And many good soldiers don't come back at all. Like my brother.”

I turned to her in surprise. “Your brother?”

“Yes. Robert signed up with the Lines Infantry and he died at Gallipoli.” Her voice cracked a little. I didn't know much about Gallipoli, other than that it had been a hard campaign against the Turks, somewhere in the Mediterranean near Constantinople. “We were told a sniper got him, but that turned out to be a lie to save our feelings. One of his school chums gave us the truth. He died from dysentery. Dysentery! It certainly wasn't the heroic end he'd been promised by the recruiting posters.” She seemed as if she were about to sob, but she got a hold of herself. “He had the thickest hair and softest hands; he always got blisters. He was a good poet. His grave is so far away from us I might never get to see it.”

“My brother was murdered by the Huns.” It came out angrier than I'd intended, my mind's eye offering up the image of his legs, torn apart by bullets, once again.

She put her hand on my shoulder. “How did it happen?”

I told her what I knew of his death. She shook her head. “It's really hard, isn't it? We're so alike. I knew that when I first saw you. Neither of us belongs here.”

But I belong
, I wanted to say.

She pressed herself lightly against me. “‘The war is killing our youth.’ That's what Robert wrote in one of his poems. So true. The war kills our young and makes the rest of us old before our time. I feel like a crone.”

“You're far from that!”

“Ah, Edward.” She patted my hand, then held it tight. “I'm going to France, to Etaples, on Tuesday.”

I was stunned.
Three
days! She was shipping out before me. I'd pictured her waving good-bye to me on the dock.

“Don't you have anything to say?” Emily asked.

“It's what you want.”

“What I want is for the war to end. It's not that putting dressing on a soldier's wound will stop the war, but maybe it'll end it a little sooner. That night when all the wounded arrived was the first time I ever saw up close what happens. Not just broken bones, but injuries from shrapnel and bullets. They do terrible things to the body. I have to help.”

“I know how you feel.”

“Do you really want to go? It seems so horrid.”

“We could lose the war, you know. I don't want Hector to have died for nothing.”

She touched my cheek; her hand smelled like flowers. “I wish we'd been born forty years earlier. We could be sitting here together without thinking of the war.”

I grabbed her hand. “I'll … I'll miss you, Emily”

“You don't even know me.” She must've seen the look on my face. “I mean, well, these are strange days. Everything I feel is … heightened, somehow. I'll miss you, too, I know that. I know that. I'll write, I promise. Maybe you'll be in France soon and we'll meet again.”

“I'll ask for leave every day.”

“Ha! You'll come and see me off, won't you? At three on Tuesday.”

“Nothing could keep me away.”

That got a smile.

“Will you kiss me?” she asked.

“Wh-what?”