Megiddo's Shadow (3 page)

I stared at Hector. When I was a kid he'd always been the champion of King of the Castle. Now he was more like a god. His hair had been cut short, the buttons on his uniform glittered, and he seemed to have sprouted up an inch or two. When I tried to shake his hand he yanked me into a bear hug and mussed my hair, his green eyes sparkling. “You keep away from them Morris girls, you hear? Or at least leave one for me. And make sure she's a looker.” His gaze was like a spotlight on me. I stood there, dumbfounded, unsure what to say. I didn't know when I'd see him again.

“Hey, buck up!” He slipped his arm around my shoulder.
“I'll be back in no time, I promise. And I'll bring you a Hun helmet for your shelf.”

That was a lifetime ago. Standing in line, I felt as though I might cry like a child. My tears were a weakness Hector had often threatened to beat out of me. I bit the inside of my lip.

The man at the head of the line burst into laughter. Another shouted,
“Blam!”
while holding a finger to his friend's head.

“They're drunk,” the guy in front of me whispered. “Them boys were at the Empress finding courage at the bottom of a glass.” He held out his hand. “Paul Oster.” His dark hair was curly, and he had a closely trimmed mustache tracing his upper lip.

“Edward,” I said, shaking his hand. “Edward Bathe.”

“Where you from?”

“A farm near Tompkms. Harvest is done, so I thought I'd join up.”

“I'm running away from my wife.” Paul grinned, flashing bright teeth. “Kidding, of course; she's an angel. I own a shoe shop on River Street—Oster's Shoes. She and mybrother'll look after it now. He's got a crippled hand, otherwise he'd be here, too. You know anyone over there?”

“Yes, some pals and my brother.” I drew a sharp breath. For a moment I'd forgotten he was dead.

“Well, I chummed with lots of the Bull Moose Boys— even sold them some fine boots. Told them to kick the Germans' arses with em.” He chuckled, stroking his mustache. Without thinking, I touched my lip, too.

“How long have you been waiting?” I asked.

He pulled a gold watch out of his suit pocket. “About
forty minutes. They don't seem to be in a hurry to sign us up—maybe the recruiters were at the Empress, too. A year ago the line was halfway down the block. Guess the war is old news now.”

The three drunks shouted as the door to the recruiting car opened. A man stumbled inside. The others moved closer to the door. One by one they entered until finally it was Paul's turn. “Good luck,” he said, and disappeared into the carriage.

Lord Kitchener stared down from a poster, his large mustache a dark slash across his face. Just under him was written THE EMPIRE NEEDS YOU. He'd been the greatest British general since Wellington; the perfect war minister. More than a year earlier, his ship had struck a mine and he'd been lost. How could someone so powerful die, just like that?

Kitchener looked almost exactly like Major Nixon Hilts, my father's friend from the First Royal Dragoons. Dad and Major Hilts had fought side by side in South Africa. A picture of Hilts on his charger, saber held high, was proudly displayed on our mantelpiece, and I'd grown up staring at it. He'd stayed in the army after Father and would write from India, Egypt, or other exotic places. His letters described how the world needed Britain to be strong.

The major had visited us when I was ten, bringing spears from Africa as gifts for Hector and me. He'd insisted we call him Uncle Nix and patted our backs, telling us we were upstanding young men with glorious futures.

That night Hector nudged me awake and pulled me out onto the landing, where we pressed our heads against the stair rail to listen. Father and Hilts were in the kitchen
sharing loud stories of troopers they'd known, horses that'd shied at the sight of waving flags, and battles all across the dry lands of South Africa. The smell of pipe smoke and brandy and the sound of laughter drifted up. I coughed, and a heartbeat later Mom was shooing us off to bed.

Standing in the cold, I could have used a good shot of brandy myself. The tram car door opened and a gruff voice shouted, “Next!” I climbed up into the car, which was thick with the stench of a cigar. Behind a desk was a bulky sergeant, his tight uniform threatening to fire several buttons across the room. A cigar was squeezed between two sausage-like fingers. “Close the door!”

I did, blinking smoke out of my eyes.

“What's your name, son?”

“E-Edward Bathe, sir.”

“Sir? I'm not a fancy-pants officer! It's ‘Yes, Sergeant’ to you.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” I said.

“You catch on quick. Are you of sound mind?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Have you been drinking? Any mental ailments?”

I thought of Father, resigned to his bed. “No!”

“Good. How old are you?”

“Eight—” My voice cracked. “Eighteen, Sergeant.”

“When were you born?” He looked up, watching my reaction.

I'd already worked this out. “In 1899, Sergeant. September nineteenth.”

“Good show for popping by so soon. You gonna poke him, Doc? Doc?”

A bald man in a white coat, whom I hadn't even noticed, put his book down, unfolded grasshopper-thin legs, and stood up.

“Open your jacket and shirt.” His breath stank of alcohol. He jammed a cold stethoscope against my rib cage. Maybe he'd be able to tell how old I was just by hearing my heart. “Heart's good. Now cough.”

I did.

“Stick out your tongue.”

He inspected it.

“Read that eye chart for me.”

The chart hung on the far wall. I squinted in the smoke but was able to read everything aloud, including the bottom line.

“He's fit,” the doctor pronounced, extending his hand to shake mine. “Congratulations, son.”

The sergeant shoved several long papers into my hands. “You sign where I've marked the X, then fill out the rest.” I read a little of the form. “I'd like those done today,” he added.

As I finished, the doctor pulled out a tape measure. “Put your hands in the air.”

I lifted my arms and he wrapped the tape around me. “Chest—thirty-four inches.” He held the tape up to my head and let it drop to the floor. “Five foot five. No distinguishing facial marks. Any tattoos?”

“No.”

The sergeant tapped ashes into an ivory elephant ashtray and picked up a Bible.

“Place your hand on the Bible.”

I did, my palm sweaty.

“Edward Bathe, do you swear to be faithful and bear true allegiance to His Majesty King George the Fifth, His Heirs and Successors and to be duty bound to honestly and faithfully defend His Majesty, His Heirs and Successors and observe and obey all orders of His Majesty, His Heirs and Successors and of all the Generals and Officers set over you, so help you God?”

My mind boggled.

“Well?”

“Uh—I do. By God, I do.”

“Good lad.” He dropped the Bible on his desk and gave my hand a quick shake. “Welcome to the army. Your regimental number is 811683. Don't forget it. Leave through the back door there and report to the armory on North Hill tomorrow morning at oh-seven-hundred hours.”

As I climbed out of the car I felt light-headed—I'd been holding my breath. I stepped to the ground and sucked in some cool air. I'd made it! I wanted to jump around and shout like a schoolboy. Thank God!

“You get in?” Paul was leaning against a railcar, smoking a cigarette.

“Of course!”

“Guess we'll be trompmg around France in no time! Let's get a celebratory drink.”

“That'd be great!” I exclaimed, a little too loud. I wondered if I had enough money for a shot of brandy.

Paul flicked his cigarette to the ground and stepped on it. “My wife hates me smoking these coffin nails. She won't be nagging me about them for a while now, anyway.”

As we rounded the end of a railcar we came upon the three drunks standing near the back of the station. One was spewing vomit onto the ground. The other two winked at us and began to sing “Another Little Drink Won't Do Us Any Harm.”

Paul and I laughed. “I'll buy,” he said. “As long as you don't drink as much as them.”

T
he next morning, I stamped my feet to keep warm, looking up at the Union Jack flapping on the parapets of the brick armory. The recruiters had made a good haul—there were about a hundred men out front, though some seemed a little old to be soldiers and several were even shorter than me.

“Do you think they'll have a pot of coffee on?” Paul asked. “Maybe eggs and bacon?”

“Yes.” I blew on my hands. “And apple pie, cheese, and ice cream.”

Paul chuckled. “Well, let me eat it all and you can roll me right over the Germans.”

A large wooden door swung open and a tall sergeant with a white handlebar mustache strode out. “Welcome to the One Hundred and Twenty-eighth Battalion! I'm Sergeant Billings!” His voice boomed, inspiring me to stand straighter.
This was the same man who'd trained Hector. In his letters, he'd called him Sergeant St. Nick because of his white hair and mustache. “You're good men for signing up. You've done the right thing, and today you'll take your first glorious step toward becoming Bull Moose Boys, ready to strike a blow for freedom! Now follow me!”

I was the first inside the armory and at the front of the line for uniforms. A corporal reached into the pile and handed me a pair of khaki pants, long woolies, and a dark brown shirt. I clutched the uniform to my chest, squeezing out a mothball stink. The corporal tossed me a new pair of boots, a kit bag, a shaving kit, a greatcoat, and my identity tags.

A few minutes later I was dressed. The trousers fit perfectly, but the shirt was too large. I'd grow into it. I strained to look at the dark blue shoulder straps—the symbol of the infantry. I touched the metal CANADA bar sewn to my left shoulder. It was cold.

I slipped the metal identity disks over my head and under my uniform. If I was killed the green one would stay with my body and the red one would be sent to my family. Hector's was likely on its way home now. I blinked back tears.

I grabbed the two rolls of green wool strips—puttees— from the kit bag and got busy trying to wrap one smoothly around my lower left leg. It was impossible; I looked like an unraveling mummy.

A shadow fell across me. “I suppose your mother dresses you every morning.” Sergeant Billings had his hands on his hips.

“She's dead, Sergeant.”

“Don't be smart with me, Private.” But he saw the look on my face. “Well, she probably died of embarrassment.” He took a strip and knelt down. “You're all children! You wrap them clockwise, as if you're binding a wound. Start at the ankle, go over your boot, and then tie them off at the knee. They keep the mud out.” He wrapped up my left leg. The sight of the sergeant kneeling down reminded me of my dad tying my skates, and a stab of sadness surprised me. I missed him.

The sergeant stood. “You do the other one.” He turned an angry red as the puttees kept coming undone. “Clockwise, lad. Get it right! That's better, now pull both ends tight. Good job.” Billings clapped me on the shoulder.

“Thank you, Sergeant.”

“You'll do well, Bathe. Just like your brother.”

I felt as if I'd been hit in the guts. “You remember Hector?”

“Of course. You look like him. He was an excellent soldier.”

“He was murdered by the Huns, Sergeant.”

He nodded sadly. “I know. I read the casualty lists. I've got a son buried in Flanders. Don't worry, we'll get our pound of flesh from the Germans.” He looked me in the eye, adjusted his uniform, turned, and began shouting at another recruit about his puttees.

Wait!
I wanted to call out. I needed to know more about Hector. What did he do to be such a good soldier?

I examined my cap. Front and center was a metal badge
embossed with the image of a moose head, and below it the phrase
128th Overseas Moose }aw Battalion
. I slipped the hat on. If only Mom could see me now, she'd be so proud, and maybe Dad, too. And Hector, of course.

Paul walked over to me, his uniform fitting neatly. “Pretty good! You'll break a few hearts.”

I grinned. “You look swell. For an old guy.”

“Old?” He pretended to spar, then reached out and adjusted my cap. “That's better.”

It was something Hector would have done.

“Company D! Form a line!” Sergeant Billings was standing outside in the courtyard next to a large wooden crate. He held a rifle, its polished wood gleaming, the barrel straight and perfect.

“Look at that beauty!” Paul said.

My fingers tingled to hold one.

“Form a line!”

I ended up near the back and worried that they would run out of guns. When my turn came it was as though I'd stepped onto a stage. The sun was brighter as the sergeant reached deep into the crate to pull out a gleaming Lee En-field. I took it in both hands and felt its powerful weight. “Use it well, Private.”

The sergeant stood in front of us, still holding his rifle. “When you're outside this armory, consider yourself to be on the field of battle,” he said. He spoke about musketry care, but I studied my Enfield, the smell of fresh oil filling my nostrils. It was more beautiful than paintings in museums, and more useful. I swung it around, watching the sun sparkle on the barrel. It felt like Christmas.

“Keep it still, Private Bathe!” Billings shouted. “It isn't a peashooter!”

“Yes, Sergeant!” I said, saluting.

His eyes narrowed. “Never salute an officer in the field! Ever! You'd be sentencing him to death if a sniper were in the area.”

“I'm sorry, Sergeant … sorry.”

“And you don't have to salute a noncommissioned officer, either.” Billings stepped back a pace and shouted, “Company D! Form ranks!”

We gathered in front of him like curious sheep. “Those aren't ranks! Form into five lines, six men deep.” He yanked us into place, the corporals helping him. “Straighten up those backs, you cripples! Now, I want you marching as a unit, eyes forward! Follow me!” We marched around the armory. The two corporals set the pace on either side of the group. I tried to walk just like them.

Billings led us north onto roads and open farmland until Moose Jaw was well behind us. “Looks like we aren't even going to get breakfast,” Paul moaned quietly.