Return Engagement (79 page)

“One thing,” O’Doull said.

“What’s that?” Granville McDougald inquired.

“Over on the other side of the line, there are bound to be a couple of Confederate medics bitching about the same thing.”

“Oh, yeah.” McDougald nodded. “But does that make it better or worse?”

That was another of those . . . interesting questions. How you answered it depended on how you looked at war. It was better for the USA if the Confederates also killed and maimed their own. It was better for the USA, yes, but much worse for a good-sized group of men who would either die too young or go through life with puckered scars and perhaps without fingers or a foot or their eyesight or testicles.

O’Doull answered with a question of his own: “Are you asking me as an American or as a doctor?”

“That’s for you to figure out, wouldn’t you say?” McDougald was enormously helpful when dealing with the wounded, much less so when he and O’Doull were making the time pass by.

Another round burst closer than it should have. O’Doull swore in English and in Quebecois French. Somebody on one side of the line or the other didn’t know his ass from the end zone. No one set out to shell an aid station, but that was also one of the accidents that happened.

“I think we’d better—” O’Doull began.

Granville McDougald was already doing it. O’Doull followed him out of the tent. Both men jumped into a zigzagging trench not far away. O’Doull was glad they had no wounded lying in the tent right that minute. Getting them out would have been a nightmare. The doctor thought he would sooner have stayed in the tent himself and taken his chances.

“Cigarette?” McDougald held out a pack.

“Thanks.” O’Doull took one. They were Niagaras, a U.S. brand, and tasted as if they were made of hay and horseshit. Even bad tobacco, though, was better than no tobacco at all. O’Doull sucked in smoke. “Yeah, thanks, Granny. I needed one there.”

Another shell screamed in. A man who listened closely could tell which rounds were long, which short, and which right on the money. O’Doull ducked and threw his hands up over his head. So did McDougald, who’d judged the incoming round the same way he had.

The shell burst between the trench and the aid tent. Shrapnel whined through the air not far enough over their heads; dirt pattered down on them. Some slid down the back of O’Doull’s neck. He knew that would drive him crazy later. Nothing he could do about it now.

Cautiously, he stuck his head up above the rim of the trench. The explosion had shredded the green-gray canvas of the aid tent; the Red Cross on the side was ventilated with several rips and tears. And what the fragments would have done to them had they stayed in the tent . . . “You know something? I’m not what you’d call sorry we vacated the premises.”

“Now that you mention it, neither am I.” McDougald looked up to survey the damage, too. He whistled mournfully. “No, that wouldn’t have been a hell of a lot of fun, would it?”

“No. Looks to me like we could have practiced sewing each other up,” O’Doull said.

“Suture self, Doc,” McDougald said. O’Doull sent him a reproachful stare. The other man didn’t seem to notice he’d been reproached. Anyone who’d say something like that probably wouldn’t notice such a thing.

Then O’Doull threw himself flat in the trench again. Two more shells came down, one on the tent, the other close by it. He and McDougald would have been in no position to do any sewing after that.
Light a candle for me, Nicole,
he thought, and wondered if he’d ever see Rivière-du-Loup again.

M
ary Pomeroy hugged her mother. “So good to see you, Ma,” she said.

“You, too, dear,” Maude McGregor answered. “It was a nice visit, wasn’t it?”

“I sure thought so,” Mary answered. “Easier to get out of town now that Alec’s in kindergarten.” She made a sour face. “Even so, I wish I didn’t have to send him. The Yanks make teachers fill up the children’s heads with the most fantastic lies you ever heard.”

“You don’t want to get in trouble for leaving him out, though,” her mother said. “You don’t want to get in trouble at all, especially after all the lies Wilf Rokeby told about you.”

“I know, Ma,” Mary said, and said no more. She knew Wilf Rokeby hadn’t told lies. She knew her mother knew, too. Maude McGregor never would have said so, though, even if you put her on the rack. There were things she carefully didn’t see. She hadn’t seen them when her husband was alive, and she didn’t see them when she looked in her daughter’s direction, either.

She’d never asked, for instance, why Mary spent half an hour or an hour or an hour and a half of each recent visit to the farm out in the barn by herself. She never came out to see what her daughter was doing there. She didn’t want to know—or rather, to know officially.

All she said now was, “Whatever you’re doing, be careful about it.”

Gently, Mary answered, “I’m always careful, Ma,” and her mother nodded. Mary knew she hadn’t been careful enough with Wilf. She’d dodged the immediate danger, but the postmaster had brought her to the occupiers’ notice.

The Yanks suspected Pa, but he kept on going,
Mary thought fiercely.
I can, too.
As long as they only suspected, what could they do? They’d never found any evidence against her. They’d never found any evidence against her father, either, till things went wrong when he threw the bomb at General Custer. And if Custer hadn’t been more alert than an old man had any business being, Pa might have got away with that, too.

“I’ll see you before too long,” Mary said. Her mother nodded. The two women embraced. Mary went out to the Oldsmobile. She started the auto and drove away from the farm where she’d grown up.

What went through her mind was,
I have to be extra careful now.
If the Frenchies caught her with a bomb in the Olds, everything was over. They had no particular reason to search it, but. . . .

Even when she used the bomb, she had to be extra careful. If it went off somewhere too close to Rosenfeld, that would make the occupiers wonder. She muttered to herself as she drove across the vast, wintry Manitoba prairie. The Olds was almost the only motorcar on the road. What she didn’t know was how active the overall resistance against the Yanks was. How many things happened that never got into the newspapers or on the wireless? If the Americans were smart—and they were, damn them; they were—they would keep most of those things quiet.

If she wasn’t the only one fighting the Yanks in this part of the province, though, then one more bomb wouldn’t mean so much. It wouldn’t necessarily make the occupiers look toward
her.
If nobody else was giving them trouble, that was a different story.

She sighed. She hadn’t heard anyone else’s bombs blow up in Rosenfeld. A lot of the farmers in these parts were Mennonites who went along with the central authority, whatever it happened to be. But there had been that pamphlet, the one she’d turned against Rokeby.
Somebody
had put it out.

About ten miles west of Rosenfeld lay Coulee, an even smaller town. Like Rosenfeld, Coulee would have had no reason to exist if not for the railroad. It was a place where people loaded grain; Mary had trouble imagining anyone getting off the train in Coulee without the immediate, intense desire to get right back on again. People in Rosenfeld hardly ever thought about Coulee; when they did, it was usually with a condescending smile. Even in Rosenfeld, people needed someone to feel superior to.

The paved road to Coulee paralleled the train tracks. It went on right through the town. Mary got off the paved road before Coulee, went around the place on lesser tracks like the one that led to her family’s farm, and then got back on to drive for another couple of miles.

She stopped the auto there and pulled off to the side of the road. When she got out of the Olds, she looked both east and west. Nobody coming in either direction—that was what she’d wanted to see. She remembered the Quebecois soldiers who’d appeared out of nowhere while her family was picnicking. Having a patrol show up now wouldn’t do at all.

No patrol. There were too many miles of railroad, not enough soldiers to keep an eye on all of them all the time. Mary opened the trunk. She carried the box in it over to the railroad tracks, then came back. As she returned, she scuffed and kicked the footprints she’d made in the snow till they were unidentifiable. She drove the auto back onto the road and did the same thing to the tire tracks. The occupiers would be able to figure out where she’d planted the bomb. The explosion itself would tell them that. Who she was, or even that she was a she? No. Not if she could help it.

Mary drove back to Rosenfeld the same way as she’d come west, skirting Coulee. Nobody in the town would see the Oldsmobile. She tried to use different little country roads heading east. She didn’t want a farmer remembering he’d seen the same auto coming and going in a short stretch of time.

She got back to her apartment less than an hour later than she would have if she’d come straight from the farm. Who was to say when she’d broken off her visit with her mother? Mort might notice that the gas gauge on the motorcar was down a little farther than it should have been. But so what? Even if he did, would he turn her in to the occupiers? Not likely!

All the way back to Rosenfeld, she’d listened for an explosion. She hadn’t heard one. Maybe no train had gone through during her drive. Maybe she’d got too far away for the sound to carry. Or maybe the bomb had failed. That was an unwelcome possibility, but one she couldn’t ignore.

As soon as she got into the apartment, she used a nail file to get rid of the dirt from the barn and washed her hands. Drying them, she felt a little like Lady Macbeth—another stubborn Scotswoman advancing her cause no matter what.

Music blared from the wireless when she turned it on. It was twenty minutes to the hour, so she had a while to wait before she could hear the news. She used the time to good advantage, making herself a cup of coffee and sitting down with a mystery story set in Toronto before the Great War. She knew what she was doing—pretending things hadn’t changed since. Again, so what?

When the news came on, it talked about an American submersible torpedoing a Japanese cruiser somewhere in the Sandwich Islands. It talked about U.S. bombing raids on Confederate cities, and about Confederate terror attacks on U.S. cities. Mary sneered. She knew propaganda when she heard it. The wireless talked about U.S. progress in Utah. It talked about an Austro-German counterattack against the Tsar’s armies in the Ukraine, and about a German counterattack against the British near Hamburg.

It talked about cuts in the coal ration for Canada, and about reductions in civilian seat allocations on the railroads here. Bombs on the tracks? Not a word.

Mary said a word—a rude one. Maybe it was too soon to get the news on the air. Maybe no train had gone along that stretch of track, which didn’t strike her as very likely. Or maybe something had gone wrong. Could a patrol have found the bomb before a train went over it? Worry settled over her like the clouds that presaged a snowstorm.

After Alec got back from kindergarten, even worry had to stand in line. He rampaged through the apartment. Mouser had been asleep under a chair. Alec blew a horn right by him, which horrified him and Mary both. He fled, squalling. “Leave the cat alone!” Mary shouted at Alec, who wanted to do no such thing.

She kept the wireless on, wondering whether she would get news from it or a knock on the door. At last, three hours after that first newscast, the announcer started inveighing against saboteurs who tried to put a spike in the American war effort. “These evildoers hurt their Canadian brethren by further decreasing the number of seats available in the railway system as a whole. Southern Manitoba is particularly afflicted, but authorities have every confidence they will soon hunt down the murderers and depraved individuals responsible for these dastardly acts of terrorism.” The man sounded ready to flop down on the floor and start chewing up the carpet.

Hearing that report took the nervous edge off Mary’s temper. Alec kept after the cat. Before long, Mouser had had enough and scratched him. He ran to Mary, crying. She managed to be sympathetic, and painted the wounds with Mercurochrome, which didn’t sting, and not with Merthiolate, which did.

“He’s a bad kitty,” Alec declared, glowering at the orange-red blotches on his arm.

“He is not. If you tease him, he’s going to scratch.” Mouser rarely bit, thank heaven. Mary and Mort had trained him out of that when he was a kitten. “How would you like somebody blowing a horn in your ear when you were asleep and chasing you all over everywhere?”

Alec looked as if he thought that might be fun. Mary might have realized he would. And then, all at once, an amazingly knowing expression passed over his face—he saw he shouldn’t have let her notice that.
He’s growing up,
she thought, and couldn’t decide whether to laugh or to cry.

When Mort came home from the diner that evening, he was oddly subdued. She wondered if he’d had a row with his father. She didn’t want to ask him about it till after Alec went to bed. Then her husband beat her to the punch: “They say a train got bombed, other side of Coulee.”

Uh-oh,
Mary thought. Voice somewhere between casual and savage, she answered, “I heard something about it on the wireless. They didn’t say much, though. I hope it gave the Yanks a good kick in the slats.”

Mort made a small production out of lighting a cigarette. He said, “When the Frenchies turned this place upside down, they didn’t find anything.”

“Of course they didn’t. There wasn’t anything to find.”
I made damn sure of that,
Mary added, but only to herself.

“They never found any of the stuff your father used, either,” he said.

That rocked her again; she didn’t think he’d ever come right out and talked about Arthur McGregor and what he’d done before. She made herself nod. “No, they never did.”

“Mary . . .” Mort paused, maybe not quite sure how to go on. He drew on the cigarette till the coal glowed tomato red. “For God’s sake watch yourself, Mary. This isn’t a game. They’ll kill you if they catch you. I don’t think I could stand that. I know Alec couldn’t.”