Three Day Road (34 page)

It seemed that every place we stopped on that train no longer had a recruiting depot. We stayed on the train and eventually it did stop. I panicked among all the people and the noise and so we found somewhere to camp by the great lake, away from it. The sand is warm in the sun and behind us a copse of trees stretches out to a marsh filled with the warbling of blackbirds.

“You’ll get used to all this,” Elijah says. He points behind him to the sprawl of the city only a quarter-mile away, amazed at this quiet beach so close to the chaos. “At least we found this good spot.”

Elijah leaves to explore the city while I walk through the bush that surrounds me. I find the tracks of a small deer, spend the day making snares along its route. Before Elijah makes it back the next morning I have the animal gutted and the hide in a small creek held down by rocks. It is a good thing. When he finally returns we are very hungry. We eat roasted deer and he tells me the story of his adventure.

He had found a cemetery on a hill that looks back down at the whole wide view of the city. At a quiet spot under the shade of a maple, he stretches out and stares up at the sky. White clouds scuttle along. His eyes are heavy.

Some time later he wakes with a start to the sound of voices. Turning his head, he sees a young woman and two children by a grave. The woman’s head is bowed and she whispers to herself. The children fidget and kick at the grass with their shiny black shoes.

One of them looks up. Elijah sits and crosses his arms over his knees. The child, a small girl, smiles to him. Elijah smiles back. She looks to her mother and then to Elijah again. She walks toward him without the mother noticing.

“Hello,” she says.

“Hello,” Elijah answers.

“Who are you?” she asks. Her hair is almost white, a colour he has never seen before. It shimmers in the afternoon sun.

“I am Elijah,” he answers. “Elijah Whiskeyjack.”

“You have a funny name,” she says.

“What’s your name?”

“Suzanne,” she says.

“Do you have a last name?”

“Of course!” she giggles. “Erikson.”

“Hmm …” Elijah says. “Erik Suzanneson. That truly is a funny name, especially for a girl.”

“No, silly!” she squeals. “Suz
anne
Erikson.”

“Oh, I apologize.”

“You have dark skin,” she says. “And long hair like a girl.”

Elijah smiles.

“Where are you from?” she asks.

“A long way away,” he answers. “A place called Moose Factory.”

“Moose Factory!” she says. “That is a very silly name!”

“Yes.”

After a time, she points in the direction of her mother and brother. The boy is a little older than her and stares back at them shyly. “That’s my father,” she says, pointing again at the two.

It takes Elijah a few seconds to realize what she means.

“He died in a war,” she says. “He died in a place called France.” She appears a little puzzled. “His body isn’t even in that grave,” she says. “They buried him in France.”

Elijah nods.

“The dirty Huns killed him with gas,” she says, then shrugs as if this is something that happens to her every day.

“Suzanne!” her mother calls suddenly. “Come here right away!”

“Bye, Elijah,” she says brightly, then turns and runs off.

By the time the lorry rolls to a stop it is the dead of night and my kidneys ache from the truck’s constant pounding on the pitted road. I get out and am greeted by the hands of orderlies trying to lead me into a building bright with electric lights. I shake them off and they stare as I make my way into the darkness. A couple of them shout at me, but they are too busy to pursue me as they unload the wounded from the truck.

If I remember correctly, the road leads out of here south and west toward Lisette’s village. I begin walking it, keeping an eye out for patrols and for sentries. They will throw me in a prison if I’m discovered here, and to be locked up so close to Lisette will surely kill me. When I reach the end of town, I head out into the darkness of the road that stretches across fields and dykes and through what were once orchards. A mist rises all around and in the darkness I’m reminded of my first month in this place, when it seemed I’d been thrown into an underworld full of skulls and quick, brutal death. So much has changed since then. I realize that the place hasn’t changed. It’s me.

I sense rather than hear soldiers coming toward me in the fog. I dive for cover in a shallow ditch and lie prone, rifle at the ready. Voices come out of the darkness and four bodies appear, ghostly in the fog. They support one another, and I realize it is a song they are shouting out, their voices swallowed by the night. They are drunk, I see, returning from Lisette’s village, trying to make it back before
dawn and roll call. A knot forms in my stomach when I realize that in a few hours it will be discovered that I’m missing. When the men are past safely, I move on.

I can hear the estaminet from a long way off. Not too long before dawn now, but it still hums with life. Little has changed here, which makes me feel good. Men sit on the ground outside of it, drunk. They pay me no mind as I make my way to Lisette’s door beside the drinking place.

I decide to find out if there is a back door, and walk around the small building. I see one. My stomach is in my throat as I softly knock. Lisette lives with her mother, I think I remember her telling me. I do not wish for the old woman or Lisette’s father to answer the door. No one comes to the door so I knock a little louder. Maybe she has moved away? My heart speeds.

I knock again, and finally see the flare of a match touching candle in the window upstairs and hear the slap of bare feet on stairs inside.

The door opens a little and there is Lisette, her blonde hair shining in the light of the candle she holds. Her eyes are sleepy like a little girl’s, and my whole body fills with warmth. My legs tremble. But her eyes do not change when they focus on me. We stare at each other for a few moments.

“You are hurt,” she finally says. “Do you need some water?”

“I am not hurt,” I say in my best English. “I … I came very long to see you.”

“You cannot see me,” she says, and I realize that I still have the gauze wrapped about my head. I tear at it and pull it away to show her that it’s me.

“It is me, Xavier,” I say.

Something in her eyes brightens and I think that now she will know me and let me in.

“I remember you!” she says. “You are the Indian boy, the boy from Canada!”

“Yes,” I say.

“You can’t stay, Indian boy,” she whispers.

My stomach feels as if it has been punched hard so that all the air has left it.

“I am with another. He is upstairs.” She points with her finger.

An anger sweeps over me so suddenly that I feel I might fall down. “I come very long to see you!” I shout, and it is strange to hear my own voice, the voice that I have used so rarely in this last year.

“You must go now!” she says, and then a voice behind her startles me.

“Who’s there!” he demands in a British accent. His face appears in the candlelight behind Lisette. He has a long moustache, the moustache of an officer.

I do not answer, just glare at him with a hatred I have rarely felt.

“Who are you, soldier?” he demands. “What regiment do you belong to? What is the meaning of all this?”

My eyes might burn a hole into the officer’s head.

“You are speaking to an officer!” he shouts, and as he does so I swing at him over Lisette, hitting him squarely in the nose, the force of my arm sending Lisette to the ground too.

Immediately I feel ashamed for hurting her, and try to reach down to help her up. She screams, though, and the officer behind her moans with his hands cupped over his nose.

“Leave!” she cries.

I pick up my pack and rifle and turn from her, running from her courtyard, running down the road and out of the village as fast as I can. I keep running along the road until I can run no further, my pack bouncing on my back, my rifle in hand. The sky glows at the edges and a mist is slowly burning off the ground. Something in me has gone dull and hard, and I force myself to keep running. My ears hear nothing now but the shallow
whoosh
of my own breath in my chest.

I avoid the place with the hospital and begin making my way south
along a dirt road, no longer caring that I will be court-martialled when I make it back. I will just keep walking along this road until I’m with my section again, and then if they let me, I will go back to the trenches and commence killing. I pass rows of soldiers marching north for a brief leave, their faces lined and dirty and tired. I blend in with a company making its way south, and we march to a place where more lorries wait to take us back to Vimy.

Not caring if I’m caught, I line up with the others and climb into the open back of a transport, a few of them looking at me but not saying anything. We begin the bumpy ride south along pocked fields of mud and the ruins of little villages. The rain begins, a steady mist that soaks through my clothing and gives me chills. The others in the truck, like me, seem resolved to it and they keep their heads bowed with knees close to their chests.

It is dark once more when I recognize the crossroads near where my company rests. I jump from the truck and land on one knee. Pain shoots up and through my crotch so I feel like I’ve been kicked there. I let the intensity of it burn away everything else inside of me and limp toward the darkened camp. I slip by the young sentry who is new to us. He is half asleep, and I must stop myself from reaching out and tapping him as I pass in the darkness. This one has much to learn, if he does not die first.

When we are called into formation in the morning for roll, Elijah stands beside me. “Where did you go?” he asks in Cree.

“I do not want to talk,” I say.

“I see,” he answers. “You went to find that girl, didn’t you. I could have saved you the trouble and told you she was a whore, but you would not have listened.”

I look over at Elijah, remember how he first approached her, talked to her. The truth begins to creep into my head. Something I’ve never felt before rushes over me. I want to beat Elijah with my fists until he is bloody.

McCaan and Breech appear before the line. Breech walks up and down it, inspecting the troops as McCaan calls out names. Mine is one of the first, and when McCaan calls out, “Private Bird!” I answer, the men around me turning their heads to look. McCaan pauses briefly, then continues to call out, and I am left to wonder what is happening. When McCaan is done calling names, he takes his place and Breech steps up.

“An important announcement, gentlemen,” he begins, looking up and down the rows, his tall riding boots shiny in the morning light. “You might have heard the rumours, which are true. We will shortly be sent to a new undisclosed location. It appears that our victory at Vimy has made us the darlings of the British Command and we are to spearhead another offensive.” It does not seem to be the news anyone around me wants to hear. Shoulders visibly slump. “On a separate note,” he continues, “I’ve just received word that medals have been awarded to our company for valour in the field. Sergeant McCaan, Corporal Williams and Private Reardon have all been recommended for bravery in action.” Breech pauses. “I am especially proud to note that Acting Corporal Whiskeyjack has been recommended for the MM for unmatched bravery in the face of the enemy.”

The men all around me cheer. My ears have begun to ring again.

“A more formal ceremony is promised before we move out,” says Breech. “Dismissed.”

The men relax and turn to Elijah and in the commotion and the press of bodies I feel crushed. I really must be invisible to them. And then I hear McCaan’s voice booming over the others’.

“Private Bird, report to me at once! Private Bird to the lieutenant’s quarters!”

My stomach fills with sour juice. The men look at me and then avert their eyes. A few mumble half-heartedly.

“No worries,” Elijah says to me in Cree. “I will come with you. Just speak in Cree and I will translate.”

I glance at him, then spit on the ground and look away. I move forward toward McCaan, who waits in the middle of the impromptu parade ground. We then move single file, McCaan first, me second, Elijah third.

The lieutenant’s tent is cool and dark. He stands when we enter and asks Elijah his business here.

“Private Bird’s English is very poor, sir,” he says. “You will need me to translate.”

I know that McCaan knows better, and wonder why he does not speak up at this.

“It is a desperate army indeed that allows non-English speakers into it,” Breech mutters. “Does the private understand that the penalty for desertion is immediate execution by firing squad?” He pauses as if to let this point sink in. “Ask the private his whereabouts last night and the day before.”

Elijah’s eyes capture mine, and in Cree he says, “I’ve got an idea. Just speak in our tongue and I will do the translating. Don’t fight me on this.”

“I do not give a shit any more,” I say in Cree. “Let the bastards shoot me. Fritz will anyway, sooner or later.”

Elijah turns to the lieutenant, and in his funny accent begins to speak. “The private says that he went out in search of fresh game for the men. He became lost in this foreign environment and was only able to make it back late last night. He’d planned on reporting to Sergeant McCaan directly, but had not been afforded the chance to before roll call this morning. By then, it was too late.”

Breech appears a little puzzled. It is not the answer he had expected. “Surely the private must understand that absence without permission is a dire offence? Ask him this.”

Elijah turns to me. “Pretty good lie, eh?” he says. “You went out in order to help the others. I knew it would catch him off guard.”

“Tell the lieutenant that I fucked his mother last night,” I respond.
Elijah pretends a cough to cover up the grunt of a laugh. I look into his eyes and ask, “Why did you fool me about her? And why do they overlook me for all of the honours?”

Elijah turns back to Breech. “The private has not been himself since our offensive at Vimy. He took a tremendous blow to the head in the midst of some very brutal hand-to-hand fighting in Fritz’s trenches. Sergeant McCaan witnessed this.” Elijah’s eyes find the sergeant. McCaan nods his head in agreement. “He has been suffering bouts of forgetfulness and nausea since,” Elijah continues. “He only meant to add to our fresh meat supply when he disappeared. There isn’t a man in our company who would argue that Private Bird is not an excellent soldier and person.”