Downhill Chance (42 page)

“Poor old Mother,” he said, “she was bad enough when the old man was kicking.” He raised his eyes to meet those of the old vet. “Course, with Joey getting killed, that didn’t help her none.”

The boys’ laughter quieted as the moment they’d been expecting since Luke sat amongst them presented itself. Through his drunkenness the old vet, too, recognized the importance of this moment, and propping his hands onto his knees to keep himself from tottering, he sought to keep focus on Luke.

“Aye,” he said thickly, “he was my boy, he was; my boy. And that’s why I come here, to meet his folk; his old mother and his brother, Luke—he was always on about his old mother and his brother, Luke. Course she won’t have ne’er to do with me, but I understands it, I do. I lost my own boy and it plays, it do; it plays. And perhaps it was my fault I lost him—there’s those that says so—but I was no more drunk than a preacher when that boat capsized.” He dropped his head, his mouth screwing up like a hungry baby’s. “But I found him agin, I did, in Joey—aye, he was so gentle, so gentle… .” His voice trailed off, his head sagging near onto his chest.

“The last letter he wrote he was at Cassino, Italy,” said Luke, “fighting the Gustav Line.”

“Aye, Cassino. Not even in war can you think a hell like Cassino, b’yes. Aye, that’s why we needs our comforts, we do, for it’s not a mother’s lap that’ll give you that, not after you been in hell, no sir—not even the lap of God can bring you any rest after that—not if you finds Him out there—for the thought becomes a plague, b’yes, if you find Him in hell, for then you starts thinking—perhaps He’s a part of that, too—aye, they’ll hang me for saying it, but it’s too sublime, too sublime. He’d have a hand in it, else it wouldn’t be there, and that’s when I falls down—thinking He has a hand in hell as well. A man needs his comforts, he do.” His voice babbled off as he raised the shine bottle to his mouth, slobbering more of the liquid down his chest than into his mouth.

“No doubt she’s a hard truth,” said Luke, nodding slowly. “I figured myself, a long time ago, God was too smart for a snake.”

“And it’s not for figuring, it’s not, when it’s coming at you in all evil; bullets and gas, ripping up your buddies lying alongside you, filling your boots with their vomit. Aye, there’s no time for figuring then—only for shooting it and gutting it and biting it back. And that’s when you sees that it’s not rot rupturing outta their guts at all, but life, my b’yes, life; redder than the morning sun. Aye, the closest I been to God is lying in me own vomit, yes sir, that’s what it is then, to be in war, and it’s not to be spoken, it’s not, not to them who’s never seen it; for how can a man tell such a thing to them that kills only what they eats?”

“Tell me,” said Luke as the boys held their silence, nodding over the vet’s words, “about the church on top of that mountain—”

“Satan’s church,” snarled the vet, his eyes fevered with a sudden heat. “A monastery; grey it was without the sun, and towering out of the smoke and fog like hell’s castle and with hundreds of little black eyes searching out our every move. Aye, there was no bells sounding from her towers; the moaning of the dead is all we heard. And the bloody snipes.”

“Snipes?” asked Roddy.

“Aye, snipes. I can hear them now, screeching worse than the dying over our heads. He liked them, Joey did; he’d close his eyes to their screeching and feel like he was home. And so did I—once. Now, I hates them. There’s mornings they wakes me and I thinks I’m back there agin. Mind you leaves it with me, sonny,” he said to Roddy, clasping more tightly the shine jug as Roddy tried passing him the brew instead. “’Tis not milk them old insides needs, my b’yes, for it’s jellied, they are, and if you was to poke, your finger would go straight through, they would, aye, straight through.”

“Tell me about the bombing,” said Luke, “when the Americans bombed the monastery.”

The vet hung his head. “It’s enough I’ve said—enough—”

“That’s when Joey got killed, wasn’t it; when the American’s were bombing the monastery? Evacuating men, wasn’t he?” Luke persisted as the old vet nodded. “Were you with him?”

“Aye, that’s what I was.”

“Tell me then, how did he get this?” asked Luke, reaching inside his shirt pocket. And when he pulled out the bronze war medal with its striped ribbon and dangled it over the fire, the vet pulled back as if it were a stingray.

“Is that what he come back saying?” he roared, his mouth twisting sideways as his head reared upwards. “Be God, is that what he come back saying—it was Joey’s?” His face contorted further as he leaned towards Luke, hissing, “And well it is he screeched hisself to death; well it is, for it’s the devil’s torment he was feeling if he come home saying such a thing; the devil’s torment, and he’ll not rise on judgment day, I’ll grant ye that. Job Gale won’t do no rising on judgment day; I’ll wager me own soul on that one,” and he slumped, the effort of sustaining such speech proving too much.

“It was Job’s medal?” asked Luke, staring quietly at the old vet.

“’Twas hard for my boy,” he whimpered, “gentle like he was. And I knowed it from the first war, I did, what it was like. That’s why I tried to keep him with me, you see, that’s why I tried to keep him with me, but he wouldn’t listen, no he wouldn’t listen. It was to him he listened—to him who was just as soft.” His face soured. “I could’ve helped Joey, I could’ve, but not him—not Job Gale. He was fit for no war. War ain’t no place for a thinking man! That’s what I told him more than enough. War is about this—” and the old vet near tumbled as he surged forward, clenching his fists and knocking his knuckles together “—it’s about listening to your bones; it’s about running, shooting and diving and listening to your bones telling you when—when to run, when to shoot and when to dive. It’s like land birds leaving a beach laden with bounty and flying thousands of miles over water because something in their bones tells them to. And that’s what Job Gale never done—listened to his bones. Instead he kept looking up at that church and thinking about souls,” he snarled, “when all he was getting back was evil. And it should’ve killed him, aye, it should’ve. And it’s well he screeched his self to death, for it’s Joey that paid for his thinking—and in the end it still got him, didn’t it? Aye, it’s a hard pillow when you sleeps with the devil.”

“The last letter from Joey said he was part of Britain’s Eighth Army,” said Luke, his tone remaining steady despite the tensing of his mouth, “and under command of the New Zealanders—artillery division. I’ve since learned some things—that a corps was formed to take Monastery Hill, but it never included the Newfoundlanders. How did Joey die on that mountain if the Newfoundlanders were never there?”

“Him,” said the vet, vigour growing along with the heat in his eyes. “It was him, Job, that took him there. Volunteered, he did, volunteered to go up the mountain to help evacuate the front line. We was close by, laying line; we was never supposed to go up that mountain. But not Job, sir. He was going up that mountainside, readying for the Allies to start bombing the top. ‘Downhill chance, by’es,’ he kept saying; ‘we gets that monastery, we got a downhill chance,’ the kind of stuff he was always spouting off with, and on he went, disobeying orders and joining with them crawling up the mountain with stretchers. Aye, he was the man, he was, going to win the war on his own—”

“And Joe?” cut in Luke.

“Joey. He wouldn’t listen, he wouldn’t. He followed Job and so I followed him—I wouldn’t let him go, I wouldn’t; no sir, they blamed me for drowning my boy, but I never; it was the wind that capsized that boat, and I was no more than a youngster in that wind. And that’s what them men were on that mountainside, on that front line, helpless as youngsters. Not even the ones who weren’t wounded could walk; that’s how helpless and sickened they was.” The old vet’s body began to quiver. “I tell you, b’yes, it’s a hard thing to see a man too emptied to walk. And that’s what they were by the time we got to them. Days they were, clinging to that rock with no food, water or blankets—nothing but guns they couldn’t shoot. In full view on all sides to the Jerries, they were; and every move brought a sheet of bullets cutting over their heads. Aye, half-alive, they were—and those that wouldn’t wounded was too emptied to walk—we had to carry them; aye, full-grown men without a scratch, and we had to carry them, they was so emptied.” His voice trailed off and his head slumped and it looked as if he were passing out, so far did he sway to the side, but then he jolted upright, as if sensing Luke about to reach out and prod him.

“They bombed us, they did,” he slurred. “Our own men—bombed the monastery on top of the mountain whilst we were still there, lying on our guts, carrying men down the side. Near killed us they did, their own men. Near blasted us along with the Jerries and that damned church of a place. Oh, it’s a awful thing, b’yes, to feel the earth shaking and quivering beneath you, an awful thing—”

“Joey,” whispered Luke.

“Ahh, it’s too much, too much—”

“Tell me,” said Luke softly. “The Allies were bombing— you got caught—”

“Aye, we was supposed to be out of there—but they come early, they did, and we was caught—we was never suppose to be there, not me and Joey—”

“What did you do?”

“What’d we do? We cowered,” he snarled, “like bloody animals in a bloody landslide. And we lost sight of him, Job. Aye, it took some doing, but I finally got Joey away from him. We couldn’t see—smoke, dust—couldn’t see nothing. And shooting coming from all sides. On our bellies we crawled, me and my boy, bit by bit, and if it wasn’t for the youngsters, I would’ve got him down, I would’ve, and he’d be sitting with us tonight, aye, he’d be sitting with us tonight.”

“What youngsters?” asked Luke.

The old vet’s eyes flashed open, then lowered. “I’ll not say more,” he said, his hand shaking as he reached for the shine jug. “I’ll not say more.” Lifting the jug, he squinched his eyes shut and took a long, hard swallow, sputtering and choking and nearly falling to the wayside if not for Roddy’s hand staying him once more.

And when finally he opened his eyes again it was to see Luke’s aflame with the same fire burning within his own as he repeated: “What youngsters?”

He might’ve wished then that he had fallen to the wayside and been sucked into the black hole of the drunken sleep; but, as was with Grammy Prude’s prophecy, fate resides within time as life within the seed that impregnates it.

“It’s not what I come here for to tell things,” he moaned piteously. “We’ve all done things—it’s not why I come here—”

“Give over, old man—what youngsters?”

“Not ours,” he cried as Luke came before him, kneeling. “Italians. Hiding in the mountain—in caves they were— and the bombing drove them out.” A crazy laugh spurted out of him. “I thought they was ghosts—covered with dirt and coming through the fog. But they was no ghosts. They was youngsters—five, six of them—quiet as anything and scared. I knows it was wrong, but I tried to get Joey away— to protect him. But no, no, he wouldn’t leave them—he couldn’t. I knows that. He was soft, too soft. It was Job’s thinking that got him; I could hear it clear as if he was thinking out loud—how to save hisself—for resurrection—the bloody young fool! But he was only a boy, only a boy and he was as scared as the youngsters and he drove them back in the cave and crawled in after them. And I fell behind a rock, I did. I could’ve left, but I never; I couldn’t leave my boy, and I’m glad I stayed, for I seen his madness, I did; I seen Job Gale’s madness, the old bastard, the old bastard— may he rot in hell—”

“Stop it!” Clair’s voice screamed through the night. Wrapped in a shawl, she appeared on the bank, her fist raised towards the vet, and her face greyish white. “It was to save the children!” she cried out. “Why do you call him mad? Tell me, why do you call him mad?”

The old vet had risen along with Luke at the sound of Clair’s voice, and now with her standing before him and shrieking, he raised both hands, stumbling and near falling backwards, roaring as if she were the devil himself, “Get her away, get her way—for he’s in her, Job Gale is—I seen it, I seen it—’Twas he that murdered them, murdered all of them.”

“How?” cried Clair, stumbling along with the vet, and falling to one knee. “How did Joey die? How did he die?” she shouted, grasping hold of his pant leg and staring up at him.

“God willed it, is how, God willed it—to teach him. No man bargains with God. It was the devil that got him in the end, the devil—oh, the devil liked Job Gale, he did, and he tracked him—up here, see in the mind,” he sneered down at Clair, tapping his scull with a shaking finger. “Oh yes, he must’ve liked him right fine, he did, to have followed him all the way here—because he knowed the vermin crawling around Job Gale’s spine; he wouldn’t going to allow for no cross awaiting his return—not with Joey blowed to hell behind him.” Staggering forward, he threw off her hands, staring wildly down at her, the fire flashing off his zippers, making darker the holes his eyes had sunken into as he hissed, “Oh yes, I knows a man’s mind, I do, I knows a man’s mind—”

“Leave over, old man,” Luke roared, and shoving past Roddy as he tried to stop him, he grabbed hold of the old vet’s coat collar and heaved him back onto the beach rocks, falling besides him. “You tell it now, you tell it—how’d Joey die?” he snarled with such savagery that it brought forth a cry from Hannah, and in fear, she ran to her mother, grasping her from behind as her father repeated over and over again, “Tell it! Tell it!”

“It killed them,” said the old vet, “every last one of them—”

“What killed them?” roared Luke.

“The grenade. Job’s grenade. He throwed it in the cave.”

“Why’d he throw a grenade in the cave?”

“Joey started shooting, he did; from the cave. I don’t know what for—fear, perhaps, for he was mad with fear—and Job!” The old vet spat as if he had the rot of Satan on his tongue. “He throwed a grenade, he did—I seen him, fool that he was, and I tried to call out, but Joey was shooting agin and a bullet skinned the side of my head, and I seen Job with his grenade—I was going to shoot him—but I was too late—too late, for I seen it sailing through the air—into the cave—and I stood up screaming for Joey to get out, but it was too late. He killed them, Job did; he killed the youngsters and my boy. And he knowed, Job did. Soon as he seen me rise up from behind the rocks, he knowed, and ’tis music to my ears, it is, when I sleeps at night and hears his screaming—”