Medicine Walk (18 page)

Around them the new camp was mayhem. The volunteers had no heads for order, discipline, regimentation, and it became unruly and there were only a handful of them who bent to the idea of soldiery. He and Jimmy became point men. They were sent out early to patrol and return with reconnaissance and the separation from the main body of troops was exhilarating, the feel of being alone in open country heady, and they existed on pin pricks of fear and alertness that spiked their energy, left them breathless in thin cover on
naked hillsides. When the boom of artillery echoed through the valleys and the dull thud of shells sent tremors through their bellies they laughed at it and he learned to follow the soles of his friend’s boots like blazes on a trail, trusting him completely to lead them home.

“They send us out first on accounta we’re Indians, you figure?” he asked.

“Fuck that,” Jimmy said. “They send us out first cuz we’re soldiers. Damn good ones.”

“You believe that?”

“We gotta,” Jimmy said. He lit a smoke and studied him, squinting, and he could feel the weight of the question working through him. “It’s who we are now,” he said.

The soldiers called it “The Twilight War.” They set up on a hill outside the city of Pusan, separated from the Chinese forces by a thousand metres. The area between them was ravaged and scarred by artillery, grenades, mortars, and the scrawl of boot prints. They sat in their trenches in the daylight hours and tried to sleep or at least rest and prepare for the patrols that slipped out from both sides into the no man’s land that was the valley between them. They could not rise in those hours of light. They learned to duck-waddle or crawl on their bellies to find enough privacy to piss and shit. Sometimes they would have to hunch over and spray or dump into their helmets and toss the effluent over the lip of the trench. Even a helmet raised above that seam would draw a shot from the snipers that were planted everywhere along that ragged line of hills. The artillery bursts were random. It kept them edgy and sleepless. To hone that keen
blade of anxiety the Chinese snipers would rake the edges of their trenches, shouting, “Canada kid! Tonight you die.” Then follow it with mortar fire and another fusillade of rounds. So that the slant of the sun toward the horizon became the call to arms, the blocking out of anything beyond the moment, the precious seconds of breath and the feel of their bodies baked hard by the same unrelenting sun. Legs and knees, toughened by scrabbles through the rock and brush and bobbed wire, all sinew and tendon and sheaths of muscle clutched around bone. Their feet. The blister and callus and ache of them. They came to order all of this in the slow dip of the sun toward the horizon. Order it into recognition of the other bodies around them, into knowing that the bite of bullet, blade, and bayonet, or the screaming whistle of shrapnel would be there to greet their bodies when the light slipped away into the glimmering, purple greyness their war was named for.

It was the twilight that called them into being. The taunting fire and yelling died with the light, and what remained was a hush they could feel and smell and taste. It galvanized them. They went through the ritual of preparation solemnly, the snick and slip and rustle of canvas, steel and leather bringing them fully formed into the fading light. They gathered in platoons. Hunched together like primates they heard the whispered orders slice through the taut silence and nodded, muttered, or waved their assent. Then they breached the safety of the trenches. They heard the Chinese calling. Their patrols went out at the same time and the no man’s land was occupied by scurrying, crawling forces intent on securing the thin band of emptiness. In the gathering twilight they slithered toward each other. Then barrages would start.
Flares sent the skeleton landscape into paroxysms of dizzying red and the high dazzle of white and blooms of yellow that dropped over them like a parachute that sent shadow scuttling into unseen recesses, leaving them pinned there. Men ran in mad bursts for the cover of craters and machine guns rattled off pops of soil behind them like a wake. Bodies sailed. Bodies crashed forward, raking furrows in the dirt. Men were ripped in half or quartered, blood splayed like sudden clouds in the eruptions of light. The encroaching dark was filled with screams and calls and weeping and the hiss of Chinese voices saying, “Canada. You die!”

And as suddenly as it started, the artillery stopped. There were no flares. No light. Only darkness. Full and inescapable dark. So it became a war of inches. Each platoon, wedged between the fallen bodies and the upward thrusts and spills of earth, moved like phantoms closer to the invisible foe, hunkered in the darkness. Men would meet each other suddenly: head on, crashing into each other, wrestling, spinning, whirling in a tangle of limbs and blades and fists. Combat became the push of a blade, the slice, the plunge, the pierce of a bayonet and men lifted on the points of them, spun and shook off and laid to waste while the victor turned from the fatal skirmish, wide-eyed with terror, agape with animal energy. Or it was a silent death. The sudden grasp of a callused hand around the throat. The knife. The muzzle of a pistol or a carbine lodged in the belly or against the temple. Men crept about in desperation, more keenly alive than they could recall being, and when the word came to disengage they crawled backward like crabs until empty yards hung before their eyes and they turned and bellied back toward the shelter of their lines and the drop into the trench that let them
reclaim their breath before both sides allowed the other grace enough to gather their dead and dying.

They fought like that for months.

“
STARLIGHT’S A TEACHER’S NAME
.” His father’s voice came out of the dark. The kid had been lost in the dire images of war. For a moment he didn’t respond and when he looked up finally, he could see his father’s eyes shining in the light of the fire. “Jimmy told me that. Some nights went by without us sayin’ a thing to each other. Nights there weren’t nothin’ we knew to say. Other times we’d talk. Mostly he’d talk, really.”

“Sounds like he knew a lot about Indian stuff,” the kid said.

“I reckon. More’n I ever did, least ways. I never even knew where my name came from. Never thought to ask. When I told him that he got right upset.” His father rolled onto his side with difficulty. When the kid moved to help him his father shook his head and raised a trembling hand to stop him. “He said that a man oughta know why he’s called what he is. You oughta know that too, Frank.”

“I always wondered about that name. Surrounded by Smiths and Greens and such,” the kid said.

“Some things ya own outright. It’s what Jimmy said. His name, Weaseltail, was an honour name. War chiefs got white weasel tails put on the sides of their headdresses. Meant they
were honourable men but vicious in fight like a weasel when it’s pissed. Sounded like a strong name to me once I heard that.”

The kid sat silent. When he looked back at his father he felt drawn into a deep quiet and he could only nod.

“Jimmy said Starlight was the name given to them that got teachin’s from Star People. Long ago. Way back. Legend goes that they come outta the stars on a night like this. Clear night. Sat with the people and told ’em stuff. Stories mostly, about the way of things.”

“The wisest ones got taught more. Our people. Starlights. We’re meant to be teachers and storytellers. They say nights like this bring them teachin’s and stories back and that’s when they oughta be passed on again.”

“I like that story. Makes sense to me how I wanna be out here so much. Under the stars,” the kid stood and put another piece of wood on the fire. “But it’s another thing woulda been good to know before this.”

“I know it,” his father said. “Like I said, I never knew where my name come from either.”

“Figure that makes us even now or some such?”

“No. Just talkin’ is all.”

“Well, thanks, I suppose,” the kid said.

“I ain’t done nothin’.”

The kid got one of the jars from the pack and carried it to him then knelt and held it out. His father clasped his hand in both of his and tipped the jar to his lips. When he was finished, he closed his eyes and the kid looked back up at the heavens. He sat waiting. His father began talking and the kid hugged his knees close to his chest.

They sat in the trench five yards away from the next huddle of men. Neither of them could sleep. They were desperate for a smoke but the flare of a match drew fire. The soft rumble of men’s voices in the darkness. The scrape of a boot in the dirt. Someone coughed into a fist. A muttered curse. Jimmy edged around to face him in the dark. There was enough light that he could see the shadowed outlines of his face and the wet glint of his eyes. Someone went “
Psst
“ and tossed a smoke along the floor of the trench. He picked it up and bent his head, cupping it in his hands and taking a draw.

“We’re warriors now, right?” Jimmy asked.

“Yeah. Well, soldiers.”

“I heard once when the old folks were talkin’ that Ojibs usedta bury their warriors sat upright in the ground, facin’ east where the sun rose, with all their weapons and shit around them. That way, when they were ready, they could follow the sun across the sky on into the Happy Hunting Grounds where they’d be warriors again. That’s how I wanna go out.”

“Sounds kinda right, I s’pose.”

“If I get killed here, take me home and far out in the bush where there ain’t no ugly and bury me just like that.”

“You ain’t gonna get killed.”

“You don’t know that. Me neither. But I’d feel a bit more all right with it if I knew ya’d take care of that for me.”

The words felt too weighty for his head. He looked up at the stars again. His chest felt hollow with the talk. “I guess,” he said quietly.

“Gotta swear,” Jimmy said.

“I swear.”

“No. I mean ya gotta swear like a warrior.” Jimmy took out his knife and slashed a line across his palm. He held it up.
Even in the dark he could see the black of the gash. Then he sat stunned as Jimmy daubed a finger in the blood and reached over to draw a curvy line down one of his cheeks. He repeated it on the other cheek. “Now you do me the same way,” Jimmy said.

He took the knife and held it against the skin of his palm. He looked up and could see Jimmy’s eyes. He scowled and drew the blade across his skin and felt the bite of it and grimaced. Then he put the knife down, ran a finger through the cut, and traced a line down both sides of Jimmy’s face.

“We carry each other into battle now,” Jimmy said.

They sat in the dark with their backs against the wall of the trench. He looked up at the sky. It was the same hemisphere but the angles felt different. The stars. He wondered about the light of them. How it falls on people. He wondered if his dead father had been able to make a journey across them, find a second chance somewhere, set his feet down on ground that allowed him to know the story of his name, how it came to be and the teachings that were in it. He hoped so. It made it different hoping that. He held his hand up to his face and licked the wound. Blood. Old-tasting and rich like the sediment of a river. He looked at Jimmy. The blood on their faces meant they were part of the same stream now, bobbing in the current, borne forward effortlessly under the slowly twirling dome of the sky.

The wind cut through the valley. The no man’s land between them hung in a desolate silence and there was nervous tension among the men. No one spoke and when the lieutenant duck-waddled through the trench they all turned to stare at
him, hands clutching weapons as he made his way past them. He stopped beside him and Jimmy.

“Feel like some action?” he asked.

“Does a bear shit in the woods?” Jimmy asked.

The lieutenant grinned. “Frequently,” he said. “I need volunteers for advance recon. I gotta get a fix on the sons of bitches. They’re up to something. Every company on every hill’s sending out recon. I need to know if you’re good for it?”

“We’re good,” Jimmy said.

“You?” the lieutenant asked him.

“You heard him,” he said and nodded at the fixed gaze Jimmy levelled at him.

“All right. You’ll be alone out there. I don’t need no hero shit. I just need recon.”

“Count on it,” he said.

“Bring me numbers and bring me location. I’ll radio it in and if they break the bastards’ll break right into a shit storm.”

“Got ’er, Loot,” Jimmy said.

“Straight out, straight back. I swear if you don’t come back I’ll go out there and kill the two of ya myself all over again.”

“Love you too, Loot,” Jimmy said, and the lieutenant clapped them hard on the shoulder. He stepped off in a crouch to find the radio men.

They checked their weapons. It took them less than a minute. They boot-blacked their faces and tucked in loose edges of clothing and then they bent to retie the soldier’s knots in the laces of their boots, squared them so they wouldn’t snag. They double-checked everything then they looked at each other and the grim set of their faces made words unnecessary. Jimmy nodded once. They crawled over the lip of the trench.

He could feel the openness. It was dizzying in its threat. The farther they worked their way forward, the more displaced he felt, and in the near dark he followed the dim outline of Jimmy down the slope and onto the hardpan flat. They hit their bellies in a slight gully and caught their breath. Nothing moved. He raised his head and peered over the rim and swept a look back and forth in both directions then signalled with his hand that it was clear. They crawled forward. He could feel the fear in him like ice in his gut. His belly muscles constricted and he felt himself want to scream. Instead, he focused on breathing, inching forward on his elbows, pushing ahead with the toes of his boots. They made steady ground. There was no motion around them at all, no sound but the slice of the wind over empty, and in the full darkness he wished for at least a slip of a moon to slacken the hold of the night.

The first thing they heard was voices. They pressed their faces to the earth. Fear tightened every cord in him and he wanted to run, could feel it building, and he pressed his body into the packed dirt to ease the tremor in his legs. He wanted to cry. He closed his eyes against it and gave a shuddering breath. Jimmy hushed him with a palm on the back. They started to move again, crawling like spiders.