The Heart's War (18 page)

She'd been right, Jeff thought. Eleanor had known. She'd told him that this wasn't worth it. But back in Kitchener, honor and courage had seemed so important.

The shells stopped raining down.

"Come on, boys! Let's show these Germans why the Canadians are called storm troopers!"
Foxwood screamed, making a circular motion over his head with one hand.

Everyone yelled, then, as they mounted the trench.

Jeff found himself screaming, as well. His heart slammed in his chest and a hand with fingers made of cold iron wrapped around his stomach as he pulled himself up. His boots slipped against the slick walls.

Doing his best to keep the Enfield out of the mud, he clambered over the side. A strong arm grabbed him under the armpit as he faltered.

"Faster!" Foxwood called. His voice was muffled, as though Jeff had stuffed cotton plugs into his ears.

Foxwood
pulled him forward a few more steps before letting him go.

The field directly in front of the trench was fine for the first twenty or thirty feet. Even some tufts of green grass clung tenaciously to the stew-like dirt and mud.

The sound of Jeff's panting breaths filled his ears. He had to tug hard on his legs to pull his boots free of the sucking mud.

A dirty fog had formed ahead, cast up by the shelling. Some men had already made it there, and their dark silhouettes soon disappeared as they moved toward the German lines.

Then Jeff slipped. The Enfield flew from his hands as he tumbled down the bank of a crater. The murky water already pooling in the bottom rushed to meet him.

The cold of the water as he splashed down into it shocked his body. His lungs constricted as he screamed under the surface.

He couldn't tell which way was up. He kicked madly, spinning his arms around, looking for any hold. Even with his eyes open, the world had turned to blackness.

When his lungs began burning, he redoubled his efforts. One of his boots hit the bottom of the pool. Mud closed in around it, locking him in place.

A hand reached in and grabbed his outstretched arm. It pulled. Jeff's left foot came free of his boot.

Jeff's head broke through the surface of the water. He gulped in
lungfuls of air as Foxwood dragged him off to the bank.

"Where's your weapon?" the sergeant shouted.

Jeff had lost one boot, his helmet, and his rifle. He shivered, clutching at himself as his mouth jawed open and closed.

"Lo... Lost it,
sarge," he managed.

"Here! Take this and keep moving!"
Foxwood had pulled the revolver from the holster on his belt. He shoved it into one of Jeff's clammy hands.

Foxwood
helped him climb up over the edge of the crater. The fog had advanced, as well. Jeff could make out nothing within about five feet. Even his sergeant soon disappeared ahead.

Then the machine guns started. They clattered in short bursts ahead. Every time one stopped, the chorus of pained screams increased.

Jeff concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. He kept watch to make sure he didn't fall into another crater. His teeth chattered, and his soggy clothes squished and squelched with every movement.

He came upon the first bodies soon thereafter. Men writhed in pain on the ground, screaming as they clutched at growing dark stains on their stomachs, chests,
legs, everywhere.

Some lay completely still. Jeff ignored their cries. He had to keep moving forward. That was the mission.

He found that the closer he moved to the enemy, the clearer the image of Eleanor's lovely face appeared in his mind. He didn't see her as she'd been on the day he'd departed, with her blonde hair in disarray and her eyes all puffy as she fought to hold the tears back.

No, he saw as on the day of the dance, when he'd kissed her. She'd worn a pretty blue dress, and her hair had been pinned up. It had really showed the lovely features of her face, and the smooth, even complexion of her fair skin. Her lips had been irresistible.

He was close enough now that the flashes from the German machine guns pierced the fog. Cocking the revolver, he grabbed it with both hands, levelled it at the source of the flashes, and fired.

The gun jerked in his hands as though trying to free itself. The flashing stopped for a moment as someone cried out. 

Somewhere above, something whistled through the air. The sound grew louder, sharper as it dropped closer to the ground.

Jeff yelled, lifting the revolver and firing the remaining three cartridges in quick succession at nothing.

He wished that he could see Eleanor, just once more.

Then the earth itself heaved up around him. An agonizing fire washed through his body for a moment, then, mercifully, disappeared as the blackness swallowed him up.

Chapter 17

If I wasn't exactly happy about my forced stay in England, I no longer felt such despair over it.

Time is always the best bandage for any wound, especially ones of the physical or emotional sorts. Each day replaced the previous one's dressing, and each day the wound continued knitting together, forming a scab so that, after a while, all you really had was an itch you knew you couldn't scratch without reopening it.

I found myself at that same corner cafe every day at tea time. If I arrived by quarter to four, I discovered that I had a much better chance of getting a seat. Their Earl Grey was really
marvelous, and I seriously questioned why biscuits weren't nearly so popular back in Canada. The Brits did it right, I thought. A nice break with a warm, soothing beverage to calm your tummy and get you through to the end of the day and the supper waiting for you on the kitchen table.

I hardly even heard the trolleys and cars anymore. Not because they weren't there, but because I had grown used to them. It seemed to happen around the same time that my legs stopped swaying as though I were still aboard
Olympic. I regained my land legs, it seemed. And I managed to not be the rock in the middle of the river of people here that I had been at first.

I sipped at my tea slowly, savoring the smell of it. A boy stood on the corner, a paper held high in one hand with a bundle of rolled ones at his hip. He had a red patch on the right shoulder of his jacket, and the threading holding it in place came loose as he waved the news at passersby.

I hardly listened, choosing instead to watch the affairs of a couple pigeons cooing at each other between the lampposts.

"...Battle!" his strident voice broke through my thoughts, "Heavy losses for British forces as prolonged artillery bombardment fails to dislodge German soldiers."

I set my cup down on the saucer, the sharp noise of glass on glass unable to pull my attention from the boy now.

"Battle of Passchendaele results in staggering loss of life! Read it here!" the boy said, handing a rolled paper to a man in a top hat who had pulled a penny from his pocket. The man had a neat mustache, and a very white smile that he flashed at the boy before wandering off.

It was awful, I thought, truly awful. The war would be in its fourth year soon, and each one seemed to bring some new, terrible clash resulting in a record number of dead and wounded.

Something tugged at my memory, then. I thought of that smile on the man who bought the paper.

Lawrence had a smile like that. Captain Lawrence Marsh. Had he been in that battle? I wondered. Had Jeff?

A shiver ran down my back.

Lawrence's words surfaced in my mind again. He had spoken of Canadians as storm troopers; front line shock troops sent in to wreak havoc with enemy lines in front of the main assault.

A brush began painting a terrible image in my mind, the strokes too broad to find any detail in as yet.

"British forces and their allies suffer great loss of life!" the boy cried again.

Their allies.
The Canadians would have been at Passchendaele, I knew. If they were the first soldiers sent in, that meant they would most likely have suffered some of the worst losses.

I left my steaming cup of tea unfinished, along with most of my biscuits. I had to get back to the boarding house. Something compelled me to it.

I went perhaps a bit faster than was proper, allowing the hem of my dress to flutter in the wind as I held my hat down. That little boy's high voice pierced all the low noises of the city, chasing after me as I fled towards my only place of solace.

Shoving the door open, I made for the stairs. A bead of sweat ran down the curve of my spine, making my flesh prickle. But I ignored it. A few other patrons sat at the long tables, sipping at their own teas and picking at biscuits laid out on communal platters.

"Eleanor! Dearie!" Jill Milton called out to me from behind the bar.

I didn't stop for her calling. Lately, she'd been taking me aside to speak about a cousin of hers serving as a medic in the trenches. She seemed fascinated by the horrific injuries those poor men over their sustained.

I'd also shared with her my real reason for coming. She'd found it so terribly romantic that she got her husband, Charles, to come in from the back parlor (where I thought he hid out to smoke and escape the attentions of his wife) so that I could tell him, too.

Though, for all her prying, she did tell me that I could stay at the boarding house "until your Jeffrey comes back," and at only half the regular rent.

The steps creaked under my quick steps, groaning at me until I reached the third floor. I rushed down the hall, fishing for my key in my clutch.

Breathless, I threw the key into the lock and then open the door hard enough to ruffle the drapes.

There, at my feet, was only the bare floor. I heaved a sigh and leaned against the doorframe. The whole time I ran, I thought of that note telling me that Jeff had already left for France. I had thought there might be another note lying there.

But no news is good news, as they say. Though, I did check with the post office each day to see if Marie wrote me back yet. The old man there kept telling me that the ships hadn't yet returned, and to wait until they did so.

Then I felt guilty for leaving my tea and biscuits at the cafe. I spent Marie's money on those, and I shouldn't let them go to waste. Straightening out my dress, I breathed another sigh and pushed away from the doorframe.

"Silly, silly," I muttered.

There had just been something about that boy's voice. Or, rather, the words he put to it. Then, seeing that man reminding me of Lawrence. Just an overexcited imagination was all, I told myself.

Lawrence may have been at the battle.
The same with Jeff. However, there were thousands of miles of trenches that needed manning. One or both of them might have been left on guard duty as both sides concentrated their forces at Passchendaele.

Pushing those thoughts from my mind, I considered what to do with the rest of my day. Worrying about Jeff exhausted me so much that I forgot that I was finally in England! Jill told me yesterday about the library. I thought maybe I would stay there for an afternoon, perhaps catching up on my Lucy Maud Montgomery. There was a new
Anne of Green Gables
book,
Anne’s House of Dreams
, out this year... There were also a few public squares and parks I had yet to visit.

Yes, that sounded like a lovely way to spend the day.

Then Jill Milton came puffing up the stairs. She hadn't put her white bar rag down, still clutching it in one fist. She was red in the face from her exertions. She caught herself at the top of the stairs, holding the rail so tightly it shook as she caught her breath.

I smiled at her and went to meet her there.

"What's wrong, Jill? Why come running so quickly?"

"I...tried catching you...
dearie... those young legs of yours..." she said, a bead of sweat rolling down the bridge of her nose.

"Well, you've caught me.
But why?"

She thrust her hand into the pocket of her apron and pulled it out clutching a somewhat rumpled note.

"What does it say?" I asked. I didn't know why, but I wanted to take a step away from it, like a person might do if they suddenly came upon an unexploded mine.

Jill coughed into the crook of her arm, then wiped at her face with one large wrist.

"I don't know, dear. The man delivered the telegram and I only saw your name and 'urgent' written on it. Here," she said.

She thrust the note into my hand, apologizing for its condition. Memories of the last note filled my mind, and I felt the urge to retreat back to my bed.

"If you need anything, just come downstairs. Stew again tonight."

"Yes, thank you," I said, staring down at the note.

One of the corners had curved back, and I saw the top halves of a few letters.

It couldn't be a letter from Marie. It would have come in an envelope. And I doubt she'd have any reason to mark it as urgent.

Second Leftenant Cross was the only other person who knew where I was. But what could he possibly want to contact me about? He seemed like a nice enough, if overworked, man. He had gone out of his way to let me know the whereabouts of my fiancé. In the week since I received that note, he didn't send me anything else.