Mentioned In Dispatches

MENTIONED IN DISPATCHES

  P.L. WYTKA

  Toronto, 2016

  Copyright © 2016 by P.L. Wytka

  This novel is respectfully

  dedicated to the soldiers of the

  Third Battalion (Toronto Regiment),

  Canadian Expeditionary Force

  1914-1919

  The Canadian Corps, and the characters’ place within it

  1st Division 2nd Division 3rd Division 4th Division

  1st Brigade 2nd Brigade 3rd Brigade

  1st Battalion 2nd Battalion 3rd Battalion 4th Battalion

  A Company B Company C Company D Company

  Five Platoon Six Platoon Seven Platoon Eight Platoon

  One Section Two Section Three Section Four Section

  Ranks (simplified) of the Canadian Expeditionary Force

  Commissioned Ranks (Officers)

  General

  Colonel

  Lieutenant Colonel

  Major

  Captain

  Lieutenant

  Second Lieutenant

  Enlisted Ranks (Men)

  Regimental Sergeant Major

  Company Sergeant Major

  Sergeant

  Corporal

  Lance Corporal

  Private

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  PART I: NIGHT CONDITIONS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  PART II: DIED OF WOUNDS

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  PART III: MENTIONED IN DISPATCHES

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  HISTORICAL NOTE: THE VICTORIA CROSS

  HISTORICAL NOTE: CROSS AND COLOURS

  Thanks Kieran and Kris

  PROLOGUE

  England, 1917

  When Bill arrived in late June, he thought that it might really work; that his days with the battalion were truly over. It had nothing to do with the prospect of sleeping in a real bed every night, enjoying proper meals, or even being able to stroll down to a pub whenever he liked. It was seeing Kate for the first time in nearly three years.

  He could barely believe his eyes when he first saw Kate in her Voluntary Aid Detachment uniform: tall boots, a blue skirt that reached just a few inches past her knees, and matching tailored jacket. Her hair was pinned up and tucked beneath a soft peaked cap, driving goggles perched garishly on top. What struck Bill the most was the ‘CANADA’ badges on either shoulder, just like those on his own khaki tunic. She even had a driver’s patch where his own bomber’s insignia was. A Third Battalion “sweetheart pin” adorned her left lapel: a little silver and gold version of his own brass cap badge. This wasn’t the girl he had left behind. She was a perfect vision of womanhood: confident, unique, and beautiful.

  Bill had spent his time in transit cleaning himself up. But with every bit of dirt he scrubbed off, every cut and bruise that healed, every rash and pimple that cleared up, he only saw tired, old skin in the mirror. Where Kate’s eyes were clear and sharp, his were dull, almost cloudy. Her hair shined, while his looked just about ready to turn grey. When they met and embraced, he felt ashamed, as if his own failures and guilt might infect her.

  He had proposed to her that day, and they were married the next. A captain from the East Surrey Regiment had stood up for Bill, while Kate’s maids of honour were a group of recently and soon to be married locals. They were wed in their uniforms, and had their portrait taken in a little photo studio next to a seedy pub. She convinced him to give up cigarettes for toffee, which he chewed incessantly. He started drinking less.

  Every night since, they had tried to conceive a child. Between Kate’s ambulance duties, and Bill’s new position as a bombing instructor, it wasn’t often they had a chance to be together. Most of the time when they were, both were exhausted, and made love mechanically; with purpose rather than passion. When he slept, he dreamt of the battalion. At first, waking up to her was enough.

  *

  Promotions came quickly in England, especially for combat veterans. Just two weeks after he had arrived, Bill was unceremoniously handed a pair of sergeant’s stripes. The base tailor hadn’t even argued when Bill insisted on his new rank badges being sewn on top of his old, crooked chevrons. In France, a man sewed on his own badges, and previously used rank insignia was handed down to the recently promoted; here, it was thrown in the rubbish bin.

  Another stripe didn’t really mean any more responsibility. There were no platoons to command; only classes to teach. It was more of a pat on the back for surviving active service, and going a few weeks without messing anything up too badly. Bill enjoyed the extra twenty-five cents a day that being a sergeant brought, as he was no longer entitled to his ten cent a day field allowance. And married life brought with it a slew of expenses that now seemed foreign to him: rent, groceries, furniture, linen; civilian excesses that he was entirely unfamiliar with after nearly three years in an infantry battalion.

  Six weeks had passed when Bill saw the notice posted in the orderly room. A draft was needed to reinforce his old battalion, the Third. Volunteers were in abundance; most of the men who were eligible for the draft were either newer recruits, tired of base camp routine, or veterans, eager to return to a job that mattered, and that they understood. By the time Bill had applied there was no room for any more sergeants or corporals.

  “Care to take a voluntary demotion?” The officer in charge had asked him, pen and paper ready to take down the details of each man. “We still have a spot for one lance and five privates.”

  Without a word Bill had pulled out his jackknife and hacked off his sergeant’s stripes. Beneath them lay his corporal’s insignia; these too were hastily cut away. He shoved the handful of badges into his pocket. Someone in France, where NCOs were killed or wounded with regularity, would need them soon enough. Post’s faded, crooked lance corporal stripes were now exposed to light once again. “Lance Corporal Brown, William, nine three five six, Third Battalion, Church of England. Married.”

  *

  When Kate arrived home that night, Bill was sitting on the end of their bed, fingers blackened, and polishing his boots as if in a trance. His wedding ring lay on the nightstand, along with his battalion cap and collar badges. All shone brightly, a tin of Brasso and a strip of soiled cheesecloth next to them. An ashtray was piled high with cigarette butts, a half-empty glass of whiskey snuggled next to it.

  Kate removed her cap and jacket, laid them on the bed, then sat next to Bill. “So this is it? You’re going back?”

  Bill didn’t look up. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s what you want. That’s what’s important isn’t it? That you do what you want?”

  “Please don’t do this, Kate. My mind’s made up. It isn’t something I want to do; it’s something I have to do.”

  Kate stood and walked to the nightstand. “That’s a crock. Cigarettes, whiskey, and brass. That’s what you love now, isn’t it? Your damned battalion, your war fantasy. You of all people should know better.”

  “It’s not a fantasy. It’s a job that needs to be done. I’m of better use in the thick of it, not hiding back here.”

  “And when did you decide this?”

  “Today. But I’ve been thinking about it since the day they made me leave.”
>
  Kate said nothing as her heart seemed to fall to pieces. Bill had almost been his old self these past weeks: intelligent, funny, and caring. But beneath there had been cynical comments, strange references she did not understand, and sudden dazes that left him staring blankly, as if entranced. All at once the truth came over her: she was only his consolation prize. And not one that he intended to be happy with. He wouldn’t be happy until he was back with his battalion.

  “What is it, William? What is it that I can’t give you?”

  “Nothing. You’re everything to me.”

  “Then why do I see you obsessing over medal citations in the newspaper? Why do you turn away from a normal life? Why do you want to run and hide in all that horror?”

  Bill put an arm around Kate, boot polish staining her white blouse. “When this is all over, I promise, I’ll never leave you again. But right now my section is in someone else’s hands. Maybe he can keep them safe, but maybe he’ll make a stupid mistake; the kind I’ve made, but learned from. I bet I’ve got more experience than ninety percent of the men in uniform today – Canadian, British, French, German, Russian – I’m one in a million. It isn’t my place to sit back and do a job that anybody can do. I’m sorry if you’ll have to be lonely for another three years, hell, another ten. But I have a chance to do something that matters. To save lives and help end this Goddamned war. I know you think that I love the battalion more than I love you, but that isn’t true. I hate it. I hate every second of it, even the times when we drink, joke, and play cards. I hate it because I’m away from you, and because I love you. But I have an obligation to be there.”

  Kate’s eyes were full of tears. She didn’t know what to think. “And your obligation to me?”

  “That will just have to wait.”

  *

  The next morning Bill rose silently. He stood by a dressing mirror and went over each item on his uniform. It was August, and while still hot, his Third Battalion cap badge was again mounted on his winter cap. His tunic buttons gleamed, except the second from the top, which was wrapped in black cloth; a symbol of mourning allowed for men who had lost an immediate family member on active service. His crooked lance corporal chevrons sat a few inches below the red rectangle that marked him as a First Division man, and the green triangle that further indicated his membership in the Third Battalion.

  “William,” Kate called to him from the bed.

  “I didn’t mean to wake you,” Bill replied apologetically.

  “You weren’t going to leave without saying goodbye, were you?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Come here, William.”

  Bill took his eyes off the image in the mirror and lay in the bed next to her. “I don’t have a lot of time. We’ll have to be quick about it.”

  Kate undid his trousers and rolled them down his legs until his tightly wound puttees prevented them from going any farther. “One more try.”

  *

  It wasn’t until Bill’s draft was on a southbound train that he realized he had forgotten his wedding band. He turned out his pockets, tore through his equipment, and even insisted that those sitting nearest to him prove they had not thieved it. At last, completely defeated, Bill slumped down in his seat and decided to try to sleep, if only to delay the letter he would need to write his wife.

  As he laid his arms across his chest, Bill felt something hard digging into his skin. He tugged at the collar of his shirt and pulled out his identity discs.

  Tied between the two tags that bore his name, battalion, regimental number, and religion, and the one that had belonged to his friend Hallicks, was a simple gold ring. “You’re the best, Kate.”

  PART I

  NIGHT CONDITIONS

  In bitter safety I awake, unfriended;

  And while the dawn begins with slashing rain

  I think of the Battalion in the mud.

  ‘When are you going out to them again?

  Are they not still your brothers through our blood?’

  - Siegfried Sassoon, CBE, MC

  CHAPTER ONE

  Toronto, 1921

  Cigars, whiskey, and beer were in good supply at the Leaf and Crown veterans club. Bill hadn’t seen most of his wartime friends for over two years, despite the fact that the majority of them lived in Toronto. For many, it was too strange to sit through a peaceful lunch or baseball game with the same men they had huddled close to during an artillery bombardment, or had went forward with, bayonets fixed, into an enemy strongpoint. Most preferred to just forget. But Bill was an Original, and had made more friends than he could count during his time with the battalion. The birth of his first child seemed as good a reason as any for a reunion.

  That July Saturday afternoon, one man after another shook Bill’s hand and congratulated him. The married men offered words of advice, while the bachelors kept him busy with humorous toasts. Some men were instantly recognizable; others looked like strangers in civilian clothes and required an anecdote to confirm their identity.

  “Where’s the wife?” Francis Green asked, an empty sleeve pinned to his suit jacket, a War Amputations of Canada badge on his lapel. “I knew that photo you showed me wasn’t really of her. Far too pretty to ever end up with you. Is this kid even real, or are you just trying to get a few free drinks?”

  “Yeah, funny,” Bill replied, annoyed but nostalgic for his old friend’s snarky comments. “She’s with her parents, resting up. It was a hell of a show. She only started walking again the day before last.”

  Green’s trademark grin vanished. “Is she alright?”

  “She’s tough as nails. Tougher than me, or you for that matter.”

  Green’s lips curled up again as he fished through his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. “Speaking of nails.”

  Bill watched in amazement as Green struck a match and lit his cigarette with one hand. The other had been torn away by a grenade five years earlier. “You’re getting pretty good.”

  “You might even say I’m...handy?”

  “Oh, Green, fuck off,” Bill said lightly, breaking off a piece of toffee and attacking it with purpose.

  The other man’s grin tightened, as if he was forcing his face into a caricature of itself. “I’m gonna go have a look around for some friends. You know, it’s a shame I came late and left early, you must know everyone here.”

  “Yeah, you missed a lot of good times. Ypres, Festubert, Vimy, Fresnoy, Hill Seventy–”

  “Quit makin’ me jealous. I’ll talk to you later, Bill. And I still don’t believe it’s Kate in those photos.”

  Once Green left, Bill felt a hand on his shoulder. It was James McCloud, his other hand outstretched. “Congratulations, Bill.”

  Bill’s face turned from pale to crimson in an instant. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Come on, Bill. Can’t I just wish you well?”

  “I told you I never wanted to see you again. I meant that. Our relationship is strictly operational, remember?”

  France, 1917

  Mid-August found Bill and his draft of about thirty soldiers in Mazingarbe, a pathetic ruin three miles behind the frontlines. To Bill it looked no different than any other shattered village: churned up cobblestone streets, half-standing buildings, a conspicuous church spire, and khaki-clad soldiers milling about, or huddled in temporary shelters. The only difference was that Mazingarbe smelled worse than any other village Bill had been to, or maybe he was just used to the relatively cleanly streets of England. The newer men were appalled and exhilarated all at once; they had one foot in the door and were yet to see the worst of it.

  Reinforcements rarely joined their battalions in the frontlines. Normally a rest camp or town miles from the fighting allowed the new men time to be allocated to their companies, stock up on needed equipment, and learn the names of their comrades. On this occasion, however, the battalion had already left a few hours prior, and the draft was supposed to have met them in time to go forward with it. It was just after midni
ght.

  The officer in charge of the reinforcement draft, a lieutenant whose name Bill hadn’t bothered to learn, had been leading the men in circles for over an hour. He could see a hand-painted sign marked “3RD BATT, B COY, QM”, hanging above one of the more intact buildings. Being on the march and in ranks, however, he could do nothing but remember the spot. At last the officer brought the group to a halt, and Bill took the opportunity to speak with him privately.

  “Excuse me, Sir.”

  The lieutenant was exasperated, and nearly jumped at Bill’s words. “Yes, what is it, Lance Corporal?”

  “We passed by my old company quartermaster’s shack awhile ago. I could go and ask him where the rest of the battalion is.”

  “Good, thank you, go now.”

  The officer turned away instantly, uselessly surveying the wreckage of Mazingarbe and comparing it to the dot on his map. Bill allowed himself a sneer before departing. Although a few men in the draft were returned veterans, like him, he still hated being lumped in with replacements. He wanted to be back with his section.

  Old Jack was napping in a folding chair when Bill arrived, a kerosene lamp hanging from a cord above him. Supply, transport, and headquarters men often had little luxuries of that sort. His assistant, Private Wilson, was busy inspecting a broken shovel. The shaft had snapped in two halfway up, and Wilson was apparently attempting to repair it through sheer force of will. Of course he had considered the shovel a write-off, but Jack insisted that tools were non-consumable, and therefore did not need to be replaced, only cleaned and fixed. Wilson caught sight of Bill, but not recognizing him, returned to his futile task.

  Bill tapped Jack gently on the shoulder. “Hey, wake up, Jack.”

  It took nearly a minute to rouse the quartermaster, who upon regaining consciousness, darted his eyes left and right, snorted, then came to his feet.

  “Bill?”

  “Yeah. You miss me?”

  Jack was delighted but incredulous. “But you’ve been away for so long.”

  “Well I’m back. You were away for eight months after you broke your leg; I was only gone eight weeks.”