Bombproof

By P. L. Wytka

The Great War is two years old and shows no sign of ending soon. The revered “Originals” of the Third Battalion are becoming a rarer breed with each passing day. As new replacements fill the spots of their fallen comrades, they must decide whether to remain with the battalion, or accept a safe “bombproof” job away from their friends, obligations, and identities as Originals of the Third.

BOMBPROOF is a novel in three parts and takes place over one year in 1916-1917. Parallel stories set after the war provide glimpses into the lives of the survivors and how the decisions they made and hardships they endured continue to affect their lives long after they have returned home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: P. L. Wytka
• Release date: Sep 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310357312

P. L. Wytka

I was born and raised in Toronto, studied English and History at Trent University, and Education at Queen's. I spent nearly a decade in the Canadian Forces Primary Reserve, finishing my career with The Royal Regiment of Canada as a humble "Coroporal" according to my discharge certificate. I pay my bills as an administrative assistant. For fun, I collect military antiques, garden, and drink a lot of beer.

Book preview

PART I

BOMBPROOF

But let my death be memoried on this disc.

Wear it, sweet friend. Inscribe no date nor deed.

But let thy heart-beat kiss it night and day,

Until the name grow vague and wear away.

- Wilfred Owen, MC†

1

Toronto, 1927

Bill bolted upright, his eyes snapping open, lungs desperately pulling in air in short gasps. He switched on the little reading lamp on the nightstand and glanced at the clock; it was two eighteen. His side of the bed was drenched in cold sweat. Kate was still asleep.

Bill’s head was pounding, like it always did after that dream. Somehow the explosion that shot him back into consciousness was getting louder every time. It was certainly louder in his dreams than it had been in 1916. He stood and walked to the bookshelf in the corner and crouched low. Grabbing the little glass and the bottle of whiskey he kept on the bottom shelf for such emergencies, he poured himself a few ounces. Next, he opened the window a little and gathered a handful of snow from the outside sill, clumped it into a ball and dropped it into his glass.

Kate sat up in bed, awakened by a blast of cold air. Are you alright, William?

Bill took a deep breath and closed the window. He looked down at his glass. I was there, again.

Regina Trench? Kate asked, already trying to ascertain just how big of a glass he had poured for himself.

He nodded, still not looking at her.

She knew all of Bill’s recurring dreams by now. Mount Sorrel was suspicion, secrecy; he would pretend he was only getting up for a glass of water and insist that she go back to bed. Vimy Ridge started with euphoria and ended with a profound feeling of loss; normally that meant staring out the window for a few minutes, then crying himself back to sleep. Fresnoy was stress, then relief; half-finished projects were often completed in the middle of the night, or new projects half-started. Regina Trench was the worst for both of them. First came fear, raw and incomprehensible, that rocked him into consciousness. Next was guilt and self-doubt that he would try to wash away with whiskey. Once that failed, he would turn to Kate for intimate comfort.

Bill brought his free hand to his head, just above the left temple, and felt the little strip of scarred scalp where no hair would grow.

Kate was already changing the bed sheets. Was it bad?

Bill emptied his glass in one big gulp and chewed on what was left of the snowball. Just get ready. Please.

Kate removed her nightgown.

Bill threw his nightshirt onto the reading chair and climbed back into bed. I’m tired, so let’s be quick about this, okay?

*

Although originally intended as a veterans club, the Leaf and Crown had always been open to civilians. It didn’t seem right to turn away a relative, or even a friend of an ex-soldier. And while Third Battalion veterans were given a special rate on their drinks, Gary Post, the owner and a former member of the Third himself, was happy to serve any customer.

The Leaf and Crown had become a popular spot for the young people of the city more recently. Prohibition, though waning, was still in effect; but in seven years Post’s club had never been targeted for a raid. Too many veterans filled the ranks of the Toronto Police Department. Too many politicians feared offending the thousands of former Third Battalion members. And too many social reformers had bigger fish to fry. Besides, Gary Post kept a clean, quiet establishment.

The odd veteran could still be recognized by a blazer patch, lapel pin, or missing limb; and on special occasions miniature reunions were held. Wartime photographs and newspaper clippings adorned the walls, as did an assortment of war souvenirs, rifles, and pennants. The cherry oak bar top, names and regiments scratched onto it, was considered something of a holy relic.

Saturday nights, Gary sent his two sons to an old family friend, Missus Hallicks. He was expected to pick them up before one o’clock, but could already tell he would be late, for Saturday night was also when Bill Brown came to visit. Bill and Gary were both Originals; two of the few men who had left Canada in 1914 and had spent the entire war with the Third Battalion. Each Saturday Bill would stumble in sober but already looking drunk. He would complain that the music was too loud, that it was giving him a headache. After a few beers, he would pretend he was young again; sing and dance, turn the radio up, but mostly smoke and drink. For the past seven years, Bill’s diet on Saturdays consisted almost entirely of beer and cigarettes. Tonight was no different.

Bill held an empty glass to his mouth. Gary, send up the SOS; my beer supply has been depleted!

It was the ninth such SOS call in three hours. When it came to beer, Bill was determined and predictable. Gary took the empty glass and refilled it, while the younger man began scanning the club.

Soon Bill’s eyes settled on a young woman sitting alone. She was the flapper type; hair cut short, dress barely meeting her knees, arms bare. Gaudy necklaces overlapped each other while even gaudier rings adorned her long fingers. A cigarette dangled in her right hand.

She reminds me of someone. I can’t figure out who, Bill said.

Gary’s eyes, sharp as ever, had already made the connection the moment she had walked in. I don’t know, he lied.

Bill snapped his fingers and stuttered excitedly. La Fille! The girl from Albert! Back in Sixteen!

Oh, I guess she looks a little like her, Gary said, desperate to change the conversation. But you know what I remember most about Albert? That letter Green wrote to the King.

Bill nearly spit his beer out as he broke into unrestrained laughter. Once he settled, a nostalgic smile came over his face. Oh Green, damn he was funny, eh? How did that letter go again?

France, 1916

Two years of shellfire had destroyed most of Albert. During the past several months, British, Australian, and Canadian advances in the area had turned the city into a relatively safe place. The German artillery was more concerned with the new frontline positions, four miles northeast of the city. Albert was now a site where battalions performed the final preparations before going into the trenches, then licked their wounds afterwards before moving on to the rear areas. It was a place for cleaning rifles, bandaging sore feet, and having a hot meal from a cook wagon.

The nicer buildings in Albert had been used as temporary headquarters, quartermaster’s stores, and officer’s billets nearly since the war began, passing hands from one battalion to another every few days. The old brickfields on the outskirts were home to the enlisted men. The quality of the living quarters varied depending on how long they had been standing and how much effort each group of occupants was willing or able to put in to their upkeep. How adept the temporary tenants were at thieving lumber, broken gear, and abandoned furniture certainly factored in as well.

Lance Corporal Post’s section was proud of its hovel: The Slag Heap Hotel. Four feet high, twenty feet across and eight feet deep, its three walls were cobbled together with sandbags, bricks, sheet metal, and empty wooden crates. Across the top, waterproof tarps provided shelter from sun and rain with only a few cracks. The front end was completely open, allowing all six men of the section easy access. It would have been comfortable if it weren’t for the constant snoring, coughing, and flatulence that all soldiers seemed to suffer from; symptoms of the busy days, unsanitary conditions, and what the army misleadingly called food.

While most non-commissioned officers preferred to distance themselves slightly from the rabble, Post and the privates of Three Section ate, slept, and drank together. He was one of the few NCOs in the battalion who preferred the company of his own men to that of the other corporals and sergeants. Post wasn’t a bad or unpopular NCO, but he didn’t care for any of the pomp that came with rank. This was readily evinced by the single crooked, faded lance corporal stripe sewn onto either sleeve of his tunic.

Presently, Post was helping Private Green draft a letter. Post himself could barely write, but pitched in the odd idea as Green scribbled away. Both men sat on the outside of the long sandbag wall, while the rest of the section lazed in the afternoon sun experimenting with a form of three-player euchre.

It’s done, Lance, Green said with a grin, looking over the gridded notepad one last time and clearing his throat.

October 6th, 1916

Albert, France

My Dear Majesty Fellow King Chap,

As a member of the 1st Canadian Division, and veteran of over a year’s fighting, I wish to bring to your attention a few details that require most urgent action.

The fighting soldier’s battle equipment or webbing is dreadfully heavy and ugly. I recommend the belt, straps, ammunition pouches, canteen, packs, etc. be replaced at once with a stylish handbag, no more than eight by six by four inches, and weighing no more than one pound when fully packed. The Lee Enfield rifle has proved most inefficient in the rough conditions of the trenches; I recommend a Derringer single shot pocket pistol, as this is all that is required for self-defence purposes. The bayonet ought to be ground down and re-issued as a nail file, as the condition of the men’s cuticles is simply deplorable. Entrenching tools are a redundancy in trench warfare, and should be melted down to form a cast statue of your majesty.

Many old soldiers have tired of the same iron rations of bully beef and hard biscuits; apple cores and bones would be a welcome replacement. Lastly, I recommend that half of the enlisted men’s pay should be donated to a special Armenian refugee relief fund. Officer’s pay need not be deducted, as the cost of moustache wax and boot black have increased greatly in the past two years, and only on rare occasions can a suitable product be found that does both jobs. I remain your humble servant,

Private Francis Green

Third Canadian Infantry Battalion

(Toronto Regiment)

p.s. Please inquire to Princess Mary on my behalf. She is a saucy tart.

CC:

Artie Guts and Gaiters Currie

Sammy Sham Shoes Hughes

Bobby Trade Tax Borden

I like it, Post said. Short, eloquent, and with just a hint of treason. What did you think, Bill?

Needs more swears, Bill replied.

Private Hallicks rubbed his chin and nodded his head seriously, all the while tapping two fingers against his left chest. He was trying to get Bill to call hearts trump. Yeah, more fucking swears.

You heard them, Post said. Let’s start working on another draft.

What about Lincoln and Jack? We haven’t heard their assessment, Green said.

Jack’s asleep, but I thought it was mostly funny, Private Lincoln replied. Take out the ‘saucy tart’ bit though, that’s rude. And remember, you too Hal, that people who use bad language do so only because of their poor vocabulary.

*

The pre-breakfast rumours of an upcoming action had been proven false a few minutes before lunch, and of course revived with greater detail a few minutes after. By dinner it was clear: the battalion was moving up the line tomorrow morning, a big show in the offing. The orders were simple enough: five o’clock in the morning, full battle equipment, formed up by companies outside the half-destroyed basilica in the centre of the ruined city of Albert.

It was an obvious meeting point. The basilica tower stood ninety yards tall, or at least it had when it was built. The gilded statue of the Virgin Mary and Child, six yards tall, that once crowned the structure, had been knocked over nearly two years before. Now held in place with rebar and chains, the statue leaned at a precarious angle below the horizontal. Every soldier who passed through Albert remembered the Leaning Virgin. Most said a silent prayer while crossing beneath it. Bill didn’t.

Although flooded with French, British, Australian, and most recently Canadian soldiers, Albert had lost the vast majority of its civilian population. The few civilians who remained were mostly operators of estaminets: cafes where soldiers could indulge in a night of home-cooked food, wine, and beer. Although not brothels, women could sometimes be had at estaminets as well.

Six Platoon had been lucky to be dismissed early. Their new officer, Second Lieutenant Carter, had only been with them a few months, but acted like a real veteran. No big speeches, no unnecessary drill and marching, no endless back-and-forth of useless question and unsure answer. As a result, the men of Six Platoon had been able to secure a few tables at the city’s best estaminet: La Bouteille.

According to Lincoln, La Bouteille translated into a bad play on words having to do with a nearby region. He did admit, however, that France French, which he was slowly learning was different from Canadian French, which was in turn different from Montreal French, of which he had only a working knowledge. With most of the men having hailed from Toronto, Lincoln French was the best the platoon could offer, and was even sought after on occasion.

Like most estaminets, La Boot was family owned and operated, in this case by a mother and daughter. It had been a little corner café before the war, with bedrooms on the second floor. With the men of the family away in the French army, the spare rooms were put to a new use.

Madame’s daughter was young, but no amateur; Post would know. She was clearly pleased to have an experienced client, rather than a boring married man, or an incompetent kid. Post had met her during his first night in Albert, six weeks earlier. And while this was only their eighth night together, La Fille had taken a deep liking to him. It certainly helped that he was good with his hands.

Post loved to hear her little moans and squeaks of pleasure; even better were the wild screams. Maybe you should be paying me.

Non non, vingt francs, the girl replied with a flirty laugh.

La Fille had two rates, one for men who wore a condom and one for those who didn’t. Bare skin cost twenty francs. A man who agreed to wear one of the many prophylactics she kept stockpiled in her room, courtesy of a client who happened to work for the Red Cross, paid just fifteen. Of course Post had already paid the girl’s mother, and, like most men, he had paid twenty: about four Canadian dollars. As lance corporals made a dollar and five cents a day, plus ten cents overseas pay, it was quite the investment for a few minutes of raw pleasure. La Fille was a lot more expensive than the two or three franc whores a soldier could find in the red lanterns, but much, much better looking.

Well alright, I won’t ask for a refund this time, but next time I at least expect a free bottle. Vin gratuity. Or better yet one of those bottles of whiskey you keep stashed away in case an officer ever shows up in this dump.

The girl laughed again, she knew how men loved her laugh, and pulled him on top of her. D’accord. Entrer en moi.

*

On the main floor, at the table nearest the bar sat the privates of Three Section. Watery beer and tart wine were in good supply. Green had ordered the ubiquitous eggs and chips; the most common, and often only food to be had at such estaminets. Hallicks was picking at the other man’s meal.

You could order your own, you know, Lincoln said.

I’m not that hungry, Hallicks replied. I just want a few bites.

Green smiled his trademark thin grin, laid down his fork on the half-empty plate and lit a cigarette. You finish it up, Hal. I’ve got to watch my figure. Maybe you ought to as well.

Hallicks pulled the plate towards himself covetously.

I thought you just wanted a few bites, Lincoln said.

Hallicks looked up from the plate, wiping the fork on his trousers. A man’s gotta eat. Besides, I can’t let it go to waste. It’s like your bible says, ‘waste not... ought not... to get... any more food, again.’

He’s got you there, Green said, exhaling a lungful of smoke, adding to the already thick screen of it that blanketed the estaminet. Even if he could stand to lose a pound or two... or ten.

Fuck off, you stupid fuck, Hal replied through a mouthful of food.

Where I come from we just say, ‘Thanks for the free meal’, but your gratitude certainly shines through, Green replied.

Whenever the conversation went quiet, the occasional lusty cry from Madame’s daughter could be heard. Lance Corporal Post was a very thorough lover, and most of the revellers on the main floor didn’t seem to mind. Lewd comments and raucous laughter were being tossed about amicably.

Private Lloyd, whom the others called Old Jack, grimaced slightly as the cries of passion built towards and then hit their crescendo. So, fellas, did I tell you about my son?

Yeah, sure, with the big guns, Bill replied, straining an ear upwards. You told us a few weeks ago. He’s in England now, should be crossing the channel soon, siege howitzers.

He better watch it or he’ll go deaf, Lincoln said, also hoping to drown out La Fille’s cries. I had a friend in the artillery who lost most of his hearing, had to be sent back to Canada. Tell him to get some wax earplugs, you know, like Odysseus.

Bill turned and nodded his approval to Lincoln for making such an obscure reference. Both men were avid readers, rarities in an infantry battalion if one discounted trashy dime magazines. I can hear the Siren’s song now, listen.

What? Hallicks asked. Nobody actually wears earplugs, and what the hell is a ‘Siren song?’

It’s from Greek myth; never mind, Bill said. Just be quiet, and listen to that wonderful racket.

Old Jack looked from one man to the next, hoping for an explanation, but received none. So, Linc, what about your daughters? What are their men up to?

They’re a little young for sweethearts, Lincoln replied.

How about the boys?

Eager. My older boy Carlyle tried to enlist in August. They must be getting desperate back home to take a seventeen year old. They let him sign the papers and everything. Thank goodness my wife caught wind of it.

He was quite sure he had already told Jack the story, but Jack loved to talk, even if it was in circles.

Green perked up like an excited dog. Seventeen, huh? My youngest sister is fifteen; do you think she’d like Montreal? I’m sure she’d like your boy.

I thought you were pawning your sister off on Hal, Bill said.

Hal gets my older one, there’s a younger one too, Green said.

Hallicks looked up from his plate for a moment at the mention of his name. For the last time, I can’t afford another woman, he said quickly, then returned his attention to sopping up runny eggs with burnt chips.

I’ll convince you yet, Hal, Green said. I don’t want to be looking after spinsters when I get home; there’ll be a shortage of men I reckon. So what do you say, Linc, Montreal, yes?

Montreal’s a fine city, Lincoln replied. I’m sure she’d love it. The old part reminds me of France actually, sans the shellfire and roadside crucifixes everywhere.

You know I’ve been to Montreal, Jack said unable to resist hijacking the conversation. Oh, back in ’05, no, ’06, yeah, ’06. ’05, certainly ‘05. I was there on a buying trip for Eaton’s; did I ever tell you I was in charge of hats and scarves at the big store in Toronto? This was just after, no, just before I retired from the militia; you know I was a sergeant then? ’06 for sure. Well there was a little shop, maybe on, that big street, the main street there in Montreal, what street is that Linc?

It had been nearly two years since Lincoln had seen Montreal. A wistful smile played on his lips. Rue St. Catherine.

Yes, that’s the one, Rue St. Catherine. Hey, Bill, that’s your girl’s name!

Katherine’s a common name, Bill conceded, taking a big gulp of wine and hoping the old man was done telling stories for the moment. He preferred beer, but it would have taken about a gallon of it to get him drunk.

Jack wasn’t done talking; he rarely was until his voice was hoarse. You’re going to marry her right? Well I bet I can get you a discount on a nice suit, and a dress for her. A nice, long, white wedding dress. When it comes to quality, Eaton’s has never been on the short end.

Lincoln, Hallicks, and Green shifted slightly towards each other and leaned in. Bill, seated closest to Jack, had no polite way of leaving the old man’s one-sided conversation.

That’s his mess now, Lincoln said to the other two men. We can carry on; Jack will focus in on Bill.

And Bill’ll focus in on his bottle, Hallicks said.

Green nodded, not to anyone in particular, as he turned his attention from one conversation to the next. He wasn’t really interested in Jack’s ramblings or Bill’s drinking, but enjoyed observing. And for Green, observation went hand in hand with commentary.

Well, again, that’s his mess. What were we talking about? Lincoln asked.

Green turned back momentarily. My older sister. You’d like her, Hal. Stop being so cheap, you miserly pinchpenny.

Shut up, Green. A family as ugly as yours shouldn’t even be allowed to breed, you fuckin’ Mick, Hal replied.

Ouch, Lincoln said. That’s a bit much, Hal.

Green grinned and nodded his approval. Good one Hal, but the difference between a plain insult and a witty retort is truthfulness. Sure I’m Irish, but you can’t deny my good looks. You’re learning though; I’m proud of you.

Remember, Hal, vocabulary, Lincoln cut in before Hallicks could unleash another flood of expletives.

Smart Aleck, Hal mumbled harshly at Green, who had already rejoined Bill and Jack’s conversation.

Smart Francis, actually, Green shot back one last time.

Never mind him, Lincoln said. You two are too alike for your own good, you know that? Big mouths, the both of you.

Alike? Don’t think so. Sure I grouse, but I’ve been around. When I make a comment it isn’t just to poke fun, it’s to make things better, or prove a point. Problem is no one will listen, Hal replied.

Get promoted, Green said, turning back to Bill and Jack before Hallicks could respond.

Lincoln shrugged. He’s right, you can’t complain if you don’t want to give it a go yourself.

They wouldn’t take me. I’ve stepped on too many toes, you know, my ‘big mouth’. But you, Linc, why don’t you get a couple of stripes? You play by the rules, even seem to understand ‘em too. Must’ve learned that at the bank, or from the wife.

Lincoln smiled, set down his bottle of wine, and turned playfully contemplative. I couldn’t stand to order around such fine young privates as myself. Oh, and Green, and Bill, and Jack. He took up his bottle, taking a long swig as Hallicks sighed, annoyed. Oh, and you, Hal. But of course that goes without saying, being an Original and all.

Then why’d you say it? Green asked, again returning to Bill and Jack without waiting for an answer.

Hey, Hal called across the table, as the other conversation carried on. Hey! Hal repeated, stretching across to tap Jack on the shoulder with one hand, his other pointed squarely at Green. Does he do this to you too?

Does he do what? Jack replied, deeply confused at having been pulled back into reality from his fond reminiscences of the hats and scarves department of the Toronto Eaton’s store. In particular, he had been relating the story of a French-Canadian woman from northern Ontario who always got the catalogue numbers mixed up, and complained so ferociously that Jack had been compelled to simply give her the replacement items for free; something he regretted to this day. It was one of Jack’s