4

Colonel Gairloch looked at the young soldier standing erectly inside his private door. He noted the new outfit that he was wearing with an old soldier’s inward sigh.

“Well, young MacQueen,” said the colonel. “What have you got for me that is so urgent?” He looked over his horn-rimmed glasses with mock intensity. “Stand easy, for heaven’s sake.”

MacQueen relaxed and approached the colonel’s desk. He placed the paper on it and stepped back a pace. “It’s a telegram from your son Bill, sir,” said MacQueen. “It just arrived and I brought it directly to you.”

The colonel looked at the telegram. He cleared his throat. “As you know,” he said slowly, having scanned the telegram, “Bill has diabetes. It seems he is out of hospital and seems okay.”

“I am glad to hear that, sir,” answered MacQueen. He didn’t move. The colonel folded the telegram, unbuttoned a tunic pocket under his first war ribbons, and placed it over his heart.

“Thank you. Pat, isn’t it? I would do you no favour by calling you that, but we are alone here.”

A slight flush spread over MacQueen’s face.

“Is there anything else?” asked the colonel.

“I want to go for officer’s training, sir,” blurted MacQueen. “I heard that you might be leaving…”

The colonel studied the boy’s face. “How old are you?” he asked. “You were Bill’s classmate, were you not?”

“Yes, sir,” MacQueen said, faltering. “I am nineteen.”

The colonel was not fooled. “You are not,” he answered. “But you won’t get anywhere hanging around this headquarters. I’ll get you out onto the parade square. Try to become a lance corporal or something first.”

“I have my application, sir,” replied MacQueen. He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his tunic.

The colonel smiled. “With all the officers in your family this seems the hard way to go about things.” He accepted the paper and glanced at it.

“I just jumped in—er—joined up, sir,” replied MacQueen. He was sweating now. “I lied about my age.”

“Being an officer is a responsibility, Pat,” said the colonel. He scanned the document for a few more long moments. MacQueen fought the urge to speak further, lest he ruin his chances. “I will approve your transfer to the West Nova Scotia Regiment and pass this along to my successor with my recommendation,” the colonel said finally, seeming unconcerned. “If you do well and complete their basic so much the better for your chances. It is only for four or five months.”

“The war might be over then, sir.”

“Not a chance, my lad,” he answered ruefully. “We will all have our fill of it before it’s over. Tell Captain Dribble to call me and we’ll get your files moving. At least that will get you out of the dead end of Headquarters Company here.”

“Thank you, sir!” MacQueen stomped his heels together, swung about, and marched to the door.

A sergeant major had been waiting in the hall and wondered what could be so important between his colonel and a mere signalman from God-knew-where?

There was a small ceremony when the command of Camp Aldershot was changed. The training routine of the battalion wasn’t interrupted, but a lot of officers milled about, and a table was set up by the flagpole and covered with the Union Jack. MacQueen saw his first official army staff car roll up to the entrance. He jumped, opened the door, and saluted. Colonel Gairloch, in his Scot uniform, greeted the incoming colonel, who was not only Permanent Force but also Royal Canadian Regiment. Many units were going to muster on the plains of Aldershot in the summer of 1940, and a firm, professional hand would be required. And there he was; his face was carved from stone.

The brass band broke into martial music. Everyone saluted everyone else. Captain Dribble excitedly arranged the documents for signing, which he had weighted with stones. Photo-bulbs flashed, then everyone vanished. MacQueen rolled up the flag and folded the table, leaning it against the wall to be retrieved later. A few scraggly flowers were trying to push through the dirt, and someone had laid out ALDERSHOT in whitewashed stones around the flagpole. It wasn’t much but it was something.