13

The Number One Platoon was certainly the best in A Company. The Canadian system of volunteers threw people together in a mixed bag of age groups, unlike conscription, where the call-up is by the year of birth. Some of the instructors and camp personnel were veterans of the last war, and most of the senior NCOs were ex-militia, or NPAM. The navy and the air force were also beginning to compete for manpower, but the West Novas drew most of their manpower from the district. That translated into mostly farmers and fishermen, with some from the towns. The high school recruits may have had some cadet training, but basically the material was raw and varied in age from eighteen to late thirties.

The RCR Company’s sergeant major stood at the top of the parade ground. The entire company was in full combat gear and loosely assembled to the side near their huts, while the sergeants and officers formed two distinct groups at the other side. Everyone became silent when the sergeant major shouted, “Markers!” The men designated as markers then marched out onto the parade ground, marking the alignment and spacing for the rest of the troops to complete their formations. After they had fallen in, the sergeants called the roll for their platoons and reported all correct. After the adjutant ordered the officers to fall in, the sergeants saluted them and took their positions behind their platoons. The adjutant then reported to the company commander that the company was correct and ready for inspection.

Commencement took place every morning in every army camp, sometimes with more elaborate procedures than normal. It collected everyone together at the same time, in the same general costume, and was a basic exercise in control and the stage-setting for communal ritual. It prepared the men for the day.

Every parade ground is a stage, and every parade is a form of choreography. One tests the boards, one judges the dimensions, and one practises one’s art. The aim is perfection of performance, acceptance by the group, and praise from one’s immediate superior. The hard road to achieve these aims binds the group together and makes a unit out of them. To the average private soldier, that is his field of vision.

The particular arrangement MacQueen’s company performed that day was called “company in close column”, which is ceremonial in function. During the manoeuvres, each platoon is inspected by its officer and, on occasion, by the company commander himself. The company is the largest unit wherein the commander can have a face-to-face acquaintance with everyone in it, although this is only theoretically possible in fast-changing times. The soldier has enough to do just keeping track of himself and his platoon.

The company marched off in column of route with their HQ Platoon in front and Sergeant Cyples’ awkward squad in the rear. The new colonel stood in front of the headquarters building, with Captain Dribble at his side and the staff sergeant looking out a window. Everyone turned their heads, on command, to look at the colonel while trying to keep in step. Two drummers beat the step, and the colonel saluted his soldiers. MacQueen thought that he saw the old staff sergeant wave. Then they were through the main gate and onto the gravel road. They avoided the town and wound through the apple orchards, where they unbuttoned their tunics, slung their rifles, and started to sing songs like “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary” and then “Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit-Bag”. They were songs their fathers had taught them from a war not so long ago. The roots of comradeship burrowed further, and they had twenty miles to go.

It was the first warm day, and as the sun reached its modest zenith, some of the soldiers began to flag. Sweat trickled from under their helmets and their backs ached under the heavy load. At ten minutes to every hour there was a rest and any man who couldn’t continue, from blistered feet or whatever the cause, was left to be picked up later. A truck arrived at noon with hot tea and tasteless sandwiches. They removed their equipment, spread their groundsheets, and relaxed. Most of them changed their socks.

MacQueen was sitting on a groundsheet with his bunkmate, Tony Gaudette, holding a boot in one hand and examining the heel of his right foot. He had noticed Sergeant Cyples joking with his men, and Sergeant Browne was talking to one of the second lieutenants. Mother Nature seemed to be stirring, and despite the cold wind from the Bay of Fundy, spring was slowly announcing itself. The world rotated on its ancient axis as men prepared for the great test of combat.

Sergeant Cyples sauntered alongside the muddy ditch and casually stopped opposite Number One Platoon. He was a popular figure in the company because of his colourful language and irreverent manner. “You guys are too slow,” he said. “You are holding up Number Five.” The men hooted in derision, and the sergeant smiled broadly.

“Are you okay there?” he asked MacQueen.

“New boots,” answered MacQueen, holding the boot in the air. Private Gaudette held his nose and fanned the air while the others laughed. Sergeant Browne saw this other sergeant with his platoon and walked down the road to join him—they all envied Sergeant Cyples’ popularity.

“Are you having trouble, MacQueen?” asked Sergeant Browne. Tony was readjusting some straps on his equipment, and the others were relaxing or talking among themselves.

Sergeant Cyples looked at Sergeant Browne and, still smiling, said inaudibly, “You are a cock-sucking son-of-a-whore, Browne.”

Sergeant Browne looked as though he had been struck in the face. No one else had heard the words except MacQueen, who sat with his boot foolishly in the air and a stricken look on his face. Sergeant Browne looked quickly into the distance in disbelief, then turned and walked back down the road. Sergeant Cyples nonchalantly turned in the other direction and rejoined his platoon. A whistle sounded, and MacQueen hurriedly laced his boot and buckled his equipment.

“What’s the matter?” asked Tony. “You don’t look so good.”

“Nothing, Tony,” said MacQueen. “I’ll carry your rifle for a while if you get tired.” They formed up on the road and resumed the march.

At the same time, the Germans were moving into Denmark to attack Norway and protect their northern flank. The British would then move to occupy Iceland. The A Company of the West Nova Scotia Regiment returned to Aldershot.