5

With every building in the camp heated by coal, vast supplies of uncertain origin were trucked through the gates every day and dumped into gigantic, shacklike bins. The night soldiers struggled through the snow with scuttles of the terrible stuff to dump into hundreds of stoves. It was poured through the top, emitting clouds of yellowish, poisonous smoke and a shower of coal dust. That had been MacQueen’s first duty on arrival, for twelve hours every night. His arms had felt wrenched from their sockets, his eyes were always red, and his uniform was permeated with black powder.

Now Signalman MacQueen had a nice blue walking-out uniform, a date in town, and a pass until midnight. Wide red stripes ran up the high trousers worn past his waist; they were held up by issue braces. The blue jacket with sparkling buttons was on a wire coat hanger, with the white Signals lanyard around the right shoulder. He had only a collarless army shirt and vowed to send for a white one. His big boots were polished like mirrors. The new army greatcoat was heavy, khaki, and double-breasted. It certainly fit better than the Signal Corps coat that he had returned. That had been designed to cover the rear of a horse and looked like a bell tent.

The impression that his uniform made on his hutmates was not profound. Most were on duty, some were asleep. One was writing a letter on his bunk. He was a small Acadian Prince Edward Islander. “Have you joined the fucking Salvation Army, Pat?” he asked.

“Pretty sharp, Pat,” commented Signalman Pineo from his bunk. He was one of the operators of the telephone switchboard. “Gettin’ it wet tonight?” He grinned and looked like an elf.

“What about this?” asked Pat, waving his riding crop. “Should I carry it?”

“Not anymore,” answered Pineo. “They went out when battle dress came in. Better just shove it you-know-where.”

“Too long,” said MacQueen. He slipped it inside the greatcoat. “If they search me I’ve had it—I’ll give it to Barbara.”

“For what?” Pineo’s eyes gleamed.

“I’d never tell you,” answered MacQueen. “Have you got any change? I’m broke and don’t want to smoke all their cigarettes.”

“Payday is two days away, for Christ’s sake,” complained Pineo. He reached into a pocket and looked at his open hand. “I can lend you a half buck but you have to pay me. I owe everybody.”

Fifty cents could buy a package of Sweet Caporals and leave enough left for a soda before returning to the camp. He took it gratefully.

“Why don’t you get some money from that old man of yours?” Pineo said. He felt a little resentful that he was paying some other guy to get laid.

“Don’t wait up for me,” answered MacQueen. “See you later.”

It was early evening, and the walk to the gate was over a mile. His pass was checked by the corporal of the guard, who looked with curiosity at the uniform but made no comment. The uncertain sentry, a recent recruit, did not know whether to salute or not. As a sign of the new times, MacQueen noted a military policeman in the guardhouse. It was two miles or more to town. He set off with the sun setting behind him. The return trip would be harder, MacQueen noted. It was uphill, and returning soldiers were often tired from dancing, drinking, or other pastimes.

A car pulled up just ahead of MacQueen. It was the only one on the road and his heart lifted. Hitchhiking was forbidden, but a ride was permitted if offered. A door opened and a tall sergeant in battle dress emerged. MacQueen hesitated, then sprang to attention. The riding crop slipped out and fell onto the road. The sun had settled behind the hills but MacQueen could see the sergeant’s face quite clearly. He had high cheekbones and a sharp jaw that shone but had a blue-black shadow underneath. His eyes were intense, and his hawk nose made MacQueen immediately think of the profiles on Roman coins he had seen in schoolbooks. MacQueen’s entire summation took only seconds—he had been born aware of the unusual and he prided himself on his peripheral vision. This man was no parade-stomping militia sergeant from Nova Scotia, of that he was sure.

“Want a lift?” asked the sergeant with a smile that dramatically changed his facial landscape. He had long teeth and looked like a jolly wolf.

MacQueen noticed that the car was one of Kentville’s few taxis. The unimaginable luxury of taking a taxi to and from camp certainly impressed him. “Thank you, sir,” he replied in some confusion and started forward.

“Don’t forget your stick,” said the sergeant. “And cut the bullshit outside of camp. Anyway, I’m not a ‘sir’.” His smile broadened. MacQueen retrieved the riding crop and, even more astonishingly, the sergeant held the door as he climbed into the rear of the taxi. The sergeant settled beside him, slammed the door, and the driver switched on the headlights. MacQueen could smell the sergeant’s shaving lotion. He offered MacQueen a cigarette and held the match for him.

“Got a date?” asked the sergeant.

MacQueen rather regretted now that he had one. “Yes,” he answered. “For a little while, anyway.”

The sergeant chuckled and held out a long, bony hand. “My name is Bill Cyples,” he said.

MacQueen shook the strong, entwining hand. It was dry and cool. His own felt warm and moist. “Signalman Pat MacQueen,” he replied. “Thank you for picking me up—er—Sergeant.”

“Where d’ya want t’go?” asked the burly driver.

“I’ll drop you off,” said Sergeant Cyples. “Where are you going?”

MacQueen reluctantly gave the address to the driver. They drove in silence, watching the poplar trees stream by. Eventually, the car swung over a bridge and turned right down the main street. Rail yards were down an embankment to the right, and residential streets rose up a hill to the left. They swung up one of the house-lined streets and turned into the driveway of a two-storey frame house. The porch light was on.

“I have to be back at midnight,” said MacQueen.

“Just like Cinderella,” said the Sergeant. “Meet me in the soda parlour at eleven or so and I’ll give you a lift back.”

MacQueen climbed out of the car—and it was gone. He was intrigued by his new acquaintance, but apprehensive of his rank. There was the slightest whiff of sulphur about him that piqued one’s curiosity, he thought. It would be a dull evening after that.

As for Barbara, MacQueen’s older brother had dated her older sister. His brother was very adroit in such matters, and Pat had followed along in his wake. He was on his own now—and the prospects were not too bright. He had already lost his virginity to a young lady from Vassar the previous summer in Bermuda, but he felt that his chances here were slim.

Barbara was blonde, compact, and liked to sing—and she was still in high school. Her older sister disdained “the child” and they had an ebullient great-aunt who couldn’t rise from her chair. Barbara’s father was a businessman with a shop in the town.

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Barbara as she helped him off with his great coat. “What is this? Pat, you look wonderful!”

MacQueen pulled on his blue tunic and glanced into a hall mirror. His brown hair was short and stuck up into the air. He quickly produced a pocket comb and flattened it. “Do you like it?” he asked. He was pleased at this fuss.

“It’s beautiful, Pat.” Her round blue eyes were burning with sincerity, and she held her hands clasped in front of her coral dress. “Show yourself to Auntie—she’ll never let you go.”

The aunt was bobbing up and down in her chair with excitement. She had been disabled from birth and could know romance only through books, or vicariously, through her nieces. She took a great interest in their callers. She clasped her hands and rolled her eyes in delight. A brick fireplace was in the room, along with a tall piano, candlesticks, and a Victorian painting above the mantel. MacQueen glanced out of the bay windows that looked out on the street. The sergeant’s car had gone.

“Pat, let me give you a kiss!” exclaimed the aunt. He dutifully bent forward into her scent of musky age, and she planted a kiss on his cheek. “You are dazzling. My brother used to be in the band, but he wore a red coat!”

The evening wore on. He had forgotten to buy cigarettes, and Barbara’s sister—the only smoker in the family—was out. He accepted a cup of tea and some cookies, and listened as Barbara accompanied herself and sang “The Roses of Picardy”. It was too cold for a walk, and he couldn’t afford to take her anywhere. They played a game of checkers, stole a kiss under the stairs, and then he left.

He hurried to get to the soda fountain early. He would buy some cigarettes and maybe a Coke. He couldn’t treat the sergeant, but that did not distress him. Just the sight of a sergeant accompanied by an ordinary soldier would be rare enough without him standing the treats. He noticed two military policemen standing under a lamppost at the corner of the main street. There were a few places open, and the sound of music drifted across the night air from a dance hall near the railway station. They were trying to sound like Artie Shaw but not doing it very well. Soldiers in big boots don’t make good dancers, anyway.