10

The two soldiers climbed into the old coupe and headed through the Annapolis Valley, towards Windsor. They passed through Wolfville and by Acadia University, whose Grecian façade and New England style reminded MacQueen of his brother. The sergeant had absorbed all of his attention, and he hadn’t thought of his family in any context relating to the present. His father was in Charlottetown and his mother in Bermuda. His brother was on a course in Brockville, and his little sister was dead. He sighed.

“What’s that all about?” asked the sergeant.

“My little sister died in ’38,” answered MacQueen. “Every once in a while it hits me, like just now.”

The sergeant braked at a stop sign then turned into an open service station on the main street. The attendant polished the windshield, checked the oil, looked at the tires, and sold them five gallons of gasoline. The sergeant gave him two dollars and told him to keep the change.

They moved onto the gravel road outside Wolfville. Gentle hills of leafless apple trees rose to their right and a flat expanse of marshland cut by Acadian dykes stretched on the other side to the Bay of Fundy. The sun was high in a cloudless sky and the snow had almost disappeared. The landscape was russet and brown, and the air was clear.

“So, why did you leave El Salvador?” asked MacQueen.

“I was run out of town!” he said. “Light me a cigarette, will you, Pat? I had a room in what they called the Palacio Presidente. A bunch of guys in sombreros attacked it one night and I took off in pyjama pants through the back door. Ever try driving a Model T Ford in bare feet?” He laughed.

“You’re kidding!” exclaimed MacQueen in delight. “Christ, that sounds great! What happened?”

This little story was the sergeant’s trump card—and he knew it. “They had already had about four revolutions that year alone,” he said. “Training the president’s guard was a hazardous occupation. I didn’t have any choice—shit, I didn’t even have a passport! Back in Canada the navy would have hung me from the yardarm.” He swerved to avoid a tractor backing out of a driveway. There was a car in the ditch farther down the road.

“Did they kill the president?” asked MacQueen eagerly.

“Hell no. Presidents don’t get killed, they make deals,” replied the sergeant. “It’s poor bastards like us that get killed. Anyway, I had parked the only armoured car in the country right outside my door. An old Ford with iron plates welded on the sides. It had kind of a turret with a Lewis gun stuck in it. I took off in it and smashed right through the border post of Honduras on one flat tire and with no lights.”

MacQueen threw his head back and shouted with pleasure. “God almighty, you’re funny! All this in your pyjamas?”

Sergeant Cyples joined in the laughter. “That’s right,” he said. “When I climbed out my pants fell off and I was balls-to-the-breeze!”

MacQueen’s eyes were streaming, and he couldn’t stop laughing. He had a vivid imagination and could see it all. “Why did you stop?” he spluttered.

“I ran out of gas,” said the sergeant. “A hundred yards inside Honduras. These guys were standing around with long moustaches, holding rifles. The Ford died like an axed bull and there I was, standing in the middle of the road with nothing on. There were big trees all around and it was barely daylight. That scene I’ll never forget!”

“God, neither will I!” said MacQueen, dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief. “That’s unbelievable.”

“It’s true,” said the sergeant. “I finally sold that Ford for ten bucks and came home to join the army. That’s what I was doing when you were playing cricket!”

MacQueen didn’t hold that jibe against the sergeant; he was having too much fun. “Who would want to play cricket with games like that in town?” he asked.

The sergeant smiled grimly. “You’re a real romantic, Pat,” he said. “You should follow Lord Byron and be king of Greece. Even if it sounds funny, that wasn’t a tale from Boy’s Own Annual. What the hell! Occupational hazards I guess….”

“We should make a movie out of it,” said MacQueen.

“With my cock?” asked the sergeant with a side glance. “You wouldn’t get a screen big enough!”

Still laughing, they entered the town of Windsor. A parade of Highland cadets from King’s Collegiate were marching with a pipe band down the main street. Sergeant Cyples pulled to the curb, and the boys in red coats marched past the car. Their cheeks were flushed and their white spats glistened. They swung their arms—and no one smiled. “Church parade for future officers,” commented Sergeant Cyples. There was always a shadow of bitterness to his voice when that subject rose in his mind. If he wants to be an officer, thought MacQueen, he’ll have to lose that tone.