12

On the following day, Patrick MacQueen ceased to be a signalman and became a private in the West Nova Scotia Regiment. This regiment had been formed by an amalgamation of the old Annapolis and Lunenburg Regiments, each of which had traditions dating back to the early days of the colony. The men were of Acadian, British, German, and even Mi’kmaq stock, and many were descended from the demobilized veterans of the American Revolution.

The regiment followed custom by being affiliated with the British South Lancashire Regiment, or The Prince of Wales Volunteers. The regimental march was WENASCO, and the new dress field service cap was blue with gold piping and a buff centre crown—the old colours of the 49th Regiment of Foot. The respective colour standards of the two founding regiments were preserved in their chapels at Annapolis and Lunenburg, and each of them bore battle honours of the First World War.

Although the West Novas were hardly the Coldstream Guards, or even the Permanent Force in peacetime, it was a militia regiment on active service, with honourable traditions and a good record. Its badge contained reminders of the two parent regiments and the mayflower badge of the province. These were set on a sunburst and surrounded by the legend: WEST NOVA SCOTIA REGIMENT – SEMPER FIDELIS. On top of this was the crown, and on the bottom, simply, CANADA.

MacQueen accepted the new badge, but he slipped the old Signals Mercury badge into his pocket for a memento. ALWAYS FAITHFUL, it said.

He was then issued a tangle of webgear to hang his equipment from: a water bottle, haversack, knapsack, rain cape, winter hat, respirator, and all the other equipment of a foot soldier. Then he was issued his .303 Lee-Enfield rifle, the long bayonet like a miniature sword in its black scabbard.

Signalman Pineo helped him to lug all of this to his new hut, which was number 11. That coincided with the cabin that he had shared with the sergeant, and he hoped it was a good omen.

The hut had the corporal’s cubicle on the left, rows of double-deck bunks down the sides, as well as two stoves and two tables with benches down the middle. All of the bunks were neatly made up in regulation style, with the mattress rolled and the blankets folded on top. Everyone’s equipment was displayed for the orderly officer’s inspection when he walked through.

In the centre of the hut, a small, thin young private in shirtsleeves was pushing a broom. A cloud of dust was settling over everything. “Sprinkle some water on the fuckin’ floor,” shouted Pineo, wrinkling his nose.

The sweeper looked up and frowned. His pants were too big for him, and he looked as though he was going to slip out of the collar of his shirt. His hair bristled straight up. He glanced at Pineo’s sleeve. “Who you think you are?” he said combatively.

“Je suis acadienne aussi, you bloody nit,” answered Pineo. “Throw some water on that floor or they’ll nail you to the wall!”

“Dat’s you bunk,” said the sweeper, pointing to a lower end one. “You are under me. I got here yesterday.” He went to look for a bucket.

“Jesus!” said Pineo. “I hope you know what you’re doin’, Pat. I didn’t think it could get grimmer, but this is the worst.”

They threw the equipment on the bunk. MacQueen glanced about and reflected on the cheerless scene: mud outside the door, no trees, some dirty wisps of snow, and a bare unpainted barracks under a grey sky. And his bunk was next to the door and far from the stove. He grinned. “There’s a war on,” he said and shared the last of his cigarettes with his friend. “What the hell?”

They shook hands and Pineo left for the headquarters building and his warm switchboard. MacQueen took off his greatcoat and started to assemble his equipment. It would all have to be balanced, then all of the brass buckles and end pieces polished. It would take an hour to get a shine on the new cap badge. The rifle was also new, and would have to be cleaned and oiled. The bayonet showed some rust, and the new boots would take weeks to work into a gloss. Besides, he had some laundry to wash. There was no time to feel sorry for himself now.

The sweeper looked younger than MacQueen. “I am Antoine,” he said. “Just call me Tony.” They shook hands. MacQueen hoped Tony didn’t pee the bed.

“Atten-shun!”

MacQueen leapt to his feet, dropping everything, and froze. The sweeper jumped like a rabbit and stood with his broom like a rifle at his side. The orderly sergeant stomped into the hut wearing a red sash across his chest. He stood aside, and a young officer entered, who was the orderly officer. He wore a collar and tie, a khaki peaked cap, and carried a swagger stick.

“As you were, men,” said the officer. They relaxed, but only slightly.

“What the bloody hell is going on in here?” roared the sergeant, fanning the air. No one answered. The sergeant removed a giant clipboard from under his arm and licked the end of a pencil stub.

“Nobody said to put water on it,” said Tony.

The boards shook as the sergeant marched up to the sweeper. He towered in front of him. “If you were speaking to me then you address me as sergeant!” he said.

“I apologize, Sergeant,” answered Tony.

“That will do, Sergeant,” said the officer calmly.

The sergeant stomped his foot and barked, “Sir!”

The officer proceeded down the hut and came abreast of MacQueen. The new infantry private tensed to rigidity again.

“Have I seen you before?” asked the officer.

MacQueen glanced at him. He had been standing at the gate when MacQueen had forgotten to salute when returning from the movie. “I have just transferred from Headquarters Company, sir,” he replied. The officer had a wispy moustache. His cap was absolutely level and his uniform was obviously tailor-made. MacQueen hazarded a glance at his cap badge, and his heart sank. This was a second lieutenant of the Permanent Force, the Royal Canadian Regiment. What in the hell was he doing inspecting huts in Aldershot, Nova Scotia? The officer hesitated another moment as the sergeant shifted nervously. He wanted to get on with the job. The officer certainly smelled like a gentleman.

“Good show,” he said, and then they were gone.

MacQueen gulped.

“What’s up?” asked Tony. “They goin’ to screw us, eh?”

“Forget it,” MacQueen said. “We’ll be okay.”

MacQueen went to the laundry room. There was no hot water, so he heated some basins on the stove and washed his socks and underwear in the long tin trays. He spread the web equipment and daubed the creamy Blanco on it evenly. Every platoon’s clothes iron was kept in the corporal’s cubicle. Tony sneaked that, and they ironed out the creases of his new battle dress. He daubed black polish onto the new boots and worked on them until his arms were sore. Tony buffed the cap badge and kept muttering in French, but then he broke out with “I Found My Trill on Blueberry Hill”.

MacQueen laughed. The two hills in the camp were Blueberry and Strawberry. That song was a recent hit, and Tony didn’t manage his ths very well.

A platoon burst through the doors like a reverse abandon ship. They were talking, shouting, lighting cigarettes, jostling, and generally behaving like children at recess. They each held a .303 Lee-Enfield rifle and wore their web gear over their greatcoats. The younger ones’ cheeks were flushed, and the older ones were weary. The floor shook as each man headed for his own bunk to unload his gear and try for some comfort. Morale seems high, thought MacQueen. Tony introduced him to a big Acadian named Andy, and a few others introduced themselves. Soon he would know them all. The corporal was a tall and dusky descendant of a negro Loyalist family. He was rangy and cautious but seemed friendly enough.

The first twenty-mile company route march was scheduled for the morning. That would keep them going all day. With full equipment, respirators, and helmets, they wouldn’t be so lively tomorrow night.

Sergeant Bill Cyples retrieved the envelope from his box in the sergeants’ mess. He sat in one of the battered old chairs and ordered a bottle of beer. He then took out his pocketknife and sliced the envelope—no one wrote letters to him.

He unfolded the single sheet and saw the line printed in French by pencil. It said something about a bad head and a helmet. The waiter was Acadian and looked at it, frowning. “It means that if you have a good haircut you can’t wear a basinet—er, helmet—good. Something like that, sergeant.” The sergeant smiled and tipped him fifty cents.

He lit a cigarette and raised the beer in front of his eyes. “To a comrade,” had been their toast. Goddamnit, thought the sergeant, I’ve never had one.