21

When MacQueen opened his eyes, he looked directly into the laughing gun barrels of his friend Bill Cyples. “Jesus Christ, MacQueen,” said the sergeant, dumping the duffle bag onto the floor. “What a gloomy fucking hellhole to end up in! Who built this place, William the Conqueror?”

Patrick MacQueen was never so glad to see anyone in his entire life. He lay stupidly on the bunk and tears sprang foolishly into his eyes. His throat constricted and he couldn’t utter any sound except to gag. He lifted his right hand and the sergeant took it in both of his.

“I went to the hospital,” he said, “and they sent me here. That cock-sucking little sergeant gave me your gear to carry up those stairs. Christ, MacQueen, we’ve got to get out of this dungeon and have a drink somewhere!”

The Cape Breton Highlander opened his eyes then sat up with a start and bumped his head. “Shit,” he said. “I mean shit, Sergeant…oh, what the hell!” He rubbed his head and they all laughed.

MacQueen struggled to his feet. There was no furniture in the room and a gust of wind slammed the door. “This is the end of the road, Bill,” said MacQueen with a tight-lipped smile and a slight wave of his right arm. “This is where I get off!”

The sergeant squinted his eyes and shook his head; the muscles in his wide jaws twitched. “You’ve hardly got on yet,” he said. “And besides that, your brother is in town. He left a message for you at the hospital. He’s on his honeymoon at the Lord Nelson Hotel.”

“Holy Christ!” exclaimed MacQueen. “So, he’s done it! Can I get out of this dump?”

The Cape Bretoner rubbed his unshaven chin. “You can come and go until they pay you off,” he said. “I wouldn’t be here now if I wasn’t broke.” He accepted a cigarette from the sergeant and stood for a light. His uniform was crumpled and his hands trembled.

“What’s the matter with you?” asked Sergeant Cyples.

“I got flat feet,” said the Cape Bretoner. “Nobody noticed them for six months. They just sent me back from Newfie.”

The sergeant laughed, rifled into a trouser pocket and passed a two-dollar bill to the astounded Cape Bretoner. “The canteen is open,” he said. “Go and get rid of those shakes.” The Highlander reached for his glengarry.

“I’ll pay you back, Sergeant,” he said. “As soon as my discharge comes through—I’ll have lots of money then, I promise.”

“Forget it,” said the sergeant. He turned to MacQueen as the Highlander opened the door with a grunt and a cold draft swept through the room.

“Come on, Pat,” he urged. “Your brother must have some booze if he just got married! We’ll take a taxi and pay him a visit—I’ve never met any of your lofty family.” He grinned.

MacQueen felt anything but lofty, and he didn’t entirely appreciate the sergeant’s gentle sarcasm.

They searched out the washrooms and latrine. The sergeant brushed the private’s boots into a respectable polish, and he washed his right hand. “You can still salute,” he said. “Your brother will soon be an officer.”

The sergeant obtained an official, handwritten chit for MacQueen in case any military police might question them. “Stepping out with the buckoes now, are we, Sergeant?” asked the spit-and-polish martinet from his half door.

“Shove it up your arse,” said Sergeant Cyples, and they walked under the vault and through the iron gates. Large flakes of snow were gently drifting and the sentry from the Halifax Rifle Regiment looked into the sky with impotent disapproval. A yellow tramcar clanged, its myopic headlamp pale and barely visible in the dusk. Three taxis were at the curb on the opposite side of Gottingen Street. They hurried across, MacQueen’s dull greatcoat enlivened by a stark triangle of white bearing his injured arm. The snowflakes swirled about them as the tram passed, and a little blue flash was emitted where its rod connected with the wires overhead.

“Take us to see Lord Nelson at his hotel,” ordered Sergeant Cyples.

MacQueen’s spirits rose and he turned to his friend as they settled in the back seat. “To a comrade,” said MacQueen, with a surge of gratitude and emotion. The two young men shook hands with solemnity.

The Lord Nelson Hotel was located at the corner of South Park Street and Spring Garden Road, just across from the Halifax Public Gardens. It had a short, curved drive leading to steps under a large metal canopy. The foyer had a high, ornate ceiling and low leather chairs; wide steps at either end led to the dining room. Next to that was a large drawing room, which boasted a full-length painting of Lord Horatio Nelson himself, standing on the quarterdeck of HMS Victory at the battle of Trafalgar. MacQueen noted that one of his lordship’s arms was completely shot away, and he wore a patch over one eye. MacQueen found the peripheral glance reassuring. Surely Napoleon would have won that war, he conjectured, if they had discharged Horatio Nelson when he only lost his arm?

The lobby was teeming with officers and their ladies. Private MacQueen waited at the desk while a commander of the Royal Canadian Navy haggled over a telephone bill. The assistant manager, wearing a black jacket and striped trousers, came out of his little office to mediate the dispute. The desk clerk glanced with boredom at MacQueen. He checked a list and said, “Number 305—the house phones are over there.”

MacQueen painfully bumped a full colonel as he awkwardly turned from the desk. The sergeant was standing beside a pillar and admiring the ceiling. MacQueen raised the telephone and requested the room.

“MacQueen here,” came from the other end. It sounded odd.

“John, it’s Pat,” said MacQueen. There was a slight pause.

“Squirk!” said his brother. Pat winced. “Where are you? We’ve been calling everywhere.”

“I’m in the lobby,” said the younger MacQueen. “I’ve got a sergeant friend with me…”

“Bring him up,” said John. “I’ve got some Canadian Club, and there’s someone here for you to meet. Say about ten minutes?”

“Fine,” said Pat. “…and—er—congratulations.”

“Thanks, old boy,” said his brother. “We’ll see you in a few minutes.”

Private MacQueen hung up the telephone. The sergeant will have a stiff neck avoiding all these officers, he thought to himself. Sergeant Cyples was now admiring the balcony. MacQueen joined him, and they moved out of the traffic and around the pillar.

US SENATOR URGES BRITAIN QUIT read the headline of The Halifax Chronicle, displayed at the magazine and tobacco counter. The sergeant had been telling MacQueen about the process of loading the A Company onto the troopship, and that Tony hoped that he would soon rejoin them. He said that Sergeant Browne was slotted for a promotion and had gone on a training course for chemical warfare. He recounted that the colonel was in trouble over supplies to the camp, and that his own request for officer’s training was delayed or derailed somewhere.

“If you’re going to Bermuda,” said Sergeant Cyples, “I am going to ask for a transfer to the Winnipeg Grenadiers. I spent two weeks at camp with them before I joined the navy, and they are garrisoning Bermuda right now!”

MacQueen looked at his friend in surprise and delight. “That must be top secret information!” he exclaimed. “I won’t ask how you know it, but wouldn’t it be great if you could get there too? I sure know that place, and we could have a great time. I want to forget the fucking war for a while—put in for a transfer, Bill. You probably know a lot of them anyway!”

“I know the colonel,” said Bill Cyples wryly. “The trouble is that he knows me too!” They laughed and moved towards the elevator.

“My brother has some Canadian Club,” said MacQueen. “That and a new wife—what more could one ask?”

After a few minutes they headed upstairs; the sergeant moved to shield his friend’s injured arm in the crowded elevator.

The door to room 305 was ajar—and his brother stood in the middle of the room with a wide smile on his face. Dear John’s cat-and-canary smile, thought Pat as he extended his right hand in greeting.