JACK NEEDED TO WALK. He was cold but he didn’t care. This time, he welcomed the feeling.
Shortly before he was shipped out to Halifax, he’d gone to Mass at his old church and found some comfort in the familiar rituals. But once at the Front, he hadn’t had much to do with the army chaplains. They had come in search of him, though—one of the flock, as one priest had said. Initially, he’d made his confession, taken the wafer and the penance, never a stringent one. No priest wanted to add to the hardships so many of the men were already suffering.
Today he was approaching St. Paul’s once again. Against the grey clouds and gathering gloom, the elegant shape of the cupola was comfortingly familiar. As he drew closer, he found himself singing softly.
O little town of Bethlehem
How still we see thee lie!
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep
The silent stars go by.
It was his favourite carol.
Were the people truly dreamless? What did that mean? He could barely recall a time when he’d had no dreams, although they seemed more like memories than dreams.
He sang, “O little town of Ontario, how still we see thee lie.”
A few people were scurrying into the church, and as the doors opened, a pungent waft of incense drifted out. Slight as it was, it made him cough. He’d always liked the smell of the incense when he was serving as an altar boy. He’d admired the priest, Father McKenna, too. They’d exchanged letters while Jack was in France, and the priest was aware he’d been wounded and was returning to Canada. He would be expecting to see him. He’d be expecting to celebrate Mass with him. But Jack couldn’t participate in the Mass without going first to confession.
He turned on his heel and left.
THE CHOSEN
I don’t understand why I was the one got through
And not you.
As far as vice and virtue go
We were about the same.
Although I thought you had the edge
In the goodness game.
You sent away for improving books.
You were the first to pet
The bone-thin dogs
Left behind in the villages we passed on the way.
“Is there anything you can say?”
I asked the padre.
“An explanation of some kind?
You supposedly being in the know.”
“We cannot see what’s in God’s mind,”
He replied.
“You must trust in the Divine Plan.”
A lot of blokes believe the shell’s got your name on it
Or it doesn’t.
If it’s your time, so be it.
I’ve seen men with their number
On so many bullets.
They ended up in pieces.
I suppose that’s considered certainty.
So if I go over the top will my fate find me?
Or if I stay here
At the bottom of this stinking pit,
Will the artillery do it?
“You’re being stupid,” says my pal.
“You can’t think like that.
Just keep your head down,
Dive low when you have to
And kill all the Krauts you can.”
“Is that considered a plan?”
I asked.