Chapter 9:

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Over the next two weeks, Bella and Eddie fell into a routine. Bella kissed Eddie goodbye when she left before dawn to work at the Number Six Hospital near their flat. Sometimes, he groaned and tried to pull her back into bed, but he always wished her a good day and was almost always asleep again before she reached the door.

Bella had one afternoon off every Thursday, but every other day, she worked long shifts. Eddie fretted about how tired she was, but she never complained and she eagerly invited his lovemaking (frequently in the middle of the night, when one of them had woken from a bad dream). Nights could be gruelling, but they had each other for comfort. And he was comforted, especially one Sunday, when Bella took him to mass during her lunch break.

He'd long since lost his rosary in the stinking Turkish mud. Tears stung his sore eyes when Bella presented him with a new one, and at the church, he rose to thank God for delivering him from evil, tried to sing along with the hymns (that came to him as though he were listening from under water while someone blew a penny whistle in his ears), and recited Hail Mary's and Our Father's while counting the beads. He knelt humbly to repent his sins along with everyone else. And people shook his hand and promised (according to Bella- who later shouted information in his ear) to pray for him. He had asked the father when he might go to confession, and the man had taken pity on him and had led him to the confessional right away. Eddie had exposed his demons, the gruesome acts of war that haunted his dreams. Things he would never tell anyone but another soldier.

The priest had startled him by opening the door to the confessional, taking his hand and pulling him forth. Eddie had been terrified that he was beyond forgiveness and the man was going to throw him out of the church. When the father had embraced him and patted him on the back, Eddie was too relieved to be mortified about breaking down.

The priest had pulled him out of the putrid muck of the collapsing Dardanelle trenches. Eddie might never wipe it from his feet, but he thought perhaps it mightn't always strangle his soul.

The bandages came off his hand for good at the first day of the third week. There were dozens of black stitches in and between his fingers, around his palm and on the back of his hand. Bella deftly removed them. Soon, the flesh began to feel more normal. Although he was secretly horrified by the shape of the stump of his thumb, and the scarring from the stitches, everything worked. He retained a good deal of sensitivity in his fingers and the base joint of his thumb would still bend. Since he had large hands, he told Bella that he fully intended to play the piano again. Happily, Mama Landlord had a small upright in her parlour and promised he might use it whenever he wished.

Once the headaches from Eddie's concussion began to lift, Papa Landlord arranged to enter the Masens' lodgings at nine in the morning every day. He'd trim Eddie's beard with scissors, brush down his jacket, smooth down his collar and tie, lead Eddie and Private Barker down to the street, and wave goodbye to them.

By skimming his good hand along fences, lampposts, blocks of flats and storefronts, Eddie learned his way to the pub, the bakery, the park and the seaside. In return for a haypenny, one of the small neighbourhood boys was glad to escort the deafblind Old Sweat with the long black cane (i) anywhere else he needed to go.

Overall, Eddie coped very well with the changes in his life. He tried not to be anxious. When he was worried, he sought Bella's reassurance. Since she never gave him reason to question her love, he did his best to hide his insecurity. He became sunburnt and sleek, the red of his thick hair struck through with gold. Delicate skin covered the cuts on his face and hands. He could be found doing calisthenics beneath a tree in the park most mornings, to the delight of his devoted White Highland dog. The immaculate young officer in blue puttees was soon a familiar sight at the beach, where he parked himself on a certain bench whenever the weather was fine, to share a vanilla ice cream lolly with the dog. When the salt air stimulated his appetite, he'd whistle to the dog and head for home, to the promise of a kiss from his bride and a hearty dinner, taken in the company of their dear landlady. Then, Bella would return to work and Eddie would go for another walk, returning for tea with Bella when the tide came in.

One day, he awoke and the pain in his head was considerably better. A couple of evenings after that, he was at the pub enjoying some salty chips with malt vinegar, and the sharp hum in his ears stopped. Voices emerged as if he'd surfaced from drowning. They were tinny and sharp. Too loud. Everything surrounding him was raucous and rowdy and disorientating. He broke out in a sickening sweat, inclined to dive under the table and cover his ears even though his prayers had been answered.

"Sing the one about the roses!" a man shouted from somewhere behind him, making him flinch. The people in the pub settled down and began to sing a beautiful love song he hadn't heard before. Eddie wet his lip and cleared his throat.

"Excuse me?" he asked hoarsely. His abdominal muscles quivered. His voice wasn't right; it didn't sound like him at all. He wasn't sure he'd even spoken. He pressed his fingers against the tabletop to still their tremble, and called louder, "Excuse me!"

The legs of a chair scrawked across the floor toward him. "How are you today, Old Sweat?" a shadowy figure boomed in a familiar basso profundo. He'd spoken to Eddie before.

"I… The ringing's stopped. I can hear."

"What's that, you say? You can hear again?"

"Yes."

The man gave Eddie a hearty slap on the back that almost knocked him over. "Hey! Listen up, everyone!" he yelled. "This young officer's just got his hearing back, God bless him!"

Eddie was inundated with exclamations, huzzahs, congratulatory pats, friendly shakes of his shoulder, and warm handshakes. Someone set a pint down in front of him, first tapping their knuckles against his in the way blind men have of toasting when they drink. "Thank you," Eddie said softly.

"Yer welcome, gov. God bless yer!" a man with a reedy voice said.

Eddie took a fortifying swallow of the crisp light lager.

"We've been wondering about you, coming in here every day, all by yourself," the man with the deep voice said.

"My wife is a nurse. She works during the day and there's nothing to do at home."

"I'm Bill."

Edward offered his healing hand. "Eddie."

Bill took his hand and grasped it gently. "Well, Eddie, if you haven't been able to hear for a spell, I bet you have some questions, haven't you?"

Edward skimmed his fingers over the tabletop. "What day is it?"

"It's Saturday, mate." Bill pulled out a chair and joined him at the table.

"No, I mean the date."

"September sixteenth, 1916."

Two weeks before his birthday. Eddie sipped his beer and listened as the pub's patrons returned to their singing. The chorus was lovely.

Eddie shook his head. "I don't remember when I was blown up. It was freezing, though. Ungodly cold." A sensation of being held down by collapsing mud overcame him and he shuddered.

"Where did it happen?" Bill asked.

"Beaumont-Hamel."

"Beaumont-Hamel? It's nasty in the Somme."

"Yes."

"You're… wearing blue puttees."

His chest puffed up, he was so proud. "Yes, I'm from Newfoundland's Blue Puttees, First Regiment."

"Oh. Oh… blimey."

Eddie tensed and his smile faded. "What? Do you have news?"

Bill sighed and his voice lost its exuberance. "You'd best get home, Eddie. It'll be dark soon."

Eddie didn't say that his prowess in hand-to-hand combat, which he'd been able to teach his fellow sappers, had ensured his quick ascension through the ranks. "I'm perfectly safe on my own. Please tell me about my men."

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant, I must leave."

Panic clawed at his chest. "Please?"

Bill grasped his hand. "Lovely to meet you properly at last. Congratulations on your recovery, sir. I'll… see you tomorrow, I expect."

Eddie gave up. He would ask Bella. She would know. He finished his pint, picked up his cane and Private Barker's leash, and stood. "By the way, Bill, where are we? Brighton?"

The man's voice came from a distance. "Yes. And this is the Pump House. You're on Market Street."

Eddie saluted with his cane. "Thank you."

"God bless."

"Thanks. Same to you." Edward left the rest of his chips on the table. Although it was a sin to waste food, all he cared about was getting some answers. He stepped onto the bustling sidewalk and closed his eyes. With the rush of traffic and the chatter of people, nothing seemed familiar. "Let's go home, P.B."

Private Barker yapped and tugged on the narrow leash. Edward placed his healing hand on the wall of the pub, checked the ground in front of him with his black cane, and began to count steps toward home. By the time he got there, he was shaky and dry-mouthed. It had nothing to do with the traffic or the noise.

What if Bella didn't love him for real? What if she'd been dutifully affectionate, but actually resented taking care of him? He didn't think he could bear it if her heart wasn't true.

He opened the door to the boarding house and quietly ascended the stairs. Private Barker woofed softly.

"There's Eddie at last," a matronly voice said fondly from the foot of the stairs. "He's late tonight."

"Put the tea out, My Own," a man answered. "Our boy and girl will be starving."

Eddie continued upstairs, ignoring the people who could only be Mama and Papa Landlord. He felt his way to the second door down and let himself inside. He dropped the leash and heard Private Barker scamper over to his basket.

"Oh, thank God! I was starting tae worry." Bella hurried over and kissed him. "Where've ye been today, sweet man?"

"I just came from the pub."

"And smell like it, too!" She held his face in her hands. "What's wrong, love?"

She loved him. Eddie gulped down the lump in his throat. "I… don't know what I ever did to deserve you."

"Oh, God help me, I wish ye'd stop saying that! Yer such a pain in the arse." Eddie was speechless. Bella grabbed him around the neck and pressed their foreheads together. "Damn it tae hell, Eddie! Ye deserve the world. Ye're sae brave and good and kind and everyone loves ye. God gave ye tae me, remember?"

"I'm sorry, darling." He tucked her head under his chin. "You're right. God gave me to you and I should never question that."

Bella stiffened. "Eddie?"

He began to sing the chorus to the song he'd liked at the pub. "All I want is a cottage, some roses, and you.ii Won't you come back and make my dream true? I will build you a castle of love for your own, with lilies and roses in bloom…"

"That song is brand new," Bella said tonelessly. "I just bought the sheet music."

"Did you?"

"Eddie." She stroked the hair at his nape. "Eddie. Eddie!" She pulled him by the ears and kissed him all over his face. "Eddie! Eddie! Eddie! Ye can hear!"

"I can hear!"

Isobel squealed—splitting his head wide open. He laughed as she leapt into his arms and wrapped her legs around him. "Praise God and thanks be tae all the saints!" Impeded by her skirts, Eddie overbalanced and crashed to the floor. "Saint Michael!" Bella yelled toward the ceiling while he giggled, "Saint Joan and Saint Camillus, thank ye! Eddie! Eddie! Eddie! I have missed you so badly!" She kissed him all over as a rotund man with dark hair threw open the door and stared at them. Not that Eddie could see, but the man's black-as-coal eyebrows entered the room before the rest of him.

"Mister Biggins!" Bella announced in a thick burr. "Eddie can hear! It's a miracle!"

The man rushed out, his boots drumming on the wooden staircase. "My Own! Our boy can hear! Praise God!"

"Praise God!" a scratchy voice cried. "Praise God, Mr. Biggins! Our lovely boy will know us now! Oh, what a wonderful day!"

Bella remained overtop of Edward, her hands pressing down on his shoulders. "Ye maun come and meet Mama and Papa Landlord properly. Their name is Biggins. And Mrs. Biggins is expecting us for tea."

"I have a lot of questions."

"Of course ye do, darling man. We shall answer them all, best as we can. But let's go downstairs now and get tea." She tugged him to his feet.

He bit his lip. "Bella. I must know what happened to my men."

Bella was silent for a moment. "Of course, love." She patted his arm. "But aren't you hungry? We can talk after tea, I promise."

Eddie pushed away his irritation. "Bella." She tipped her head down. He didn't think she was going to answer. "Bella!"

"Twelve of you came back," she whispered. He beamed.

"Twelve of us? That's not as bad as I thought, out of twenty. Bad enough, but the way Bill from the pub treated me, you'd think—"

"Eddie. Not twelve out of your troop."

He stopped smiling. "The platoon? Twelve out of sixty?" That was rather more dreadful.

"Love, no." Bella stroked his cheek. "Twelve Blue Puttees. Altogether. Out of the First Regiment."

Impossible. "There are five hundred Blue Puttees—a thousand men in the Newfoundlanders."

"Were. By ten o'clock, there were sixty-eight Newfoundlanders left."

He couldn't feel his legs. Everything was spinning. "No. It's not true."

Bella placed her hands on his cheeks. "I would never lie to you, Eddie. I love you."

Stomach churning, Eddie took a step back, fists clenched. Suffocating mud crawled up his chest. He couldn't breathe. He hooked his finger into his tie and wrenched it free. Tore open the buttons on his collar. Somewhere, a warhorse was wheezing. Suffering. He wanted to put it out of its misery but he couldn't breathe. His heart squeezed painfully and refused to beat. All his men. All his friends, officers. Blood everywhere. Cap Stewart nodding solemnly to him before going over the top. Blood, rust, salt, gunpowder, smoke and shit. The enlisted fellows whom God had entrusted to Eddie fell like dominos. Mangled body parts. The wonderful, crass boys who'd nicknamed him and teased him about being a newlywed began to dance from the hits of the machine guns. Faces gone but screams issuing from bleeding throats. He put his hands on his knees and fought for air. The muck. He was buried in a year's worth of shit-laden muck!

"Eddie! Eddie, please!" Bella touched his head and he twitched away. He was shit. He should have stayed down in the muck. He was a bad leader and all his men were drowned, under the sodden, cold muck at Beaumont-Hamel. He should be with them!

"Eddie, breathe!"

They should never have promoted him. He tore off his summer uniform jacket and rent it in his hands. Bella shrieked blue murder.

The whizzbangs were falling all around him and the German heavy artillery was coming. Everyone was dead and he was going to be captured. Tortured. The Krauts didn't take prisoners. The air was simultaneously freezing and scorching but the bombs weren't doing their job. He would have to end himself. But he couldn't find his gun. That's how bad he was at being a soldier! Didn't even have his bloody bayonet! (iii)

"Lefty! Itchy! You've got to get us out! Don't make us go over, please!" Mash begged.

No wire, no explosives, no knife, no gun, no gas. But the Turks and Krauts were still coming. And within the trench, the enemy of Eddie's men was Eddie. He almost called a retreat but he knew anyone who retreated would be shot.

"On three, mate," Lefty said, looking at him. Tears made black runnels down his cheeks.

"On three." Itchy nodded.

"Please, Sir!" Ducky howled as Lefty counted down and blew the whistle.

Edward Masen was a disgrace to the uniform. He had not listened to his men. He had not stopped his best mate from taking them all over the top. Instead, he had gone over the top with Lefty and killed them all. And now, he was alone with the Huns and Turks. He snatched at his puttee and began to unwind the thick canvas strip. It was a bandage. It would get rid of the sodding red muck in his lungs.

"What are ye doing?" a feminine voice asked from far away. Clenching his jaw, he wrapped the puttee around and around his neck, and looked for a place to fasten it. He remembered there was a pipe on the right of the trench.

Someone grasped at his arm. "What are ye doing, Eddie?" He shook her off. "Eddie," she cried. "Help! Help!"

He tied the bandage to the pipe and heaved himself backward. All he could see was the gray gloom of the trench, but Johnny Turk was giving him an exhilarating tug of war. He couldn't breathe from the pressure on his chest, but his men were all around him, pouring into the breach. They would give the Kaiser's men what-for!

"Help! Eddie, listen to me! God, help! Help!"

The pain in his head vanished completely and the sun shone down on his head. He thanked God for the blessed relief from the constant suffering. The battle was over and he'd be imshee'd home to Bella.

"We'll get you out of here, Itchy!" a sapper with a shockingly red beard promised with a grin. Eddie smiled at the man, whose blue eyes twinkled brightly.

"I know you will, Lefty! Hey, Shorty! Bangers! Piper! Get your sorry asses in here and pull me out of this shithole! I'm stuck like a tart's arm up this Turkish bastard's asshole."

The men guffawed loudly and all their hands fastened onto his wool coat.

"We've got you, Sir!" Shorty said.

A knife flashed down in front of Itchy's eyes.

"I've got him, sweetie."

"Eddie!" Bella cried, taking him in her arms.

That's when the screaming started.

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i The first blind man to have used a white cane was James Briggs, in 1921. Before that, canes for the blind were generally black and very difficult for motorists to see. However, nobody got the idea to distribute easily-visible white canes to the blind until the 1930s, when France presented 5000 to their blind veterans. The first legislation granting protection and right-of-way to blind people carrying white canes was established in Peoria in 1930. After that, it became popular internationally.

ii All I Want is a Cottage, Some Roses, and You, by Geoffrey O'Hara, September 1916.

iii When I was perhaps nine years old, I liked to look at the tools in my grandfather's workshop, down the basement in the house he built and lived in for over sixty years. He was a carpenter and house painter. I did not realize until many years later that on a dusty shelf resided the bayonet he'd used in WW1. Nor did I realize that the strips of canvas wrapped around an old piece of cardboard that were on his bedroom dresser were puttees. And for many years, his scratchy WW1 winter jacket hung in the hallway leading to the back bedroom. I thought the wool must have been a misery to wear. I don't know what happened to those objects but I suspect they were sold or given away after his death. I do still have his camp stool, war ribbons (some of which were put on bars), his stripes and insignia, his service medal and two full sets of brass buttons—from the uniforms he wore in each World War.