Chapter 11:

︻┳═一

"What's your name? Your Christian name?"

Itchy regarded Dr. Harris warily. He knew the name that Dr. Harris wanted him to say, but that man wasn't with them anymore. And Itchy was pretty sure that if he told Dr. Harris that the upstanding young man who treasured life and goodness (the only version of Eddie Masen that Itchy recognized) had died at Beaumont-Hamel when he got his men killed, Dr. Harris would pack him off to an asylum.

Although Itchy didn't know how to outlive his men, he was terrified of the asylum. Those places were hellish and he would be shut in a windowless room, unable to escape. It would almost be preferable to go back to the Somme and have no shelter at all. Of course, should he manage to get back there, he would get himself blown up straightaway so he didn't have to deal with the filth and the carnage anymore.

Itchy was tired of it all. "Just fuck off."

"Classy."

"Look, I may have been born with a silver spoon in my mouth, but one day in the Wipers was enough to cure me of that. Why don't you go talk to someone you can save?"

"Please tell me your name."

And why not? Harris had never met Eddie anyway. He wouldn't know Eddie from Adam. "First Lieutenant Anthony Edward Masen of the Blue Puttees, First Newfoundland Regiment."

Dr. Harris pulled his chair closer to Itchy's bed, but not so close that Itchy could see him properly. "Do you remember your name or are you simply parroting back what we've told you?"

Itchy averted his ruined eyes.

"You can talk to me, Lieutenant. I want to help."

"Have you ever seen men use scythes on wheat, Doctor?"

"No. I was born in London. Would you care to tell me about it?"

"Lewis G weilds a scythe and cuts down the blood-soaked wheat. Miles and miles of beautiful golden grass falls down in the odiferous mud."

"I want you to listen to me carefully."

"Yes?"

"Tell me where you are."

"In a nuthouse in Brighton."

"This is not an asylum, it's a hospital. I know you can get well, Lieutenant. Do you believe you're safe here? From the war?"

"Sure." But what did it matter if he were safe from the Huns? He couldn't outrun the Judgment.

"Do you know what happened at Beaumont-Hamel?"

The sky had been so blue. "The Huns mowed down the wheat."

"The Huns mowed down men."

Itchy swallowed and flexed his wrists against the restraints. "Obviously. Can I not fancy myself a bit of a poet?"

"Not if you want to get out of here."

"Hmm. Not sure that I do."

"This is a short-term facility. I don't want to see you end up in the asylum."

Itchy casually crossed his ankles. "You might send me back to the Somme instead. It's a madhouse."

"That's not very likely, is it?"

"I don't know." He wanted to say that the army employed all manner of dildos—most of them over the rank of colonel—but he didn't think it prudent. Getting himself shot for treason wouldn't do much for Bella.

"What do you remember about Beaumont-Hamel?"

"Nothing!"

"A lot of men died there."

"Men die everywhere and nobody bats an eye."

"Does that bother you?"

Itchy looked at Dr. Harris as though he were mad. "Should that not bother me, sir? I know the army doesn't place much value on low-ranking individuals but I should hope that nobody would count the lives of my—"

He stopped speaking abruptly.

"Your men? Nobody should count their sacrifice lightly?"

"No!" he snapped.

"Why would you imagine our leaders don't care?"

He huffed a laugh. "The Upper Brass doesn't like us to befriend the men, you know, in case they die. My platoon… was different."

"You loved the men. You came up through the ranks with them."

Bangers and Mash. Ducky. Poor Ducky. "They were the best boys…"

"Do you know they all… passed away?"

"They didn't pass away! There was nothing dignified or peaceful about it. They were slaughtered!"

"They were slaughtered."

"Yes!"

"All of them."

A great roar escaped him. "Yes! All of them except one!"

"Does that make you angry?"

Itchy's mouth dropped open. "Are you joking?"

"Answer."

"Of course it makes me fucking angry! What the fuck do you think?" A whimper caught in his throat. "All my boys! All my brave, brave boys! I don't know what to do without them!"

Dr. Harris rose and tentatively patted Itchy on the chest. "I know."

Itchy strained furiously against his bonds. "Do you? Do you, really? Can you imagine seeing your dearest brother's head fly off? Can you?" If only he could get loose, he'd pop this condescending bastard right in the nose!

"My dear fellow," Harris said over Itchy's writhing and cursing. "I am so, so sorry for your loss."

He stilled and shouted brokenly. "They were my family! Those men!"

"I understand. It is a terrible, terrible tragedy. My deepest condolences."

"I ordered them to die! I should have… I should have told them to run. Even if the Brass had shot me for treason, some of them might have made it out."

"There was nowhere to run."

Itchy screwed his eyes shut and howled.

︻┳═一

Someone was screaming again. He startled awake. His sheets were soaked through with sweat. He hated sleeping. It sharpened every memory. They said the pill would keep the horrors away but he didn't want pills. He blinked and tugged at the heavy restraint on his wrist. He was tied to the cot, but he couldn't understand why because he wasn't itchy.

Itchy…

Itchy's friends were all dead. Lefty, Shorty, Whipper, Bangers, Mudlark, Boomer, Struts, Dildo, Harpy, Ducky, Egghead, Winder, Piper, Flotsam, Mash… Even Cap Stewart was dead. Dead and gone, months ago. Gone without trace. Well, except for Dildo. Itchy knew where parts of Dildo were.

Itchy hadn't even been able to go to a single funeral. If there had been funerals. More likely, a huge memorial service had been held for all of them.

All of Newfoundland would be grieving. His mother would be grieving, too.

︻┳═一

He was lonely. He wanted his wife. His cot was cold despite the bedclothes. Blessedly, they were not woolens. He was in a large room, by himself, tied to the bedframe with buckled, tan leather cuffs. He was dressed, at least. Why was he still alive? Or… was he? Maybe he was in Purgatory and he hadn't realized.

Someone touched his face and he flinched. "Lieutenant, are you awake?"

"Bella?"

"No, I'm your nurse."

Itchy closed his eyes. The woman he loved had imshee'd him to an institution, after all.

︻┳═一

Bella stroked his hair. "Love, are ye awake?"

"Untie me."

"Oh, Eddie. Why did ye do it?"

He did not answer. He didn't know why he'd sent his boys to their deaths, either.

︻┳═一

Someone was singing sweetly. For him.

Bella. She was rubbing his wrist. "The trees prayed for the springtime so God gave the spring to each tree. My lonely heart prayed for someone so God gave you to me."

"Why are you here?" he asked tonelessly.

"Oh, Eddie. Because I love you, ye daft beggar."

He didn't answer. Eddie was dead, just as he should be. And Itchy was daft.

She repeated the chorus. "For every heart there is gladness when eyes are wet with tears. For every care there's an answer from One who always hears."

"The trees prayed for the springtime so God gave the spring to each tree. My lonely heart prayed for someone so God gave you to me."

His eyes were dry. Useless, and dry as his bones. He didn't want to care anymore; if there were any Divine answers, he couldn't hear one syllable of them.

︻┳═一

There was a man in the hallway outside his room. The way he walked sounded odd. Lurching back and forth past the open door, he was babbling nonsense.

"Shut up, sapper!" Itchy yelled, then, realized there were no sappers left.

"Oh, sorry," the man said, stumbling over. "Didn't know you could hear me talking to God. Hey… Mace?"

Mace was another name that didn't fit him anymore. "Who are you?" Itchy demanded hotly. The man bent closer. He was dressed in hospital blues and he moved oddly, his shoulder jerking backwards every few seconds. His wavy blond hair was unruly. Part of his left cheekbone was missing, but it wasn't a recent wound. His eyelid drooped over that eye. He wasn't pretty, but he wasn't gruesome to look at, either.

"Masen, is that you?"

Itchy's jaw dropped. "Hale?"

"It is you!"

"Fuck, I remember you as being far better looking."

"Sorry to disappoint, but I'm not a figment of your imagination. We've both been imshee'd out. How did you end up here?"

Itchy blinked. How had he ended up in the hospital? "I couldn't stop scratching. Uniform's wool. I'm allergic."

"Holy shit. They throw you in here for that?"

"Yeah."

"Who's the girl?"

"My nurse. The matron had them debride my cock for gangrene and now they've tied me up so I can't find out how bad it is. Will you… check for me?"

"Uh, yeah, if you're sure you want to know."

"Wouldn't you want to know if there was nothing left of your manhood?"

Hale sighed. "Okay." With shaking hands, he lifted the covers and tugged Itchy's pajama pants open. "Looks normal to me, buddy."

"Is it?" A strange shiver of hope passed through the dead man. Brief thoughts of a woman he knew. But she didn't belong to him anymore.

"Yep." Hale covered him up again. "So, why are you really here?"

"Where is here?"

"The looney bin."

Itchy thought about it long and hard. "They're all dead. Every single one. Everyone I knew. Half the boys in my country, it seems, got the kybosh in one day."

"I'm not dead," Hale said. "Cap's here, too."

"Cap McCarty?"

"Yep, but he's not himself. Goes blank most of the time. He can talk, but he doesn't."

Itchy wished he could see Hale better. "Are you as much of a mess as I think you are?"

"Hah! I am, indeed. I'm more of a mess than shows on the outside, would you believe?"

"Well, you're better off than I. I'm dead."

"No, you aren't."

"I… died inside."

Hale sat on the edge of the cot and growled almost playfully in his face. "Welcome to the club. Who killed Cock Robin?"

The familiar tune made Itchy smile in spite of himself. McCarty had sung those words in exactly that manner, so many times, and the boys had answered. Itchy drew breath for the first time in days and responded in sepulchral tone. "I, said the Hun, with my machine gun, I killed Cock Robin."

Hale's face wrinkled up into itself. "All the pilots who were there said fuck it, we will chuck it, when they heard Cock Robin had kicked the fucking bucket."

"Who saw him hit?" Itchy…Mace demanded. In the summer of 1914, when Mace and Jazz were brothers, First had passed the song from man-to-man around the campfire while eating fried sausage and potato hash.

Hale… Jazz blinked. "I, said old Fritz. I saw him hit and I saw him fall in bits!"

Jazz and Mace sang the chorus together. "All the pilots who were there said fuck it, we will chuck it, when they heard Cock Robin had kicked the fucking bucket."

"Who saw him die?" Jazz asked.

"I," Mace answered. "I, said the spy, with my beady eye, I saw him die."

They finished the song together. "Then all the pilots in the air went a-strafin' and a-bombin' when they heard of the death of poor Cock Robin; when they heard of the deathof poor Cock Robin." (i)

"Why are you here, Mace?"

His smile faded. "Eddie's dead."

Jazz got close to his face. "You're Eddie."

"Nah. Eddie died with the Newfoundlanders."

"Who's the beauty who visits you, then? Tall and curvy, with soulful brown eyes and dark hair."

"Bella." He wet his lip. "Isobel. Eddie's wife. I don't know why she comes to see me."

"Oh, I get it." Jazz rolled his eye. "You're delusional."

"I am not delusional! Eddie is dead! They're all dead! None of us—" he caught his breath.

"None of us?"

"None of us made it back from Beaumont-Hamel."

Jazz whistled between his teeth. "The Somme was a bitch."

"The Somme was a filthy, disease-ridden cunt!"

"Yeah."

Itchy looked at Hale mistrustfully. "Wait… You were in the Wipers, not the Somme."

"They moved us out. We were in Pozières at the first of September."

"I thought it was September now."

"It is."

"How can you be in Blighty already if you were in the Somme at the first of the month?"

Hale pinched him on the arm.

"Ow! What the fuck was that for?"

"I'm not a delusion, you sap!"

"You must admit it's unusual for anyone to get to Blighty that fast."

"September's a long month."

Itchy grimaced. "I'll say."

"They want Cap back and they seem to think I can help with that."

"Can you?"

"Doubt it…"

"You seem to have misplaced part of your pretty face, chum."

Hale laughed. "Sniper got me last year just after you left us. Didn't stop the Brass from sending me back. (ii) Probably thought I would scare the Krauts away. Woooo!" He wiggled his fingers at Itchy, who wrinkled his nose.

"You're not that scary."

"Are you blind, smartass?"

"Well, close enough. Close enough to be a goldbrick." He strained to see his companion. "Why are you here?"

"I'm not fit for polite company."

"Why not?"

Hale frowned. "Why are you tied up?"

Abruptly, missing bits of the puzzle clicked together. He knew the reasons but he wasn't sure he wanted to share them.

"I'm here, trying to save myself and Cap…" Hale said. "And the rum break is, I want my life back and that's not going to happen."

"What do you mean?"

"After I got shot in the Wipers, my… my dad came to see me in the hospital. He took one look at this lovely mug, turned white and left Blighty. I haven't heard from any of them since."

"Because you got injured? That's awful!"

"I'm losing Cap and he's all I've got left. I could use another brother, Mace. I have lost enough. Now, fess up. The only reason the quacks strap officers down to beds is that they're a danger either to themselves or others. All the other crazy Brass bastards are out issuing orders that get PBIs killed."

Itchy couldn't look at him. "That's what happened."

"What?"

"I followed orders. My boys died. Tried to top myself. The doctor's scared I'll do it again, I s'pose."

Hale was quiet for a minute. "Will you try it again?"

"Likely."

"Why?"

"I don't deserve to be here."

"Says who?"

"All my men. All my friends are dead."

"I'm not dead."

"You don't like me. I drive you crazy."

"I wouldn't have given you such a hard time if I'd known what your problem was. Why the fuck didn't you tell anybody you were allergic to wool?"

"I was under age. I was afraid they'd ship me home. Sad sack of shit, wasn't I, eh? Didn't want to be sent home like a naughty baby. I preferred to stick around and lead a bunch of fine men to their deaths. Men who wouldn't have followed me if they'd known how much younger I was than all of them."

"How old were you?"

"Truthfully?"

"Yeah."

"I was fifteen when I came over with the First Canadians in April of last year. I'll be seventeen this month."

"Fuck, Eddie!"

"Yep."

"But… you're an officer!"

"Of course. You know what they say about shit."

"What?"

"It floats."

"You are one sorry sack of shit."

"Yes." He laughed and wished he could scratch his nose. "They only promoted me because the goddamned Turks had killed off all the experienced officers. Bella was right. She didn't want me to go."

"You might not see it, Eddie, but you have a shot at a new life. And I don't."

"Sure you—"

"I can't even walk around a hospital without scaring somebody. But you have a lot going for you, Eddie. You lived and nobody's going to scream at that pretty face if you go out in public. A lot of people worked fucking hard to ensure you made it home to your beautiful wife. You can start over. It might not be the same but it can still be good."

"I suppose..."

"Isobel. Your wife. You're hurting her."

"I would never hurt her."

"She leaves here every day, crying her eyes out."

Itchy began to pout. "She'll be better off without me."

"The nurses say you won't talk to her."

Anger prickled along Itchy's spine. "Why are you and Cap in the looney bin, Jazz? They shipped you back here pretty fast."

"Cap and I can't get over it."

"Over what?"

Hale leaned back against the headboard, which meant he was sort of resting on Itchy's arm. Itchy found he didn't really mind. At least Hale was warm, even if his tremors did jiggle the cot.

Hale cleared his throat gently. "Haven't been able to talk about it."

"Try."

"When we hit Pozières, Cap, Yorkie, Crow and I got lost. Separated from First. We got stuck behind enemy lines. Hid out in a collapsed trench. There was nothing to eat for days. And then, during the fighting… Crow stepped on a mine."

"I set landmines, you know," Itchy said mildly. "All over the Somme. Hundreds of them. When men blow up? Pow. They disintegrate. They become shrapnel. I have bits of a man in my eyes. Not a Turk, one of my own men. I watched him shatter. That's why I can't see. It's my penance for being a monster. I'm going to carry him with me forever because I didn't value him."

"Yeah. Crow died. And we were so hungry…"

Eddie pressed his lips together. "I've heard of that before." (iii)

"I-I-I am a monster!" Hale began to sob and choke. "And the next day, First Unit took sixty yards and we were back where we belonged, with plenty of food and rum, and Yorkie put his gun in his mouth and went west. And now Cap and I can't eat!" He leaned over the side of the bed and retched, and retched, and wept, until he was exhausted.

Eddie shut his eyes. Hale lay down with his back to him and whimpered. Eddie closed his fingers around Hale's wrist and Hale took hold of his hand.

"Jasper, you did what you had to do."

"Oh, right!" he rasped. "I'm supposed to forgive myself for being a monster when you won't forgive yourself for following orders! You really are delusional."

"Maybe I am. Maybe I shouldn't take the blame because my superiors gave me too much responsibility."

"Fuck, Eddie. The Brass has sent a lot of men to die. Not like you could choose not to obey your orders."

"That's true."

"Unlike me. I chose to pretend my fellow PBI was a can of bully beef. Nobody forced me to."

"Yeah, that is disgusting."

Hale started to chuckle. Eddie tapped Hale's shoulder with his forehead. "What did it taste like?"

"Horrible!" Hale laughed, long and loud, shaking the cot.

"Damn. All that guilt you're saddling yourself with, and the poor bastard wasn't even tasty."

︻┳═一 ︻┳═一 ︻┳═一

i The Soldiers' Songs of WW1 (unlike War Songs and Patriotic Songs) are threatened with extinction. They were considered so obscene at the time that very few people recorded them. Even today, some scholars insist that they are too lewd and foul to preserve. The Western Front Association has curated a small collection of lyrics that you can read online. .

ii If a job at the front could be found for a man who was disfigured or disabled, he would be sent back. For instance, if a man lost a hand, he could serve as a sentry even though he couldn't use a weapon. If a man's war injury prevented him from working in his traditional job, training for a job within his scope was provided. That might include education for a man who had to change careers. Every cost of retraining and rehabilitation was covered. Every effort was made to ensure disabled soldiers felt useful and respected. Sadly, many civilians were frightened of disfigured men and some of their relatives even disowned them or hid them away. However, the official line was that these soldiers deserved all respect and honour for their sacrifices.

iii It was rumoured in both World Wars that starving men cannibalized the dead. For the most part, soldiers were well-fed and did not need to resort to such horrors. It did, however, make for wonderful propaganda. The strongest rumours centered on the Army of New Zealand. Some bright German propagandist circulated the rumour that the "Maori-descended" New Zealanders consumed their prisoners of war. Rather than inciting the German soldiers to believe that those soldiers needed to be eradicated, it scared the crap out of them—doing the New Zealanders a wonderful favour. They were delighted to tell the enemy they were cannibals. Often, a sign would be put up above their trenches with a message like Welcome to Cannibal Camp.