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| Billy. |
Chapter Seven
Billy Tells a Joke
“There were these three horses standing in a shady spot in the pasture. One of them says, ‘in my racing career I won three-hundred-thousand pounds and six out of every ten races.’”
A ring of officers, many high-ranking, stood gathered around my bed, rapt attention turned to the quiet, yet confident authority of the famous Billy Bishop. Eyes shining, they watched his every move and gesture. With eyes surprising in their warmth and humour, a wispy little moustache, and not overly tall, yet he still had the audience in the palm of his hand, even me.
I felt a little ill, and I’d heard the story before. It was going around, actually. But it was worth hearing it again.
“Now, the second horse, he says, and I quote,” (titters and sniggering. I grinned as well.)
“The second horse says, ‘in my racing career I won thirty-four races in two and a half years, and every time I go to stud my master gets a hundred pounds for it…’”
Everyone appreciates this part of the joke, but they’re quieter now.
He holds them, and with a little sweep of his shoulders, he pulls in the boys out on the wings.
“The third horse says, and I quote – ‘in my nine-year racing career, I ran eighty percent wins, and made hundreds of thousands for my master.’”
The room is very quiet while he makes them wait for it.
“Then this dog that was laying in the grass gets up, and he says…and I quote –’”
The room breaks up in laughter, all the wounded men in the pallets, and the doctors, nurses, orderlies, swabbers, you name it. Me, too. I listened. Intently.
“He says, he says, ‘in my racing career I ran a thousand races. I lived at the seaside. (Even Bishop giggles here.) I won half a million pounds for my master.’”
All of us were laughing now.
“‘That’s amazing.’ Gasped the first horse.
More laughter.
“‘Yeah.” Says the second horse. “Imagine that. A dog that can talk.’”
Pandemonium reigns. Jolly old boys, red in the face, slap each other on the shoulder and look into each other’s eyes in that Did you hear that? look.
He beams down at me, flat on my back.
“Here you go, lad. God bless.”
The sound of pencils scratching away. Brilliant flashes. Whoosh. I was partially blinded. Melissa put the box down on the side table. With glistering eyes, she pinned the fucking thing on my pajamas.
The little ceremony was over. After a quick hand-squeeze, and a murmur I didn’t quite catch, thankfully my own CO went along. I had nothing good to say today. With a babble of voices, the gaggle of uniforms tramped off on some other morale-building mission.
Fuck them, anyways—
“Don’t we look like the brave, all-conquering hero, straight from the pages of The Boys Own Paper.”
She said it sweetly enough, but there was something deeper.
“Check the inscription, make sure that one’s mine.” I griped.
She had this look on her face.
Not sadness, exactly. More like a nice little whiff of anger. And pain.
“A useless, but highly-coveted decoration.” I noted. “Should get me a job at the bank, or maybe even as a fireman when I get home. If I can walk.”
“You’ll be fine.” She reassured me. “Here, sit up. Swing your legs over the side.”
“Yikes.” A wave of nausea swept over me.
Sweat broke out around my eyes and the room spun.
“Whoa, horsey.” I gasped.
“Are you going to be all right?” She asked.
I heard a voice from the other end, and Melissa turned to look.
“You don’t have time for that.” The voice called. “And he has a back injury.”
“I’m fine now.” I lied.
“I’ll come and talk with you later, Will.” She said. “But only for a little while.”
“Thank you.”
I didn’t have the gumption to give her any sassy talk right then. And for whatever reason, I’ll never know why, she bent over and gave me a quick peck on the upper left side of my forehead.
And then she swished away, back to her duties.
“She wants you, Bud.” Someone whispered hoarsely.
At first I ignored it. Perhaps there were tears in my eyes. I didn’t think Melissa was too well trained.
“You okay?” Someone on the next cot asked.
“I feel like a million bucks.” I told him.
And it was true.
“Well, you look like a piece of shit.”
And that was true, too.
That’s okay. Poor bugger only had about one arm and one eye left. A big, seeping, red-stained, inanimate lump of flesh and pain all wrapped up in miles of bandages.
He saw me looking. What else was there to look at?
“You should see the other guy.” He joked.
And it was probably true, too—
There are times when you just want to cry.
What the hell do you say?
“I have to go and find us a smoke.” I told him. “Don’t go away, I’ll be back.”
“A smoke would be lovely right about now, Bud.” He nodded.
What the hell, it ain’t going to kill you.
Neither one of us said it, but it was there all right…
He looked pretty chipper, for a man in his condition. Perhaps in a couple of days he would be evacuated to another hospital, one with better facilities. In some sense he was a winner. He would live. At least he had that much. I wondered about his family, his home, the town he was born in.
Or maybe he would be dead.
It’s hard to say.
Standing up wasn’t a problem. Walking wasn’t so bad. And as luck would have it, I was moseying down the aisle when I found a stick propped up at the end of a bed. Some officer’s stout walking stick.
“That’s the Colonel’s.” The lad on the bed said. “Take it. The bugger’s done for us.”
“Thanks Bud. Anything I can do?”
He shook his head.
The next man was a facial wound. The next man, burned unrecognizably.
Where the hell am I going to find a smoke?
“Where do you think you’re going?” A starkly indifferent female voice queried. “Get back in your bed.”
“I need a smoke.” I told the lady.
“Fine, fine, I’ll get you some. Lord, give me patience.” She muttered, swinging away with her cart.
My lower back hurt like hell. My legs hurt like hell. Head hurt like hell. Knee, a knife-jab of pain every time I bent it. Had a nice walk. Time to go back to bed. Turning around was the hard part. If you want something, fight for it. Here we go.
No one was going to see me fall down. That would upset the bastards. I hate everyone. I found my bed. I tried to compose my emotions.
"You're quite funny," she says.
“She’s going to bring us some from somewhere.” I told my neighbor.
I see him and it gives me a perspective. It is just pain. It will not kill me. I can walk. I am young. Shaky all over. Gently, ever so gently, I eased my way onto the bed.
Some men had beds, some had cots, some were on pallets. Some were on mattresses. Some were on the floor by the door. I think it had something to do with rank, or maybe someone took a minute and assessed their chances of living. Thank God I had a bed. It was a lot easier to lower myself into. Had a hell of a time, trying to put enough pillows under my upper parts so I could sit up.
Grit my teeth and wait. Soon it will be time for another injection, then most likely sleep, and then it will be tomorrow, a whole new day-full-of-shit. God, I could use a smoke.
“Got about thirty feet.” I told my new friend.
Finally she showed up. When I lit one for my neighbour, the pain was worth it.
Not that I wanted to see the gratitude in his eyes. I definitely didn’t want to show pity, sympathy or anything. I just wanted to give this one guy all the respect I ever had in me.
I was the God-damned luckiest guy in that tent. I know that now. I can’t describe to anyone, the emotional roller-coaster ride that results from being wounded, from being amongst wounded and dying men, to smell the smell. The smells.
To hear the sounds, the conversations, hushed and quiet. It took me a while. When revelation hits, she hits with a bang.
“Give me the damn thing. Prepare the next one,” or, or, “There’s nothing I can do here,” or, “Better send this one back outside.”
You don’t have to overhear too much to know what’s going on.
“I’m sorry, nurse, but there’s no hope…better if this one doesn’t…” And in the back room someone sobbing and crying for his mother.
“No. Don’t take it.” You heard that once, that was all you ever needed. “Not the leg.”
Not the fucking leg.
When an old man wakes up in the night, and he can’t get back to sleep. It’s not the trauma. It’s not the memory of pain. It’s not the terror or the fear, it’s not the uncertainty or the insecurity of our lives back then.
It’s the sadness, the bereavement, the loss. It’s grief.
There were a lot of men, well, boys, really. I sure wish I had been a little nicer to them when they were alive. They were good lads, after all. In any unit, there will be guys you don’t get along with. To see some kid, a fucking child…get killed and maybe you didn’t like him much?
It’s still a tragic waste.
Snuffed out in the prime of their lives. What a fucking waste. I never wore my medals in public until about twenty years had gone by.
Circumstances had changed. It seemed appropriate…but that’s a whole different story.
If an old man wants to wake up in the middle of the night and bawl his eyes out, try to listen to his story. He ain’t crazy. He’s just got a lot of pain still inside of him…and the rest of you can all go to hell. Guilt, too. He’s got a lot of guilt inside of him.
***
It was a cheery bright morning, and the man next to me was gone. Just gone.
Melissa never came around as promised. Well. She hadn’t actually promised. I wondered who was in the next bed. I wondered how far I could walk today. I wondered when they would let me out of there. I must have been half asleep when Melissa and Dr. Iago Winefahrt, a balding, heavy-set man in his mid-fifties arrived. Like any good doctor on his rounds, he had a professional look on his face.
A proper doctor never says, Shit, piss, fuck, or damn.
“Shit. Oh. There’s the lad. Now, where the fuck are we? Oh. Tucker. You’re going home. I expect you’ll be out of here in about a half an hour or so. Is your piss clear? You’re going to have a damn good time, too. I want you to fucking promise, right?”
He checked off a box on his chart, clip board held to catch the light.
“Yes, sir.”
I was looking at Melissa, drinking it all in.
She was avoiding this part of the hospital.
“You’ll get time to heal. Shit. Some physical re-habilitation. We have the best fucking doctors in all of England. A little time to heal.”
So.
The doc didn’t scare me, and maybe that was his problem.
“You’ll be coming back, son, don’t worry.” He added dryly.
He had a little twinkle in his eye. He hesitated, and Melissa was busy not looking at me, but fussing and bothering around with my dressings, which were quite fine. She poked and prodded in various ways and I tried to ignore it. But I also savoured every touch of her hands.
“Damn. I’ll say goodbye and good luck, then.” He said, with a quick slap at my shoulder, and then he went on to the next bed.
“Thanks, Doctor.” I called, but he really didn’t look back.
He probably had four or five hundred more patients in that one block. Maybe more.
That was the worst hospital I was ever in. There was no one to blame. A place of pain, fear and despair for so many people. A place with dead limbs sawn off and stacked up outside the back door.
“Will…” She began.
“Melissa.” I said in a slightly different tone. “I know what you’re trying to tell me.”
She was done now. She sat on the edge of the bed like mother when I was sick.
“Tell me a story.” I suggested.
She smiled and bit her lip.
“Well, for starters, I have a fiancé.” She said, with the hint of a blush creeping up her cheeks.
“Ah.”
Now I get it.
“I am so sorry.” I began.
She smiled, then chuckled a little.
“Some of the things you say.” She agreed. “But Will, we hear all kinds of things in here. You have nothing to be ashamed of at all.”
She paused.
“You’re quite funny, really.” She added in a burst.
Another awkward pause.
She was the best damn girl I ever saw, and did she love another man?
She was so busy. There was no time to think, to think what to say.
“Do you believe in love at first sight?” I asked.
“Oh, Will.” She sighed.
There wasn’t a whole hell of a lot more to say, was there? Giving my hand a squeeze, she stood up.
“Good luck.” That’s what she said.
I was hoping for something more. In proper English, I had been hoping for something—God knows what.
Maybe a tear in her eye, or a catch in her voice. Some hesitation perhaps. But no, she was too good at it. She’d seen all of my shit before, probably a long time before…
I was so young.
I prayed a lot in combat, quite a bit in practice flying. Constantly in training.
I never prayed for much before that. Not for any major thing, except my mother and father expected it. I never knew anything about God. Other than a quick, clean death once or twice, I really haven’t prayed for much since.
I prayed for a miracle. I loved her something bad. I lay on that bed and watched her walk away. She never even looked back and I don’t blame her. I bet she heard a lot of strange things in there. It was an awful lonely feeling.
It was just me and God, laying there all alone, waiting for the wheelchair brigade to move us out, and line us up with the rest of the shipment at the railway siding in the village.
END
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