Isle Royale (7 page)

The room itself was utilitarian, almost sparse. The wooden floor creaked under Collene’s feet. The walls were painted a sort of pale blue pastel that in the right light, like a dim cloudy evening, turned a sickly green. Each year she vowed to repaint, but other chores and tasks, the endless busywork required of living at a lighthouse, always seemed to take up all her time.

Collene moved closer to the bed. It was small, with a rusting iron frame that groaned at night whenever Collene or Clarence turned over. Sterile white linen was laid carefully over the sagging mattress. The only other furniture in the room included an oak dresser, with five drawers mostly reserved for Clarence’s uniforms and work clothes, and a rocking chair set under the single window. In the near corner, a rack was set up upon which was hung Clarence’ dress uniform and cap. Bright morning sunlight, filtered from a white gauzy curtain fluttering over the window, glinted on the uniform’s gold buttons.

Collene moved to the window and pulled the curtain aside. She gazed out over the grassy courtyard, but saw no one coming up the path. In fact, the entire lighthouse compound appeared deserted. Collene smiled, then turned to a wooden sea chest set at the foot of the bed.

After tugging open the chest and raising the heavy lid, Collene sat back and gazed for a moment at the contents. Her past stared back at her. Her wedding dress, neatly pressed and folded, occupied one corner. Next to it were various other articles of clothing, things she either no longer fit into or just plain didn’t wear anymore. Frilly underwear sat atop party frocks, a cloche hat, and a coat with fur collar and cuffs.

Collene dipped her hands into the clothing, peeling back a layer in the chest. Underneath were papers and forms, and letters by the score. She picked one up and gingerly opened the faded yellow envelope. It was a love letter from Clarence, written long ago during their courtship. She scanned the text, smiling in remembrance. How was it possible, she mused, that they had ever been so young and naive? She skipped to the end of the letter, where Clarence had copied a passage from “My Luve Is Like A Red, Red Rose,” by the great Scottish poet Robert Burns. Clarence had a weakness for poetry. For a working man with such a gruff exterior, it was an unexpected trait she found both charming and romantic. Years ago, he read to her up in the lighthouse, on starlit nights when the lake shimmered beneath them.

Collene’s eyes skimmed the verse:
“As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in luve am I, And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till á the sea gang dry. Till á the sea gang dry, And the rocks melt wí the sun! And I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands ó life shall run.”

Collene hurriedly folded the letter and placed it back in its envelope, then tossed it back in the pile. Pretty words, written long, long ago.

She dipped her hands in the papers, digging deeper into the chest. She felt around for a moment, then grasped something buried at the very bottom. She tugged, and her hand popped out again, this time holding a small stack of envelopes tied together with a thick blue ribbon.

Collene moved to the bed and sat, the bundle of letters held in her lap with slightly quivering hands. She bit her lower lip nervously, then carefully untied the ribbon. She picked up the first letter on the stack and held it in front of her, studying the faded envelope. The return address was from Calais, France, with a cancellation dated 1918.

Collene opened the envelope, then gingerly unfolded the brittle parchment inside. Long, flowing handwriting greeted her eyes. She smiled bitterly, brushed back a tear, then began reading.

Chapter Seven

F
ebruary 14, 1918, Calais, France—

Dearest Collene,

My love. How is it possible I find myself half a world away from you? Just yesterday it seems we were laughing together, you, Clarence, and I, three friends without a care in the world. And now, in the blink of an eye, here I am, a simple fisherman, fighting Britain’s war against the Germans.

How my heart aches when we are apart. Only the thought of coming home to you keeps me alive. The scent of your hair, your smile, the gentle touch of your lips—these things help me forget the foreboding and doom that are a part of everything here.

Praise God Clarence was passed over by the draft. To lose us both would have been unbearable. But at least, if he should be called up next time, he will fight in an American division. Things are not as bad for the Yanks as for us “Colonials.” When there is a merde job to be done, it is we who shoulder the burden. (But at least we are not with the ANZACs. The Australians have it worst of all. Remember Gallipoli?)

We Quebecois think this is a British war, and want no part of it. But I knew the draft riots in Montreal would do no good. How could I ever think Canada would stand on its own? When Mother England needs more men for the meat grinder, the colonies comply. There is no choice. My country called, and now I must do my duty. Canada is a slave to Britain, as I am now a slave to the army.

I have been assigned to a unit, the 22nd Battalion/5th Brigade of the 2nd Canadian Division. We are all French-Canadians, so at least there is some camaraderie to lift our spirits. Write to me if possible. I cannot say if your letters will ever reach me. In truth, I’m not even sure my notes will find their way to you. The supply lines and logistics are chaos here in France, and the censors are very strict. But many times letters get through unchecked. Please write. Your words will be a lifeboat in this sea of misery. How do you pass the time? What are you wearing at this moment? Has Superior frozen hard this winter? What of Port Arthur, our old stomping ground?

I leave in the morning for base camp in Étaples, a grassless field of sand holding 100,000 men. After ten weeks of training in England, I fear more mindless drills and routine. We are like cattle waiting in line to the slaughterhouse. If we’re to do battle with the Boche, let it be soon.

God knows how long the war will last, how long we must be apart. I swear I will return to you someday, Collene. Our wedding will be the toast of the North Shore. Clarence has already agreed to be my best man. Rely on him, Collene. Clarence will take care of you while I am away. He promised me this. (What I would give to be on one of our famous camping trips through the lake country, or even a simple walk on the beach. Have three people ever been such good friends?)

Take care, my love.

Jean

March 6, 1918, Étaples, France

My Dearest,

I used to believe that, in war, the strength to win was measured in courage and fighting spirit. Now, after suffering through training at this hellish holding encampment, I know the truth. We offer our bodies and souls for our country, yet our homeland gives us back only indifference, even hostility. There is no courage here. We are all passive sheep, doing as we are told. The driving force behind the army is brutality. Raw, naked power. Our drill instructors are not evil men, but they cultivate brutality in order for us to do their bidding, to form a “proper” army. They are both firm and loud, intimidating and menacing. We are driven by fright, our pride shattered, suffering constant humiliation and fatigue. There is no “individual.” Once broken, we are molded into their image.

This is how men become weapons of war.

Yesterday we shot a deserter. He had been caught in town in a brothel, hiding out. They marched him through camp, in chains and half naked, head bowed in shame. To my horror, I was chosen as part of the firing squad. I remember loading my rifle automatically, my mind not registering the task ahead. When I aimed my Enfield at the poor wretch standing there against the wall, I blinked with amazement as my gaze traveled down the length of the rifle’s blue-steel barrel to the face of the condemned man. I knew him! It was Jacques Billaud, from Port Arthur. Perhaps you remember him. He was a crewman aboard my fishing boat for a season before leaving for Montreal. And now, here he was in France, standing before a firing squad of his own people. He must have recognized me too, for a faint smile crept onto his lips. As he stood there trembling, his eyes bored into mine like shafts of bright sunlight. My hand shook, then I slipped my finger out of the trigger guard. I could not shoot my own countryman, and I damned well would not kill a friend. I would not.

When the order came to fire, I felt shock and amazement as the butt of my rifle jerked against my shoulder. I saw fire and a puff of grayish smoke pour from my muzzle, watched as Jacques collapsed, then slowly settled to his knees. His dead eyes stared straight ahead, looking directly into mine, it seemed. Then he fell backwards and bent at the waist, his legs doubled up beneath him, his face turned to the overcast sky.

Army training works well. I had accomplished my duty without even thinking. I had killed my first man, and it was one of our own.

I am only a little man. What can I do?

JL

April 14, 1918, St. Quentin, France

Dear Collene,

There is no word from you. Not one letter or telegram. Are you still there, Collene? I know much mail gets lost in the confusion. I do not even know if you receive these letters. Are you still waiting for me? Perhaps there’s no point, anyway, for I’m beginning to believe the world has truly gone mad.

This last week I’ve slept perhaps eight hours. I stay sane and awake by drinking a bottle of whiskey each day. I despise drunkards, but it is certainly helping me get through the horror of trench life. I have the whiskey smuggled to me here by the caseload to share with my comrades in the trenches. I’ve gotten quite good at smuggling. It is far simpler earning money this way than all those fruitless hours spent on the fishing boat back home, though I would give anything to be on that boat at this moment.

Our first day was tinged with excitement. At last, the war! After so many weeks of training, we were finally here. But first we came across a bad omen: a pair of French peasants alongside the road were busy crafting white crosses from wood scraps. Our NCO tried to make them stop, to hide the crosses from the men, but the peasants only shrugged and pointed in back of the small hut from which they worked. As we passed by, we saw a huge pile of crosses, ten feet high, waiting for the next assault upon the German lines. Some of the men were unnerved. I kept my gaze on the road, staring straight ahead, trying to concentrate on our destination.

Our arrival at the trenches was greeted by the thunder of some far-away artillery. The noise was loud and continuous. The men we relieved shuffled past like ghosts—gaunt, filthy, saying not a word. Puttees and surplus ammunition were discarded. Their uniforms were disheveled, their general manner unkempt, even slovenly. (I did notice, though, that their rifles were carefully covered to protect against the moisture. These were battle-hardened men who knew the priorities of war.) There was an air of resignation about them, as if they no longer cared about themselves, their country, their world. It was like their souls had departed, leaving only shells that walked blindly over the earth.

The landscape looked deserted to me. Men in trenches sitting around, eating, drinking, smoking. Sometimes a man would take a peek over the top of the trench with a periscope, but nobody was fighting. Overhead I could see observation balloons hanging in the sky. Occasionally, an aeroplane would buzz through the morning mist.

I set about doing odd jobs. Suddenly, there was a terrific boom as a shell exploded overhead. I was flung backwards for many yards. I picked myself up and laughed nervously. Nearby was a man with half his head gone. Next to him another man, an officer, walked down the trench line, his femur sticking out of his trousers, blood spurting in every direction. He seemed not to notice. Both men were quickly replaced, and I soon came to realize that this was a war of attrition, not glory and valor.

The filth and the mud and the squalor are indescribable here. Worse still is the cold, a bone-chilling iciness that creeps through the trenches in the dead of night. I wear long johns, thick socks, and even layers of newspaper under my sodden uniform, but still the cold seeps in. Boots freeze in seconds if taken off, and our beef stew rations turn to red ice. Some nights, I think I shall never be warm again.

We are all Canadians, and we take it as best we can. Our unit is the same that captured Courcelette during the bloody Somme Offensive, that took Vimy Ridge in the Battle of Arras. We’ve lost thousands, but still we serve God and country, all for the sake of a few miles of French countryside.

Yesterday, we went over the top. It is mostly a blur to me now. I remember waiting for the “rain of steel,” a rolling artillery barrage that softens up the Germans and hopefully blasts through the barbed wire in no-man’s land. I felt sorry for the Germans then. I know what it is like to live under the constant fall of shells. It destroys both body and mind. And there are so many different kinds of shells! After a few days in the trenches we became accustomed to each. Some go off with a crack, like a man hitting a golf ball. Others sound like a newspaper being torn in half. The big shells start with a head-pounding bang, then slowly arc across the sky like a whistling man on a bicycle. Then they accelerate and smash into the earth with a deafening roar.

After four hours of this, the order was given. I gripped my Lee Enfield and hoisted myself over the lip of the trench. After so many shells falling on the Germans, it was hard to imagine anything left living on the other side. I began my run with confidence. But then the man next to me was immediately shot back into the mud, a hole planted neatly between his eyes from some unseen sniper.

The dash across no-man’s land seemed endless; my feet were like lead, slipping and sliding in the muck. All around me, men screamed and fell to the ground. Explosions ripped through the air, and the staccato
tat-tat-tat
of enemy machine guns filled my ears.

When it was over, we’d taken our objective, the trench at Hill 56. I never fired a shot, though I do remember stabbing a German with my bayonet. It went in like butter, but the muscles and tissue gripped my steel blade and it refused to budge. The man stared up at me as I struggled to free my weapon. But my training came back to me. I made a half twist with the bayonet in proper army fashion, then jerked back and felt the blade come free. I do not know what became of that man. All I remember is the shocked look on his face as he sat there, his guts running into his cupped hands.