War of the Eagles (18 page)

“Frank,” the other officer said quietly, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I want you to give me the guns and pro–ceed to the next house. Leave this matter with me.”

Frank hesitated.

“Frank, unless somebody added two stripes to your shoulder when I wasn't looking, I still outrank you.

Please move on,” the officer directed.

Frank handed over the weapons, turned on his heels and left. We both watched him proceed to the next home, knock on the door and be ushered inside. We turned back to face each other.

“Where do you live, Jed?”

“Down the coast. The next village towards town.”

He nodded slowly. “That's a Tsimshian village, isn't it.”

“Yeah.”

“And you live there, but you're not Tsimshian.”

“I live there. My mother is Haida.”

“I see. And can you explain to me why you're wearing a Canadian army jacket?”

“It was given to me by the major … by Major Brown.

He runs the camp and my mother is the cook. I do some hunting for them.”

He nodded his head again. “Here, take these,” he said, handing me both my rifles.

I slung them both onto my shoulder.

“Go home. This isn't a good place for you to be.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Come, I'll walk you to the edge of the village, so there aren't any more difficulties if you're seen by an–other officer.”

He fell into stride beside me.

“I don't suppose you'd like to explain to me why, if you were going home, you were headed across Sikima away from your village.”

I couldn't think of any lie to explain that.

“That's all right. Let's just let it remain one of those little unexplained mysteries.”

He stopped as we came to the line where the path emptied out of the forest and into the village.

“And Jed, I have to apologize for my partner. He usu–ally isn't that way. This is a very difficult job and I think we're all on edge. There's not a man in my detachment who thinks this is right.”

I think he read my questioning gaze.

“We don't write the laws, only enforce them. Take care.”

He walked back into the village and I headed for home.

.13.

Between the rain and the chill in the air, it was a miser–able day. Tadashi and I had tramped mile after mile, and hadn't found anything. Heck, I hadn't even caught a glimpse of anything. I told Tadashi that the animals were all too smart to be out in weather like this. It also had to do with Tadashi. He made so much noise when he moved, he could scare away dead animals.

Tadashi wasn't allowed to carry a rifle anymore. This didn't make much of a difference since he hadn't ever managed to hit anything before. He came along to help spot game and we split the money for each kill. He didn't feel comfortable with this arrangement, but this was the only money coming into his home now.

The last two weeks had been hard for the Japanese. They weren't allowed to leave their villages without permission. This meant no school for the kids, work for the men or even trips to Rupert for supplies. Tadashi had permission from the major to be with me anytime I was at the base, but the major warned me to keep Tadashi close at hand and insisted that he only work in the kitchen and not out front serving. There were always new soldiers and visitors around who wouldn't necessarily understand Tadashi being on the base. And of course, people like Stevenson who never did think he should have been there in the first place. At first I was upset about these restrictions, but my mother explained how the major was sticking his neck out, al–lowing Tadashi there at all.

My rain poncho had kept most of me reasonably dry. There was a line on my pants at the point where the pon–cho ended, and I was soaked from there down into my boots. My feet were the worst. A couple of times I'd been sucked down into a bog, and with each step I could feel the water slopping around between my toes. All I could think about was dry socks and a big cup of hot coffee.

The camp was still at some distance, but I could hear the sounds of the chain saws reverberating off the trees. I whistled for Tadashi and he turned in my direction. I signaled him to come over. We weren't going to find any game now.

Silently he fell in beside me. The silence didn't sur–prise me. Not that Tadi would ever talk your ear off, but he hadn't said more than two dozen words all day.

“Not a good day,” I said trying to start up a conver–sation.“Nope. Seen better.”

“How's your family doing?” I hadn't been to his village since the same morning the RCMP were there.

Tadashi hadn't invited me and I didn't feel right going there without an invitation right now.

“Okay I guess … different for different people.”

This held promise of an actual conversation. “What do you mean?”

“My father doesn't want to talk about it. He leaves the house every morning like he's going off to fish. He goes down to the storage sheds and works on refitting the boat and fixing the nets.”

“I guess that's pretty smart, getting ready for next year's fishing season.”

“But the boat was already put away, ready for next year and the nets didn't have any holes anyway,” Tadashi explained.

“I guess it's hard for him to just sit around. And your grandmother?”

“Even stranger. She seems almost content. She keeps muttering ‘shikata-ga-nai,' which means ‘it can't be helped.' She says things could be worse, and at least we're together. That's how all the Issei, the older people, are acting. It's no wonder the whites can't understand the Japanese, I can hardly understand them myself.”

“It'll change,” I offered. “They can't make you stay in the village forever.”

“Nope, that's for sure. Course I've heard rumors they might make us leave our homes.”

“Come on, Tadi, you can't believe everything you hear. They can't make you leave your homes. This is Canada … a democracy. That's just crazy talk.”

“Maybe … but is it any crazier than what's already happened?”

I wanted to answer, to reassure him everything would be okay, that everything would go back to the way it was, but I couldn't.

Just ahead we were coming up to the first teams of men from the camp. They were in pairs wielding gigan–tic two-man chain saws. This was dangerous and dirty work. Surrounding them was a cloud of sawdust filling the air, coating the men, the machine and the ground with a thick layer. The men were firmly anchored in the ground, almost buried up to their knees in mud. The mud was everywhere. Over the past few days other crews had taken away all the underbrush and now the rain, which hadn't let up for what seemed like forever, had turned the ground into a quagmire.

I couldn't help but smile when I looked at the first two guys, joined together at the chain saws. They were completely covered with grime and mud and sawdust and sap and sweat and oil. The oil was from the chain saws. They had to spray it on the blade as a lubricant and it flew off as they worked the saw back and forth. The oil was like the glue holding everything else in place. Filthy didn't even come close to describing them.

I could see them opening their mouths, yelling at each other, but couldn't hear anything over the roar of the saw. Then, the sound of the chain saws drifted off, chortled and echoed away to nothing. One of the guys yelled out his message and then, realizing he was no longer com–peting with the saw, lowered his voice to a near normal level. At that very moment they noticed us. It was funny but it seemed like the roar of the chain saws hadn't just masked their hearing but had put blinders on their sight. Now that it was quiet they could see again.

“Hey, guys, any luck today?” asked one. His name was Patterson. He was a friend of Smitty's. Friendly, but quiet.

“No luck,” I said. “Just hope we didn't catch pneu–monia.”“Too nice a day to die,” Patterson answered.

“Nice day?” Tadashi asked.

“Not yet, my young friend, but it will be,” he winked at his partner.

“That's right,” added his friend, a guy named Varga.

“There's still time for this to become a great day.” I didn't know Varga too well; he'd been assigned to the camp only a few weeks before. I looked at them both, wondering if they were insane. Maybe the chain saw had vibrated their brains a little too hard.

“Tonight's the night,” Patterson continued. “Big dance down in Rupert.”

“Dance?” I said.

“You know, putting your arms around a lady and moving to the music.”

“Ah, ladies,” Varga sighed, “wonderful, delightful ladies.”

“The local Red Cross has arranged for a delegation to come up from Vancouver. I heard the band is an all-female orchestra,” Patterson added.

“Enough, enough already, a female orchestra,” Varga groaned. “We gotta get outa here. Isn't it time for us to call it a day?”

Patterson looked at his wrist and then realized all he wore was a thick layer of mud. “Forgot I'd taken it off. If you wear a watch while you're using one of these things, it just vibrates the heck out of it. Jed, you got the time?”

“It's almost five,” I replied.

“Five o'clock!” Varga yelled. “Let's get back to the base.

We have to get cleaned up, fed, dressed and into town!”

They both worked to pull themselves away from the grip of the mud. There was a terrible sucking sound as their legs pulled free.

“Damn!” yelled Patterson.

“What's wrong?” Varga questioned.

“My boot,” he moaned. “My boot. I've lost it down there.” Patterson pointed down to the sea of mud, then held up his left foot which was covered by only a muddy sock. Varga started to laugh and I couldn't keep a smile off my face.

“This isn't funny. Help me look.” Patterson stood on one foot, balancing like a muddy flamingo.

“Help?” Varga answered. “No way I'm sticking my arm into that mud. Might come up short a finger or two. We don't have time for this. Come on, let's get going.”

“Get going? How am I going to get going without my boot?”

“Mike, how much dirtier can you get anyway? I'll carry the saw and you hop back to camp.”

Tadashi pulled his empty game bag off his shoulder.

“Here, put your foot inside this.”

“But what about my boot?”

“It's history, forget it,” Varga advised. “You told me they once lost a jeep in this mud, so I don't think there's much chance of finding your boot. Consider it a casualty of war.”

“But my boot …” Patterson muttered again.

“Your choice. Spend the night here in the dark, in the rain, in the mud, looking for a stinking old work boot, or, come to the dance … clean clothes, drinks, good food, soft music and … wonderful women. You remember women, don't you, Mike? They're a lot like men except not as hairy, they smell better and …”

Patterson hopped over and took the game bag. “Thanks.” He put his foot inside and then wrapped it around so it would stay in place.

The four of us made our way towards the camp. Each group of men we passed stopped working and joined in with us. Soon Tadashi and I were in a small mob of happy men. All the conversation was about the dance. I never figured these guys liked dancing so much.

By the time we reached camp, there must have been fifty guys trailing behind us. Fifty truly filthy guys, cov–ered in the remains of their work efforts. Walking at the front of this pack, all I needed was a flute to make me look like the pied piper of dirt.

There was another cluster of men who'd already beaten us to camp. They were standing around by the showers. They looked identical to the group I was with. Getting closer though, I could tell there was one big difference; they weren't happy. They were angry. There was pushing and shoving and swearing.

Varga was one of the first to meet the crowd. “What's going on here? What's the hold up?”

Different people mumbled different answers, and then Murdock stepped out of the crowd. “I'll tell you what's happening,” he thundered. “It's those damn of–ficers! Not one of them has been working a spit all day and now they're taking the showers. Been in there, using up all the hot water. We pounded on the door and they told us to leave or else!”

Murdock had been busted down from an MP and a sergeant to a lowly corporal when the major found him in the bootleg business. Major Brown had got suspicious when every week Murdock's mail contained a dozen loaves of bread. The major had a loaf broken open, “by accident,” and found a mickey of booze buried away in the middle.

This was how Murdock was getting his supply. His brother back in Toronto bought a bottle for two bucks, stuffed it in a loaf of bread for safekeeping and mailed it to Murdock, who sold it for twenty-five dollars. After he found that first bottle of booze, the major had sent for both Murdock and George Star. The rest of the loaves were broken open in front of them. George got to see the major keep his word, and Murdock got to see his liquor and his stripes being washed down the drain.

Since then, Murdock had been even meaner than before. Even more than the loss of money or rank, I figured he just missed the chance to beat up on people. Not that he still didn't do that whenever an officer wasn't around, but he just couldn't do it as often. He was like a dark storm cloud, hovering over the base, causing trouble of one sort or another.

“What right do these officers have to take all the hot water,” Murdock roared. “The way we're covered with filth, we're the ones who need the hot water to have any chance of getting clean.”

The crowd of men had gotten pretty quiet, listening to him.

“Do any of you jokers think you have a chance of getting close to a lady tonight if you can't get close to some hot water and soap first?”

Now the quiet was broken as men started to yell in agreement or mumble or talk to themselves. A voice, I don't know whose voice, broke through. “What can we do?”