The Hero Read online

  She glanced sideways to see Eric stop and look at her, and then break into a big smile. “Oh Raine, I’m so happy for you. Is he good to you?”

  “Good to me? I’d say! Gave me two beautiful children, and I help him with his work, too. You know, in the five years since you left, we took advantage of the war and got ourselves a little business.”

  “Oh yes? What kind?”

  “Well, you know them haversacks you fellas had in the trenches? Sorta carry them round your neck and they sit on your hip? Well, they take a pile of sewing, and we figured out a way to get farmers’ wives to work at home on that there canvas, and we made a pretty good go of it. My Edmond, he’s real smart.”

  “But I bet it was you who talked to the wives...”

  “Yep, and I collected the bags and I gave out the pay; good fun... We made us lots of money, as you can imagine.”

  Eric shook his head in amazement. “Two children, too! How wonderful, Raine. Where are they now?”

  “Left with my storekeeper in Bonaventure where we got off the train. He and his wife were so happy to see me, they offered to look after them while I came down here. I was hoping I’d find you and we could go together to see my folks. When I kin see their reaction, maybe I’ll come back tomorrow with the children. He lent me his horse and buggy to come down. People are so nice to me.”

  “As they should be, dear Raine.”

  “And you, Eric, what about you?”

  Eric shook his head, and did not reply at once. Finally, he mumbled, “Can’t talk about it, Raine.” They walked on in silence. “I guess I’ve been affected... Well, I don’t do much around the barn, or help out enough on the farm.” He brightened. “But you know... I met someone, too. During the war, on leave in England.” He glanced at his companion. “I even can’t stop thinking about her.”

  “I know what you mean...”

  But then as they reached the brow of the hill, Raine stopped short. Below them lay the Hollow with its pig pasture, its cleared meadow where cows grazed, and back beyond, a tawny forest of dying leaves, some still orange, mostly drab browns interspersed with the rich green of spruce, and lighter green of cedars by the brook that wended down to the millpond. To its right stood the greying timbers of the hard-working sawmill of Eric’s brother-in-law Joe Hayes, married to his sister Molly. He winced at the whine of the saw like a distant Jack Johnson, starting high and dropping, flashing him back for a moment to those shells raining down on the Artillery.

  Raine took a few steps toward the edge and stared at the three shacks on the opposite bank. Half clothed children ran around outside under washing flapping on a line.

  Eric studied Raine, a solitary but stylish figure as she stared, transfixed, at the site of her humble beginnings. Neither moved for a long time.

  Suddenly Raine turned. “I can’t! I just can’t go down, Eric. You’ve got no idea —”

  “I think I do, Raine.” He turned to follow as she hurried away. “How could I forget bringing you back an apple or a sandwich? And then finding out how they treated you. How often I prayed to the Good Lord, when I was training and later in the firing lines, that you would escape safely.”

  “Just like I prayed for you, Eric.” She glanced over her shoulder. “But I ain’t comin’ back here no more. Never again.”

  They walked on in silence for a time, and then Raine said, “And what’s her name, this lady you met in England.”

  “Rene, short for Irene. (but pronounced Reenee) Funny. A bit like your name.”

  Raine smiled. “Do you write each other?”

  “No.”

  “But Eric, you must have been back home a while now? When did you get here?”

  “In March this year.”

  “And you didn’t write?”

  Eric shook his head.

  Raine stopped. She looked at her companion, handsome, but showing the ravages of war in his eyes and on his face. A scar where a piece of shrapnel had entered his cheek still glowed red. “What do you mean you haven’t written? Don’t you care? You said you couldn’t get her outta your head.”

  “Yes, but...”

  “But what, Eric?”

  “Well, you see, Raine, she’s ... well, she’s kind of rich. Out of my station. I made a decision when I said goodbye, that it would be over.” Raine let out an exclamation, and he went on, “Well, I didn’t want to saddle her with no long-distance romance. The best thing was to cut it short.”

  “And how do you know what she’s thinking?” Sparks flew from Raine’s eyes. “What about her? Don’t you imagine she’s got feelings? Couldn’t you tell she liked you, too?”

  Eric shrugged. “Well yes, I suppose she did... she might. But I told you, Raine —”

  “You told me what! That she’s rich and you’re poor? That’s crazy, Eric. Just think of the distance between me in that there ramshackle shack, messed about by my uncle, starving, no clothes to wear, and you in this here big farmhouse out on the front road — all the food you ever needed, all the clothes you ever wanted — what about that? Did it matter to you? No sir! Anyway, you told me it didn’t.”

  “Raine, of course it didn’t.”

  “Well, you think she’s any worse of a person? The fact you live here across that great ocean on a farm won’t make any difference to her, no matter how rich she is.”

  Eric was silent, thinking. “But I told you, she didn’t write me —”

  “It’s not her job! You’re the man. What are you thinking? You get home and write her this very day, or I’ll never speak to you again!”

  And then for the first time on their walk, Raine gave a peal of laughter, making Eric smile and, finally, relax — the old Raine coming to the fore...

  “We can’t have that, Raine! I’ll write her today.”

  C H A P T E R T H R E E

  Eric received a letter back, we may be sure. So can we surmise that the blue envelope he fingered on the platform came from Rene?

  In this extract from another essay written in 1926 on that battered portable typewriter: “...In the summer of 1921 on the Prairie in Alberta, we were surveying pals, and put in a season with the Geodetic Land Survey of Western Canada there.” But no real follow up. So let us imagine Eric sitting with two companions, a surveyor and a paddler, around a campfire, talking...

  “Now what in the name of heaven made you take up surveying?” The speaker, Arnold, a hefty, apple-cheeked farm lad with a spunky disposition had enormous muscles, which made him their chief paddler. “A fella like you, Pop, with all that there experience, why take a job like this?”

  Eric, the enigmatic veteran, who for all his youth seemed older than his years, sat cross-legged, smoking his pipe, not replying to Arnold’s provocative question. We can imagine that he would have preferred a bit of peace to this extended wrangling, customary whenever the other two got together.

  “Listen you — ” snapped Dutil, the Surveyor, “Eric, he t’ink this de best job in de whole world!” His black eyes glittered with annoyance as he rubbed his long nose with a forefinger, while his other hand massaged an ear stabbed earlier on the trail by a dead twig.

  “Yeah, Dutil?” teased Arnold. “You think she’s the best job because you got nothin’ else. But Pops here, he’s crossed the ocean, seen France and them European cities. With what he musta learnt in that there war, eh? So why not pick a better money maker?” Not hard to see that he was throwing this out as a means of tormenting his superior.

  “You don’t think I been travelling, me?” Dutil retorted. “I been all over dis country. You get surveying ticket, you work all over. I say, she be a fine job.”

  Eric raised his head and glanced at the Surveyor. One presumes he saw two sides to the argument; both companions loved their heated debates as they sat around a small campfire apart from the rest of the survey crew, who had retired to their tents.

  “De best way for making money, too,” went on the Surveyor. “Why you leave your farm to come paddle wit’ us? Money! That’s what.
”

  “Okay, money.” Arnold picked up a long stick and poked the fire. “But I like the woods. I like bein’ by a lake. I like nature. Him too.”

  Eric nodded his agreement.

  Dutil turned to Arnold. “You wrong! He tell me when we start: he need money. And best way for get that, surveying. The food, the sleeping, she all paid.”

  He looked over at Eric. “Is he right?”

  Eric glanced up, and then back into the flames, without speaking.

  “I bet he’s got a girl.” Arnold grinned. “That’s always the reason...”

  “Yep!” Dutil snapped. “In England. He tell me. He need money for see her.”

  “Is that so, Eric?”

  Eric gave a noncommittal shrug, which was neither a yes or a no. Silence settled for a moment and then cheeky Arnold spoke up again. “If it’s money yer after, much better to get an education. Learn a business. Surveyors, they don’t get ahead.”

  “Oh yes oh yes oh yes, next thing, you be Administrator.”

  Arnold burst out, “Administrator!” He snorted. “You think Pops would like that?”

  Eric shook his head, apparently agreeing.

  “Listen, I got this here cousin,” continued Arnold, “he went to McGill, learned engineering, made a pot of money. But you don’t have to learn no engineering, Eric, you can study history, anything, even become a professor yourself, learn mathematics, go get a job in one of them there labs inventing stuff. Lots of money, once you get yourself a university degree. My cousin did.”

  Eric glanced over, and seemed to be absorbing that.

  “No matter what you fellas say,” Arnold finished, “an education, that’s the way to money!” And then the three of them lapsed into silence, Eric smoking, Arnold stirring the fire, and Dutil rubbing his itchy long nose.

  Back to Eric’s typewritten excerpt:

  I reflected about trees and life: There are tall murmuring pines, big blue spruce and friendly white birches, the wonderful maples, the little cherry trees, the straight ash, rustling poplars, small crooked alders — all different! Much the same in life — we are born with different characteristics and talents. It is impossible to make a friendly white birch into a murmuring pine or a crooked little alder into a maple. All you can do is to see that the best conditions of growth are possible so that they will be the finest trees after their kind.

  Men are not born equal and it is hopeless to try and make great geniuses out of everybody; but we can try to help them all be good in their own small individualistic way.

  We spent two perfect months in that country. Then I threw over surveying and went to Bishops University.

  McGreer Hall,

  Bishop’s University,

  Lennoxville, Que.

  November 1922

  Dear Rene,

  Thank you so much for your fine letter. I got it a long while ago but I keep it close. I’ve been out in the bush for a couple of months with a surveying party, and now, you’ll never guess -- I’m enrolled as an Arts student in Bishops University. It is a wonderful old place, been around for years — Gothic Revival stuff, and some of Quebec’s most historic buildings, including St. Mark’s chapel. My older brother Jack, whom you know, went here, and his son Gerald is here now. I’m excited at the prospect of three years just learning. At the end of it, I’ll be sure to get me a fine job that will allow travelling...

  Even though I haven’t been writing letters like I should, I have you in mind. I would even say you’re with me night and day — but I don’t want you to be caught by this. I imagine by now, you have a fine young man who is looking after you and you’re probably having a great time.

  If you get a chance, write me again and tell me how your dancing is going. I don’t know who this Pavlova person is, but I gather from the way you wrote about actually dancing on stage with her, it was a big event. No one can tell me anything about her on the Gaspe Coast, for sure, nor on our survey trip. Ha-ha. Now that I’m at university, I can ask around and find out more. I wonder what the Mater said to your being on stage! I know her attitude.

  Any word from your nice sister Hilda, who you last wrote was hitchhiking alone in Africa from Rhodesia down to Johannesburg? Don’t take it wrong that I’m not asking about that sister of yours, Leo. I’ll say no more on that subject.

  Well, back to my studies. Now that I’m here, if you do write, I’ll be able to reply a lot sooner.

  Your friend, Eric.

  Meanwhile, let us look at more of Eric’s collegiate life. Fragments from his later essays will enlighten us before we encounter the cataclysm, that, alas, interrupted this idyllic existence:

  There is an old saying that “the Lord looks after fools and drunks.” He was looking after me all right when the Principal gave me a room in my residential university with an open fireplace. Here, I would sit dreaming in front of the blazing wood with thoughts of friends, life, love, beauty and death. Sometimes a few college friends would gather around smoking their pipes in the glow from burning embers, or the soft, mysterious light from a few candles on the mantelpiece. The atmosphere was not conducive to hard study, more for restful day-dreaming; but wonderfully adapted to the making of friendships with swapping of stories and ideas about life.

  Although he seems headed for an uneventful college career, and certainly underplays the leadership which, as an older student, he would display, this article in The Mitre, the University magazine, gives us hints of real dangers about to pounce...

  The students of this University have known for some time that it has been the desire of the Principal to see organized a contingent of the Canadian Officers Training Corps. The visit of General MacBrien last November, when he addressed the students on the nature and purpose of the Corps, helped to fan the interest, which many of the students felt, into a real enthusiasm.

  Since then, events have moved fairly rapidly...

  Opening our veteran’s war record, we see a form headed Active Militia of Canada, dated January 1923. Lieut. Eric Alford qualified for the rank of Captain “by virtue of his overseas service” and indeed was actually recommended for the rank of Major. Thus he became head of the University Corps, as a picture of the uniformed Corps in late 1923 confirms.

  So he was running the Officer Training Corps, and even made quarterback on the rugby team, as this excerpt from the Mitre confirms: “First year on the team. Filled the difficult position of quarter very successfully.” Oh yes, he enjoyed the games, and the Corps, and it sounds as if he was having the time of his life.

  ***

  A small squad of about thirty uniformed men march along the Sherbrooke road towards Bishop’s. A light rain has begun to fall and, in their teens or early twenties, these trainee officers are fidgety; they dislike parading in the rain, which is now getting worse. After their successful manoeuvres in a makeshift parade ground to the north-west, they swing along as best they can in the increasing downpour.

  At the head of the contingent marches a short, well-built veteran — yes, our own Eric — followed closely by his second-in-command, Delbart, a tall, gawky undergraduate in his last year of Engineering, his small forehead enveloped by an army hat that gives his black eyebrows and jutting jaw a prominence they don’t deserve. At the back, a drummer beats time; to help them swing along, they sing old songs from the Great War

  Eric slows his step, falls in beside Delbart and, at the end of the verse, tells him another version of Tipperary. His Adjutant burst out laughing, and then calls out the new lyrics to the squad.

  Grinning, they sing: “It’s the wrong way to tickle Mary, it’s the wrong way to go.”

  Eric scents the air, then looks up as thunder heralds heavier rain. He begins to look nervously left and right into the dripping woods and slows down, agitated. Instead of ordering double time to get back to college, he peers ahead into the rain. Behind him, the first marchers notice, but the men keep singing until the words end. In the dusk, their Major breaks step, and they see him start to crouch, swaying sid
e to side.

  Delbart, the Adjutant, quickens his step to come beside. “Something wrong, Sir?”

  “The smell, the uniform, it’s wet.”

  “Yes sir,” Delbart replies, “I can smell it. Oh, you’re remembering it from the Front? Always rain over there, I heard that.”

  “Same uniform, same smell.” But Eric seems not focussed on the words, looking around nervously, fiercely alert and on guard. “And the guns.”

  Delbart frowns. Did he mean the thunder? Though the singing has stopped, the drum keeps up until Eric orders it to stop. Now, only the rain and marching boots can be heard.

  The men grumble and look at each other, perplexed. They want to get home with this rain gusting into them. These army tactics are not what they expected when they volunteered so happily.

  As they approach an open farm gate to their left, Major Eric looks up at Moulton Hill rising across ploughed farmland. He loosens his revolver.

  Delbart speeds up again to join his leader. “Shall I call a halt, Sir?”

  Eric stops, stares up the hill and then, with a loud command, calls out: “Bugler, sound the charge! There’s the Ridge!”

  This is met by puzzled looks. The Adjutant looks over his shoulder at the others who have broken step and straggle to a halt.

  “Bugler, I said, sound the charge!” Eric’s voice sounds high, cracked, urgent, and distraught. “We’ve got to take it! Orders!”

  “Sir,” Delbart says, “a bugler, we didn’t bring one —”

  Eric pays no attention, still staring up the hill. “Going to be tough, but we’ll take it.” He calls loudly again, “Bugler!”

  Bewildered, Delbart looks around. The others become alarmed. The drummer has stopped.

  “Is he yellow?” cries Eric. “Has he deserted? Court martial in the morning! No time now — we must take the Ridge.” An answering roll of thunder confirms the order.

  Eric takes a breath, breaks through the gate, and calls loudly, “Cha-a-a-rge!”

  His Adjutant scurries after. Others linger, wondering.