Back in her time (3 page)

Hunkered down in her raincoat for warmth, Taylor watched the can of chicken soup boil on the firepit. She had laughed with the others when Red had chased the frightened chicken around, feathers flying, as it had escaped again and again. Watching Red wring its neck wasn't as funny, but Taylor was surprised it hadn't bothered her more. Campbell's canned soup, it wasn't. It was the real thing, sans noodles, and it smelled delicious even if the chicken was “borrowed” from a local farmer. Red promised this chow would taste better than M and V.

“M and V?” Taylor said before she thought. “What's that?”

“Why, meat and vegetables — you know, the usual camp food.” Mac gave her an odd look.

“Oh, that. We Highlanders just call it crap.”

“That it is, Junior. You guys call it what it is.”

Taylor rummaged around her pack to see what else there was to eat and to cover her near blunder.
Why do I always speak before I think? It always got me in trouble at school. I'd better watch it here.
She put her hand on a square, flat tin and pulled it out. There was a picture of a short-horned cow on it and the words, “Alas my poor brother.”

“Hey, Junior's got bully beef. Second course,” said Mac.

“No hamburgers and milkshakes today, Junior.” Sarge squatted down beside Taylor and handed her a copy of the army newspaper,
The Maple Leaf.
“Thought you might want to catch up on your reading and see if it helps your memory,” he said.

Taylor glanced at the date: May 10, 1944. It was probably not the latest news. Now Taylor knew the month, at least. Warm days and cool nights, not unlike May in Canada.
The mosquitoes are just as bad here as the black flies in the countryside back home.

“Thanks, Sarge. I appreciate it.”

“You did a fine job back there, Junior. You made me proud.”

Taylor swallowed a lump in her throat. Her grandfather had never said that to her back home. “I did my best, Sarge.”

“And I hear you're writing a letter to Red's girl for him. That's nice of you. Don't make it too mushy, though. Red's a cowboy, not a Casanova.” Taylor nodded. “Do you have a steady girl, Junior?”

“No, sir.” Taylor answered too fast. “Oh, there is a girl I like, but she's too cool for me.”
Does that sound like something a guy would say?

“Cool? Well, get her to wear a wrap. Evenings can be cool in the spring.”

Taylor shook her head at her faux pas. “What about you, Sarge? Wait, let me guess. You're married. Recently. You got married before training at Ipperwash,” said Taylor.

“How did you know that? Oh, the guys must have been talking.” The Sarge laughed.

“Actually, sir, I just thought because you said you were twenty-four and so many guys get married before they come overseas. I kind of make a game of it, you know — guess things about people. For instance, I bet your wife's name is Mary.”
Is this going to work?

“Who told you? Mac?”

“No one, sir. It's just a common name today. A good guess, is all. And I bet I know what job you had as a civilian. Let me see … good vocabulary … You told Red and me to take a ‘circuitous route' to the gunnery position. Bet you've got plans to go to university and become an educated gentleman farmer.”

“Well, you're either one of those seers that my grandmother believed in around Houdini's day or someone's been flapping their lips around here pretty good. Only thing is I don't remember telling anyone I farmed. I'd love to play more games, Junior, but I've got to confer with the loo and the captain.” The Sarge stood up, touched Taylor briefly on the shoulder, and walked away.

Taylor started at the touch.
Has Pops ever acknowledged me like that?

Taylor had more important things to think about now. The guessing game was really something she did do. Guessing what people did by their clothes, the style of their haircut, or the way they spoke was something she was good at. Now, here she could pretend to play the game, because she did know things about her grandfather from back in his own time.

I've got it now. When I get the chance, I'll tell Pops things that only he would know. He'll think I'm one of those seers. That's how I'll get him to believe me about who we are in the future. Simple, right?

* * *

“What's on at the theatres?” Mac peered over Taylor's shoulder at the paper.

“The army show has Wayne and Shuster, Alan and Blanche Lund, and Fred Davis,” Taylor read off the names from the entertainment section.

“I hear those Wayne and Shuster guys are really funny. Have you seen them yet?” Whitey tossed a rock at a mosquito and missed. He pulled his helmet netting tighter.

“No, not for a while. My grandfather used to watch them on TV.”

“TV? Where's that?”

“Oh, a theatre in Toronto,” Taylor thought fast.

“Oh, yeah, Toronto. You get all them old vaudeville acts. Have you heard that Lorne Greene do that
Voice of Doom
? He scares me to death,” said Red.

“Don't think I have. Wasn't he the Pa on that show
Ponderosa
my grandfather used to watch?”
Uh-oh, did it again
…

“Guess you Toronto folk don't need to listen to radio with all them theatres.”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Hey, Red. This soup smells done. You pouring?” Whitey, whittling a stick, wandered over. “We better eat then get some shut-eye before we head to Pontecorvo.

What did Pops tell me about that town?

The men stayed a few feet apart according to regulations. If you bunched together, the enemy could take out several at once. Spread out, you're not such a target. Taylor mouse-holed from house to house — or what was left of some of them after the shelling that had preceded their arrival. Find a safe spot, check for snipers, aim, shoot. Pops/Sarge had repeated and repeated these instructions until they were embedded in their brains. Run to the next spot before they found your position. Not seeing the snipers up close made it easier to fire at them. Taylor didn't want to see their faces clearly. After all, it was her or them. They didn't care that she was from the future. She thought briefly of finding a house and squatting there, but the others would find out and call her a coward.
I've been called enough names in my life. I'm no chicken.
Besides, this was war.

Sarge yelled from behind her somewhere, “Keep moving, men.” They did.

A movement on the red tiled roof of what was left of a two-storey stone structure caught Taylor's eye. She aimed and fired. She ducked behind a door hanging from its hinges as a return bullet whipped into the wall where she'd been standing. Now
she
was the target. A bullet whistled by from behind her.
That must be Whitey.
A scream from the second storey and then silence. Taylor didn't think about what the quiet on the rooftop meant. She surged forward.
Now Whitey and I are even.

Taylor continued searching. She wasn't sure if it had been Lancasters or Mosquitoes that had strafed the town first, sending the enemy on the run, the civilians long gone to the hills. The roar of the piston engines were just a memory now. These last snipers were not pulling out without a fight. Surely there couldn't be more than one or two left?

At the end of the row of houses, Taylor dashed across the road to an outbuilding. She looked up at a church on a slight rise.
The chapel. Of course. Pops had talked about it. The sniper in the church. Hadn't they been warned? Who warned them? I guess it was me.

“We should check the church,” Taylor whispered to Whitey behind her. She heard Whitey repeat what she'd said to the next soldier, on down the line, like the game “Pass the Secret.” Except this was no game.

The order came up the line for Junior to approach the church with caution.
Great. Me and my big mouth. I get to be first.
Taylor zigzagged across the open town square toward the church. No shots were fired at her. Her heart played a staccato beat in her chest.
Keep your head. You can do this.
Leaving the shelter of a fire-blackened fruit tree, she sped toward the side door of the still-intact church.
He's in the sanctuary. He's just as scared as me.

Inside, Taylor scanned the vestibule. There were two doors in front of her.
One must lead to the church itself. The other is the one I want.
Taylor felt as if she were on a game show. Which door should she choose? She crept up to the door on the left.
No. It's not this one.
Taking large strides she reached the other door, kicked it open, gun ready.
Just as Pops has told the story so many times, there he is, a boy really, cowering in the corner. His rifle lying beside him.
Taylor rushed up to the boy, toed the rifle further from the enemy.

“
Lauf zu.
Move,” Taylor ordered. The German began whimpering as he rose unsteadily. From behind, Taylor heard the sounds of heavy boots on the wooden floors.

“Well, look what Junior bagged,” said Mac, running his tongue over his lips. “He doesn't look any older than you, Junior.” And he wasn't.

Sarge burst into the room followed by Whitey. “Hand him down the line, Whitey,” he ordered.

Taylor noticed for the first time the German's trousers were wet in front.

“Poor bugger. He's peed his pants, he's so scared,” said Taylor.

“Don't start feeling sorry for him, Junior.” Sarge frowned at Taylor.

“Yes, sir. Sorry, Sarge. It won't happen again.”
Great. Now Pops thinks I'm a sympathizer.
“I'd have shot him, sir, but he was unarmed. It wouldn't have been a clean kill.”

“All right, soldier. Let's check the rest of this place. Carefully. It could be booby-trapped.”

“I have a gut feeling he was the last of them, Sarge.”

“Let's hope so. And, Junior …”

“Yes, Sarge?”

“You keep up like this, we'll have to put you in for a promotion.”

Taylor hid her smile as she picked up the German's rifle and slid the magazine open. It was empty, as she knew it would be. She threw the gun down and started to exit when she saw something in a corner. It was a brown leather box. Taylor picked it up and examined it.
A box camera, like Pops has in the attic.
She packed it into her web kit.

The rest of the church turned up nothing. No explosives. No booby traps. No hidden soldiers. Nothing. Even the bell tower, which was so small only Taylor could crawl into it, was empty.

“Junior, how'd you know there was someone in that church?” Mac asked later.

“Sometimes you just know things. Like when you feel you're being watched on the street. Ever have that feeling? You know — when the hair on the back of your neck rises?”

“Nope. Never.”

“It's like I've got a sixth sense. Sometimes I know things. I don't know how. It just happens. You know?”
Is he going to believe this line of crap?

“You're kind of weird sometimes, Junior. But I guess you're okay.”

“What do you mean, ‘weird'?”

“Well, like you just appeared one day out of nowhere and you didn't even know what unit you belonged to. But you know stuff now, so everything is swell. The Sarge thinks so, anyway.”

“Did he say something?”
Pops said something good? About me?

“Yeah. Something like, ‘You men have to take more initiative, like Junior.' Don't get a swelled head, though.”

“No. I won't. Thanks for telling me, Mac. I appreciate it.”

“Come on, the chow wagon made it here today by mule. There's a rumour that there might be some ale for us, liberated from an overturned supply truck that got stuck on some mountain.”

“Be right there.” Taylor slung her rifle strap over her shoulder and lagged behind.
Ale delivery. What was it Pops had said? The beer was always tepid when they could get it, but the guys were thirsty and would drink anything. They never turned down Eyetie vino, either.
Taylor knew just what to do.

The chow wagon was parked next to a field, behind the church. Taylor's grumbling stomach found it by following her nose. The men complained enough about the food but they all showed up at mealtimes.
I'll probably get sick of the food, too, if I stay here much longer.

A wave of sadness passed over Taylor as she thought about home: her mother, Margaret, with her drinking; her friend, Dieter, who had his own family problems; school, where she was an outcast; and her sick grandfather, maybe dying.
They're so far away, like they're just a dream. At least here I have Pops, Whitey, Mac, Red, and the other guys. They're real now.

Approaching the mess wagon, Taylor said, “I hear there is beer. Try burying the bottles in the ground. It will have a cooling effect — you know, like refrigeration.”
I've done it again
—
he won't know about refrigeration!

“Get lost,” snapped the cook. “Do you see any beer?”

Taylor begged, “Just one bottle, that's all I ask.”

The cook, like a schoolteacher, had heard every line before. He scowled at Taylor.

“Then you try it yourself,” said Taylor. “What will it hurt? I'm leaving. You hide them while I'm gone and see if it works.”

“Out of here, soldier, or I'll have you doing KP faster than — ”

“I'm going, I'm going.” Taylor turned and strode away. It would work. She had the cook's curiosity aroused. She'd find out later.

After Taylor had eaten her M and V congealed in grease the others called “tallow,” she joined her group out of the drizzle, under the partial roof of a bombed-out building.

“So, any more news about moonshine?” Whitey smacked his lips.

“I heard it was ale. We sure wasn't offered any with supper — not even rum, tonight,” said Red.

“Something's up. We'll see,” said Mac with a disarming crooked smile as if he knew what was up. Rumour had it that Mac had a connection to the black market for most goods and services.

“I don't wanna see. I wanna drink,” said Whitey. Everyone laughed. Taylor lit two Red Cross cigarettes on one match and passed one to Whitey. She coughed as she inhaled. Mac glanced her way but didn't say anything.
This tastes gawdawful. At least at home I smoke filtered.
She continued smoking.
What am I doing to my lungs? Why do I care, now of all times?

One of the soldiers pulled out a deck of cards. “Deuces are wild. Who's in?” The men gathered around. Taylor checked in her trouser pockets. She had some paper money and coins. The two-dollar bills were strange. No loonies or toonies. No one questioned the picture of King George VI instead of Queen Elizabeth II when they threw a bill into the pot.
Glad Pops taught me how to play poker as a reward after rifle practice at the farm.

Just as the firepit was running low on fuel and Mac's pockets were bulging with winnings, a shout was heard. Everyone scrambled for their guns except Mac, who dove for the money on the dirt floor and shoved it, too, into his pockets.

“The cook wagon. There's cold beer,” yelled a soldier as he ran past.

Taylor was left standing alone but she knew what the fuss was about. After all, it had been her idea to tell the cook how to cool the beer. The cook would surely save one for her.

She sauntered over to the men, some swigging, others just sipping, enjoying their barley drink.

“How'd you know how to do that, Junior?” asked Whitey.

“Science class, back home,” said Taylor modestly.
Pops told me this story, and we tried it in science class with pop bottles.

“Cook says he just buried the bottles in the ground for a couple of hours, and we got cold beer, just like Junior told him,” said Red. “I'd of stayed in school if I'd knowed we'd learn good stuff like this.” Everyone laughed.

“Pass a cold one to Junior. He deserves it,” said Mac.

The cook said, “He may be under twenty-one, but what the hell. Let the boy have a drink.”

Taylor grabbed the stubby bottle and swallowed a big mouthful.
It isn't my first taste of beer. Here's something else Pops won't be too happy about. Me drinking. This is nothing compared to the junk I've tried. If he knew …

After Taylor and the cook received several pats on the back, the men finished their beer, found their bedrolls and pup tents, and went to grab a few hours' shut-eye. Taylor slipped out of her tent and headed to the bushes to relieve herself. Buttoning up her trousers, she bumped into Mac outside his tent.

“Shy kidney, eh, Junior? I was like that for a while. You'll get used to peeing in front of the guys. Takes practice.”

Not likely.

* * *

“Are you finished with the news, Junior? I was wondering if I could have it now.” said Red as they marched north with the spring sun warming them.
But he can't read beyond grade three, the guys say.

“What do you want it for?”

“The cartoons, of course. That Blondie and Li'l Abner. They make me laugh till tears roll down my cheeks. And Herbie. Did you see the one where he's holding that antenna thing and shaking outside the radio shack? The voice inside says, “It's working now, Herbie.”

“Oh, sure, take it,” said Taylor, “but I'd like it back. I didn't get too much time to read it.”
And I still need to see what's going on in this century.

An explosion a few miles straight in front of them silenced the ranks. Flames spurted into the sky almost as high as the CN Tower.

“Jeez,” said Whitey as they ran for cover behind their own tank brigade.

“Sonovabitch,” said someone.

Sarge yelled over the noise of the heavy artillery, “Leave the tanks! Take cover wherever you can. Panzers are up ahead blowing us to bits. Our tanks are going in.”

“Shouldn't we go too, Sarge?” said Taylor.

“There's not much infantry can do against tanks with just a Bren, a PIAT, rifles, and a few grenades. Give our Shermans a chance to shoot them up.”

The men felt useless, some lying in damp fields and others in an olive grove, waiting for the battle up ahead to conclude. Taylor stared up at the white flowers and silvery green leaves of the tree she was under.
This sucks. How can these trees flower with this war going on?
Messerschmitts caught her eye through the branches as they raked the sky overhead but were soon tailed by Lancasters and Mosquitoes. A moment later, a thunderous roar could be heard.
They must all be deaf over there, or soon will be.

The men changed positions when rocks pressed into their bodies as they lay on the uneven terrain. Red appeared to be napping, eyes closed, mouth open. He was probably snoring, but Taylor couldn't hear it with all the racket. It seemed to go on for hours, but had been probably only twenty minutes when silence finally ensued.

Taylor watched as the guys sat up, one by one, held their noses, closed their mouths, puffed up their cheeks and blew, lips pursed. Taylor followed suit, not wanting to ask what they were doing. Soon her ears popped and she could hear clearly.
Didn't realize I couldn't hear. I'll have to try that if I ever get to fly on a plane back home. If I ever get home.

Before Taylor had time to think further, she heard a different roar from down the road. “What is it?” she asked Red, who blinked his eyes open.

“We've won this round, Junior,” said Red.

“That is the sound of victory!” Mac shouted. Cheers erupted all around them.

Taylor put two fingers in her mouth and blasted a shrill whistle.

“Teach me how to do that, will you?” said Sarge nearby as he stood up and joined a long line of infantry plodding toward the former battle site.

“Sure — it's easy. My grandfather taught me.” She smiled.