Megiddo's Shadow

Book One Oh! we don't want to lose you But we think you ought to go, For your King and your Country Both need you so. We shall want you and miss you, But with all our might and main We shall cheer you, thank you, kiss you When you come home again. "Your King and Country Want You" Lyrics by Paul Rubens 1 The letter was stained with mud from France, but there was a British army stamp in the corner, and the handwriting looked fancy and official. Maybe Hector had won a medal! He'd finally given the Huns a good, hard punch on the nose. I left the general store, nearly tripping on the sidewalk planks as I searched the envelope for clues about its contents. I wanted to rip it open, but it had been addressed to Dad. My breath turned to frost in the October air. Hector must've jumped out of the trenches and taken a machine-gun nest, or perhaps he'd captured a bunch of Germans. He'd joined up in 1916, so he'd been over there for more than a year; lots of time to do something heroic. I jogged the half mile to our farm, watching for our white and green house to appear on the other side of the hill, with the rolling prairie spread out beyond it. Maybe Hector would be getting a Victoria Cross pinned to his chest. He would make the papers all across Canada. I stopped in my tracks. I fingered the thin envelope, my mouth dry. What if it's not a medal. What if . . . I wouldn't let myself think the words. If he'd fallen in France I'd surely have felt something deep in my heart, even thousands of miles away here in Saskatchewan. Such dark thoughts had made my legs numb. I leaned against our sign that said bathe family farm. Father had carved it to put a name to the fields he'd cut out of the prairie. Land he intended to pass on to us boys. No Hun bullet would ever kill Hector, but perhaps he'd been so badly wounded that he couldn't even pick up a pen. My hand shook as I flicked open my pocketknife and slit the envelope. I'd tell Dad I just couldn't wait to read the good news. I scanned the first few lines. R.S. Major 27/09/17 15th Canadian Batt B.E.F. Dear Mr. Wilfred Bathe, You will no doubt wonder who this is writing to you. I will try to explain as well as I can; I am the regimental sergeant major of the above battalion. I have a very painful duty to perform in My heart stopped. It wasn't just a "painful duty," but a "very painful duty," and I knew what had to follow. I sucked in a rattling breath. And another. Oh, God. Oh, no. I forced myself to move toward the house. It was an eternity before I got there. I opened the door, the squeaking hinge unusually loud. I passed through the empty hall and up the worn stairs, glancing at the Union Jack that hung on the wall. I pulled myself up with the rail. I'd gone from sixteen to a hundred years old. At the top of the landing I stopped to wipe my icy, sweaty palms on my overalls. I glanced at the oval photograph of Dad in his dragoons uniform, medals from the South African war glittering on his chest. Hung next to him was the picture of Mother in her Sunday best, and the thought of her made my legs go weak. It was a blessing God had taken her; today would have broken Mom's heart. Beside her was a photograph of Hector and me, when he was fourteen and I was twelve. I looked away and tried to swallow the lump in my throat. Maybe he'd just been terribly wounded, his bright green eyes blinded by gas. That was why he couldn't write. Or perhaps his arm had been blown off. If so, when he got home he would still be able to fork hay with one hand. ISlade, Arthur G. is the author of 'Megiddo's Shadow', published 2006 under ISBN 9780385909457 and ISBN 0385909454.