while Colonel Fitzherbert parlayed with the local leader, a Cossack chieftain called Semenov. Billy attached himself to a party of American visitors on a tour. The principal of the school, who spoke English, explained that until a year ago he had taught only the children of the prosperous middle class, and that Jews had been banned even if they could afford the fees. Now, by order of the Bolsheviks, education was free to all. The effect was obvious. His classrooms were crammed to bursting with children in rags, learning to read and write and count, and even studying science and art. Whatever else Lenin might have done-and it was difficult to separate the truth from the conservative propaganda-at least, Billy thought, he was serious about educating Russian children.
On the train with him was Lev Peshkov. He had greeted Billy warmly, showing no sense of shame, as if he had forgotten being chased out of Aberowen as a cheat and a thief. Lev had made it to America and married a rich girl, and now he was a lieutenant, attached to the Pals as an interpreter.
The population of Omsk cheered the battalion as they marched from the railway station to their barracks. Billy saw numerous Russian officers on the streets, wearing fancy old-fashioned uniforms but apparently doing nothing military. There were also a lot of Canadian troops.
When the battalion was dismissed, Billy and Tommy strolled around town. There was not much to look at: a cathedral, a mosque, a brick fortress, and a river busy with freight and passenger traffic. They were surprised to see many locals wearing bits and pieces of British army uniform. A woman selling hot fried fish from a stall had on a khaki tunic; a deliveryman with a handcart wore thick army-issue serge trousers; a tall schoolboy with a satchel of books walked along the street in bright new British boots. “Where did they get them?” said Billy.
“We supply uniforms to the Russian army here, but Peshkov told me the officers sell them on the black market,” Tommy said.
“Serves us bloody well right for supporting the wrong side,” said Billy.
The Canadian YMCA had set up a canteen. Several of the Pals were already there: it seemed to be the only place to go. Billy and Tommy got hot tea and big wedges of apple tart, which North Americans called pie. “This town is the headquarters of the anti-Bolshevik reactionary government,” Billy said. “I read it in The New York Times.” The American papers, which had been available in Vladivostok, were more honest than the British.
Lev Peshkov came in. With him was a beautiful young Russian girl in a cheap coat. They all stared at him. How did he do it so fast?
Lev looked excited. “Hey, have you guys heard the rumor?”
Lev probably always heard rumors first, Billy thought.
Tommy said: “Yeah, we heard you’re a homo.”
They all laughed.
Billy said: “What rumor?”
“They’ve signed an armistice.” Lev paused. “Don’t you get it? The war is over!”
“Not for us,” said Billy.
Captain Dewar’s platoon was attacking a small village called Aux Deux Eglises, east of the river Meuse. Gus had heard a rumor there would be a cease-fire at eleven A.M., but his commanding officer had ordered the assault so he was carrying it out. He had moved his heavy machine guns forward to the edge of a spinney, and they were firing across a broad meadow at the outlying buildings, and giving the enemy plenty of time to retreat.
Unfortunately, the Germans were not taking the opportunity. They had set up mortars and light machine guns in the farmyards and orchards, and were shooting back energetically. One gun in particular, firing from the roof of a barn, was effectively keeping half of Gus’s platoon pinned down.
Gus spoke to Corporal Kerry, the best shot in the unit. “Could you put a grenade into that barn roof?”
Kerry, a freckled youth of nineteen, said: “If I could get a bit closer.”
“That’s the problem.”
Kerry surveyed the terrain. “There’s a bit of a rise a third of the way across the meadow,” he said. “From there I could do it.”
“It’s risky,” Gus said. “Do you want to be a hero?” He looked at his watch. “The war could be over in five minutes, if the rumors are true.”
Kerry grinned. “I’ll give it a try, Captain.”
Gus hesitated, reluctant to let Kerry risk his life. But this was the army, and they were still fighting, and orders were orders. “All right,” Gus said. “In your own time.”
He half-hoped Kerry would delay, but the boy immediately shouldered his rifle and picked up a case of grenades.
Gus shouted: “All fire! Give Kerry as much cover as you can.”
All the machine guns rattled, and Kerry began to run.
The enemy spotted him immediately, and their guns opened up. He zigzagged across the field like a hare chased by dogs. German mortars exploded around him but miraculously missed.
Kerry’s “bit of a rise” was three hundred yards away.
He almost made it.
The enemy machine gunner got Kerry perfectly in his sights and let fly with a long burst. Kerry was struck by a dozen rounds within a heartbeat. He flung up his arms, dropped his mortars, and fell, momentum carrying him through the air until he landed a few paces from his rise. He lay quite still, and Gus thought he must have been dead before he hit the ground.
The enemy guns stopped. After a few moments, the Americans stopped firing, too. Gus thought he could hear the sound of distant cheering. All the men near him fell silent, listening. The Germans were cheering, too.
German soldiers began to appear, emerging from their shelters in the distant village.
Gus heard the sound of an engine. An Indian-brand American motorcycle came through the woods driven by a sergeant with a major on the pillion. “Cease fire!” the major yelled. The motorcyclist was driving him along the line from one position to the next. “Cease fire!” he shouted again. “Cease fire!”
Gus’s platoon began to whoop. The men took off their helmets and threw them in the air. Some danced jigs, others shook one another’s hands. Gus heard singing.
Gus could not take his eyes off Corporal Kerry.
He walked slowly across the meadow and knelt beside the body. He had seen many corpses and he had no doubt Kerry was dead. He wondered what the boy’s first name was. He rolled the body over. There were small bullet holes all over Kerry’s chest. Gus closed the boy’s eyes and stood up.
“God forgive me,” he said.
As it happened, both Ethel and Bernie were home from work that day. Bernie was ill in bed with influenza, and so was Lloyd’s child minder, so Ethel was looking after her husband and her son.
She felt very low. They had had a tremendous row about which of them was to be the parliamentary candidate. It was not merely the worst quarrel of their married life, it was the only one. And they had barely spoken to one another since.
Ethel knew she was justified, but she felt guilty all the same. She might well make a better M.P. than Bernie, and anyway the choice should be made by their comrades, not by themselves. Bernie had been planning this for years, but that did not mean the job was his by right. Although Ethel had not thought of it before, she was now eager to run. Women had won the vote, but there was more to be done. First, the age limit must be lowered so that it was the same as for men. Then women’s pay and working conditions needed improvement. In most industries, women were paid less than men even when doing exactly the same work. Why should they not get the same?
But she was fond of Bernie, and when she saw the hurt on his face she wanted to give in immediately. “I expected to be undermined by my enemies,” he had said to her one evening. “The Conservatives, the halfway-house Liberals, the capitalist imperialists, the bourgeoisie. I even expected opposition from one or two jealous individuals in the party. But there was one person I felt sure I could rely on. And she is the one who has sabotaged me.” Ethel felt a pain in her chest when she thought about it.
