Walk in Hell

then, swung it and swung it and swung it.

After he came back from the Army, the farm had burned far more coal than wood. The Americans, though, were niggardly with their coal rations, as they were niggardly with everything else. He was glad old Blaise Chretien, only a couple of miles away, had a woodlot. It made the difference between shivering through the winter and getting by comfortably enough.

Chopping wood also kept him warm while he was doing it. Down came the axe-whump! Two chunks of wood leaped apart. “Ah, if only those were Father Pascal’s head and his fat neck,” Lucien said wistfully.

His son Georges was walking by then. Georges had a way of walking by whenever he had the chance to create mischief. “You want to be careful, Papa,” he called. “Otherwise you’ll end up like Great-uncle Leon after Grandfather took off his little finger with the axe when they were boys.”

“You scamp, tais-toi,” Lucien retorted. “Otherwise your backside will end up like your grandfather’s after he took off Leon’s finger with the axe.”

Georges laughed at him. Georges had a right to laugh, too. He was sixteen now, and almost half a head taller than his father. If Lucien tried to give him a licking, who would end up drubbing whom was very much in doubt. Lucien thought he would win even yet-you learned tricks in the Army that simple roughhousing never taught you. But he didn’t want to have to find out.

Up went the axe. Down it came. More wood split. Marie would be happy with him. “No, she cannot call me lazy today,” he said. Some people, he had seen, worked simply for the sake of working. A lot of English-speaking Canadians were like that, and Americans, too. Fewer Quebecois had the disease. Lucien worked when something needed doing. When it didn’t (which, on a farm, was all too seldom), he was content to leave it alone.

He wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve. He’d worked up a good sweat, though it was chilly out here. The day was clear, though, the sunshine streaming down as if it were spring. Only the slightly deeper blue of the sky argued otherwise.

Up in the sky, something buzzed like a mosquito out of season. He stopped chopping for a little while and peered upward, trying to spot the aeroplane-no, aeroplanes: a flight of them, droning north. His mouth twisted. “I hope all of you are shot down,” he said, shaking his fist at the heavens. “This is our patrimony, not yours. You have no business taking it from us.”

Afterwards, he blamed the American aeroplanes for what happened when he went back to chopping. They had, after all, broken the smooth rhythm he’d established before they disturbed him. And if he hadn’t blamed them, he would have blamed Georges instead. Better to put it on his enemy’s head than on his own flesh and blood.

He knew the stroke was wrong the second the axehead started on its downward arc. He tried to twist it aside; in the end, he didn’t know whether that made things better or worse. The axe hit the piece of wood on the chopping block a glancing blow and then bit into his left leg.

“Tabernac!” he hissed. The blade had a red edge when he pulled it free. Blood started running down his calf into his shoe. It was warm on what had been cold skin. “Ah, mauvais tabernac.”

The axe had sliced into meat, not bone. That was the only good thing he could say about the wound. He started to throw the axe aside so he could hobble to the farmhouse, but held onto the tool instead. That leg didn’t want to bear much weight, and the axe handle made a stick to take it instead.

Marie let out a small shriek when he made it inside. “It is not so bad,” he said, hoping it was not so bad. “Put a bandage on it, and then I will go out and finish what I have to do.”

“You will go nowhere today,” she said, grabbing for a rag. “You should be ashamed, bleeding on my clean floor.”

“Believe me, I regret the necessity more than you do,” he said.

She got off his shoe and sock and pulled up his trouser leg. “This is not good,” she said, examining the wound. He did not want to look at it himself while she worked. He had not a qualm about slaughtering livestock, but his own blood made him queasy. “It is bleeding right through the bandage,” she told him. “A cloth will not be enough for this, Lucien. It wants stitching, or heaven knows when it will close.”

“That is nonsense,” he said. Even as he spoke, though, the two raw edges of the wound slipped against each other. His stomach lurched. He felt dizzy, a little lightheaded.

Firmly, Marie said, “J’ai raison, Lucien. I have sewn up a cut hand once or twice, but I do not think I should sew this. It is too long and too deep. I think you should go to the American hospital, and let them do a proper job of putting you back together.”

The mere idea of going to the hospital was enough to restore her husband to himself. “No,” he said. “No and no and no. It was bad enough that the Americans took my land, took land in this family since before the battle on the Plains of Abraham, took my patrimony for their own purposes. To use this hospital, to acknowledge it is there: this is a humiliation that cannot be borne. Sew it yourself.”

“If you do not acknowledge the hospital, why does Nicole work there?” Marie asked. “If you do not acknowledge the hospital, why have you drunk applejack with Dr. O’Doull three times in the past month? Why have you probably got one of his cigars in your pocket even now?”

Galtier opened his mouth to give her the simple, logical explanation to the paradoxes she propounded. Nothing came out. His wits, he thought, were discommoded because of the wound. He told her that instead.

She set her hands on her hips. “Then, foolish man, it is time to get the wound seen to, n’est-ce pas? You will come with me.”

Go with her he did, still using the axe as a stick and with his other arm around her shoulder. Even with such help, he had to stop and rest three or four times before they got to the hospital. When they did, one of the workmen there tried to turn them away: “This place is for Americans, not you damn Canucks.”

“Hold on, Bill,” a nurse said. “That’s Nicole’s father. We’ll take care of him. What happened to you?” The last was to Galtier.

“Axe-cutting wood.” Remembering English was hard.

“Come on in,” the nurse said. “I’ll get Dr. O’Doull. He’ll do a proper job of patching you up.” She pointed to the door, maybe seeing that Marie had no English.

At the door, Lucien ordered his wife home. “They will help me the rest of the way,” he told her, pointing to the nurse and the workman. When she protested, he said, “Some of what is here, you should not see.” He knew what war looked like. She didn’t, not really. He wanted to keep it that way.

In English and in horrible French, the people from the hospital told her the same thing. She was still protesting when an ambulance skidded to a stop in front of the hospital. The driver and an attendant carried in a man on a stretcher. A bloody blanket lay over the lower part of his body; it was obvious he’d lost a leg. Marie abruptly turned and walked back toward the farmhouse.

The first thing Lucien noticed inside the hospital was how warm it was. The Americans did not have to stint on coal. The second thing he noticed was the smell. Part of it was sharp and medicinal: the top layer, so to speak. Under it lay faint odors he knew from the barnyard-blood and dung and, almost but not quite undetectable, a miasma of bad meat.

“You wait here,” the nurse told him, pointing to a bench. “I’ll get the doctor to see you.”

“Merci,” he said, his injured leg stretched out straight in front of him. A couple of soldiers, young men hardly older than Charles, his older son, sat there, too. The wounded man who’d been brought in on the stretcher wasn’t in sight. They were probably working on him already.

One of the soldiers asked, “You speak English, pal?” At Lucien’s nod, the youngster asked, “You get that from a shell?” He pointed to the wound.

“No, from to chop the wood.” Lucien gestured to eke out his words. The American nodded in turn. Seeing him polite, Lucien asked, “And you-what have you?”

“Flunked my shortarm inspection,” the young soldier answered, flushing. That didn’t mean anything to Lucien. The Yank noticed. “This hoor up in Riviere-du-Loup, she gave me the clap,” he explained. Lucien had heard that phrase in his own Army days. Inside, he laughed. He had a more honorable wound than the American.

“Well, well, what have we here?” That was good French, from the mouth of Dr. Leonard O’Doull. He wore a white coat with a few reddish stains on it. Looking severely at Lucien, he said, “Monsieur Galtier, if you want to visit me here, it is not necessary to do yourself an injury first.”

“I shall bear that in mind, thank you,” Lucien said dryly. “It was, you must believe me, not the reason for