Flanders

  Copyright

  Copyright © 1998 by Patricia Anthony

  All rights reserved.

  Bibliographical Note

  This Dover edition, first published in 2019, is an unabridged republication of the work originally published by Ace Books, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc., New York, in 1998.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Anthony, Patricia, author.

  Title: Flanders / Patricia Anthony.

  Description: Mineola, New York : Dover Publications, Inc., 2019. | “This Dover edition, first published in 2019, is an unabridged republication of the work originally published by Ace Books, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc., New York, in 1998.”

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019018312 | ISBN 9780486838656 (print) | ISBN 048683865X (print)

  Subjects: LCSH: World War, 1914–1918—Trench warfare—Fiction. | GSAFD: Historical fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3551.N727 F58 2019 | DDC 813/.54—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019018312

  Manufactured in the United States by LSC Communications 83865X01

  www.doverpublications.com

  2019

  The existence of any major newspaper represents a daily miracle. Only those who have worked on one can understand the canny skill, diligence, and sheer plow-horse labor which goes into putting out each edition. So here’s to the Dallas Morning News, where I held a fifteen-year “temporary” day job as a classified advertising phone rep. My long-suffering supervisors always seemed proud that a novelist could rise from the ranks of classified; in truth, I am proud to have been one of the crew.

  Thanks to Joe Mayhew, who checked this novel’s Catholicism; and to Charles Meister, who helped with the book’s Judaism.

  CONTENTS

  Spring 1916

  One

  Two

  Summer 1916

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Autumn 1916

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Winter 1916

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Spring 1916

  ONE

  MARCH 2, OFF THE COAST OF ENGLAND

  Dear Bobby,

  It grieved me to leave you, considering how mad you were. It’s just that I am not cut out to be a homebody. Ma knows that. Don’t you recall her saying as how she had to tether me to the porch to keep me from straying? Well, I’m past my toddler days and the neighborhood’s bigger, and war or no, I could not pass up a trip to Europe. Besides, the hostilities will be over by fall.

  Make me two promises: First, take care of Ma and watch her close. If she’s feeling poorly, she will never give you a hint of it. Second, don’t let Pa come on the place. I know you don’t recall him well, but he has the disposition of a junkman’s dog. And mind that he doesn’t come courting Ma. I suspect she harbors a weakness for him that may override her Christian virtues.

  Don’t fret for my sake, either. When this is over, I’ll settle down, finish my studies, and spend the rest of my life doctoring lumbago. Still, come to find I sorely needed a vacation. Maybe when I get back stateside I won’t mind those tight-assed Harvard Congregationalists.

  But I miss my English literature classes, especially as I am within sight of Shakespeare’s “sceptered isle.” It galls not being able to step foot where Keats walked. I’d like to see one of Wordsworth’s daffodils. I feel an awful longing to hear a nightingale. Tomorrow I sail the channel to France and, like as not, I’ll spend that trip as I did from New York to here—with my head over the rail, bestowing a free lunch on the fishes.

  Didn’t see any submarines on the way. In that, I was luckier than those poor souls on the Lusitania who probably never realized they were dying as an example of bastardly German gutlessness.

  Kiss Ma and tell her not to worry. Assure her General Wood’s battle lessons will come in handy. Remind her that I graduated at the top of my class, way over all those Yankee boys who cannot shoot straight and who complain mercilessly when they are made to shit in the woods. The general always did say that he perceived in me the élan for battle, and in a real man’s war, spirit is all that is needed to win.

  Yours in brotherly affection, Travis Lee

  P.S. I knew it, for folks had told me; but I hardly believed until I saw for myself—the cliffs of Dover really are white. Yesterday I stood at the rail in the pouring rain until long after we had left them behind. How can I begin to tell you about Dover? It’s a chalk line God drew to separate gray from green, breakers from earth. Seeing it, I don’t know why William the Conqueror didn’t just put down his sword and take England captive with his eyes.

  MARCH 18, FRANCE, REST AREA

  Dear Bobby,

  The postman finally caught up with me, and it was no child’s play to find me, either, since my location has moved about. The Brits put me first in one battalion and then in another when they saw how well I could shoot.

  “Good God, Yank,” Captain Hodgeson said to me the other day at target practice. “Do you realize that out of five bullets, you have shot five perfect bull’s-eyes?”

  I speak fluent Texan around the limeys as they enjoy it so, and are not hurtful with their joshing like the Yankee boys. Anyway, I scratched my head like I was puzzled and said, “Did I ruin that target, sir?”

  Captain Hodgeson then called up Major Woodhouse to see, and both officers asked me to fire once more, which I proceeded to do. Now it appears that, after a semester of introductory grenade tossing and an advanced course in trench-digging, I am to be a sharpshooter.

  “Where did you learn to shoot like that, Private?” the major asked.

  I told him, “Plinking squirrels for Ma’s varmint stew,” which delighted the two of them so that they had me repeat the phrase again and again for a succession of other officers. But my own jest was my downfall, for it caused me to ruminate upon those times before Ma started raising those fancy goats of hers. I was somber for the remainder of the day. You do not recall how strapped Ma and I were after Pa left us; how we lived off grits and yard greens and possum, like poor coloreds. Still, now I am filled with a sense of superiority. The English may have seen war, but I have lived with Pa, so I have seen Hell. Therefore I will always be hardier than they, and if that was all the inheritance that drunken bastard will give me, I suppose forcing me to become a man is enough.

  Anyway, it is always good to hear laughter, no matter if the source of it is sorrow.

  I cannot tell you where I am, but suffice it to say that it is a pleasant and verdant place in France. Here green has no overtones, not like in Texas where dry is always pushing through. Nailing France’s grass to its brown earth are massive chestnut trees and elms as stately as Gothic cathedrals. Oh Lord, Bobby, the flowers—all colors, and everywhere you look. Europe has such a tender and civilized countryside.

  I wish you were here.

  Fondly, Travis Lee

  MARCH 21, FRANCE, REST AREA

  Dear Bobby,

  You must not tell Ma, for it would send her entire praying circle to their knees, but the Tommies took me into town and got me knee-walking drunk.

  At some point that night I found out that they don’t like being called “limeys,” and I informed them of my personal objection to “Yank.” After another few tots of French brandy I went to echoing some of the more choice selections of their speech like: “Not by ’arf” and “Gotcher mouf on yer, ain’t yer?” I tell you, they may have invented it, and it might even be named after them, but their language doesn’t bear much resemblance to English. After a few minutes of my aping them, a private from Lancaster started shouting, “Oos iff it, Yank? Oos iff i
t?” or something like, which I immediately parroted. He began a pushing sort of fight. I beat a retreat and went outside to find an outhouse. There I searched and searched, and the more I looked, the more urgency I suffered. In desperation, I crept around the side of the inn and unfastened my pants. I was joined by a drunken French private who spoke no better English than the Tommies, but who parley-voued well enough in gestures to let me know that he was of the opinion that he could piss farther than I. Little did he know that I was not only possessed of a sorely laden bladder, but I was a sharpshooter besides.

  “Give it your best shot,” I said.

  He let loose at an innocent bystander duck who took cheerfully to the shower. The striped cat that I chose was not so sanguine. I laughed so, I fell into a nearby ditch. I was told that the Frenchman attempted to get me out; but since I was unwilling and he too was drunk, he walked off and left me, forgetting to inform my sergeant where I was. There I lay until my mates stumbled upon me the next morning. The officers had assumed that I had deserted, and it was a trial explaining my hardshell Baptist upbringing. I told them, “Don’t y’all get me to dancing, then, for I ain’t used to that, neither; and God only knows what I’d do.”

  They would have put me in the clink had they not found me such a caution. Had I not been such a dead-on shot. The sad thing is, last night I came to find out what lures Pa to the bottle, and I wonder if I shall discover in myself the same gloomy thirst. Promise me, Bobby, to stay away from liquor, as it gives a short-lived sort of glee, and you don’t remember the best parts.

  One thing you might try, though, is pissing on a duck, as they seem to enjoy it. You might also try pissing on the Jennings’ calico cat for something of the opposite reason.

  Yours in sin, Travis Lee

  APRIL 2, FRANCE, RESERVE AREA

  Dear Bobby,

  Yesterday my new captain, Miller, ordered me to go with the new subaltern; and so the pair of us shouldered our packs and set off down a poplar-corridored lane, toward what destination I could not discern. As the lieutenant was a Scot he could not, in understandable English, tell me, either. After an hour’s pleasant stroll, we came upon what looked like a crude bar ditch, with a few soldiers lining one side and peering off across an orchard.

  Right then the lieutenant throws himself down, yelling, “Four in! Four in!” The Tommies lining the ditch begin to shout, “Hed doon!” And then I heard wasps buzzing.

  The lieutenant waved frantically. “Yer bloody ignorant Yank! Fritz is four in!”

  I dived headfirst into the ditch. Soldiers and packs and curses were propelled every which way. When we got untangled, I saw that the lieutenant was ordering me to ready my rifle, which I did. There were only a few Boche, and they were lurking about the trees in the apple orchard, plinking at us haphazardly. My first shot dropped one, an outcome which took me by utter surprise. I saw the helmet sail off the German boy’s head. I saw him go down. Regret so overwhelmed me that I nearly vomited, an enterprise which, considering the close confines of the trench, would have earned me a pummeling. Luckily I must have only winged the man, for to my relief he soon sprang up and fled east through the trees, his fellows behind.

  I have read of battles, and Granddaddy de Vrees talked enough about Shiloh to make me think I’d been there. This seemed like a puny encounter, without much glory. Still, I think that I shall like this war, as there is a sort of silliness to it.

  When the battle was over and the Germans had run off through the apple trees, the lieutenant clapped me on the back. The corporal gave me a tot from his ration of rum. We lounged about and had a smoke.

  The trenches are less than I thought, and the war is, too. I was prepared to go face-to-face with spike-helmeted ogres and damnable cowards. I understand why the old soldiers, the ones who have been here for a while, have an odd pity for the enemy. You shall see—very soon the Germans will lose heart altogether and run home, and the disagreement will be over.

  I’ll travel a bit then, and see more of Europe. I need me enough memories to last through all the tedium of adulthood—for I realize that I must grow up eventually. There are enough scrub oaks and mesquites in my future; enough mockingbirds and grackles to make me forget the larks. The afternoon in that ditch smelled of moss and history. I sat and listened to the Tommies bicker over their game of cards. Apple blossoms drifted across the meadow like snow. In some other bar ditch well removed from us, a German sang a ditty in a lilting tenor, so high and pure a sound that it near brought tears to my eyes. The sun lay down, gently dying, in the soft grass of the orchard. I stood guard, and I would not have shot him for it, but my Fritz did not come back to retrieve his helmet. Evening settled with calm, chill indigo. Stars emerged. Oh, Bobby. How I love it here. Even after the warmest days, the nights are cool as salvation. Lieutenant sent someone into town to fetch dinner, and we ate crusty bread and hard cheese while the silent parliament of night convened. As I closed my eyes for sleep that night, I saw the German fall and fall again, in showers of petals, in the tranquil beauty of the meadow.

  I shall soon have to overcome my squeamishness, for killing is why I came. But the first deer I ever shot was so sloe-eyed that I sat down and cried over him, too.

  Forever stout and bravely yours, Travis Lee

  APRIL 4, FRANCE, REST AREA

  Dear Bobby,

  Well, I am unmasked for an academic. Captain Miller came upon me today as I sat alone, reading from my Keats.

  “Why are you not at the YMCA pavilion?” he asked.

  “Noisy,” I told him. It was getting noisier all the time where I sat, too, what with the bees buzzing like sluggish bullets through the nearby clover and the captain making have-to conversation.

  “Are you having problems with the others, Private? Any complaints you care to unburden yourself of?”

  I took it upon myself to needle him a bit. “Yes, sir. Matter of fact, what with the rifle cleaning and all the grenade training, there just ain’t enough quiet time to read, sir.”

  As is usual with the Brits, Miller failed to get the point. “Well, idle hands, what? Practice sharpens skills. Besides, our enlisted chappies are illiterate, or the nearest thing to. Books simply fail to interest them.”

  Well, I tell you, that rubbed my fur wrong-ways. “You joshing me, sir? Somebody swore up and down this book has pictures of naked women.”

  It wasn’t meant as invitation, but he sat down on the grass by me, anyway. As I said, the Tommies are always mistaking my intent. They howl with merriment at my anger and bristle at my good humor. God only knows what would happen if I’d up and kiss one. “Lieutenant McPhearson tells me you acquitted yourself well the first time under fire.”

  “Um.” I went back to my reading.

  It was a damp day, and the Tommies do better with the chill than I do. I pulled my greatcoat up around my neck.

  “ ‘The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold.’ ” Miller has melancholy eyes and the stuffed-shirt British sort of voice that sounds like he’s eating mush; but that troublemaker grin of his gives him away.

  I closed the book, marking the page with my finger. “ ‘The hare limped trembling through the frozen grass.’ ”

  “ ‘And silent was the flock in woolly fold.’ ”

  There I was, in another pissing contest.

  I recalled the next line easy. “ ‘Numb were the Beadsman’s fingers, while he told . . . ’ ”

  “ ‘His rosary!’ Too easy, Yank. ‘And . . . and . . .’ Oh, bugger it!”

  In pissing contests, it helps to have a full bladder; it’s essential to know your Keats. “ ‘. . . and while his frosted breath,/Like pious incense—’ ”

  “Cheating!” He snatched the book out of my hand. “You’d just read it!” He opened the book at the marked page and surprised, he read the title: “Endymion?” He looked at me then—not like an officer on a soldier, nor even like a rich man on a poor. “Good memory, Yank.”

  “Travis Lee.”

  “Travis Lee Stanho
pe. Good God. How inutterably quaint.”

  “Ma worked on it.”

  He handed me the book. “Travis Lee. So I find that you are not quite the rube.”

  “I can pass in a pinch.”

  “Um? Ah. Yes, I see. Well, you shoot. I have been made well aware of that. You have ridden horses too, then, I take it?”

  “Bareback like a wild Indian. And if you will forgive me, sir, you don’t sit a horse for shit. Although you ride some better than Major Dunn, who I expect got the crack up his ass from being throwed so often, if I may be so blunt.”

  He relished the comment about the major like spun sugar candy. “Please, Private Stanhope,” Miller said, smacking his lips, “promise me that you shall always be blunt. So tell me. Were you acquainted with any wild Indians, there in Texas?”

  “Ma’s half Cherokee.”

  He took to that, too. “How charmingly American of her. Which side?”

  “Her ma come across the Trail of Tears and stopped when she got tired of walking. Hell, she was always tired after that, for Granddaddy de Vrees sired fourteen children off her. He sired more off a widder woman he knew, more off some boughten slaves. It fair shames me to admit to it, sir, but half the boys in Texas—white and colored—are relatives of mine.”

  “Really.”

  “Uh-huh. Granddaddy stuck it in everything it pointed at. Ma always tells me I favor Granddaddy de Vrees, and she don’t mean it kindly, sir.”

  The captain guffawed so loud that he embarrassed himself. Right quick, he clapped his hand over his mouth. He peered about, then shrank back against the bole of the elm. “Shhh, Stanhope. Please be less entertaining. We must take care that no one hear us. In case you were not aware, it’s frowned upon for officers to consort with the enlisted.”

  Well, Bobby, about that time I started asking myself, “Why me?” and hoping I hadn’t given him the wrong idea. It struck me that consorting might have overtones, for, as Uncle Cecil was always fond of warning me, you know the predilections of those poetry readers.