CARTER'S SHADOW
Chapter 42 - By Christopher Patrick Lydon
Jonathan Harding was hauling a bale of hay across the yard,
his boots squelching through the mud created by a sudden downpour. He looked
up at the black sedan pulling into his driveway, and he drew up short, catching
the distinctive government plates on the front fender. A military car.
He watched as the British officer climbed out of the car, reaching
back inside for his peaked cap that he set over his steel-grey hair, completely
ignoring the rain that was failing steadily and soaking through his uniform.
"Sir?" Mister Harding asked, setting his bale down
carefully and crossing the yard to the Major. His old military training said
he should salute, but he ignored it, he was a civilian now.
"Sergeant Harding," the Major greeted, inclining his
head a fraction. The man looked imposing, and Mister Harding reflected that
it seemed a common trait for British officers, that edge of confidence that
came from almost ruling the world. For some it was arrogance, but he got a
distinct impression from the Major's eyes that his had been hard earned.
"What can I do for you, Major?" Harding asked, tilting
back his trucker's cap and pulling off his work gloves.
"I'm here to speak to your son, West," the Major said,
direct and to the point.
Harding squared his shoulders, "Can I ask what a British
officer wants with my boy?"
The Major surveyed the farm with a glance, his eyes flicking
from the cars in the driveway, over to the bar, and out to the fields, settling
back on Mister Harding, "My son asked me to talk to him."
"I don't understand," Mister Harding said hesitantly.
"I understand that your son was rejected by the United
States Marine Corps." The Major rested a hand on the roof of his car,
ignoring the rain streaming down.
"He was," Harding replied; there was something ominous
about the way the British Major said that, something about his mannerism that
said he had a purpose. "He's thinking of joining the Canadian Army instead."
"I know," the Major replied with a stout nod, "and
he is going to run straight into the Canadian Army's recruiting policy. I
am here to offer him an alternative to waiting."
Harding folded his arms, wondering why this man would help his
son, but he shrugged and gestured towards the house, "He's inside."
The Major nodded again, glancing up at the rain and smiling
slightly. "Thank you," he said, following West's father into the
old farmhouse.
The Major waited patiently by the door, tucking his cap under
his arm, as West's father stopped a moment to have a quiet conversation with
his wife. It was a comfortable, lived-in home, wonderful smells of cooking
coming from the kitchen as pots and pans bubbled happily. There was a feeling
in that house of peace, something the Major could appreciate never having
had it in his own home. It came down to a choice, order or happiness, and
he preferred order.
"Please come in," Mrs Harding said as she cleaned
her hands on a tea towel. "Would you like a cup of tea?" she offered,
as the Major stepped into the house properly.
"No, no thank you," he shook his head stiffly, his
mouth twisting in distaste at the thought of what the Canadians called tea.
"Perhaps coffee if you have it?"
Mrs Harding nodded, as her husband went off to find his son.
The Major took a moment to nod, "You have a beautiful house here, Mrs
Harding."
"Thank you." She smiled, setting the coffee and motioning
through to the living room, "Please sit down."
There was an edge of tension in the air, uncertainty. Both parents
felt awkward as the Major sat down in a low arm chair, adjusting to get comfortable,
tugging down on the Sam Browne belt he wore so it sat properly.
Mrs. Harding sat down on the couch, and shifted to perch on
the edge of it, occasionally glancing behind her to see where her husband
was, not exactly sure what to say to the British Major. The uncomfortable
silence settled over them as they waited.
"I heard your son won the Provincial championship,"
the Major said politely. "You must be very proud."
"Y-yes," Mrs. Harding bobbed her head, "he played
with a broken rib." She glanced behind her again as she heard her husband
coming back.
The Major rose from his seat, tugging down on his olive-green
tunic, standing tall to get his first look at the young man he had heard so
much about. The first thing that struck the Major was the determination behind
those grey eyes, an inner strength that reminded him so much of his own son.
A fire that lay deep inside and drove a person onwards.
West wasn't broad-shouldered, but he wasn't lean either; he
was well-developed with a couple of lines on his face, and the Major again
took pause. West was too young to have earned them in any other way but hardship.
His bruises were fading, but even still the marks of his fight
were still present, shadowing the eyes, the cut on his forehead standing out
sharply. But even beaten, that fire stayed constant. The kind of boy that,
when beaten, got back up again.
"Wesley Theodore Harding, I presume," he said in his
clipped accent. Real men didn't shake hands, they didn't have to. You took
them at their word.
* * *
West frowned; the British Major at once reminded him of Will
Carter--they had the same eyes, the same tone to their voice, that same presence
that made a person pause and think before they said anything.
"Yes," he said carefully, glancing to his father again,
wondering what he was there for. His father had said that he was there to
help, but help how? He mentally shook himself to focus, "Yes, I am."
"Major David Carter, Queens Thirty Second," the Major
introduced himself, "currently the British Liaison Officer to the Canadian
Military. Would you sit down?" He gestured to the rocking chair, sitting
down himself.
West balked; it was the first time he had ever been invited
to sit down in his own home, but he found himself sitting anyway. "What's
this about?" he asked nervously.
"Perhaps we could have a moment to discuss this privately?"
The Major looked at West's parents.
Jonathon nodded and held out a hand to help his wife up. "We'll
be in the kitchen," he said, looking over at West. Flashing the Major
another puzzled look, they both left them alone.
The Major watched them leave, turning back to West as he dropped
his peaked cap down on the coffee table, "I heard you had a few troubles
lately, sunshine."
West balked a little at being called sunshine by a complete
stranger, but he chose to ignore it, as he folded his arms, tucking his hands
into the folds of his grey flannel shirt. "It's been a tough couple of
weeks," he admitted, glancing down at the cap, and up again. "Are
you related to Will?"
"I'm his father," the Major said; there was a strain
to his voice, but it vanished as he pressed onwards. "Why do you want
to be a soldier?"
"My father was one," West answered, knowing how lame
that sounded. He drew a deep breath, "All my life I've wanted to actually
make a difference doing something that means something."
"There is a purpose in the army," the major agreed.
"But if that is your reason for wanting to join, why not simply enlist?
Why choose to become an officer?"
West shifted again in his chair, still staring at the cap, his
brow creasing. "Honestly?" he asked, looking up.
"Please." The Major smiled tightly.
"It's about inspiring trust," West said, meeting the
Major's eyes. "Leadership, being the one people can depend on to lead
them to accomplish what needs to be done."
"It takes a lot of mental preparation to deal with command,"
the Major warned. "It's a constant challenge."
"I want to try," West replied, setting his jaw.
The Major's eyes narrowed, again seeing that flicker of his
son's fire in this boy. There was nothing arrogant about West, only determination
and honesty and the Major could appreciate that.
"Very well, Mister Harding," he said, resting his
hands on the arms of the chair and staring intently at the boy. "Tell
me, what makes you feel so certain you will earn the responsibility of leadership?"
He glanced at the small collection of hockey trophies on the mantle, and back
at West, "Because there is a difference between winning a hockey game
and leading men into battle."
West nodded, "I know." He sat upright, leaning on
the arm of his chair, "I just need a chance to prove myself, sir..."
"Don't call me sir," the Major held up two fingers
and shook them, "you're not in uniform yet."
"I'm sorry..." West began then settled back. "But
I meant what I said--if I get a chance I will prove myself."
"Tell me about the five boys that jumped you," the
Major asked, shifting tack.
West's hands tightened on the arms of his chair, as his back
went rigid and he swallowed. "They didn't think someone..." he stopped
and shook his head, "they didn't think a fag like me should play on a
hockey team."
"There are men that think the same way about the army,"
the Major said quietly.
"They're wrong," West said forcibly. "I can fight
just as hard as any of them."
"Harder, it seems," the major said, smiling faintly
as he glanced towards the window at the rain coming down, and back at West.
"So tell me, how would you prove them wrong?"
"By being the best damn soldier I could be," West
replied, remembering what his father had said, and setting his jaw. You either
let the bastards win, or you buckled down and you kept going, no matter how
hard it got.
"If you have the potential to lead, the desire to make
a difference, that will help," the Major stated. "Taking a role
as a leader means you will be shaping the lives of people in your team. You
could be posted throughout the world, and tours of duty could last from two
years to as little as a few months. It's a big commitment."
"Are you trying to discourage me?" West asked cautiously.
"Because you're not going to do it."
"I know," the Major said looking back. "You remind
me a lot of my own son, and he's as stubborn as they come."
"I've met him," West said with a light smile.
"Why the American marines?" the Major inquired thoughtfully,
"Why not the Canadian Army?"
"I get asked that a lot," West answered seriously,
he shifted uncomfortably. "They didn't have what I was looking for."
"They are better trained than the marines are," the
Major replied. "Smaller, harder working and damn effective."
"But?" West asked.
At that moment his mother came in from the kitchen bringing
coffee.
"They are a Cadre force," the Major said simply. "Before
World War One the Canadian army was very small, and should a threat come along,
they conscripted people to fill their ranks to deal with those threats."
He shifted and accepted the mug of coffee West's mother brought to him, before
she disappeared back into the kitchen, allowing the Major to continue, "The
Administration exists in place, the Canadian Army has a few well-trained forces
to deal with crisis, and should war come conscription swells those into an
army. This is the philosophy behind the Canadian Army-well, most armies, with
the exception of one or two countries."
"Right," West nodded.
"It works well," the Major said, nodding. "In
World War Two the Canadian force made up one quarter of the Normandy landing.
However, I get the feeling you want to serve on something a little more permanent."
West nodded, "Yeah."
"So, again, why America?" The Major smiled, "There
are easier options, especially for someone like you."
West swallowed and shrugged, "Like what?"
"In January of this year," the Major said, adjusting
his position in his seat to sip from the coffee mug, wincing at its lack of
flavour but saying nothing. Looking up at West, he continued, "In January
the British Army decided to capitulate to a European Court ruling that said
that discrimination based off of certain...choices," again he rolled
the word distastefully, "was a violation of human rights. And so abolished
its standing policy on homosexuals in the military. It was decided the American
don't-ask-don't-tell policy only served to ignore a problem in the hopes it
would go away." He smiled tightly, "We British tend to tackle things
more directly."
West blinked, "The British Army? How...?"
"You are a citizen of a Commonwealth country, and with
a string or two pulled here and there you can be made a full British citizen.
You meet all the other requirements to be accepted, and with a letter from
a currently serving senior officer I think you could be accepted to Sandhurst
Military Academy."
"Sandhurst..." West swallowed.
"A year's initial training in leadership, organization
and other skills you're going to need to be an officer," the Major said,
sitting back into his chair, studying the boy's stunned reaction closely.
"After that it's Infantry training and Platoon Commanders courses."
"But why?" West choked out, still shocked at what
the Major was offering.
"Honestly?" the Major asked, mimicking West's earlier
answer.
"Please..." West murmured, staring at the grim-faced
soldier opposite him.
"Because I would have done this for my son had he asked."
He stood, setting his cup down on the coffee table and picking up his cap,
"And he did ask, for you."
"I-" West swallowed, "I don't know what to say."
The Major tucked his cap onto his head, "Think about it.
You have a week until I depart for my next assignment, I'd like to send you
on your way before then so that you can attend the training courses at Sandhurst."
"T-thank you...sir..." West stammered, standing up.
"You have to earn the right to call me sir," the Major
said firmly, as he nodded. "One week, Mister Harding." He pulled
a pen out of his pocket and jotted down his number on a scrap of paper, "Don't
disappoint me."
"I won't," West said, shaking his head.
The Major's eyes swept up and down the young man facing him,
and he knew that he wouldn't be disappointed; he gave one final nod and marched
back through the kitchen. West was left to sit and stare at the window, the
piece of paper with the phone number on it clutched lightly in his hands,
watching as Major Carter climbed into his car and backed up the driveway.
It was the offer of his future, Sandhurst... England...
The thunder crackled across the sky, as the rain came down harder.
It was everything he had ever wanted in a piece of paper with
a few numbers on it, and he owed it all to a man who had taught him years
ago.
* * *
Will walked back into his quiet house and slipped off his jacket,
shaking off the beads of rain as he walked through into the dark living room.
He retook his position at the patio doors to stare over his dark garden, to
watch the storm as it swept through.
He wondered at his own life, at the choices he had made, the
things that had made him who he was. The events that had tried him, and had
helped shaped him into the man he was. The people that had come to influence
his choices, and guided his path.
He pushed open the patio door and walked out onto the veranda,
as the rain fell down, plastering his hair to his head in seconds, the rain
becoming a torrent as if it knew he had stepped outside.
He let it stream down his face, soaking him to the skin as he
rested two hands on the rail and looked around his garden, lightning crackling
across the sky chased by the rumble of thunder in the distance.
Be the man...
The words echoed in the thunder as Will bowed his head, feeling
the water run down his neck, trickling down his shirt and sliding down his
back. His hands locked into a knot behind his back as he stood brace-legged
under the full fury of the storm.
"The problem is," he murmured, "I am that man."
The thunder roared its agreement.
