The Last Lady from Hell (2 page)

“Hey, don’t scratch the fender with that boney butt of yours, ya frigger!”

“I was polishing it with my bum, ya freak,” he said. This is going to be a long trip, I thought.

“Hey,” Mike said. “I just got the latest issue of
The Voice
and thought you might want to read it over our break.”

The Voice
is a quarterly magazine for bagpipers and drummers.

“I’ve got this five page paper due, I doubt I’ll have the time,” I said.

“Well, I brought it anyway. Check out this cool cover.”

I took the magazine, setting my bundle of laundry down, and was stunned by what I saw. The cover folded out to form a twelve-by sixteen-inch sepia tone photo that looked very old. It showed a piper playing on a makeshift stage in a classic piper pose — very straight with one leg cocked to one side. He was a handsome guy, and it was obvious he was trying to play pipes while attempting to hold back a smile. He was in full kilt, horsehair sporran, and a glengarry hat. To his right was another stage with four kilted men dancing around four swords laid out on the floor – the Scottish Sword Dance. It was a surreal scene, set against a background of a bombed out church and several trees that had been burned to stumps with a few charred and broken limbs remaining.

In the foreground was a large crowd of kilted soldiers sitting and cheering for the entertainment. This group of men was mud covered and haggard looking, but still appeared to have the spirit to laugh and cheer. Among them were a few men, with blank expressions and vacant stares, who seemed numb to their fellow infantrymen.

It was the most stirring photo I had ever seen, and I knew I had to learn more. I flipped the cover over and on the back a small-print caption read, “A kilted regiment enjoying some entertainment after the devastating losses of the Battle of Somme, WWI.”

“Devastating” was the word that caught my attention.

Mike got into the Datsun and hollered, “Let’s go!” The trance was broken, and I jumped in and tossed my sack of dirty clothes on the back seat.

The three-hour drive was a blur filled with idle chatter and poor drivers. I couldn’t stop thinking about that photo and the word “devastating.”

Finally, we pulled into my parents’ driveway and hopped out of the car, eager to stretch our legs. The house I grew up in was very modest, in a modest neighborhood in a modest city. Guelph is my idea of a nice city. It is well-designed — not too big or too small, yet plenty to do. Guelph is home to several universities and a good amount of industry, including a large brewery. It is nicknamed “The Royal City” because it was named after the ancestral family of George the IV of England.

My folks must have been waiting at the door because they came out almost immediately. Hugs, kisses, handshakes and introductions followed.

I couldn’t wait to get inside to a computer and search online for “the battle Somme” and find out what the word devastating meant to the writer of
The Voice
. I went inside and got on-line. First I had to contend with the dreadfully slow family computer. It desperately needed some attention, not like the ones at school which are constantly cleaned up by an army of unpaid computer geeks.

Finally, I found a summary of “Battle Somme” on Wikipedia.

“A major offensive of World War One, led by Field Marshall Douglas Haige against German forces on the western front in the Somme Valley of France. Haige bombarded the trenches for seven days dropping over 1.6 million artillery shells. On July 1, 1916 at 07:25 the Hawthorn ridge mine prematurely went off followed by 13 more at 07:30 marking the beginning of the ground assault. Unfortunately, the Germans had plenty of advance warning and had fortified their bunkers, allowing them to weather the assault far
better than was anticipated by the British. What ensued was the single most devastating loss of life for the British Empire in history. The first day of the Somme offensive the British suffered 56,000 casualties...”

I did a double take. Did I read that right? The British suffered 56,000 casualties on the first day of the Somme offensive? I was stunned. How could that be? As I continued reading, I discovered that the German machine guns did most of the work, cutting down the oncoming soldiers like blades of grass.

How could I have never heard of this battle? Fifty-six thousand casualties in one day. That was almost as many as the lives that were lost in the Vietnam War over 12 years. Devastating was exactly the right word to describe the losses, especially since the Battle Somme went on for five months!

The enormity of the losses in this battle stunned me. I was in a haze, enough to concern my mother, who was busy preparing for the family gathering.

“What’s the matter, Brian?” she asked.

“Mum, have you ever heard of the Battle Somme in World War I?”

“Oh, yes, that was a terrible battle, so many died,” she said. “Your great Uncle Leslie was killed there. He was a stretcher bearer.”

I looked at her. “Really?”

“Oh, yes. More Canadians were killed in Ypres and the Battle of Passchendaele, but we lost a lot of good young men at the Somme.”

“I need to know more about this time in history. I know so little about it!” I said.

“Well, dear, I just read in the paper yesterday that we have one of the last surviving veterans of World War I right here in Guelph at the Veterans Home. He’s 109 years old and served for three years. I think the article even mentioned that he was a bagpiper.”

“Do you think he would mind if I paid him a visit?” I asked. “I mean, he lived through this battle but may not want to remember such a horrible experience.”

“Old people love to get visits from young people,” she said. “It makes them feel needed and wanted especially if they can pass on something of value.”

My Mother is a very wise person. She never received any higher education, but books can’t teach common sense.

“It’s too late now, honey, but tomorrow you should go talk to him.”

I smiled. “You know how sometimes things just seem to come together, Mum? First there was Professor Krull’s assignment about war, then I invited Mike on this trip and he just happens to bring
The Voice along
, and now I learn that there’s a survivor of the Battle Somme right here in my town. I’m going to ace this paper!”

GUELPH VETERANS HOME

I
ROLLED OUT OF BED
at about half-past nine and banged on Mike’s door on my way to the bathroom.

“Get up, we’ve got stuff to do!” I called.

On my return trip to my bedroom, Mike opened his door bleary-eyed with a severe case of bedhead. “What on earth time is it?”

“Nine-thirty,” I said. “Get dressed. We’re going to get something to eat and then go meet a piece of history.”

“Holy crap!” Mike grumbled as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Nine-thirty?”

We were downstairs by ten, not bad for a couple of college boys on a Saturday morning. My Mom was more than happy to fix a classic home-cooked breakfast, which was warmly appreciated by us starving students.

After going online for directions to the Veteran’s Hospital we hopped into my Datsun. I brought along a tape recorder, a pad of paper with a trusty ballpoint, and the issue of T
he Voice
.

Within twenty minutes, we had arrived at the Vet’s home and were walking up the front steps to the entrance.

All old-folks homes seem to smell the same, I thought as we walked through the door. It was a kind of antiseptic cleanser odor, mixed with the scent of urine that has been in a Depends far too long. Then there was the smell of old things, a combination of mothballs and passing years that clung to the possessions these old warriors brought with them in an attempt to make this final stop a little more tolerable. They were bits and pieces of their lives, simple reminders of a better time and place.

At the front desk, I asked the receptionist about the gentleman who was featured in the article in the
Guelph News
.

“That would be Mr. MacDonald,” she said. “I believe he’s in the TV room.”

“Do you think it would be all right if we interviewed him for a university paper?” I asked, holding up my recorder.

“Oh, another paper, that’s grand,” she said brightly. “I know he loves the attention. Bear in mind, though, he is 109 years old and he tires quickly.”

I nodded, proving my understanding, but neglected to correct her misunderstanding about my being with a paper instead of just writing one.

“So, you’re Clark Kent now, eh?” Mike whispered as we followed the receptionist down the hall to the TV room.

“A harmless misunderstanding,” I quipped. We entered a large room with twenty or so old armchairs, most of which were occupied by old folks. Some were sleeping, while others read the paper or chatted with their neighbors, who might or might not have been listening or even caring what was said. Very few, it seemed, were actually watching the television.

The receptionist walked over to an elderly man sitting in a large, high-back chair. His back was to the television and he was staring out the window, alone in his thoughts.

“Mr. MacDonald?” the receptionist called loudly. It appeared the old man’s hearing was not what it once was.

“Mr. MacDonald, I have two young men here that are from a university newspaper. They would like to speak with you.”

“Who? Where?” he asked, coming out of his daydream.

“Right here, behind you,” she said waving us around to the front of him. “Boys, this is Mr. Ian MacDonald.”

Mike shot me a scolding glance for allowing the newspaper ruse to continue, as we walked around the chair to see this very old man.

Ian MacDonald was neatly dressed with a white shirt, a tie and a jacket. His trousers were pressed and shoes shined. He had a full head of white hair, and his enormous ears conspicuously gave away his advanced age. With a wry smile, he looked up at me with clear eyes.

“Forgive me for not getting up, boys,” he said. “How do you do?”

I had never met anyone over 100 years old and didn’t quite know what to expect. “Very well, thank you,” I answered.

He held a hand up to his large ears. “I can’t hear very well, even with these bloody hearing aids, so I’d appreciate it if you would be so kind as to speak up.”

“Yes, of course,” I said loudly. “Good to meet you, sir. My name is Brian Way and this is my friend Mike Hanniford. We are from Queens University and I would like to interview you for my paper, if that’s okay.”

Mike shot me another sour glare.

“I’m happy to speak to you young men, I happen to be a Queen’s alumni myself — and you don’t have to shout,” he said cheekily.

My eyebrows shot up. This is getting better and better, I thought. He’s an alumni and a joker.

“I understand you were in World War One,” I said fumbling for an opening. I was not a seasoned journalist and it showed. I had no prepared questions, no direction, and no thought as to what information I needed to glean from this fountain of knowledge.

“You haven’t asked my name!” he barked, looking at me with a twinkle in his eye.

My face reddened, and I knew instantly the old man could see right through me.

“Well, I, uh, I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I already know your name from the newspapers and the receptionist.

He held his hand up and chuckled. “I’m razzing you young man. What is it that I can help you with?”

I relaxed. This guy is sort of cool, I thought. How can someone be so old and still be cool? I was about to ask Mike this question, but he was focused on the television, watching a rerun of
Gilligan’s Island
. To be fair, I knew I had a lot more interest in the information this man possessed than Mike, so I was happy to see that he was being entertained.

I turned back to Mr. Macdonald and noticed a small pin on his tie. It looked like a bagpipe.

“Is that a bagpipe on your tie?” I asked, pointing to it.

“Yes. Yes, it is.

“Are you a piper?”

“Yes, but I haven’t played in many years. I don’t have the lungs for it anymore.”

“I’m a piper myself,” I said.

He smiled and nodded, and an awkward silence took over. This is painful, I thought. Why is this so difficult for me? This man is living history. He possessed first-hand recollections of some of the most historically horrific battles in modern civilization. I needed to find a way to tap into these personal insights before this window to the past was closed forever. Then I remembered
The Voice
in my jacket pocket and took it out. I unfolded the cover photo and held it up before him.