The memory of Marie crying by the side of the road as we marched away haunted me. So it was that a week went by before I realized that although patrols had been sent out every night, I hadn't been detailed to lead any of them. More than that, the Captain called me in and told me I was going off on course.

I hit the roof.

"What do you think you're doing? Sir. I'm a Sergeant. They gave me these stripes to lead, not to be somewhere else."

He looked up at me sadly. "Johnson, do you know how many originals there are left in this battalion? Do you know how many letters I've had to write to wives, parents? You found something rare back in that village with that French girl. I want to see someone happy. The war's almost over - look how fast we're advancing. And now we've got the Military Service Act men - let them take their share."

"And they've got wives and children and aged parents - maybe that's why they didn't volunteer. Oh, and we've got loads of MSA corporals and sergeants to lead them! You don't want unnecessary casualties? Then make sure the best men are leading them. You can't save my life - I could get bombed behind the lines. I could get torpedoed if you sent me back to Canada. And then there's that Spanish influenza. Stop trying. All you'll do is make me lose all my authority - and my self-respect. I'll be careful - you can bet on that."

He knew I was right. I also knew that he was just trying to help me. I moderated my tone.

"Look, don't think I'm not grateful to you for trying, but it just can't be. Do you still have that whiskey?"

"Here's to a quick end to the fighting."

"And if you really want to help me, how can I get my discharge over here and not back in Canada?"