Her fingers tingled the moment she touched the page.
It was a very formal
looking document, like a permission slip for a field trip from school. The
typeface had an old-fashioned look. At the top of the form was a series of
questions with answers that had been filled in with a typewriter. A dozen small
black blotches ran down the right hand side, perhaps where a fountain pen had
dribbled after the document had been signed.
She was looking at the dribbles, when halfway down the
page, she spotted his signature. It was the first hold-it-in-your-hands-proof
she had that he was real.
She was giddy with
excitement. She studied the signature and quickly felt connected to it. She ran
her finger over the ink, tracing the loopy j's and the scribble bit next to the
N in Jones. It had a child-like uncertainty to it, she thought. It was the
signature of someone who didn't write too often.
As she searched the
document further, she saw Jones had signed it a second time, a few inches
further down the page. She felt strangely compelled to trace that signature as
well.
As her pointer finger passed over the ancient ink,
she felt dizzy and very warm. Her legs got heavy and the room suddenly began to
spin. She caught a look of surprise on Mr. Saunders’ face, just moments before
the room exploded into a million pieces of white light.
"Oh my God, my head really is exploding,"
she thought.
Lizzie didn't
know how much time had passed, but just as suddenly as the white light had
engulfed her, it disappeared, and the room came back into focus.
Well, a room anyway.
It wasn't the one she had been standing in minutes or seconds earlier. Gone
were the artifact showcases and war memorabilia: Now it was an empty room with
bare floors, drab pale yellow walls and wooden benches along one side. Rust coloured curtains covering an open
window fluttered in a warm breeze.
Saunders was gone too...and, so were her
winter boots and all her winter clothes. She was now standing there - wherever
there was - in nothing but a pair of shorts and a white undershirt. The only
thing that was unchanged was the attestation paper that remained in her hand.
Lizzie wanted to
scream, but she didn't. Drawing attention to herself while she had so few
clothes on would be as a bad idea. Find something to put on first, then scream,
she decided.
A search of the room for some way to cover up
proved futile. There was nothing but wire coat hangers in the closet, and
nothing else in the room except some old magazines on a table between wooden
benches. She thought about pulling down a curtain panel and wrapping herself in
that, but she guessed that would probably end up getting her in more trouble
than she was already in.
With no other options coming to her mind, she
opened the only door in the room and peaked into what turned out to be a
hallway. To her surprise it was filled with young boys and men, all with particularly
unattractive buzz cuts, standing along one side of the hall. They were all
dressed in shorts and in undershirts and clutching papers.
They were chatting
quietly among themselves. Lizzie watched for a while through the crack. Every
few minutes a tall man with a loud voice would emerge from a room just beyond
her view, call two names and the line would move a forward a few paces.
There's
no way to get passed them without being seen. / wonder if I can sneak out the window. Where is
Rejean when I need her? She's always so good at sneaking out of places.
She closed the door
and crossed the room. She started looking for a way to open the window, but
when she glanced outside, she froze on the spot. Somehow it was late afternoon
on a spring day. The sun was beginning to set over a familiar streetscape. It
was downtown Truro Truro if
the building directly across the street from wasn't St. John's
She watched in
disbelief as a man in a top hat guided a horse and buggy down the street. He
waved to a man in an uncomfortable looking suit with a high collar. He was
carrying a cane. The man waived back as
the buggy disappeared from sight to the right of the window.
Lizzie's brain was unable to process what she saw.
Already on edge, she
nearly jumped out of her cocoa coloured skin when there was a knock at the door and the man with the loud
voice walked in. Lizzie crossed her arms in front of her to try and hide, but
the man didn't seem to notice.
"Hurry up Paris
Next? Next for what?
She slinked across
one side of the room and again peeked into the hall. The line of young men had
disappeared, except for one tall red-headed guy that looked like he might be a
basketball player, and a big black man with broad shoulders. He had his back
turned to her.
She was creeping out
into the hall looking for an escape route when the black man turned around and
spotted her. A broad smile crossed his face. He winked at her, and with his
head, motioned to her to come join him in line.
This is nuts. This can't be happening.
As she
approached the black man with the increasingly familiar face, the man with the
loud voice appeared from an office nearby.
"Jones, Paris, follow me."
The man disappeared into an office. Lizzie
noticed the sign beside the office door. In big bold letters it read:
Dominion of Canada
Over-seas Expeditionary Force
"No way," Lizzie blurted out, louder
than intended. She was starting to figure out where she was.
"What was that recruit?" said the
loud man turning to face her.
"Oh, not "no way" to you sir. I meant
like, no way this can't be happening."
"Yes, I agree," he said.
Lizzie thought the
man was going to yell at her, but he was focused on Jones beside her. He
approached with a snarl on his face. He got as close to Jones as he could
without touching him. He looked up into the big man's eyes.
"It's hard to believe things have gotten so bad
so quickly in Europe that we're letting blacks
join up." He was talking to Lizzie, but he was keeping his eyes on Jones.
Jones stared back unwavering. "Too lazy for this man's army, some say. Too
dumb, too slow, too proud. But the pointy heads in Parliament, decided it was
okay, so what choice do we have. Right Paris
"That's not what I meant at all,"
said Lizzie. She was so shocked and angered by the man's words she was almost
crying. "How can you possibly say such horrible things. Do you even know
any black people? "
But the man wasn't listening. Breaking off the
staring contest, he grabbed the form from Jones' hand, went in behind his desk
and rolled it into an ancient black
typewriter. Lizzie had seen one like it in a museum display.
"You've
read the form?" demanded the loud man, not even trying to hide his
contempt. When Jones failed to answer immediately, he added, "You can read
can't you?"
"Yes, I've read the form," he responded
calmly.
"Good. Let's go
then. Last Name?"
"Jones."
Clickety clack, went
the keys on the typewriter.
"First
name?"
Lizzie held her
breath.
"Jeremiah."
"Oh my God," said Lizzie excitedly.
"Are you really THE Jeremiah Jones."
"Shut up Paris
Lizzie was ready to explode, but Jones gave her
a look that told her to bite her tongue, hard.
"Jones, where do you live?"
continued the bully, whom Lizzie had decided was the recruiting clerk.
"Ford Street, Truro
The loud man looked up at him, but said nothing.
Clickety clack.
Clickety clack.
"Where were you
born?"
"East Mountain ,
Colchester County
Clickety clack.
Clickety clack.
"Next of
kin?"
"Mrs. Ethel
Jones. She's my wife."
Clickety clack.
Clickety clack.
"Her
address?"
"Ford Street , Truro
Clickety clack.
Clickety clack.
"What is your
date of birth?"
"I'm 39 years
old," he lied.
No clickety clack
this time.
"I know I'm older than most of these
young men. They can barely shave, but I'm not too old to fight for my country.
You can enlist between the ages of 18 and 39 right? I'm 39."
Still no Clickety clack.
"I think you're lying," said the
clerk after an uncomfortable silence.
"So I ask again, when were you born? Day, month and year."
"March 27th...18...."
Lizzie saw Jones struggling to do the math in his
head. He was actually 10 years too old to enlist. She felt the form in her hand
tingle. She glanced down at it.
"March 29,
1877," she interrupted. "His birthday is March 27, 1877, and I know
that because he is a friend of mine."
The clerk looked at her, and then back at him.
The both smiled their sweetest fake smiles for him.
Clickety clack
Clickety.
Trade or
calling?" the clerk continued
"Teamster."
Lizzie checked the form, That was correct, but
she had no idea what it meant.
The questions
continued. Was he willing to be vaccinated? Was he currently a member of the
military? Did he understand the job to be done? And finally was he willing to
serve?
Clickety clack. Clickety clack.
The clerk pulled the
form from the roller and placed on the counter for Jones to sign. He dabbed the
pen in the ink pot and started to hand it to Jones, but he stopped suddenly.
Ink dribbled from the pen onto the form.
"Do you
know what you're doing Jones?" His tone was suddenly more friendly than
confrontational. "You are going to go in this as a private and you are
going to come out a private. You're going to get all the grunt jobs and none of
the rewards."
"Sir?" responded Jones raising his
eyebrow signalling he didn't quite understand what the clerk was getting at.
"Don't be stupid Jones," he said. "You
know there are a lot of people who don't think your kind are fit for
service."
"My kind?"
"You know, Coloureds, Blacks, Negroes. The
politicians in Ottawa
The two men stared at one another without speaking.
"I'm ready to
serve my country like any other proud Canadian, Now please give me the
pen."
The clerk hesitated
for another moment and then passed it over. Lizzie watched him sign in two
places and put down the pen.
"Raise your right hand," ordered the clerk.
Jones raised his
massive hand to beside his face. Lizzie instinctively raised her arm too.
"Do you Jeremiah
Jones swear that you will faithfully bear true allegiance to His Majesty King
George the Fifth, his heir and successors and that you will as in duty bound
honestly and faithfully defend his majesty, his heirs and successors in person,
crown and dignity against all enemies and observe and obey all the orders of
his majesty, his heirs and successors and of all the generals and officers over
you?
"I will so help me God" replied Jones.
"Okay Jones,
down the hall, turn right at the end, and wait in the second room. If you can convince the doctor you're a 39
year-old, you're officially in this man's army."
The clerk turned Lizzie. "You're next Paris
Lizzie looked at the
form, and then at Jones disappearing down the hall, and then at the crabby
recruiting clerk.
"You’ll have to
take the next guy," she said, turning to pursue Jones. "I have a
couple of hundred questions I need him to answer."
The clerk started
yelling at her, but Lizzie didn't care. She took off after Jones. Halfway down
the hall though, she began to feel dizzy. Her knees buckled and she had to
brace herself against the wall. Standing there, the hall seemed to be getting
longer, stretching out into the distance as if someone were pulling at the far
end.
Beads of sweat began
to form on her forehead. Jones was gone, but there was someone moving toward
her up the hall.
“Crap.
The recruiter has called for help. I'm into it deep now.
Unable to move, she
watched the man stride up the hall toward her. She couldn't believe her good
fortune when he got close enough for her to see it was Teabag Saunders.
“Are you alright Miss
Paris?” he asked reaching out a trembling hand. “It must be awful hot in here
with that sweater and all those winter clothes? Why don't you sit down for a
while?
Lizzie looked down and saw that indeed she was
in her winter clothes. She was back in the Heritage Room, sweating, out of
breath, but still holding the attestation paper.
"I'm sorry, what did you say?" said Lizzie,
her thoughts jumbled.
"I just
asked if you wanted to sit down for a second. You had an odd look on your face.
For a moment I thought you were going to faint."
"No I'm
okay....I think," Lizzie replied. Inwardly she was not as certain, but
Saunders seemed reassured.
"I was just
going to show you that if you flipped the enlistment form over, there is the
health certificate where a doctor certified Jones fit for duty."
Lizzie flipped the
page. There were fewer questions than on the front, and the responses were
handwritten.
Lizzie read it
quickly.
Description of Jones,
Jeremiah on Enlistment
Height 6"
0"
Girth (when fully
expanded) 41 inches
Eyes: Brown
Hair: Black
Religious
Denomination: Baptist
Complexion: Negro
Apparent age: 39
years old.
Lizzie smiled when she read that.
In a section labelled
distinguishing marks, the doctor noted that Jones had 2 inch by 1 inch scar on
his right buttocks.
Too much
information.
In a final paragraph,
the form indicated his vision was fine, his heart and lungs were healthy and he
was fit for the Canadian Over-Seas Expeditionary Force.
The document was
signed by a Captain D.W. Muir and dated June 19th,1916.
She turned her
attention back to Teabag Saunders who was still looking at her as if she might
faint.
"Can I get
a copy of these?" Lizzie asked. "They would be great for my display
board at the heritage fair."
"I don't see any problem with that,"
responded Saunders. "I'll go up to
the office and make you a copy. You can look through the rest of the file, but
it's just letters between the Legion and the man who carved the statue of Jones
on Willow Street
He handed Lizzie the file and disappeared. She
flipped through the pages and found they really were just letters detailing how
the carving would be paid for and who would do the work.
And there was that name again. Bruce Wood. Had she
heard her father talk about him?
