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Sergeant Byng tomorrow. You'll find his office on Victory Street. I'll make sure he's expecting you.”
    “I'll be there, sir.” I wanted to ask why but knew it wasn't my place.
    “Good piece of luck that I bumped into you, Edward. Say hello to your father when you write home. Now you'd better get in line; the bean counters want to count their beans.”
    I watched as the colonel and his orderly strode toward camp. Several soldiers, noting his rank, saluted. I couldn't believe I'd just seen Uncle Nix. He was a colonel now! To think Dad could have been as high in rank as his friend by now if he'd stayed in.
    “That was your uncle?” Paul asked.
    “We just call him that. He's a really good pal of my father's.”
    “I'm sticking with you, kid.” Paul punched my shoulder. “You've got friends in high places.”
    It seemed more than chance that I'd met Uncle Nix; it was as if God had chosen to send him to me.
    After signing m, we had stew and bread and bunked down for the night on mattresses that leaked straw. The tent was cold, but the brazier burning in the center gave enough warmth.
    The tent was so threadbare I could see the stars; it was a different sky than at home.
    Reveille sounded at five a.m. I poked my nose outside to see trucks rolling down the gravel streets, cooks hauling steaming water, and a column of mud-stained soldiers returning from night training. They looked bone tired.
    We found the mess hall and I sat at a bench and washed my porridge down with a cup of weak tea. A group of Canadian soldiers burst into the room, laughing and confident, their uniforms sharp.
    “Where you green buggers from?” one asked.
    “Moose Jaw,” Paul answered. “We're with the One Twenty-eighth.”
    “The One Twenty-eighth? They were busted up last week and sent every which way but home.”
    All of us Bull Moose Boys froze, spoons halfway to our mouths.
    “Busted up!” I said. “Why?”
    “Attrition. Have to fill the ranks of the battalions already in the field. You're not the only ones; we got our marching orders yesterday. At least we're getting to the front.”
    If we weren't going to join our battalion, I wouldn't have much chance of finding anyone who knew Hector.
    “This is awful,” Paul said. “We'll be fighting beside strangers.” He threw an arm around my shoulder. “The brass won't bust you and me up—we're a team! With my playing and your singing, we could spend the entire war entertaining the troops.”
    “Now, that'd be quite the lark!” I'd often thought about how good it had felt to sing for the company. My back was still sore from all the pats I'd received. I turned to Paul with a smile. “But I didn't come all this way to sing.”
    He grinned. “Your singing could mesmerize the Huns and then I'd pick 'em off.”
    I laughed.
    When breakfast was done, I searched for Sergeant Byng's office, the words “busted up” still bouncing through my head. I wondered what Uncle Nix could possibly have planned. I dared to imagine he'd make me a lance corporal, just like that.
    Camp Witley was a labyrinth of huts and tents. I passed several stables and turned a corner. A cavalry squadron trotted by, horses snorting, steam rising from their flanks. The troopers held their lances steady, their faces stern, helmets shiny. They looked so powerful; it was a
Boy's Own Paper
illustration come to life.
    I located Victory Street. Each building was numbered, but I had no idea which one housed Sergeant Byng, so I stopped in front of a corporal seated on a bench, reading a book. His uniform was British; the red flannel on his cap showed he was part of the military police.
    “Is that poetry, Corporal?” I hoped he was the kind who could take a bit of kidding.
    The man squinted at my shoulder insignia, then squeezed his face even tighter, as though a foul stink had arrived. “No, it's a military law manual, Private.” He stuck his nose back in his book.
    One good smack would show him. “Could you direct me to