Honour Among Men. Barbara Fradkin

tact. “I know a few guys who served with the UN police in Yugoslavia, and they had some trouble readjusting when they came back. And we know from highly publicized cases like Romeo Dallaire that a lot of soldiers encountered situations overseas that haunted them when they came back. Didn’t Oliver’s behaviour ring any alarm bells with his regiment?”

      Norrich slapped the table impatiently. His plate jumped, and his cuff came to rest in a pool of grease. Wordlessly Anne jumped up, rescued both men’s plates and disappeared into the kitchen. “I think all this stress stuff is a load of horseshit. It’s their job, for Christ’s sake! It’s why they signed up, and if they don’t have the stomach for it, they should just pack up and leave the job to the men who do. Last thing a soldier needs, just like a cop, is a mate who freezes up under fire and second-guesses whether he should act. It’s an insult to all the brave men who’ve ever served their country to pander to these guys and offer excuses. Worse, it makes them doubt themselves. Makes them wonder if they’ve got what it takes to be a hero when the shit hits the fan. A soldier, just like you and me, has to act. Not analyze or feel or whatever other lily shit the shrinks have come up with for our own good.”

      His jowls quivered, and he had turned a dangerous purple. In the kitchen, Green heard dishes clattering, and he wondered if Anne was deliberately staying out of her husband’s way. His own very personal outrage threatened to overpower him, and he debated the wisdom of continuing, but in defence of all the police officers and emergency workers he’d known, he tried to find a dispassionate response.

      “No one questions their heroism or their ability to act when they need to. But with the guys I knew, it was the aftermath that was tricky. When they had time to think—”

      Norrich slapped the table again. “The problem is Canadians are soft! We haven’t had a war on our own soil in nearly two hundred years, and two generations have grown up never feeling the threat of any war. We’ve pampered them at home and at school. Car pools and after-four programs, and when they grow up, welfare and unemployment insurance and health care. What the hell’s left to fight for? So when trouble hits, there’s no backbone. Hell, most of the world sees more trauma—”

      The kitchen door burst open, and Anne came out carrying a massive platter mounded with lemon meringue pie. She had a determined smile on her face, but her eyes glittered with warning.

      “Enough shop talk, gentlemen. You wouldn’t want a good pie to go to waste in the heat of discussions. Mike, would you like some tea? Or coffee perhaps?”

      Green seized on the latter offer with gratitude. A dull ache was beginning to replace the spinning inside his skull. While they had coffee and dessert, Anne skilfully steered the conversation to harmless realms. Although Norrich continued to sputter and huff, his colour gradually returned to a dull pink. As soon as he could respectably do so, Green rose to say his goodbyes.

      Norrich had been drooping over his Bailey’s, and he lifted his head in surprise. “Here, I’ll drive you.”

      Fortunately he seemed to have exhausted all spirit of argument, for he accepted Green’s hasty refusal and merely propped himself in the doorway to wave goodbye as Green climbed into a cab. Cruising through the neat, tree-lined suburbs towards downtown, Green drew a deep, cleansing breath and glanced at his watch. Just past ten o’clock. There was nothing to do in his hotel room except go to bed, but it was too early, especially with his biological clock still set on Ottawa time.