I remember my great aunt telling me as a child that when we die, Gitchi-manidoo takes us by the hand and helps us walk over the threshold of death into a new life. I hope her words are true. Dear Jesus, give me courage to walk through the door, if I have to, and Mauve the fortitude to let me go.
Same day
Near Ypres
Damage from the artillery rained down around Oshki like black pepper from a shaker. The Germans had higher ground and made good use of it. He covered his head and shouted at the top of his lungs amidst the noise for Lenny, who suddenly appeared at his elbow.
“What the . . .?” Lenny spit out his wad of chew and pointed towards the enemy lines. “Would you look at that!”
Oshki peeked his head over the edge of the trench and wondered what fresh terror awaited them. A vaporous cloud hung suspended over no man’s land like something out of an H.G. Wells novel.
“It’s . . . yellowish, no, green?” He turned to Lenny, his horror reflected in his friend’s eyes.
Lenny’s eyes turned wild. “Take a sniff, a deep one.”
Oshki did. It smelled like the chlorinated drinking water in spots back home. Fear propelled him into action.
He freed a section of his shirt, ripped a wide band off, and rolled it up. “Come on, we gotta make a mask.”
He brought the cloth up to his face and covered his nose and mouth as best he could. He signaled for Lenny to do likewise, and the man next to Lenny, Rowan, caught on to what they were doing as well.
While Lenny and Rowan crafted their make-shift masks, Oshki watched incredulously as many of the French Algerian troops, posted to the left of the Canadian trenches, tried to combat the colored air before dropping like swatted flies. The cloud lay heavy over the French forces. Lenny and Oshki watched stunned as men fled or fell down dead as they stumbled from the trenches. One man made it far enough to almost reach their trench. He floundered over drunkenly and collapsed before falling in. His eyes were coated in a filmy gauze and foam issued from his open mouth.
Lenny ducked his head down and cringed. Oshki watched him tremble, but instead of fear, rage reared its head.
“These devils need to pay! And they are gonna!” With that force feeding his strength, Lenny rose up and gave the enemy what for. “Rrrr, take that you sons a . . .”
His rifle drowned out his last fiery word.
Staff Sergeant Jenkins appeared behind them and yelled his orders over the din as he scurried through the trench line, holding a cloth to his mouth, bolstering his charges and giving them instruction on how to survive. “Stand your ground, men! Don’t let those Krauts through! It’s chlorine gas they’re using. Tie a wet cloth over your mouth and nose. If you don’t have any water, whiz on it!”
Oshki ripped off the rag around his nose and mouth and splashed some water from his canteen on it. He passed his canteen to Lenny. There was no water left when it got to Rowan, so he peed on his cloth like the sergeant had instructed.
“Here they come.” Lenny brought his rifle up and fired his weapon.
Oshki followed suit, eying up the encroaching enemy infantry soldiers following the clouds of gas, and firing. He dropped one after another and had to duck as shots buzzed past his ear. He watched a German “potato masher” sail over his head. His heart hammered, he ducked, and his breath came in gasps at the near miss.
The explosion from the nearby grenade sent dirt flying into Oshki’s face. He cleared his eyes. The reek of gunpowder and gas hung heavy in the air. He coughed and retched, but he steeled himself and rose up again to do his job. If he didn’t kill, he would be killed. Oshki and the men pecked the enemy off as best they could as the Germans forged through the broken French line off to their left flank.
Oshki realized that now their Canadian forces alone stood between the city of Ypres and the German advancement.
Rowan had been getting in his fair share of fighting. Suddenly, he reeled back. Blood burst from his shoulder.
“They . . . got me,” he cried out, peeling off his urine-soaked mask.
Oshki signaled to Lenny, and they found a safe spot for Rowan to wait out the fight. Oshki pulled Rowan’s mask back up and pulled off his jacket.
“Wad this up tightly. Keep pressure on the wound,” he commanded in a firm voice, muffled through his mask.
Rowan looked at him with pain-filled eyes and nodded. Oshki wondered if they would be sending him home in a “wooden overcoat” tomorrow. He and Lenny picked their weapons back up and recommenced the fight.
Minutes turned to hours, and Oshki lost track of how many rounds he’d fired or how many men he’d taken down. He did the very thing he hated.
But it has to be done!! he yelled at himself, over and over again.
Finally, a break came, and it looked as if the enemy dug in. With relief and exhaustion, Oshki sunk down in the mud of the trench and rested his shaky legs while Lenny and another lad, Sal, hauled Rowan off to the medics. They pushed the dead bodies of their countrymen out of the way as they went.
Day turned to night in the trenches, and Oshki felt his journal calling to him.
Evening of the same day
April 21st, 1915
We are weary, worn, and battle-fatigued, but thank God we were joined by a rag tag band of British and remnant French forces. We prevailed in keeping the enemy from advancing into Ypres. I’m resting. I squint as I write this by the light of the moon, which hangs like a drop of silver mercury over our heads, a tiny candle, and a box of matches I found yesterday in a cubby hole in the trench we occupy at the moment.
Something in me tells me the worst is yet to come, but I don’t want to believe it. How beastly we men have become, but, no, that is too good a comparison. We are worse than the beasts of the field, for they kill to eat, but we kill for much lesser things.
I must try to focus my mind as Maang-ikwe taught me, or I will surely submit to the fear rising in my chest like fire; it burns worse than the gas does. I will set my pencil down now and rest until it’s my turn to keep watch.
April 24th, 1915
We have gathered our forces, those of us who have survived the gassing and the bombardment. Frankly, I am astonished I’m still alive. I’m weary to the bone and have a cough, but for the most part, I’m unscathed, at least on the surface. What I have seen and taken part in can never be erased, can never be undone.
I cramp out a few lines here before our next attack. These scribbles give me a release from bearing the burden of the pain within me and the wreckage all around me. We are all a little more prepared this time. We expect them to come again with the gas, so we will be outfitted with masks.
I will try to be courageous. I never really knew what the word meant . . . until now. I remember my father telling me, before I shipped out, “Son, courage is facing something you don’t want to do but doing it anyway.” I’ll think of his words and all the other reasons I want to return: home, Mauve, the baby, mother, father, and family.
God willing, my courage will prevail.
Victoria General Hospital
Halifax
Late May 1915
“Quiet! Quiet, ladies.” Matron stood at the forefront of her flagship of nurses at Victoria General. “I wanted to call you all together, well, most of you.”
Rose heard a few sniggers in the group. Matron looked around sternly before she continued. The young ladies dutifully quieted down.
“I have just been told by hospital administration that, if need be, we will be receiving wounded from the war zone.”
The room became very still and any silliness was put to rest. Every young woman standing there listening to Matron either had a loved one fighting or knew of someone who was. None of them wanted to see any of the lads they knew in the wards.
Rose’s mind automatically went to Henry. She hadn’t received a letter from him in weeks. She hoped and prayed he consumed his time with other things and not that he was . . . she wouldn’t even think the word. She drove the word dead out of her mind.
Maybe he’s wounded. Wounded just enough for him to come home to her.
Rose dwelt on the possible scenario while Matron explained the details of the procedures to be put in place. Rose thought it selfish and terrible of her to wish someone pain, but better Henry endure some pain than die in some Godforsaken place.
She wondered if he’d gotten his wish to assist with the landships, or tanks, as she’d heard Henry refer to them as. She wasn’t sure they were part of the fight yet. Henry had hinted in his last letter that he worked on something and his engineering background was paying off. She guessed what he meant. Rose’s ears registered Matron’s voice again.
“All right, ladies, I know you’ll do an exemplary job when called upon. I, of course, will give you plenty of forewarning when and if we are to receive wounded soldiers. Thank you. You’re dismissed.”
May 1915
Webaashi Bay
Lily paused in her running and looked out across Superior as far as she could see. She gulped in a deep breath. She guessed the distance to be about eleven miles or so before the curve of the earth obstructed one’s vantage point. She wished she could see all the way to France. But then, would she really want to see the dangers Jimmy, Luis, and Oshki were in the thick of?
A sigh escaped her lips as she turned towards the Follett Shipping office. Setting her legs in motion once more, Lily ran towards the office. She had to tell M. Cota about the posting.
“M. Cota . . .” Lily paused at his open office door to catch her breath and swiped her forearm across her brow to smear away the sweat beading up on her forehead. She put her hand on the doorframe for support. “Mr. Wallace has put up a list.” She took a deep, ragged breath. “A list of soldiers admitted to hospital or . . . taken captive.”
M. Cota pushed himself back and up from his desk. “When?”
“This morning. Elmira told me. I was just at Trent’s. She said . . . she said Lucretia sent her a telegram. She and Peter were informed that their son Jesse is missing.”
“Oh no. Poor Mira and Adam . . . poor Lucretia.” He hesitated. “Have you seen it yet?”
“No, I wanted to stop here first before I dashed over. I wanted to check with Jimmy’s dad too.”
“Come, I’ll go with you. We’ll . . . check together, and we can stop at Smith’s on the way.”
M. Cota left the pile of papers in his desk and grabbed a hat from the pegs on the wall. He and Lily walked briskly to the stationery shop.
“Have you seen Jenay or the girls around town?” he asked.
“No.”
“That offers me some relief. I don’t want Jenay to find out about . . . well, that kind of news should be personal, not just a name on a flat piece of paper.”
Lily silently agreed.
When they got to Smith's Stationery, Lily yanked open the door and hurried to the counter. No one was in sight, so she rang the bell several times, with a sharp ting, ting.
Nora Smith came through the swinging doors separating the sales floor from their workspace and print shop. She wiped her hands on a towel.
“Well, Miss Parsons . . . and M. Cota—Jacque.” Nora, usually a lively woman, brought her words out in a flat, lifeless tone.
M. Cota spoke up, for Lily’s throat caught. She swallowed a lump, stifling some tears.
“Edward just put up a list, Nora. Did you know?”
“Yes.” The word rolled off her tongue and out of her mouth with regret. “Timothy went to . . . see . . . to check.” Nora brought her hand up to her mouth, her fist balled up tight to her lips. “I can’t . . .” She swallowed the visible lump in her throat. “I couldn’t go.”
“We understand. We just wanted to make sure you knew.” M. Cota spoke kindly. Lily’s eyes pleaded with him to hurry. “Lily and I are on our way there.”
Nora gave a brief nod. “Yes, you go.”
Lily wished she could tell Jimmy’s mother that he was safe. That his name wouldn’t be on the list. But she wouldn’t give Mrs. Smith empty promises. They both nodded their farewells and left quietly.
On their way to the post office, M. Cota asked, “Do your parents know?”
“I’m not sure, but I don’t want to wait. I have to know now. Oh, M. Cota, what will we do if something has happened to them?”
Lily felt a clawing fear she’d hadn’t experienced before. Her legs operated like spindly toothpicks, but she kept putting one foot in front of the other.
M. Cota said nothing but gripped her arm in a fortifying way and offered her a lifeless smile. While they walked, Lily thought of Jimmy’s last letter. He had a frank way of writing as if he were really there with her rather than just his words in pen on paper. She didn’t know why his father had said he wasn’t much for writing. Maybe it depended on whom he wrote to?
How strange that two people who grew up together, but were separated for years, are drawn together once more in a different sort of way.
Lily figured she and Jimmy fought on the same side this time. Before, they had been paired against each other, but now they fought as Canadians for the same cause in their own way.
Lily filled her letters to Jimmy with the happenings of the town and her various wartime efforts. Jimmy riddled his writing with the antics of too many men in too tight quarters. Humor and cheer hid the darker things he could not or did not want to tell her about.
She had gotten to know Jimmy as a person through their correspondence and not just as a past pest. Lily found her heart drawn to him. She admired the way he tried to see a silver lining in everything, the way he cared about his family, and how he didn’t give up.
Please, God, let his name not be on the list.
Her stomach clenched at the thought, and a painful heaviness rested on her chest.
M. Cota opened the post office door for Lily. They looked at each other for strength. She stepped over the threshold and M. Cota followed her. A crowd lingered around several printed pages pinned to the bulletin board.
One lady ran her finger down the list of names, her glasses positioned at the end of her nose. Her finger scrolled through and didn’t stop.
“Thank God,” she said, “Tom isn’t there.
Lily recognized her as Sheila Morgan. Her oldest son Thomas had been several years younger than her in school.
A muffled cry broke out then as another woman near the front almost keeled over. Several men caught her before she went down.
“What is it, Louisa?” Elaine McGovern asked as she bent over the fallen woman with concern.
“It’s . . . Luke. He’s . . . oh no, he’s been wounded.”
“What battle do you think this is from?” a voice in the crowd asked.
Edward Wallace, Webaashi Bay’s postmaster for more than twenty-five years, raised his voice. “I’ve heard it said a battle near Ypres.”
“That in France?” someone asked.
Harvey Johnson, who owned and operated the berry farm a mile or so out of town, spoke up. “No, Belgium.”
Some other folk moved up to the posting and scanned it for their loved ones’ names. Then it was Lily’s turn.
Lily looked over the names. A few she recognized, a few she knew, but, thank God, she hadn’t seen Luis, Oshki, or Jimmy’s name on the list. She turned back to M. Cota. She shook her head.
“No, for all three.”
His relief reflected hers.
“Any other names you knew? None of my employees?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Good. Come, I’ll take you home, Lily.”
M. Cota captured Lily’s arm before she could give an excuse and propelled her from the post office. A weakness dragged at her legs and made her head spin.
“The farm or your parents’?”
“I think the big house. I want to check on my folks.”
“Sounds good . . . you’re a good daughter to them, Lily.”
“That’s kind of you to say so. Thank you.”
They were both quiet with their own thoughts a
s they rode out of town. No chatter filled the distance, and they rode in silence the rest of the way.
M. Cota dropped her off at the front door of what had been Renault’s mansion. “Tell them I said hello.”
Lily jumped down from the wagon. “You could come in and tell them yourself, if you like.”
“No, best get home. Jenay probably has lunch waiting.”
“Well, thanks.” Lily smiled at M. Cota, then let herself in. “Nessa! Pop!”
“In the sitting room,” her father called out.
Lily raced around the corner of the hallway and plopped herself on the floor before her father and Vanessa. She worked at tucking up her hair, which had almost come completely undone from its braiding. Lily didn’t care if she looked like a disheveled wreck.
She looked into her parents’ questioning eyes. “What?”
“Something wrong?” Pop asked.
“M. Cota and I have just been to the post office . . . Mr. Wallace put up a notice . . .” Lily paused, hesitant to continue.
Pop took care of it for her. “Must be a wounded notice.”
Lily leaned forward. “Yes, but how did you know?”
“I stopped at the post office to mail something early this morning and read it. I came home with a telegram.” He held up the paper. His facial features wobbled, and his forehead wrinkled up in worry.
Lily gently reached out, took the telegram from him, and read it.
“Missing?” She peeked at Vanessa and added, “it doesn’t mean Luis is dead.”
“It doesn’t mean he isn’t,” Vanessa woefully replied. She dabbed at her eyes with her hanky. “Now I know why we haven’t received any letters from him lately.” She sniffled. “I wonder where he is, how he’s being taken care of, if he’s even . . .”
Lily moved over to the sofa and enveloped Vanessa in her arms. They shared a few tears together before Lily pulled back and reminded her of something.
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