Early in World War One, a young Canadian soldier is wounded and trapped behind German lines. He uses quick thinking and ingenuity to evade capture, then deeper into enemy territory, he meets a young woman who recently lost her father and brothers to...
"What is it, Rose?" he shouted from the kitchen. "What's wrong?"
"David's letters have come back."
Gerald and Rosaline had been away in Edmonton since the end of April, helping their daughter through a difficult late pregnancy with their first grandchild. They had just returned home, and while Gerald had gone to light a fire in the kitchen stove, she was sorting through the pile of mail from the box.
"Wrong address again?" he asked as he walked into the dining room. "That's such a complicated address."
"No, he's missing — David is missing." She held out two letters to him with a trembling hand.
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He scanned the envelopes, then gently took her hand as they merged in a silent hug. Silent but for her sobbing.
The letters had been addressed to their son:
Private D.M. Berry No. 23414 No 2 Company 7th Battalion 2nd Brigade 1st Canadian Contingent British Expeditionary Force Army PO London, Eng.
The addresses had been marked out in blue pencilled lines and stamped:
Undeliverable For Reason Stated Return to Sender
In small pencilled letters at the top of each envelope was:
Missing
The postmark on one was stamped: Annable BC, 29 April, the other was postmarked 3 May from Edmonton. On the backs of both letters were pasted stamps imprinted:
Officially Sealed in the Returned Letter Section London Postal Service
There were smudged stamp imprints on each, dated 19 May in London and 3 June somewhere in BC.
"There are also two letters there from David," she finally said in a low, croaking voice, "and a brown envelope marked On His Majesty's Service."
They continued their hug but kept their thoughts private.
After a long silent pause, Gerald quietly spoke, "We should take a look at the official letter."
They sat at the dining table, he slit open the envelope and unfolded its contents, a single page of buff paper. A form letter, Army Form B. 104 - 83. The date was rubber-stamped 29 Apr 1915, and the blanks were filled in with a bold black round hand:
(No.) 23414 (Rank) Private (Name) Berry, DM (Regiment)7th Battalion, 1st Can. Contingent was posted as "missing" on the26 Apr 15 at Saint-Julien, near Ypres
The form letter continued in stilted Army language: The report that he is missing does not necessarily mean that he has been killed, as he may be a prisoner of war or temporarily separated from his regiment.
Official reports that men are prisoners of war take some time to reach this country, and if he has been captured by the enemy it is probable that unofficial news will reach you first. In that case, I am to ask you to forward any letter you receive at once to this office, and it will be returned to you as soon as possible.
Should any further information be received it will be at once communicated to you.
"My God, what was he doing in Belgium? The last thing we had from him was the postcard the middle of February with the picture of Stonehenge. I thought he was still training on the Salisbury Plains. Maybe we've been too worried about Elizabeth's pregnancy."
"He's a tough one, Rose, he'll be just fine. Maybe when he's back, he can teach the Army to write normal English."
"My poor boy. My dear sweet little boy." She began to weep again.
"He'll be fine. Let's see what he had to say in his letters." He picked up the two envelopes and shuffled them to find the oldest postmark. "This one first, it's postmarked 12 April."
Dear Mamère and Dad;
I am well, but other than that, I can't say much. This is my third attempt at writing a letter to you from here. I've had two returned by the censors, with notes saying there was no need to even send them since they had cut out so much. I still have to learn what not to say.
I can't tell you where I am, how I got here or where I'm going. Much of this they won't even tell us until long after we've arrived. But I'm pretty sure I can say that I'm in Europe and that the weather is horrid. A lot of cold rain, long periods of steady rain. Not like the crisp winters and fluffy snow we have in the Kootenays.
I hope Elizabeth is over her illness and that her baby wasn't affected.
I got the valentine you sent, Mamère, and the box with all the cookies and fudge. I was very popular for a while.
Love from your faithful son.
"It's so strange stringing together correspondence like this," she said, "when it takes six or seven weeks between letter and response... Open the other letter."
He put his arm around her waist and she leaned her head on his shoulder as they read it together:
Hello from Flanders;
They tell me I can now say Flanders and Belgium. I guess it's because the Germans finally know we're here. We're outside of Ypres. Most of the fellows, except those of us who can speak French, call it 'Wipers', but whatever it's called, it is cold and wet. The weather can't decide to freeze and give us some nice snow, so it just continues with cold rain. Steady rain.
Your Easter greetings arrived and so did that huge stash of Bourbon creams and Garibaldis. Are you trying to get me attacked by friendly forces?
I am well, though I'd rather be up in the mountains than down here in the trenches. Actually anywhere, e̶v̶e̶n̶ ̶a̶c̶c̶o̶u̶n̶t̶i̶n̶g̶ — no, strike that through — I'll stay here, rather than go back to studying accounting; I cannot imagine another life so lifeless as one spent cyphering.
Your loving son,
David
Gerald spoke quietly as he held his wife closer. "Seems we should have paid more attention to all those front-page stories in the papers. I forget how many thousands were missing in the fighting around Ypres."
"They said it was so difficult to determine the categories of those who are missing, wounded, captured or..." She trailed off and sobbed.
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