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...
The truck full of wounded German soldiers creaked and groaned as it lurched and jarred through the deeply rutted field for a long while before it reached a road. Aware now he'd likely be shot as a spy if his identity were uncovered, David continued running German phrases and pronunciations through his head, reliving climbing adventures with Conrad. So difficult at first – speakng as if clearing my throat of phlegm.
He winced at the pain in his mouth as he smiled at remembering his first thoughts listening to the language spoken by the locals in Flanders. Their accent was very guttural, much like German, and he had joked that the Flemish speak Phlegm.
He wiggled his feet in the oversized boots to feel his identity disks and his gold. His father had insisted he carry the coins. "I hope you don't need these. Thirty dollars for emergency only," he remembered his father saying as he pressed them into his hand while they waited for the train.
I hope I don't need them either, he thought as he toed the two Fives and two Tens. All dated 1914, glistening fresh from the bank. I'd like to keep them.
Satisfied with his inventory, he turned to finding out who he is. He did a slow, systematic survey of the pockets in his still unfamiliar uniform, watching his neighbours in the truck to see if he was attracting any attention. Seem immersed in their own world, too concerned about their circumstance, their pain and their moaning and groaning, to pay any attention to me – to anything outside themselves.
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From the left breast pocket of his tunic, he pulled out a postcard showing a village nestled in a mountain valley. Belchen 1415 m was printed above a peak in the centre of the background, and in larger type in the upper left corner was Müllheim i B.
Turning the card over, he looked at the address. So, I'm Josef Krings. He read the long note. This has to be from his wife or girlfriend –the sentiments are too close and personal for anything else. She, Freda was the name she signed, wrote in florid detail of their lovemaking while hiking and climbing in the Schwarzwald last summer, before the war turned everything strange.
He paused to adjust himself. Getting lumpy from her writing. Glad to see that still works.So, I'm still a climber and still into rooting. He looked again at the picture. Müllheim is likely the name of the village, and with a mountain's name and height, this should be easy to locate once I find a map.
To ease the pain of his wounds, David began running pleasant memories through his mind, joyous memories of exploring and climbing in the mountains up the valley, the Selkirks, the Purcells, the Bugaboos, and straddling the Alberta border, the Rockies. Dad always griped about my wasted weekends and summers in the mountains. Wasting good time, rather than setting myself up for the realities and the hardships of life. What good would accounting and business administration do me here?
With another look at the image, he slid the postcard into his breast pocket and continued to think of the mountains and of his climbs with Conrad. When did we meet? In the Purcells, the summer before Dad sent me off to University School in Victoria ... That was 1911. So wonderful to escape back into the mountains the next spring. Didn't take me long to clear my head. What a glorious three months I had. Mostly alone. So many great climbs.
His mind clouded as he thought of heading to Vancouver to start university in the autumn. Let me skip that. Move to more pleasant thoughts. The Bugaboos with Conrad the following spring. Exhilarating climbs, such solid granite, so many wonderful discussions. Love his way of thinking, of seeing things. Wonder what he's doing. Surely, they haven't incarcerated him as an enemy.
David's thoughts pulled him back to reality, and he felt the pain in his face more intensely. Back to more pleasant things. Last summer, again in the Bugaboos. Sometimes solo, but often with Conrad when he was free. Climbing and philosophising, teaching me German while I refined his English. Such carefree times.
When they finally came down from the mountains and heard about the war, Conrad wanted to do something, but he didn't know what he could. He had emigrated from Austria to escape the horrors of the Germanic aggression he had foreseen. David immediately volunteered and was issued a train ticket to travel across the country to become part of the Canadian Expeditionary Force, which was being assembled.
Within days of the declaration of war, a camp was begun at Valcartier, sixteen miles west of Quebec City. In the following weeks, the site was prepared by a huge team of engineers and workers. The recruits then poured in and were processed. In the first six weeks from the declaration, over forty thousand had volunteered from across Canada, far more than thought necessary, so the prime group of thirty thousand was assembled into a division and a half, equipped, trained and readied to head overseas. The remainder was put in reserve.
So quick. Down from the mountains in mid-August, enlisted as an infantryman the other side of the country the beginning of September. They didn't even have uniforms for us for the first three weeks.
David had been assigned to the 7th Battalion, formed with some eleven hundred other recruits from British Columbia. While this new army did its preliminary military training, many other works were underway. Mills in Montreal had been commissioned to manufacture khaki cloth, and tailors converted this into uniforms, greatcoats and cloaks. Weapons were hastily manufactured and issued to the new soldiers.
Battalions were juggled, shuffled and rearranged into regiments and brigades. Stores of all description were manufactured and accumulated. A fleet of transport ships was assembled. It was an immense undertaking in a very short time.
David looked around again at the other wounded soldiers in the truck. Wonder what their stories are. Most of them are so young. That one over there with his arm off at the elbow – doesn't look old enough to shave. He seems so scared – I daren't do anything, but I wish someone would comfort him. What a horror this is, what a waste of young men.
