One Hundred Days

Conscription

September 1917. Nobelford, Alberta.

My dearest Lillian,

I hope this letter finds you well, Sister.  I have missed our correspondence over the last little while.  Forgive me, please.  Know that some days I scarce find time to complete my ablutions before bed, let alone sit down to write.  Mother has me busy assisting our younger brothers and sisters after I complete my daily chores. We read a good many books and practise their letters. Millie has learned to spell her name. You would be so proud to see her efforts!

Speaking of effort, I did not realize how much laborious farm work could be.  There is always so much to be done and we are short of extra hands.  Few men are around are not otherwise occupied, and our siblings are not yet old enough to be put to such hard work.  The demand for crops is astounding and our wheat yield will be high this year with the expansion of our acreage. Somehow, we trudge along.

Truthfully, I don't always mind the fieldwork. Plowing and tilling the soil is satisfying.  There is poetry to the repetitive work that allows me to clear head from worrisome thoughts. Some days I am so painfully aware of the blisters forming on my skin and the wrinkles that have appeared near my eyes from squinting in the sun.  The hours limping along, and the only proof that days are passing is the transition of my blisters into callouses.  How different wartime has made me!

Yes, it is true.  I spend my hours from dawn until dusk out in the fields.  The sun is hot and intense, especially during the middle of the day.  The lack of shade is dreadful.  The dark fabric of my work dress absorbs all the heat and I it has been positively irritating.   I want to do away with it for good, but it has been a tough journey, indeed.

Really, Lillian, you would feel the same.  Early on I learned that my shift was so plastered to my skin that I could scarcely move.  I complained dreadfully in the evenings to Mother, but she still would not let me change into work clothes.  She said it was indecent to see a woman in trousers.  Her lack of progression is astounding!

Like a true suffragette, I stated that women should be given as much consideration and protection as the men who would be working the fields if they weren't otherwise occupied.  If I am to be considered dignified when I am mucking manure in a barn, I should be considered dignified in a pair of trousers!  My strength and the principles of who I am do not change with the garments I wear.  Furthermore, what men are left for me to impress or to tempt? 

It wasn't until I split my skirt from knee to navel while trying to hitch the plow to the horses that Mother saw the practicality of my wardrobe request.  She was in the middle of darning one of Charlie's shirts, which he had of course split climbing a tree, when I came in.  Mother was horrified at my state of partial undress.  She practically demanded to know who might have seen my knees.  Heavens to Betsy!  As luck would have it, neither Nip nor Tuck (our newest pair of Clydesdales) took much notice.

At once Mother defrocked me.  As my other work dress was in the wash, I had no choice but to seek out some clothing that George had left behind.  No sooner could Mother protest before I had kitted myself in a full farmer's gear, replete with suspenders.  Horrified by the sight, but finally assenting to my claims of functionality and viability, Mother has now agreed to fashion me a pair of bloomers from an old skirt.  How charming I will look!  However, I shall continue to wear my head kerchief or Father's old floppy hat instead of a straw one.  I shouldn't want to be confused with a farmerette!

It felt so strange to be going through our brothers' things, Lillian.  I have long felt the loneliness of their absence, yet I am still proud of their efforts to serve our country.  To imagine how far they have traveled, and how they must be faring overseas!  They were as happy as the pigs in the barn when they left, strutting around in their uniforms.  So ready to fight, just as hundreds of thousands of others across our country!  Yet, I cannot help but wonder if the expectations of glory still stand, or whether they have crumbled under the weight of it all.

To the army George and John have been classified as men, but I cannot help but see them as they really are: boys.  The same boys who would chase us around the garden, and help us catch tadpoles in the pond.  John had scarcely grown a beard!  And now the weight of the world is on his shoulders!

Some of the reports coming from overseas make me shiver with dread.  Death and destruction everywhere.  The British government may be touting the battle at Somme as a win, but I cannot ignore the long list of casualties listed in the paper.  Each one of these men had names.  They were brothers, sons or even fathers.  How can the army not view them as such? In reality, this is asking too much. How can one cow in a herd be closest in the heart of the farmer?  It cannot.  It simply plays a role.  Such then, our troops are only cogs in the wheel of war, or pawns in a terrible game of chess. 

And the losses, sister!  We have been lucky so far, but there are others we know who have not.  Just last week, Martha Brown lost her fiancé.  He died in battle, and all that is now left of him is a dirty uniform and a few crumpled letters.  When I last saw Martha she looked so forlorn that I don't know if she will ever recover.  Is it not enough that the women have been asked to pick up where the men left off, but now many of us must face life without those we love?

Yet still we are asked to send more able-bodied hands to fight the good fight.  Lloyd George has praised the Canadian troops, and labelled them as shock troops.  Apparently this means they will lead the charge in other great battles.  But what of the cost?  More and more men are needed as more and more of them fall.

Now we face the reality of conscription.  I had so hoped that the debate that has raged through our country would put an end to Robert Borden's efforts to force what little remaining men we have to go to war.  Father believes it is a necessary part of serving the motherland.  I say it is proof that our federal government is still in the hands of the British. 

Even when proof has come of Borden's election lies, Father will not waver.  How dare he not consider himself used?  Borden promised exemptions to labouring.  The Smiths had placed all their faith in this promise.  As you know, Gilbert is the rock upon which their farm is built.  Without him, Mr. Smith will not manage.  Yet, with the new law, Gilbert has received the call.  Mrs. Smith is beside herself with grief. 

This insult has been further compounded by the fact that Mrs. Smith voted to support Robert Borden in the last election.  The apparent brilliance of awarding the right to vote to all the wives, sisters, and mothers of soldiers was cruel trickery!  Our suffragette sisters who have worked tirelessly to ensure our voices can be heard must have felt excitement when the Wartime Elections Act came into play, but now the seedy truth of its undercurrent has been revealed.  Women may have cast their first votes, but the Act disenfranchised many new immigrants.  This will not stand!

So, yes, my heart is sore. Yet, I will not let the grief fester.  I shall let it ignite a fire in my belly.  There are rumblings of other dissatisfied farmers.  Borden's lies have been an affront, and I suspect they will not forget soon how deeply they have been betrayed.  Another battle is brewing, one that will not be fought in the trenches.  I, frankly, will relish the winds of political change

Enough about me, Sister.  Please write to me and tell me how things are in Halifax.  It must be so exciting to be in the hustle and bustle of the port.  Are there many troops coming home?  Also, do you see the grain as it boards the ships?  If so, I hope you remember how much we love and miss you.

Yours lovingly,

Anne