One Hundred Days

Passchendaele

November 1917.  Sydney, Nova Scotia.

My dearest friend Evelyn,

My heart is broken.

It was smashed apart artillery fire and left to bleed to death in the waterlogged shell holes in the mud somewhere near Ypres. It died along side so many other Canadian boys when Kenneth took his last breath. I hope his death was swift and that he did not linger long in his failing body, for it is sheer agony to have a heart that is suffering. I am forever changed.

Just last week I had received my last letter from my love. Kenneth told me he was marching with his fellow Canadians to Belgium at the reluctance of his leader, Lieutenant General Currie. Up until now, the Canadians have steered clear of General Haig's seemingly futile attempts to acquire control the German U-Boat submarine bases near Ypres. So far the British, French and ANZAC forces have not made any headway, yet still Haig is determined to finish the job.

Father believes that Haig has been blinded by the want of glory, and that our troops will face heavy losses. I trust his opinion explicitly as Father was a decorated officer in the Boer War. He was devastated that his injury would not allow him to serve overseas once more, but I am glad he is home. My heart could not have borne his absence as well, and Father has helped steel my nerves as I imagined Kenny fighting the Germans.

Father and I talk often about military strategies and movements, a fact that Mother hates. She would rather sit in her armchair and knit socks for our men. Mother says this is her way of contributing to the effort, but I know it is because she cannot bear to imagine young boys under fire. Life was difficult for her when Father was in South Africa, always imagining the worst. When Father finally arrived home, he never recovered from his severe limp. The small-calibre bullet is still lodged in his leg today and worries him terribly in cold weather.

Therefore, Father is resigned to monitoring the war from the comfort of his den. He pores over cartography and relishes the intelligence letters his old comrades provide. One such friend is now a Corporal in the 2nd Canadian Division and sends Father regular updates from overseas. It was this man that described the true nature of what our soldiers are facing.

The section of land near Ypres is known to be low and flat, used once as farm fields. All the drainage systems that kept the land dry have been destroyed, making it a barren plain with no cover from trees. The Corporal also explained that the ground was so churned up by previous artillery shells, that there are few sections that don't harbour large craters. Despite new attempts to build roads and fortify the position, Corporal Stone says the autumn rains have created a muddy quagmire.

It is this I pictured when I received Kenny's letter. My heart sank and a chill ran down my spine. I remember the moment so vividly. I had stolen a private moment to read my correspondence in my bedroom. As I opened the letter and read its contents, it was as if Mother Nature herself was sending me a vision. The clouds outside my window began to darken, and a low rumble of thunder started in the distance. As I read Kenny's final words - a promise of victory like that at Vimy Ridge - the heavens opened up and unleashed a torrential downpour. I know now that it was a sign of what was to come.

The telegram came to Mrs. Grant on November 4th, a moment that will forever be etched in my mind. We had been sitting down to see and discuss the latest fashions, specifically how the hemlines of skirts have been shortened for practical reasons since the start of the war. Such frivolity for which I am ashamed now!

There was a rap at the door. Stoically, Mrs. Grant rose to open it. She gratefully accepted the notification though I am sure she predicted its message, as did I. My suspicions were confirmed when Mrs. Grant clasped the threshold with her hand to stop herself from fainting. She recovered momentarily to dismiss the boy by quietly saying "No response". Once he had left, Mrs. Grant collapsed on the floor of the foyer, her handkerchief crumpled tightly between her white knuckles.

From that moment, the rest of my memory transitions into in vivid colour, offensively bright and painful to replay. The sound of the music playing on the radio became tinny as a buzzing filled my ears. As I stumbled towards Mrs. Grant, she looked at me with sad eyes. Without a word, she handed me the card. It simply read:

"Deeply regret to inform you 755632 Pvt. K. Grant Infantry officially reported killed in action October 30th 1917. Director of Records."

No name, no details, just the words that proved that his life was done at twenty-two. I cannot recall what happened after that moment. It wasn't until Mr. Grant arrived home that we moved.

Since this notification, Mrs. Grant has written to Kenny's commander to ask for more information surrounding his death. The Sergeant's reply came promptly, but I do not believe it has provided Mrs. Grant with the comfort she has been searching for. Sergeant Ross praised Kenny's valiant sense of duty and honour, and his ability to remain positive despite the strong pessimism that was so common in the trenches.

Sergeant Ross also painted a bleak picture of what the Canadian Corps had faced during that time. Bombarded with rain, the muddy terrain became slick and treacherous, the soldiers only moving paces each day. Shell holes were waterlogged, some deep enough to drown the men. Each blast to the mud churned up the graves of the men that had fallen before them and sank deep around the mouths of those still living. Guns were impossible to fire once coated in muck, making it harder to fight back.

After days of fighting in this degradation and horror, many of the men came to understand that the only way out was by death or wounding. They welcomed either. Yet, Kenny maintained hope that victory could be achieved. He pointed out that the mud was also saving lives by cushioning the shells and preventing their explosion. Encouraged by this fact, Kenny pushed forward alone into the mud to rush one of the enemies' guns. After a desperate struggle, Kenny killed the crew and used the gun to provide cover for his fellow soldiers. They advanced one hundred feet that day.

However, the next day Kenny's same bravery cost him his life. At the rear of a nearby trench, a stretcher-bearer had become stuck in the mud and was struggling to retreat. Despite the protestations of his commander, Kenny left the sanctity of his position and faced intense fire to aide the medics. Just as he arrived a shell descended on all four men, killing them. Kenny's body could not be recovered.

Oh, Evie, how am I to bear this anguish? The knowledge of what Kenny endured has been just as sorrowful as the announcement of his death. The crushing weight of the horror replays in my head as I imagine him dying slowly, his life ebbing away from his veins and filling the pockmarked landscape with his blood. It is no wonder that so many men long for the peace that comes when they can close their eyes one last time.

This opportunity has not been offered to me. Instead I must stumble along, my head hung low and my heart dead in a ditch in Belgium.

In deepest sorrow,

Gladys