One Hundred Days

In Flanders Fields

December 1915.  Ottawa, Ontario.

My dearest cousin,

It is published. Have you seen it? If not, I shall send you your own copy of Punch, so that you may read it. I can hardly believe the words have been shared with the world. Although it was published anonymously, I am positive they are the words written by Alexis' good friend Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae.

John was a member of Alexis' regiment and was present during that fateful day in May when my world was forever changed. The lads had met during their days in the militia, and were quite close. I remember Alexis writing of him often. He often praised John's way with words and how he could always be found scribbling words on little pieces of paper, even in the depth of the trenches. How such a wordsmith ended up becoming a physician and a officer, I will never understand; but then I am not a man. What do I know of war?

Yes, what can I know of war, indeed? I may not command an army, sending innocent children to slaughter, and feeling each success and defeat so harshly. I may not bear a uniform, but I bear the badge of motherhood, and it is for that reason that I am now feeling set adrift. Am I still a mother when my only son is dead?

Some days my heart is so full of despair that I can scarcely move. A life so full of promise cut short by war. How can I fully express how much I have sacrificed to the war effort? My husband may be present, but his time is occupied with organization of the forces and teaching musketry. Alexis was one of the first Canadians to fight overseas. I should be proud, yet every day I am confronted with the heartache of having let him go. Alexis laid down his life, but I have paid the cost.

Does it not stand to reason? I am his mother. I carried him in my womb, and when I gave birth to him, I did not stop carrying his life. My child will always be a part of me, and external element over which I had only some semblance of control. When he died, I died. How can I bear this pain?

The world does not want to know that I am anything less than a pillar of strength; plucky and loyal to my country. I must hide away this depth of emotion with the world. Therefore I am resigned to covertly write to you, my dearest confidante, during my darkest times when I have only the light of the candle to keep me company. Colonel Helmer must never know.

Thousands of miles away from the battlefronts in Europe, I sit idly by in comparison to our soldiers. However, I feel the highs of each victory and the depth of each defeat as keenly as if I were there. I must put forward a united front; one that supports the sacrifices of the men. I cannot express or share that my inner self has been shattered to pieces; as if I was struck down by a German shell and not Alexis.

A mother grieving who will never be able to say a proper goodbye at the graveside. A simple wooden cross was all that marked the spot, and now it too has been lost to the ravages of war. Furthermore, I shall never know how much of that spot had housed Alexis. My husband prefers to believe me ignorant, but I have overhead him speaking and seen the letters. I know that only parts of our son were recovered. Gathered into sandbags for burial, like sand. From ashes to ashes, and dust to dust. Such words have never felt so fitting.

We have pieced together that it was McCrae who said the last parting words over Alexis' grave. No chaplain was present at the time. How difficult that must have been and I am thankful. Whatever God's views must be about war, I hope he heard those prayers and let my son rest in the peace that only He can provide.

You would think I would have been prepared when the letter came. Alexis' life had always led towards a life in the military. He idolized his father. Alexis' zeal was apparent the minute he jointed the Ottawa Collegiate Cadet Corps. He so loved being a part of that group, and the camaraderie it entailed. He looked so fine in his uniform, marching along. My heart leapt then.

When Alexis left to go to the Royal Military College I knew he was serious about his endeavors, and I encouraged him. After earning his engineering degree at McGill, one might have imagined that Alexis would have changed his sensibilities. That was not the case. After graduation, it was the Canadian Artillery. Once again, I was pleased with his fervor. I let him go.

When war was declared, it made perfect sense for Alexis to go overseas. He was already an officer at this time and he was so proud to become a Lieutenant in the 1st Artillery Brigade. He looked so proud to serve his country on the front lines. His gallantry and dedication to duty were blinding, and I could not see past it. I let him go.

How was I to know the outcome? At that time, the thought of a world war being waged was not even a remote possibility. Yet, here we are. It has been over a year and there is no end in sight; a fact that stings even more than the loss of my son. It makes his death seem like a minute detail in a sea of futility. A drop in a torrent of blood shed.

I have no answers. One can have all the foresight of Providence, and still not know how to brace for the terrible impact that death brings. Forever I shall be marred by the one decision that was only partially mine: I let him go.

And now he shall forever reside amongst the poppies.

Your dearest,

Elizabeth