Missing

by Frances Itani

  I have to tell you that the apples reminded me of the orchard, and of the rows of healthy trees. I thought of the sun on the blossoms in spring. I thought of the clear air in the fall, and I wished I could be there to help. Father, I hope you were able to hire someone to help with the picking. So many apples, so many trees. How could I ever forget?

  Thank you also for knitting stockings for me, Mother. They are a perfect fit and help to keep my feet warm and dry.

  Please do not worry about me. I am doing what I want to do. I am careful and I am safe.

  Your loving son,

  Jack

  When Peggy closed her eyes, she thought of planes soaring and darting and looping through the clouds. She tried not to think of Jack falling down, down, down. How she hated the war. If only the fighting and the killing would stop. Then, maybe, she would finally be able to find out where Jack was buried. His body had to be somewhere.

  But Peggy also knew that she would never board a ship in Halifax to sail across the Atlantic Ocean. She would never see Jack’s grave. Her son might not even have a grave, and that was the worst thing of all. Not knowing if Jack’s body had been buried.

  Peggy decided to ask Will to write to the War Office to find out if there was any more news. If only they could find out even one detail about Jack’s death. But this would probably never happen. Even so, the war had to be over soon. It had to be.

  Chapter Seven

  Nova Scotia

  World War I ended in November 1918. The fighting stopped at eleven o’clock in the morning on the eleventh day of the eleventh month. After four years, more than nine million soldiers had died in different parts of the world. Millions more were wounded or missing. No one could have imagined such suffering or such huge losses.

  After the war, Jack’s photo stayed on the shelf in the Greenwood kitchen at the apple farm. Medals were now displayed beside the photo. When friends and family came to visit, they all wanted to see the photo and the medals. Everyone said Jack was a hero, but that did not make his parents feel any better.

  Will Greenwood continued to write letters to the War Office. He sent letters again and again, always hoping for news. He wanted to know if Jack’s grave had been found. The reply was always the same. Nothing new was known.

  Will truly wondered if Jack’s grave would ever be found. He kept reading about the missing, the millions of soldiers from so many countries who had no graves. He did not even know the name of the place in France where Jack’s plane had crashed. Was it a town? A village? Someone must know. Will decided that he would never give up.

  Will learned that a special War Graves office had opened in England, with its head office in London. Later, another office opened in Ottawa because so many Canadian soldiers had no known graves. The Greenwoods weren’t the only ones trying to find out where a beloved son was buried.

  Because Will kept writing letters, he received letters in reply. Twice a year, he wrote to the War Graves office. Twice a year, a man named Mr. Harvey replied.

  London, England

  Dear Sir,

  I have all of your letters here on my desk. The name of your son, Jack Greenwood, is well known to this office. We have tried to locate his grave, but, so far, we have not done so. Finding it will take time, because so many millions of men went missing.

  After the war, the Germans gave us their burial lists. If we can match Jack’s name to a name on any of the lists, we will write to you immediately. I am sorry that I have no further news to give you at this time.

  Sincerely,

  T. S. Harvey

  Assistant Secretary

  Will was disappointed each time a new letter came from the War Graves office, but he never gave up hope. Maybe Jack’s name would be on one of the German burial lists. Will promised Peggy that he would never stop sending letters. Not until Jack’s grave had been found.

  Every year on Jack’s birthday, the first of July, Peggy and Will went upstairs to Jack’s bedroom. They opened the drawer of their son’s dresser and took out his personal belongings. These were all they had from Jack’s time away at the war. The shaving kit. The identity card. The log book. The pile of letters.

  The Greenwoods set everything on top of Jack’s bed. They opened the log book, read a few of the letters, and talked about Jack when he had been a small boy. This yearly ritual helped them to remember what a happy child Jack had been, and it helped them with their grief. They returned Jack’s belongings to the drawer, and they did not open it again until the first of July the following year.

  Chapter Eight

  1928

  Northern France

  But what about Luc Caron, the boy living in the small village in northern France? The boy who had been twelve years old when the pilot fell from the sky on March 4, 1917.

  Luc was now twenty-three years old. Ten years had passed since the war had ended. The Germans had lost the war, and the soldiers in the village had returned to Germany. The villagers slowly repaired and rebuilt their roads, houses, and shops. Luc was now married, and he and his wife lived in their own small house in the village. They had a one-year-old baby boy.

  From the time Luc had finished school, he had worked on a farm owned by his uncle. The farm was outside the village, not far from where the airplane had crashed. Every morning, Luc got up early and rode his bicycle from his home to the farm. During the winter months, he walked. Few people owned cars, but every family had a bicycle.

  Luc worked hard on his uncle’s farm. He loved to be outside, and he loved to drive the team of horses. He loved the smells in the air at haying time, and he enjoyed taking care of the animals. He was suited to farming, and he wanted to stay on the land. To support himself and his family, he was saving money to buy a small farm of his own.

  His mother needed his help, too. Mrs. Caron still lived in the small house where Luc had grown up. She kept a few hens and sold eggs. Because she was skilled with a needle and thread, she also sewed to earn extra money. Many people in the village brought cloth to her so she could make them new clothes. She had sewed Luc’s wedding suit, and she was always making clothes for the baby, her only grandchild.

  Luc had never forgotten his hero, the Canadian pilot buried in the graveyard next to the church. Every Sunday after Mass, Luc visited the grave. Every summer for eleven years, he had placed roses below the cross made from the two pieces of propeller.

  Luc had told the story of the pilot’s death to his wife and friends. But he was always sorry that he couldn’t share the story with the family of the dead pilot. If only he could meet them. He wanted to tell them about the day Jack Green fell from his plane and crashed to the ice on the pond. Luc felt as if he had become part of the pilot’s story.

  The souvenirs Luc had taken from the site of the plane crash were still important to him. Ever since that day, he had kept the strips of canvas and the splinter of wood from the propeller. When the war ended and the Germans left, Luc no longer had to hide anything. He took the items out of the canvas bag and wrapped them in a piece of cloth. Now he kept the bundle on a shelf in his home.

  Once a year, on March 4, Luc pulled the bundle off the shelf and opened it. Clumps of dirt still stuck to the strips of canvas, just as they had on the day of the crash. Luc could still read the name and date he had printed on one of the strips. The three items were very dear to Luc. They were part of the dead pilot’s story, but they were part of Luc’s story, too.

  One Sunday after Mass, Luc noticed a black car parked on the road outside the church. He knew immediately that it was the car of a stranger.

  Luc went around the side of the church to the graveyard. The sun was shining on this beautiful Sunday in May. Trees were in blossom, and flowers lay on some of the graves. He walked towards the grave he knew so well. The name Jack Green, R.F.C. was still printed on the roughly made cross. The words on the cross were still clear.

  But on this day, a man, a stranger, was standing beside the grave. The man stared down at the cross an
d checked a piece of paper in his hand. He pulled a pen from his pocket and wrote something on the paper. When Luc came closer, he saw that the paper in the man’s hand was some kind of list.

  “Are you someone from this man’s family?” Luc asked the stranger. “Did you know Jack Green? He was a Canadian pilot who died March 4, 1917.”

  The man looked up, surprised to see Luc. He was even more surprised that Luc knew the date of the pilot’s death. The two men shook hands.

  “I’m from the War Graves office in England,” said the man. “I’m looking for the grave of a pilot named Jack Greenwood. But the name on this grave is Jack Green.”

  “That is the name the Germans printed on the cross in 1917,” said Luc. “I was a boy at the time, and I remember every detail. I attended the pilot’s funeral. Jack Green is the only pilot buried in this graveyard. The other graves belong to village people.”

  “How do you know the pilot was Canadian?” asked the man.

  “I heard the German soldiers say the word Canadian,” said Luc. “The soldiers must have been able to tell, but I don’t know how.”

  “Are you sure about the date?” asked the man.

  “I’m absolutely sure,” said Luc. “I will never forget March 4, 1917. I saw the plane flip upside down, and I watched the pilot fall to the ground. I was very much upset, especially because I was the only person who saw him fall to his death. Three planes were fighting in the sky that Sunday morning, and I happened to be walking directly below. I was only a boy, and I was trying to spy on the Germans who had invaded our village. The other people who live here were inside their houses and didn’t see what happened. Jack Green, who is buried here, was flying a British plane. He tried to fight two German planes at the same time. The fight was over quickly.”

  “The Germans gave us their burial lists at the end of the war,” said the stranger. “That is why I’m here. The War Graves office in England saw from the lists that one soldier was buried in this village. But no one knew the soldier was a pilot. If you look at the German list I have here, you’ll see the name, Jack Green. But neither the list nor the cross has any date. If you are certain about the date, then this has to be the grave I’m looking for. Jack Greenwood was a Canadian pilot who went missing on that very day, March 4, 1917.”

  “Maybe the Germans copied Jack Green’s name from the torn card,” said Luc.

  “What torn card?”

  “A torn card was lying on the ground near the pieces of the airplane,” said Luc. “I was at the crash site before the soldiers got there, but when they saw me they chased me away. I had already hidden three things inside my jacket. When I picked up the piece of card, I saw a name, but the edge of the card was torn. I tried to keep that, too, but a German soldier grabbed it out of my hand.”

  “So part of the name was torn off in the crash,” said the man. “That might be why the grave was not identified sooner. The names Jack Green and Jack Greenwood are almost the same, it’s true. But millions of soldiers have no graves, and our lists are very long. There were many soldiers named Green and many named Greenwood.”

  “You are the first person to come here to identify the grave,” said Luc. “I am sure of that.”

  “The date you have given me, March 4, 1917, is the exact date Jack Greenwood went missing,” said the man.

  “If it’s a pilot you are looking for, then this has to be the same man,” said Luc.

  “I’d like to hear the whole story before our office confirms the identity,” said the man. “I would like to send word to the Greenwood family in Canada. They have been waiting many years for news. They will be glad to know if we have finally found their son’s grave.”

  “Please come to my home,” said Luc. “I, too, have waited many years. And now I would like to tell my story.”

  Chapter Nine

  1928

  Northern France

  Luc brought the stranger to his home. As they walked, he thought about what he would say. He wanted to tell the man about the peaceful look on the pilot’s face after he’d crashed to the ice on the pond. About how he had cried when he knew he could do nothing to help. About how he had kept the details of that day in his memory.

  He also wanted to tell the man about the German soldiers. How they brought a team of horses and a cart to the pond. How they used hooks to pull the body to shore. How they loaded the pilot’s body onto the cart and took it to the church. And Luc wanted to tell about hiding in the bushes under the church window. About watching the priest clear the long table where the body would lie. And about the funeral, too. How a German military band played music, and how a German general attended. And how the villagers had never seen such an event before.

  Most of all, Luc wanted to show the man what was in the bundle on the shelf. The bundle he had kept for eleven years.

  Luc invited the man to sit at the table in the kitchen. The room smelled of newly baked bread. Luc’s wife had been up since early morning. She welcomed the stranger and served tea and slices of fresh bread with butter and jam. The baby was asleep in a special cradle in a corner near the kitchen fireplace.

  “What did you hide in your jacket?” the man asked, after he’d had his tea. “I’d really like to see what you found at the crash site.”

  “I’m happy to show you,” said Luc. “I’ve kept my souvenirs ever since the day of the crash. The soldiers had no idea that I had taken anything. When they shouted at me to get away from the crash site, I ran home. I put my treasures into a canvas bag, and I hid the bag under my bed. Of course, I wasn’t supposed to do that, and I was afraid. So I kept them hidden until the end of the war. But because I saw the pilot fall to his death, I felt connected to him. I wanted to have something to show his family. All these years, I have wanted to tell them what a brave death this man had.”

  “Maybe we should start at the beginning,” said the man from the War Graves office. He took out his pen, opened his notebook, and began to write while Luc told the story.

  Luc tried to remember every detail. Then he went to the shelf, carried the bundle to the kitchen table, and unwrapped the cloth. There lay the two canvas strips. There lay the splinter of wood from the propeller.

  The stranger was surprised to see what Luc had kept all these years. He turned the items over in his hands. He rubbed the dirt on the canvas strips between his fingers. He studied the name and the date Luc had printed on one of the strips. Finally, he handed everything back to Luc.

  “This is what I have been searching for,” said the man. “What you printed on the canvas is only half the name, but the man you saw was Jack Greenwood. He was the only Canadian pilot who went missing that day. The mystery of his grave has now been solved. I have to thank you for inviting me here and telling your story.”

  “You said that you would write to the pilot’s family in Canada,” Luc said. “But after you let them know about the grave, I would like to write to them, too. Will you send me their address?”

  “I’ll be more than happy to do that,” said the man. “You’ll receive it in about two weeks. Do you want our office to send the objects from the plane crash to the family? I can take them with me today and have them sent from England.”

  Luc thought about this for a moment. “Yes,” he said. “It’s time for me to part with the souvenirs that have meant so much to me. These belong to the family of the pilot. In a few weeks, I will write to them myself. I’ll tell them the story of what happened during the last moments of their son’s life.”

  Chapter Ten

  1928

  Nova Scotia

  One Monday morning in June, Peggy and Will Greenwood sat in the kitchen looking out at the rows of apple trees. Peggy had walked through the orchard early that morning. She’d come back into the house and baked bread, and now she made a pot of tea. Will was taking a break from his outdoor work. The brass ringer suddenly twisted in the front door, making its usual loud noise.

  Will answered the door. There stood the postman, who handed ov
er a parcel with a letter attached. Will brought these into the kitchen.

  “Here we go again,” he said. “Another letter from the War Graves office. But look, Peggy, they’ve sent a parcel this time. They’ve never done that before. Which one shall we open first?”

  Peggy reached for the letter. “We might as well start with this one,” she said.

  They sat at the table and Peggy read aloud.

  London, England

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. Greenwood,

  I am finally able to send news. We have found a war grave with the name Jack Green printed by hand on a cross over it. This cross had been made from two pieces of propeller from your son’s plane. The graveyard is beside a church in a small village in northern France. I have written its name and location at the end of this letter.

  An officer from our War Graves office travelled to France to visit the village grave site. He found proof that your son, Jack Greenwood, is buried there. We did not know this sooner because only half of your son’s name is on the cross. German soldiers had copied the name from a torn card they found at the crash site in 1917. We are certain that this “Jack Green” is your son.

  We are sorry we have taken so many years to identify your son’s grave. But there is more to tell. While our officer was in the village in France, he happened to meet a young man named Luc Caron. He soon learned that Mr. Caron was the only witness to the aerial fight in which your son was killed.

  Mr. Caron was much affected by the tragedy that took your son’s life. He was only a boy at the time, but he attended the church service and the burial of your son. He also saved three souvenirs from the crash site. These souvenirs have been sent to you from this office, and you will receive them along with this letter.

  Mr. Caron asked if he might write to you directly. He wants so much to share the details of the event he witnessed so long ago. We have given him your address. You can expect his personal letter in a few weeks.