Silver Moon

by Jenny Knipfer

I shed my German jacket on the mud like a husked skin as Lenny, Oshki, and I stealthily crept back to our commanding officers. I stopped by my hole, which once served as my quarters, and quickly rid myself of my sodden clothes. I rubbed my naked skin briskly with a wool blanket to restore some circulation; my teeth chattered as I did. I dressed as swiftly as I could and wrapped myself in the blanket for added warmth. The flask of whiskey I kept called to me from under my thin mat, which served me as a bed of sorts. I tipped it back and scourged a shot down my gullet to warm my innards. I looked around my little hovel with something akin to fondness. It had been months since I’d seen it.

  The attack would go ahead as planned, and from what I could tell, the Germans suspected nothing.

  They think us too few to do anything much, but the German pride is a weakness; it blinds them and leaves their flank wide open, I reasoned.

  A sigh escaped my lungs. It relieved me to leave the German trenches and my alias, Gunther Von Wolff, behind. I restored the whiskey to its hiding place. Lenny and Oshki had gone off to report to Staff Sergeant Jenkins. I wrapped the blanket tightly around me and hoped Lefebvre would excuse the addition to my uniform.

  I headed out of my hole to my left and tucked into the major’s tunnel.

  “Major.” I saluted as stiffly as I could.

  “Wilson. You’re back.” He looked surprised and eyed me speculatively for a moment. He didn’t ask how I survived but got straight to business. “What do you have for me?”

  Major Lefebvre held a smoking stogie in one hand, which he transferred to his teeth as he dug out some paper and prepared to take notes, if need be. His face held a day’s worth of stubble and his eyes the weariness of a man who hadn’t slept in days. One lone lightbulb hung suspended over his head, illuminating the cramped space sufficiently. I found it strange to have electricity in a hole in the ground, but it had become a necessary part of our communication system with telephone and telegraph operations.

  “No one suspected me.” I didn’t say how close to discovery I’d come, being in the wrong place at the wrong time with incriminating evidence upon my person. “I formed an attachment with one of the major’s grunts. He’s the man I sent ahead of me. He’s been listening for me. They think we’re wasting our time here and don’t believe we would succeed even if we tried for the ridge.” I cleared my throat and solidified my voice. “I . . . well, we had to get out . . . you understand. I had to leave Lt. Von Wolff behind. They’ll think me dead when I don’t return.”

  “I understand, Lieutenant.”

  “What’ll you do with Rooster?”

  “He’ll be treated fairly. Don’t worry.”

  I looked at his expression and gauged his truthfulness. I could find no fault with his words.

  I unfolded a waxed paper from my shirt pocket displaying my sketches of the outlay of their forces and the web of their trenches.

  Major Lefebvre grunted and took the offered paper. He compared it to the aerial photos he had of the area on his makeshift desk. “Good, good. You’ve done well, Wilson.” He took a heavy draw on his cigar and held the smoke in for a few seconds before slowly puffing it out. Without looking up he said, “We’re on target. By daybreak, I’ll give the signal. Get some rest. You’ll need it.”

  “Am I to lead an assault, sir?” I understood my job as a commanding officer on this side of the line still needed to be done. If I returned, my story would be that I escaped from being held as a prisoner.

  The major looked down, puckered his lips in thought, and drummed his fingers on the wooden plank of his desk.

  “Every life is valuable. I would hate to lose even one man to a German bullet, but . . .” He eyed me. One neat eyebrow hunched lower than the other. “You, Wilson, have proven yourself invaluable, and, therefore, I’m ordering you to hold back. Besides, the men haven’t seen you for months.”

  I felt relieved and appalled. I could not watch men fight while I held back in the shadows. But I saluted and didn’t question my commanding officer.

  “Sir.”

  He responded likewise. I turned to go do as he said—rest. The other command, however . . .

  I continue to watch as the impenetrable is bored to the core by our forces. I predict the day will be a success, as far as gaining ground, but for every yard, we could pay twice that much in lives.

  The first wave has passed. I wipe the sleet from my face, suck in a breath, and lead my platoon in the next advance just as the sun breaks the horizon, despite Lefebvre’s orders.

  Victoria Hospital, Halifax

  Spring 1914

  Three years earlier

  Mabel Foster, Rose Greenwood’s classmate and roommate, poked her in the ribs with her elbow. “We should go celebrate tonight.”

  “I’m not much of a partier,” Rose confessed.

  “Oh, we won’t get too wild.” Mabel sighed and stretched both of her hands out to the side. “We need to do something. We just graduated with a nursing degree. My father always said that ‘every milestone in life needs to be greeted with a pint of beer’.”

  “Wise words indeed.” Rose rolled her eyes and continued walking.

  “Come on. It’ll be fun.” Mabel pranced at her side, far more like a flippant girl than a woman who had just earned her nursing certificate.

  “Oh, all right.” Rose decided to give in. Mabel would most likely give her no rest until she did. Her roommate was a good mix of crazy and smart. Those two attributes might be expected to cancel each other out, but then again, weren’t some of the brainiest people a bit eccentric?

  “You won’t regret it!” Mabel grinned. Her full, wide mouth curved up voluptuously. “Let’s hurry and get changed. Some of the other girls will meet us at the dance hall.” She bounded ahead.

  The young women rid themselves of their blue and white nurse uniforms and donned ankle-length dresses. Rose dressed demurely in a pale rose, fitted skirt and a chiffon blouse which extended past her hips and gathered just under her bust line with pleats. She wore her long, auburn hair up as usual but tucked in a few sprigs of dried baby’s breath she’d saved from the last bouquet of flowers she’d received from her parents.

  Mabel adorned her thin but curvy frame in a loose-fitting sheath of lavender satin and crushed velvet. It was shockingly sleeveless and held up only by thin straps. A drop waist of satin flowed down the right side of the dress and a swoop of velvet in the front draped across to her left hip. She wore a matching headband around her short, brunette hair with a lavender flower attached at her temple.

  Rose found herself in tow behind her friend. They exited their building and hailed a cabby to a hall in downtown Halifax. Rose thought the establishment a little seedy, but she didn’t want to seem a backwater country girl, so she said nothing.

  The room clouded with smoke and bustled with couples chatting and dancing.

  “Oh, there’s Lizzy and Milly.” Mabel pointed out their friends from school and led the way to where the two young ladies visited with some young men, handsome men at that.

  “Lizzy, Milly, introduce us to your friends,”Mabel half-shouted over the band, who played a tinny, bluesy tune.

  “Let me do the honors.” The tall, dark-haired man jumped in. “Milton Weil at your service, mum.” He smiled cheekily at Mabel and extended his free hand; his other held a glass of amber liquid. His eyes swiftly scanned her, from head to toe.

  Mabel blushed a tad. The other girls looked peevish, for Mabel stole the show. She shone far more beautiful than they.

  “Mabel,” she told him.

  “Well, Mabel, how about a turn around the dance floor?”

  She nodded. He handed off his drink to his quieter friend and spun her away. Lizzy and Milly rolled their eyes and moved on.

  Rose glanced at the man next to her holding two drinks. The one in his left looked fizzy.

  “What are you drinking?” Rose asked.

  “Just ginger ale, I’m afraid.” He shrugged and looked sheepishly at her.

&nb
sp; She smiled. “Sounds like my kind of drink.”

  “Why don’t you let me get you one?” He moved away towards the bar, and she followed.

  “A ginger ale for the lady,” he said to the barkeep, who nodded and got to the task. He set down his friend’s almost empty drink and turned to Rose. “I’m Henry by the way.”

  “Rose.” She smiled at him.

  He seems nice, she thought.

  “I like to dance,” he said, “but I’m not much of a drinker. My parents are temperance folk. On occasion I have a hankering for a pint, though.”

  Rose liked his honesty.

  “It’s always been repulsive to me.” She wanted to be honest too.

  He claimed her drink from the barman, handed it to her, and left some coins on the bar.

  “Thank you,” Rose said as he handed the drink to her.

  “My pleasure.” Henry smiled a toothy smile that showed nice, even teeth. “Let’s tilt these back and wait till a good song is played.” He winked at her.

  She smiled. “Agreed.”

  They drank. Rose looked around the hall, which heated up with the amount of people filling its cavity. The music thumped out a loud beat.

  “What brings you to Halifax?” Henry shouted over the band between sips.

  “Nursing.”

  “Ah, a noble profession.”

  “You?”

  “Engineering. I work in ship design.”

  Rose gulped. He’s smart and handsome.

  Her eyes flicked to his features. He wasn’t tall and dark like his friend, but Henry had lovely, deep blue eyes, a grand smile, a sturdy jaw, and his honesty attracted her.

  “My, sounds challenging.”

  “It can be, but I love it. Do you love nursing?”

  Rose thought about his question. She had always been a natural nurturer. In her younger years, she had carted home some injured animal or another. But love?

  “I hope I will. I like the thought of caring for someone else. It . . . makes me happy.”

  Mabel and Milton came back panting and interrupted their talk.

  “You’re a good dancer,” Mabel gasped out.

  “You’re not so bad yourself,” Milton admitted with a wink. Some perspiration glittered on his forehead in the light. He still held her hand.

  “It sounds like you two need a rest.” Henry reached for Rose’s drink and handed it to Mabel. He transferred his to Milton’s free hand. “We’ll be back.”

  He grabbed Rose’s hand and led her to the dance floor before she had a chance to protest. The band struck up a slower tune, similar in style to a waltz. Henry and Rose positioned their hands and enjoyed gliding around the dance floor with the other couples. Once in a while their eyes met, and something grew in those seconds, some attachment which hadn’t been there before. They didn’t talk with words, but their bodily actions spoke of a comfortable, companionable quality. The song ended, but Rose found she wanted it to continue. It seemed Henry did too. They danced dance after dance.

  They called it quits in the early hours of the next morning when the band packed it in. Mabel had left hours ago with Milton. Henry vowed to see Rose safely home. He hailed the one lone cabby they saw roaming the street. Soon they arrived at her apartment. Henry helped her out and asked the cabby to wait. He walked her to her doorstep.

  “Can I see you again?”

  Rose thought his eyes glowed in the silvery moonlight.

  “I’d like that,” she admitted.

  How strange. She’d almost stayed home. If she had, she might never have met this kind, smart, attractive man who seemed to think a lot like her.

  He searched her eyes. “Can I call on you Sunday afternoon?”

  She hoped he could see the fondness she felt towards him. “I will expect you.”

  Rose didn’t smile but guessed a smitten look painted her face.

  Henry slowly leaned down to kiss her. She didn’t pull away but leaned into him. His solid frame felt safe, strong, and she never wanted to leave. His arms belonged to her. They’d become a familiar part of her as they’d danced.

  She savored his sweet, brief kiss with a promise of more things to come.

  “Till Sunday.” He let her go, and she reluctantly stepped away into the chill night air.

  “Till Sunday.”

  Rose and Henry met that Sunday and every Sunday afternoon after until the end of July. The first Sunday afternoon in August, Rose hadn’t felt well, so they met on Tuesday the 4th of August, instead.

  They sat at a little table in the corner of their favorite establishment. Rose grinned and hoped her green eyes sparkled at Henry across the table. She occupied one hand with her drink of ginger ale and the other with Henry’s hand. Their fingers entwined tightly like curled grapevines. Henry played with the opal ring on her finger.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asked dreamily.

  “Just about how beautiful you are, my fair Rose.” He leaned forward over the small table, reaching for a kiss. She obliged.

  The room was dim and the music low, a fertile atmosphere for romance.

  “I’ve enjoyed our Sundays together so much.” She stroked his smooth cheek. Rose liked his clean-shaven face. She disliked bristly facial hair. At worst it scratched, and at best it tickled. Rose preferred to see his face and not have it hidden under a layer of hair.

  “As have I.” Henry paused and toyed with his glass. He picked it up and took a swig. He looked her straight in the eyes and grabbed her other hand.

  “Rose . . . I don’t want . . .”

  But a shout interrupted him.

  “War!! Britain has declared war on Germany! We’re at war!!” A man from the street rushed in, his hat crooked on his head, and a wild look about his eyes. Someone stopped the music and a general upheaval resulted. Men rushed to ask him questions. He shouted above the din. “It’s just been announced.” He waved a telegram in the air. “My contacts at a London paper confirmed it.”

  Rose and Henry stared at each other. Fear gripped Rose’s heart. Fear of the unknown, possible separation, and worse. Her world—their world—had shifted in an instant, and something told her that their lives would never be the same again.

  End of August 1914

  Webaashi Bay

  “Here, let me straighten it for you.” Madame Maude Montreaux stood on a stool in her dress shop and manipulated the toile and lace veil she had crafted for Mauve.

  Mauve couldn’t believe her wedding to Oshki waited only two short days away.

  “Thank you, Mme. Montreaux.” Mauve smiled at her reflection. “I’m so pleased you’ve been able to come up with wedding garments on such short notice.” Mauve turned to Mme. Montreaux, smiled warmly, and felt heat rise into her freckled cheeks. “You are a wonder.”

  “Of course, my dear. Really, it was no trouble.” Mme. Montreaux smiled widely, her full lips stretched out over her face. “I am more than happy to have the challenge of creating a bridal gown from odds and ends.” She stepped down and studied Mauve. “I pronounce you a pretty picture of bridal beauty.”

  Mauve smoothed her hand over the crème lawn dress Mme. Montreaux had altered. She had affixed an overlay of matching toile, a wide, satin waist band, and a satin and crocheted, scalloped lace, ankle-length hemline.

  Mauve gazed at her reflection in the mirror. “I do look rather lovely.”

  She took a gander at her mother, Ellie Murray, who had not said a word yet. Marm hadn’t agreed with Mauve’s acceptance of Oshki’s proposal. They had argued about it a few days prior . . .

  “Ack . . . Marm. It’d be foolish for us to wait. We love each other, so why should we?”

  Mauve stood with her hands on her hips and demanded her mother give her plausible reasons to refuse the man she loved. Her red, wavy hair flowed down her back, tumultuous as her attitude. She glimpsed her reflection in the small mirror on the wall in the kitchen as her temper flared. A perturbed expression was etched on her square face. Mauve watched the hardness she
felt come to the surface of her features. It gave the set of her jaw a decisively masculine edge.

  “Well, that’s all very well an’ good, but what will ‘appen when Oshki leaves ye with a child and off to war ‘e goes?” Ellie put to her. “You need ta be realistic. Fairy tales don’t build t’ world.”

  “Should we put our lives on hold because of what could happen? The future isn’t guaranteed for anyone and . . .”

  “Don’t talk to me as if ye are t’ one to be telling me what’s what. I’ve lived a wee bit more o’ life than ye have.” Ellie slammed her coffee cup down on the kitchen table. A bit of the brew splashed out and soaked into the table covering.

  “I’m not, I’m just saying . . .”

  “I know what ye’re saying all right!”

  Mauve watched her mother visibly simmer down and lick her taut lips. Ellie continued in a more controlled tone.

  “T’ fact of t’ matter is, during war things are different. People change. Life changes. I worry for ye is all.” Ellie reached for Mauve’s hand. Their breakfast sat unfinished on the kitchen table. The younger children were already off to school. But Mauve pulled away.

  “You just don’t understand.” Mauve turned and walked away, but then stopped and spoke one last thing without turning back to face her mother. “I’ll do what I think best, with or without your and father’s blessing.”

  “Isn’t that what ye always do?” Ellie said in a quiet but bitter voice.

  Mauve shook off the memory and paid attention to Mme. Montreaux’s observation. “Your daughter makes the dress, Mistress Murray, does she not?”

  Ellie Murray managed a smile, but just. Mauve saw that a heaviness sagged down her mother’s shoulders and wrinkled her brow deeper than her middle-aged creases outlined.

  “Aye, that she does.” Ellie’s aging, blue eyes met Mauve’s. Neither of them smiled.

  Mme. Montreaux cleared her throat. “Now, why don’t I help you off with some of these things and get them boxed up for you, Mauve. I’ll take off the veil here. Then you can step behind the screen, and I’ll unbutton the dress for you.” She expertly removed the pins from the headdress and motioned for Mauve to precede her.