Silver Moon

by Jenny Knipfer

  “Their injuries must be rather extensive to be shipped across the ocean. If they can patch ‘em back up and send ‘em back they do,” Delano pointed out.

  “Yes. Their injuries are usually pretty severe: head trauma, loss of limbs, burns, blinding, and damage to the eyes . . . the list goes on.”

  “Let’s talk of somethin’ cheerier,” Alma requested. “You ‘ave friends there at work?”

  “Yes, I room with my best friend, Mabel.” Rose cut up her ham and took a bite.

  She stilled as her palette thanked her. This is . . . there are no words.

  “This is delicious, Alma.”

  “Thank you, dear. It wasn’t all just me. Del likes to appear ignorant of cookery skills, but he helps me.” Alma held up her hand to her lips and whispered to Rose, “He knows more than he lets on.”

  “I ‘eard that,” Delano teased. “Ignorance is bliss, as they say.”

  He smiled at Rose, and his eyes twinkled. Her heart dropped. She saw Henry in his smile. The wonderful taste of the dinner went sour, and she had to choke down what was in her mouth.

  “Back to Mabel. Tell us about ‘er.”

  “Well, not much to tell really. She is . . . nothing like me.” Rose gave a light laugh. “The exact opposite, in fact, but maybe that’s why we make such good friends. Let’s see, how to describe her . . . she’s spunky and fun, with short hair and brown eyes; a nurse too, at Victoria General; engaged to her beau, Milton.”

  Rose stopped there. She didn’t know what else to say.

  Alma gave her an understanding smile across the table. “She sounds like a lovely girl.” She changed the subject. “How ‘bout your family? Any improvement on their health?”

  “I haven’t heard anything else. Maybe next week Ma will send a letter. She’s probably got her hands full with nursing. Rosemary isn’t cut out for that sort of thing.”

  “You sisters not so alike, then?”

  “No, not really.”

  “That’s the way it goes sometimes,” Delano commented. “From the same family and oceans apart, eh?” He lifted up his knife and pointed at nothing in particular. “Me sisters look alike for sure, but they are as different as night and day on the inside. Now, me brothers are another story. None of us look much alike, but all are rough men . . . well, except for me.” Delano blushed and looked down at his food.

  “And aren’t I glad of it.” Alma smiled sweetly at her husband.

  Rose could feel the love between them.

  “Best to be yourself. Take my word for it, doesn’t pay to pretend to be someone else.” Delano caught his wife’s eye.

  Rose could see they shared something, but she wasn’t sure what. She turned her attention back to her food.

  They ate and visited and visited and ate, and soon it was time to leave.

  “You’ll come back now and see us soon?” Alma had a fragile look on her face, as if she would shatter with the hammer fall of the word “no”.

  “You can count on it.” Rose held out her arms, and Alma embraced her in return.

  “Thank you, Our Rose. You come again now.” Delano gave Rose a light hug as well.

  He had taken to calling her “Our Rose”. It seemed fitting, like she belonged to them. And Rose didn’t mind. She rather liked the endearment.

  “Merry Christmas,” she said.

  Rose smiled at Henry’s parents. They’d become dear to her in the last few months. She couldn’t imagine life without them. Maybe God had known all along what would happen, and maybe she had been brought into Henry’s life not so much for her own sake, but for the Johnsons.

  A strange thought, but one I . . . rather like.

  Rose chewed on that as she walked to the corner of the street and hired a cabbie to take her back to her boarding house.

  Allied trenches on the Western Front

  December 26th, 1915

  They told us not to do it, that there’d be “Hell to pay,” but we did it anyway. We laid down our arms for a little while in honor of the Peace who came to the world and in honor of our dead.

  On Christmas Eve, what came to us from the enemy in our dugout world was not gas, or grenades, or bullets, but song. I’ll never forget it as long as I live. All the night, off and on, a carol would be sung. First by the Germans and then by us. It was peaceful and eerie at the same time.

  Christmas morning saw a flurry of activity. First a few cautious men scurried over the top and hesitantly met their enemy in the midst of no man’s land. Then all around us, for several hundred yards or more, men came out of hiding and faced their foe on even footing. Lenny, me, and our little troop were among them. Some exchanged greetings or any scrap that could be given as a gift, from buttons to tobacco. I gave away some of the tea I still had from Mom to a German man about my age. He thanked me and handed me some beef jerky. It was truly a miraculous thing.

  After we visited and gave and received our peace offerings, we mutually agreed to bury our dead who’d been plowed down by gun fire in the fighting of the previous days.

  I heard about the truce last Christmas. That was before us Canadians got over here. We were warned by the higher-ups that if we were to instigate or take part in any cease-fire incidents there could be a court martial in it, but we didn’t listen.

  Now and again, in the life of trench warfare that is our existence, we’ve established some friendly parameters with the men across the dirge, like no firing during tea or wash time, and we even exchange a bit of news on occasion.

  The German men seem like decent chaps, and it gets me to wondering again why we are doing this anyway. It’s all rather hideously ridiculous.

  As always, I miss my family. Mauve and Pearl the most. I hope they’re both well and had a nice Christmas among family. God willing, I’ll be there with them next Christmas.

  January 1st, 1916

  Near Lens, France

  Thoughts of Gretchen had taken a back seat while Luis had spent the past several months getting acclimated to his change in scenery—the German trenches. He led a small troop of soldiers he’d met in the camp outside of Metz. They were not a bad group of men; in fact, he rather liked some of them. It made what he did even harder—betraying them. After all, they were just following orders the same as he, and it seemed they all fought someone else’s war.

  Luis had put in a request for leave due to a family death. It had been granted, but instead of grieving his fake family member, Luis had traded his German uniform for a Canadian one.

  In the papers Marcus had given him, there had been instructions about how Antoine would contact him, and he’d been watching. A possible flame signal might appear anytime from sunset to midnight due east where Antoine’s farm was. Finally, one had appeared.

  By cover of night and with the aid of a secret tunnel, he crept away from the German trenches and into the neutral zone. He secured his uniform in a box and buried it where he could find it later.

  Luis made his way to Antoine, who pointed out the way to Major Lefebvre.

  A series of tunnels finally led him to the major. Antoine had passed him off to a guard, and the man had shown him the way through the maze.

  Luis stood before his superior officer, ready for what awaited him next. He needed a change. He needed to forget.

  Major Lefebvre eyed him with what looked like practiced aim. “So, a German mole, eh?” The major appeared to like what he saw as his eyes roved over Luis. “Not an easy thing to slip from the German to the Canadian/British side without detection.”

  “Yes, sir . . . ah, no, sir,” Luis answered with a stiff salute.

  His speech sounded unnatural to his ears. I think I am getting a German accent.

  “At ease, Lt. Wilson . . . is it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “They tell me you’ve been under Generaloberst Ostermann. What kind of man is he?”

  The major sat on a crate and cleaned his fingernails nonchalantly with his pocketknife while he talked with Luis. An electric lightbulb and a k
erosene lantern lit up the man-made cave.

  “Exacting, but I’ve not found him to be harsh. I would call him shrewd.”

  “Yet not shrewd enough to realize he has a spy in his ranks.” The major lifted his eyes from his task.

  “Apparently not, sir.” Luis needed some answers. “Sir, if I may, how am I to proceed? Am I still to be in the German ranks? Sir, what I mean is . . . I can’t very well kill my own countrymen and our allies.”

  “You’ll have to do your best to make it look like you are, if need be.” The major stilled his knife, folded it up, blew on his nails, and offered Luis a cigarette from the box in his pocket.

  “No. Thank you, sir.”

  “Smoking not a vice, then? Everyone has one, Lieutenant. What’s yours?”

  Luis thought.

  Beautiful spies popped into his head, but he just shrugged and remained silent.

  Major Lefebvre acknowledged his privacy and left him in peace.

  “Well, let’s get to the details. You’re to assume an acting role here for several months and build some rapport with the men. At any time we need an inside man for intelligence, you’ll slip away and resume your role as Von Wolff.”

  “But, sir, how do I to explain my extended absence?”

  “I’m getting to that, Wilson.” The major testily bit out his words. “You will claim that on your train ride back, you were intercepted by Allied forces and taken prisoner, but you escaped. We’ll use a similar cover for you here when you leave and return as Von Wolff.”

  “But why even come here? Why not just stay there?”

  “Ah, the point of the whole operation. We want to establish a tunnel leading to the German trenches without detection. At first, it can be our way to pass on information, but we hope to have some routes established that we can use to infiltrate them from underground. And you just happen to have knowledge of what their trenches look like and where we can bore without them knowing.”

  “I see, sir.” Luis got the picture.

  But how am I going to straddle both sides of the fence without being cut in half? Luis didn’t know.

  “You see, this way, if we can come at them from over top and down under, there’s a greater chance of surrender or taking prisoners. This could save lives.” Major Lefebvre paused. “I realize my tactics might be considered unconventional, but I’m not here simply to slaughter Germans. I am here to win a war.”

  The major drummed out his last sentence, took a breath, and questioned Luis. “Is there anyone in your German troop who can be exploited or turned? It’d be helpful to have another man on the inside.”

  The major took a good draw on his cigarette and exhaled slowly.

  Rooster. “There is one man, sir, who might.”

  “When you get back, work him and see if he’s a real possibility. But for now, take a rest, and when you wake, I’ll introduce you to your men.”

  Major Lefebvre pointed to a cot in the corner.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Luis gladly laid his weary body down and pulled the blanket that was folded at the end of the cot over himself.

  He watched the major switch off the bulb. He let the lantern burn and snubbed his cigarette out in the dirt wall.

  He moved as if to leave the dugout. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours, Lieutenant.”

  “Yes, sir,” Luis said through a yawn.

  February 2nd, 1916

  Dear Lily,

  I hope all is well with you. Things are pretty much the same here. The fighting is sporadic, and we tire of it. The mud, the cold, the cramped space, and the vermin are getting to be too much. I long for home, a place to stretch my legs and run, a good meal, a cozy fire, and a warm bed.

  Those minor characters of desire invade my dreams, but the starring role goes to you. I dream of your pretty face and fierce determination. If you were here instead of me, you’d probably go raging over the top with your gun blazing. Some days I wish to do just that. It would be a surefire death, but it seems preferable to the existence I have.

  Sorry, my love. My spirits are low. I try to keep my mind focused on you. At times, it’s easier than at others. You give me hope to keep going. I keep the picture you sent me and the lock of hair tucked in my shirt pocket over my heart. I look at them every day so I can remember who I have to live and fight for.

  Love,

  Jimmy

  Jimmy tucked the letter in an envelope and wedged it under his blanket. He would pass it off to be mailed tomorrow. He blew his stub of a candle out and settled in a nook of the dugout tunnel they currently occupied. He’d forgotten where they were. Frankly, he didn’t care.

  The night sky sparkled as he peered out of his hole. It shone like dew drops on spider’s web. Jimmy thought back to a web, strung between two shoots of wheat, he had seen as a kid. It had been a miracle the web hadn’t broken, the way it was laden down with dew.

  Jimmy studied the web of the sky, unbroken by all the turmoil of men beneath its canopy. It gave him some reassurance of solidity in an ever-vaporizing existence. Men fell around him at every battle, but he managed to keep living. His life was like that miracle web.

  He went to sleep thinking of how the web of his life had been strung and connected to Lily. My anchor in this whole infernal mess.

  When I come home, and leave behind

  Dark things I would not call to mind . . .

  And there is one who’ll softly creep

  To kiss me, ere I fall asleep,

  And tuck me ‘neath the counterpane,

  And I shall be a boy again,

  When I come home!

  Leslie Coulson

  From the poem When I Come Home

  Chapter Twelve

  Early November 1917

  Webaashi Bay

  It all seems so strange now, this world of safety, warmth, and good food. I lean back and take in everything and everybody, what I can see of them, at least. I’ve missed these times with family and friends. There were times I thought I’d never see anyone again, but here I am in the midst of those I love; it’s unreal. Mom and Michael host a late harvest meal in honor of my return. Mr. Bellevue, the Cotas, Frances, Maang-ikwe, and Angelica join us too, minus Mauve and Pearl, as they’re with Mauve’s family.

  “Come on, Lulu, come join the party.”

  Lily uses the pet name she dubbed me when we were kids.

  “I’m cozy here. It’s . . . nice just listening to everyone.”

  I sit in front of the fireplace sipping a cup of herbal tea. Lily flops down next to me and jabs me in the ribs playfully.

  “Come on, Lil, not now.”

  “Sorry.” Lily sets aside her joking. “I missed you, Luis. We’re all so thrilled you’re home.”

  I hear the love and sincerity in her voice.

  “Some of us had given up hope of . . .” She doesn’t finish. “But Nessa wouldn’t. She knew you were alive.”

  Lily turns her big, blue eyes on me. She’s close enough for me to see the pools of blue. With my distorted vision, they look huge in her face and muted, like they’ve run over.

  “I’m sure it was hard . . . terrible, what you’ve been through, but if you want to talk about it, I’m here.”

  I smile slightly. “I know, Lil, and I’m grateful. But . . . I can’t. It’s too complicated.”

  I wish I could give my family more answers. All they know is that I was a prisoner of war, that I escaped, and that I was hit with a German grenade. They don’t even know the half of it.

  I sense Lily’s deflated emotions. She was overjoyed when she saw me and could hardly stop crying tears of happiness. Her cheer faded. It’s as if she expected someone else to come. Instead, she got me. I know my mood has been off. I probably do seem like a different person to her, and the fact of the matter is—I am.

  “How is Jimmy doing?”

  She could have knocked me over with a feather duster when she told me they loved each other. Jimmy? The same scrawny kid who terrorized her in school. I guess
people change. I can attest to that fact.

  “He’s still missing.” She tips her head down.

  “Sorry, Lil.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “They’ll find him.” I offer her some hope.

  “Where else can he be if he’s not . . .?”

  She doesn’t say the word dead, but I know she’s thinking it.

  I try to think about what else I can say, but I’m tired. I’ve run out of things to say and ways to comfort her. I can’t even comfort myself. We endure some moments of silence. It feels awkward; it was never that way before.

  “Well, I’m getting another piece of pumpkin pie. You want one?”

  Lily always did eat when worried.

  “No thanks, I’m stuffed.”

  Lily says, “All right,” but I can hear the doubt in her voice.

  I watch her get up and go to the buffet sideboard to select her second dessert. Once done, she sits and listens to Elizabeth Cota tell her about the game she wants to play.

  “It’s like hide and seek, capture the flag, and a treasure hunt all in one. You see . . .”

  I overhear little Elizabeth explain the finer details of the rules of her game. The Cotas cluster around the table enjoying their desserts. I watch my sister. Her image is blurry, but I can tell she’s not listening to little Elizabeth. She’s probably eating a morsel of pie at a time and thinking of something or someone else.

  Probably Jimmy or her pathetic brother.

  I picked at my food during dinner, hardly able to swallow it down. I don’t know why. I ate the passable food at the hospital just fine, but this good, home-cooked food I choke on.

  Mom stands near the sideboard and pours herself another cup of coffee. Her image spreads out in my field of vision, distorted like a watercolor print. She gulps down a drink, walks my way carrying her cup, and sits next to me.