Shreds of Consolation

12 October 1916

London

Dear Nan,

I am in London with Jem. Sgt. Barlow arranged things so that we could go on leave together. Technically, we are entitled to ten days of leave per year, but it's sometimes hard to come by. But they do try sometimes, and like I said, someone is always owing Jem a favor.

It all seems surreal. How can Walter be dead? Though, of course, out here, I often wonder how anyone stays alive. But to just hear that he is gone — it is a very hard thing to realize.*

Being in London does not make it easier. I often thought that I would like to see London, but not like this. Big Ben looks just as it does in Miss Cornelia's stereoscope, and that makes it seem less real somehow — as if we're stuck in suspended imagination. We did not tour around; neither of us has the heart.

It seems that nothing should be beautiful at the moment. I was very glad that you have kept me in practice — perhaps these are the days when we most need to find the beauty that Walter loved.

I wanted to find something grand for you, here in the grand old city. But do you know what my beautiful thing was? The thing that made me thankful for the world, in spite of everything? It was bread. This morning, we found a bakery and bought some wonderful, fresh loaves. They cost a fortune and were worth every penny. I don't know what was better, the crackling, golden crust, or the inside, so improbably white and soft I almost laughed to see it. After so long on rations that make old Aunt Martha's cooking seem like haute cuisine, that bread made me think of God-given manna, tasting like wafers made from honey.** It was beautiful.

Now, we're in a shabby little hotel with questionable plumbing and just one bed in the room, but it's warm enough and pretty quiet, except for Jem snoring. Two beautiful things, really — bread and Jem breathing, right where I can see him. I don't know how clean the bed is, but it isn't sunk in a foot of mud, so that's good enough for me.

I'm writing by a stub of candle stuck in the most garish candlestick you could imagine. It's all tarnished brass with enough fruit and cherubs to choke an ox and it looks absolutely ridiculous on a rickety old desk with a greasy little candle stuck in it. I wonder where it came from.

Please tell Faith that I have Jem in my keeping, if only for a little while. All I would ask is that she return the favor by keeping you close to her for my sake.

I can't keep my eyes open a minute longer, Nan. I'll post this letter tomorrow so you can have a postmark from London. We'll be back with the battalion in a few days, but for now, I'm alive and safe and warm, and it's awfully hard to think of much beyond that.

Love,

Jerry

P.S. I was about to post this, but decided to reopen it. I've kept up with the beautiful things — thank you for those, Nan, they have been important — but I have rather fallen down on our debates. But I have a question to put before you: Must a proposal of marriage always be made in person? Or is it sometimes permissible, under extreme circumstances, for it to be made from afar, perhaps by letter? I know which part I would take and fancy that I know your choice as well, but will do you the courtesy of allowing you to choose your own position.

24 October 1916

Pozieres, France

Dear Shirley,

I was awfully sorry to hear about Walter. I wish I were home in the Glen with you and Una right now. I would like nothing better than to sit with you in Rainbow Valley. I'm glad you have one another, at least.

We were in the trenches this past week and a half, but have been relieved and are resting in a village near Courcelette now. It is still very, very bad here.***

Don't enlist, Shirley. I mean it.

Yours truly,

Carl

24 October 1916

Avonlea, PEI

Dearest Anne,

Forgive me for not writing sooner. I have tried many times to write a line these past few weeks and found that I could not.

We received Gilbert's letter about Walter the same day that we got a telegram of our own. Jack is very badly wounded. A head wound, they say, but no more information than that. He has been moved to a hospital in England, but he is still not out of danger. We got a letter from a V.A.D. nurse, but it is sparse on details in a way that gnaws at me.

Oh, Anne. Words cannot express my anguish at your news. I could say "I'm sorry" a million times and it would not begin to express my sorrow. I will not ask how you are; I will only say that I love you.

Anne, come to me in Avonlea. Or else let me come to you. I live for letters these days, but they are flimsy things. Come to me, so that we might cry in one another's arms and not have to be brave anymore.

Your bosom friend,

Diana

7 November 1916

Aster House, Kingsport, Nova Scotia

Dear Jerry,

Thank you for taking care of Jem. Faith said she was writing to you, so you would have all the awful particulars. I did write to you these past few weeks — pages upon pages — I would have had to send them in a parcel, rather than an envelope. But reading them over, I saw there was no sense and no comfort in them. I did not want to send you nothing but my unfiltered grief.

We do have one small solace: we have learned that Walter did not suffer. Mother and Dad had a letter from Walter's commanding officer informing them that he was killed instantly by a single bullet to the heart, just as his company went over the top. It may seem like little enough, but Rilla writes that it has eased Mother's distress to know that Walter did not die in agony.**** I'm glad of it — we cling to the slightest shreds of consolation here. I will not call it beautiful, but that letter gave us a little relief when nothing else could, and we are all very grateful.

You ask my position on a weighty matter and I find that I do not know what to say. I think you know that my inclination would be toward the negative. Wasn't it you who told me once that all momentous things must be accomplished face-to-face?

But in present circumstances, I cannot deny that I yearn to answer in the affirmative. Is there a difference between a desperate desire and desperation? If there is, I cannot parse it.

I know that that is no answer at all. Write to me. Convince me of your position.

Yours always,

Nan

*Here, I have Jerry use the word "realize" in the 19th-century sense of "to make real," as I think Jem does when he tells Rilla, "I never realized that Walter was dead till I came back home. You don't know how I miss him now — you folks have got used to it in a sense — but it's all fresh to me." Rilla of Ingleside, chapter 35.

**Exodus 16:31

***Carl's 87th Battalion spent 11 days in the trenches near Albert, France, 13-23 October 1916. From October 21-23, they suffered 281 casualties, including all but one of the officers who participated in their big attack (see War Diary of the 87th Battalion Canadian Infantry).

****"'Did Walter suffer much — he was always so sensitive to pain. Oh, Susan, if I knew that he didn't I think I could gather up a little courage and strength." This merciful knowledge was given to Rilla. A letter came from Walter's commanding officer, telling them that he had been killed instantly by a bullet during a charge at Courcelette." "It seems that gladness were killed in me — shot down by the same bullet that pierced Walter's heart." RoI, chapters 23-4