June 26th, 1917
No. 2 Canadian Casualty Clearing Station, Remy Siding near Lijssenthoek, Belgium
Some beautiful flowers
There's an unsettling beauty about the flowers covering the graves. Red as the blood that has drenched this soil time and again. So fragile that, once plucked, they live but a minute.
If the daisy is the most innocent flower on this earth, then the poppy is the most tragic.
I let my fingers glide up the flower's stem, gently touch the almost translucent petals. I shouldn't pluck it. Death has walked this part of earth far too often already for me to let a flower die now, without any reason at all.
Very gently, I touch my fingertip to the edge of a petal. Silently, my lips form those famous words, written by a Canadian doctor, just a few short miles from where I am standing.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
With a jolt, I yank at the poppy, fling it at the nearest grave.
A quarrel? Really? That's what we're calling it now?
And as for that torch – make that no-one catches it, that it may fall to the ground and be extinguished there. Maybe then this world would be delivered of graves and wooden crosses and seas made of poppies.
If there ever was a lark in this place, it, too, has stopped singing. Has abandoned trying to sing against the guns. It's not even thunder anymore. I have no words for the sound they produce.
There's no place on this earth like Flanders.
Possibly, it was a peaceful place once, where people lived and loved and laughed. Now though, Flanders has become the epitome for this war, plunging the world into fire and blood. It's the cruellest of places in this cruellest of wars.
The day I arrived here, the Germans bombed Poperinghe and hit a train. Eight casualties, they said. I don't believe in providence, but I am beginning to think it was an omen.
Vimy Ridge was horrible. No one who was there will ever deny it. But Vimy Ridge is nothing compared to Ypres. Ypres, this one lonely town in the otherwise occupied Belgium that our troops still hold and defend, for almost three years now - at whatever cost. A sliver of Belgian land that the Germans try to take again and again, only to be repelled at each try.
Ypres is a trapped city, enclosed on three sides by the slim, deadly stripe of frontline. The names of surrounding villages have become synonyms for the battles fought here. Gravenstafel, Langemarck, Poelkapelle, St. Eloi, St. Julien. And one look at the map reveals countless of other villages to name their future battles for.
It was in Flanders where the soldiers dug in in the autumn of 1914 and started this horrible trench war. It was in Flanders where, in the spring of 1915, the very first gas clouds poisoned our soldiers. And it was in Flanders where, just last year, Jerry was wounded.
I pluck another poppy from one of the graves.
Poperinghe is a small town west of Ypres. Lijssenthoek is an even smaller village south-west of Poperinghe. And close to Lijssenthoek there's a patch of land that once was a farm of which now only the name remains. Remy Farm. Four CCS they have massed here. Ours, No. 2 Canadian CCS, is the last one in the row. Beside us are the English from No. 10, and then our compatriots from No. 3 Canadian. Opposite them, on the other side of the rail tracks, yet more English, of No. 17. Taken together, they form one of the biggest field hospitals in this war.
The size of the graveyard is in proportion to that. It is directly to our left, having grown in what amounts to almost three years of war. And every day we see them, the wooden crosses, keeping watch over their dead.
Rows upon rows of crosses. Some of them elaborately carved, painted white, anchored in the ground. Others crooked, weather-beaten, hastily nailed together. Each cross holds watch over a dead man, and the poppies cover them all.
If Ypres falls, the way to the French coast is clear. If Ypres falls, we lose this war. There's nothing we wouldn't do, no price we would not pay, to keep those few miles of blood-red land. And as long as this war continues, they will grow, the poppies on the graves. Like a blanket for the dead.
My fingers clench around the stem of the flower. The tiny hairs bite into my skin. I close my eyes, but instead of darkness, there's red, red, red.
Then, abruptly, something – shell? bomb? – explodes. Not far – not far enough – away. The sudden sound, the echo. I start, open my eyes wide. It's still red. This entire wold is red. Maybe I'll never see anything red, for my entire life, without being reminded of Flanders.
Another explosion. The ground trembles. Instinctively, I reach for the nearest cross. As if it could hold me. It trembles as much as the ground they've stuck it on.
At Vimy, we were far enough behind the lines to hear the shells without being threatened by them. Here, it's different. Poperinghe, lovingly called Pop or Pops by the men, is the one place where all paths meet, of soldiers and weapons and munitions – and, most important of all, food. The Germans know that. They often let their planes rise above our heads. We're right next to the rail tracks, leading westwards. The railway is the lifeline of this war. No trains mean no supplies. Accordingly, the Germans have rather a high interest to destroy the tracks next to our CCS.
Additionally, I reckon they grudge us Messines. English troops took the Messines Ridge, to the south of Ypres, back when I was still lying on that meadow in Nice, a world away, and had Colette braid me a daisy wreath – it's not even been three weeks and yet, it feels like an eternity. When the English took the area surrounding Messines, the enemy lost an observation point over Ypres and they didn't like it one bit.
Accordingly, not a day has passed since my arrival without something exploding, often far too close, unnervingly close. They say we are beyond the reach of the German guns, but it doesn't feel like it. And though many planes are confined to aerial reconnaissance, they drop bombs almost as often. You quickly learn to watch them with suspicion, the way they're up there in the sky, like mosquitos in front of the sun.
The next explosion seems to be further away again. The sound isn't as loud. I turn to look into the direction from where it comes, and only now do I see that we are not alone on this cemetery, the dead and I.
I identify that oh so familiar blue uniform immediately, and as I shield my eyes against the sun, I am quite certain I recognize Miss Inglish. We both work on the resus ward, with 'resus' being military speak for 'resuscitation'. Often, that's to be taken literally.
I raise a hand in greeting. A beat, then she returns the gesture. Another moment of hesitation, during which we both stand there, considering one another over the rows of graves. Finally, she comes closer. It surprises me a little, to be honest. She's one of the most reserved people I know – and I grew up with Shirley.
When there are just two more graves separating us, she halts abruptly. She doesn't offer a word, even appears a little surprised at finding herself standing opposite me. So, I say the first thing that comes to mind. "Not interested in meeting a prince either?"
It should probably be considered a distinction that The Duke of Connaught and his son, Prince Arthur, have deigned to honour us with their presence today. It even makes sense, I guess, considering that the Duke was Governor General of Canada until last year and, as the representative of the King, commander-in-chief of the Canadian armed forces. Still, one does wonder what his presence here is meant to achieve.
Miss Inglish raises her shoulders in a shrug. "I come here often," she explains, "To be alone."
I just want to start apologising for disturbing her solitude, but then decide against it. Who's said that she has any more of a right to this graveyard than I do? And aren't we both merely guests here, after all?
Instead, I just nod.
A pause.
"Bad news?" Miss Inglish suddenly asks, nodding towards the letters peeking out of the pocket of my apron.
Through narrowed eyes, I consider her. I wonder why that would be any of her business. Up until today, we have spoken no more than three sentences to one another. But she doesn't seem to be the nosey type. Maybe she's really only trying to offer help, in her brusque, angular way.
So, I reply, "My brother is sick. Two years he's managed to hang on here, and now malaria has finally caught him."
Something flits across her otherwise impassive face. "Dr Blythe is sick?" she asks, voice halting.
My eyes narrow some more. "You know him?"
"No. 1 Canadian Stationary Hospital?" she asks back.
I nod. That's Jem's hospital.
"Then it's him," she confirms. "I came to Europe with that unit. I was on Lemnos with them, and in Salonica."
"How come you're here now?" I want to know.
"I was sick as well. And now I'm here." Her voice has a warning tone to it now and I leave it at that. Apparently, it's not a happy memory.
Once she notices that I do not mean to pry, she relaxes a little. "I'm sorry. About your brother," she offers.
With another nod, I accept her statement.
She, however, isn't finished. "It must be hard on them, with Dr Blythe being sick. I remember how much he held them together over there. He has a talent for keeping up the mood even when things get hard."
She's certainly right about that one. It's a particular talent, not given to the rest of us. Only Faith has it. Maybe that's why they were meant to be.
"He was a great favourite with the nurses," Miss Inglish remarks and a tiny smile darts across her face.
"He's married," I point out. Now it's me sounding gruff.
Her gaze fastens unto my face. She has intelligent eyes.
"I know that," she replies. "Everyone knew that. Because every time he received new pictures from Canada, he showed them to every last person in that hospital. We've always said that if we manage to find ourselves a husband who loved us only half as much as Dr Blythe loves his Faith, we could count ourselves lucky."
Slowly, I nod. There's truth to what she's saying. Jem and Faith have a special connection, the kind of which I've only ever seen with my parents before.
"Not that it did anything to deter half of the sisters from nursing a fancy for him," Miss Inglish adds. Once more, there's a hint of a smile on her lips.
"Not you either?" I ask. I make sure to keep my voice friendly. I don't mean to pry, only… I'm a little curious, I guess. It's interesting, hearing something about Jem's life in far away Greece. And it's a relief to hear that, through it all, he's still Jem.
Miss Inglish shrugs. "Only inasmuch as every sister has a liking for a handsome doctor at least once in her life."
Involuntarily, I grimace, which Miss Inglish doesn't miss. She raises an eyebrow questioningly.
"Not a pretty story," I explain. As I did earlier, she, too, leaves it be, but I spy something akin to sympathy in her face. In all likeliness, she's thinking that I was in love with a doctor and got rejected. She's wrong, of course, but I don't correct her assumption. No need to dig up painful memories, is there?
"Can you give Dr Blythe my regards?" Miss Inglish asks. "From Laura Inglish? Tell him I was the sister that was buried by her tent during that storm at Lemnos and needed rescuing. Maybe he'll remember me."
For a moment, there's a kind of wistfulness in her eyes and wonder if it was really only the usual fancy felt by a nurse for a doctor. Then I let go of the thought. There are few things on this earth I am as certain of as the love of Jem and Faith, and if Miss Inglish liked him a little too much from a safe distance, that's none of my business.
It was different with Zachary, but I do know the feeling of being caught in a hopeless infatuation. That was long before this war was even a possibility in people's head and I always knew it to be futile, then as now. That's what made it perfectly harmless though. The only person you can hurt with such feelings is yourself.
"Sure, I'll tell him," I promise. Then, I hesitate. "I mean, that's if he…"
If he'll still be around to read my next letter. I know little about malaria, which is an exotic and strange illness, but I do know enough to realize it's not a good thing to have. Malaria is liable to kill, as effectively as a German bullet does.
Miss Inglish picks up upon my change in mood. She takes step towards me, then stops. Opens her mouth, only to close it again, biting down on her lower lip. Finally, she does speak, "I don't know if it's any consolation, but I don't think malaria will hurt Dr Blythe. He wouldn't let it."
I let her voice sink in. And then, quite suddenly, I have to smile. "He's stubborn," I agree. "All of us are."
Because a certain tenacity runs in my family. It has to, maybe, because we got it from both of our parents. It can manifest itself in an obvious way, as with Jem and Nan, or more quietly, like it does with Shirley or even Walter. But whatever form it takes, stubbornness is a trait we all share.
Maybe it really will be that stubbornness forbidding Jem from losing to malaria.
It's probably irrational and yet, the thought is calming. And that means rather a lot, because there hasn't been much to calm me in recent days. Walter might be safe back in England, but really, what about the rest of them? Jem sick, Shirley back at the front. Only God and Lord Jellicoe know where Carl currently is. And as for Jerry, he's been with the Officers Casualty Company in Bexhill since the beginning of the month. It's where officers are sent to get back in shape after an injury or illness – and from where they are then sent on to the trenches. I have no idea if Jerry is well enough to continue fighting (truth to be told, the thought alone makes me sick with fear), but I do know that out of a four week course, three weeks have already passed. Baring a miracle, he'll be joining Shirley at the front sometime next month.
If I'm completely honest, I sometimes wish myself back to March. It was cold then, but at least all our boys were safe. Walter and Shirley and Jerry in England. Jem in Greece, but healthy. Somehow, I can't shake the feelings that it's been downhill ever since. The only possible silver lining is that maybe Jerry truly is better, if they're sending him back. But I've learned not to trust everything the army says.
I turn my gaze back towards Miss Inglish. Silence has fallen between us. She's looking into the distance, to the east. My eyes settle on the grave by my feet instead. The mount of earth is still fresh, not covered with poppies yet. The cross is built from raw wood, the name scratched into it.
Private William Warner
1896 – 1917
Royal Northumberland Fusiliers
Sometimes, when I read the names on those crosses, I wonder what kind of person he was, the men hidden by name and cross. What kind of life he lived. How he died. Whom he left behind.
But I'll never know that, will I? He's just another name on one of the countless crosses they have erected. Do they really think these men will be remembered, once this dance of death is over? Every last one of them?
Sure, his parents will remember William Warner, maybe his siblings, if there are any, or his sweetheart. But who's to come after them? When everyone who knew him is dead and gone, won't he be just another faceless dead? An unknown, having died for something that I'm not sure those coming after us will even understand. What will remain of this dead boy, but another wooden cross, standing in line?
Another explosion, somewhere to the left of me. First bang, then rumble. I wince.
"Come on, we should leave," Miss Inglish remarks with a slight shake of the head. "This is a good place when one wants to be alone, but it does lend itself to dark thoughts as well. Maybe that's why you're alone here more often than not."
I nod, if a little hesitatingly. There's truth to what she's saying, I think. It is a place for dark thoughts, possibly even more so because of the redness covering it. It's unsettling, this contrast of the poppies' bright beauty and the death hiding beneath them. And suddenly, I feel uneasy. There's a shiver running down my spine. I don't want to be here any longer.
Instead of turning to leave, however, Miss Inglish remains standing still. "Did you know that, in the language of flowers, red poppies signify joy and happiness?" she asks thoughtfully.
Then she falls silent. I follow her gaze, look down. The poppy in my hand has wilted.
The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'The Rose of No Man's Land' from 1918 (lyrics by Jack Caddigan , music by James Alexander Brennan).
The poem 'In Flanders Fields' was written by the Canadian physician and lieutenant colonel John McCrae (1872-1918) in 1915. It remains perhaps the most well-known Great War poem.
The Duke of Connaught is Prince Arthur, 1st Duke of Connaught and Strathearn (1850-1942), third son of Queen Victoria. From 1911 to 1916 he served his nephew, King George V, as 10th Governor General to Canada. Through his eldest daughter, Princess Margaret, he is the great-grandfather of the current Swedish King, Carl XVI Gustaf.
Prince Arthur is Prince Arthur of Connaught (1883-1938), only son of the Duke of Connaught. From 1920 to 1924 he served as 3rd Governor General to South Africa. He was married to Princess Alexandra, 2nd Duchess of Fife (in her own right), who was a granddaughter of King Edward VII through his eldest daughter Princess Louise, Princess Royal.
Lord Jellicoe is John Rushworth Jellicoe, 1st Earl Jellicoe (1859-1935), a high-ranking officer in the British Royal Navy. From December 1916 to July 1917 he served as First Sea Lord and, before that, was commander of the British Grand Fleet during the Battle of Jutland. From 1920 to 1924 he served as 2nd Governor General to New Zealand.