And we're back with another chapter, a little over a year after the first chapter was published. To think that there was once a time when I managed to crank out three chapters a week... Ah, well - slow and steady and all that. But I do love this story, so I shan't be giving it up any time soon. I should also mention that this chapter has come about due to two lovely people: Kim Blythe, who left a review, reminding me that people still read this story, and kslchen, my beta reader, who helps drag me out of writer's block and fact checks this story (because let's admit it: when it comes to World War I Canadian military history, she's infinitely more knowledgeable than I). And so I remain quite grateful for their support... and occasional prodding ;)


31 May 1915

Chaucer or Shakespeare?

Shakespeare.

Goethe or Dante?

Goethe.

Cervantes or Milton?

Neither, actually. Tolstoy, maybe - War and Peace, perhaps.

Walter stood in front of his bookshelf, slowly working his way across the spines, trying to determine which to take with him. He wasn't allowed to being much with him, and he wasn't expecting to do much reading at training, but just in case...he wanted to be prepared.

"Walter? Walter." Mother came in, bearing a stack of freshly washed laundry. "Susan insisted you pack more shirts." She smiled faintly, placing the carefully folded pile of snow-white cotton on his bed.

"It's only training. I'd have to leave it behind anyways."

"I might tell you the same thing," Mother cast a look at the books lining the bottom of his small bag, the only thing he would bring with him to Camp Sussex. "Do you plan on building a bunker out of books, then?"

A sheepish grin spread across Walter's face. "Just in case. I don't know which ones to take with me."

Mother ran her fingers over the spines left on his shelf. "It's like saying goodbye to old friends, isn't it?" She stopped at a particularly worn spine, pulling it out and turning it in her hands. "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. You loved it; Jem hated it. I think even then, his logical mind simply wouldn't accept the Mad Hatter." She worked her way further down, pulling a dark green cloth-bound volume out. "Peter and Wendy. You stole this from Rilla, I believe. I tried to interest her in it, but you were always my most voracious reader. Tell me, dear - what quote first comes to mind when you think of Peter Pan?"

Walter cocked his head, pausing a moment too long. "Dreams do come true, if only we wish hard enough."*

She smiled, although it did nothing to chase away the omnipresent worry etched around her eyes. "All the world is made of faith, and trust, and pixie dust."*

"Do you believe that, Mother?"

She carefully replaced the book on the shelf. "I used to," she said softly, turning to him. She seemed about to say something else, but shook her head almost imperceptibly instead, before replacing the book and taking a step back from the bookshelf. A shadow had fallen across her face, and Walter couldn't bring himself to ask what had caused it.

"Well, then." She looked around the room, as though she would be the one leaving it the next day. "I knew before you went that you meant to join up. I've had time to—to rebel and grow reconciled… There is a Call greater and more insistent than anything else—you have listened to it.* I don't believe in making long, drawn-out ordeals of things - goodness knows I loved them when I was small, though - so I won't make a terrible fuss at the station tomorrow. Besides, as you keep telling me, it's only training. But even if I don't make a fuss, darling - I do love you. I know you're twenty-one and terribly grown-up, but take that with you," she gave a lopsided smile, "rather like the books I'm sure you'll sneak along in your bag, just as you always have."

She turned, knowing that the admonishments she had had to give Jem - don't forget to write, change your shirt once in a while, and wash behind your ears - were unnecessary with Walter. At the door, she paused, remembering her second reason for coming upstairs - "And Susan says that tea will be ready in half an hour."

As he listened to his mother's steps fade away as they clicked down the stairs, Walter looked back at the dark green spine on his shelf. He did not lie often, but he had told a bit of a lie to Mother earlier. The first quote that came to mind had not been the one about dreams.

"We hope our sons will die like English gentlemen,"* he said softly. Following the Piper was after all rather like walking the infamous plank. One step after the other, then… what then? What lay at the end of the plank, the end of the Piper's journey?


In the end, everyone accompanied Walter to the train, although as Mother had promised, a minimal fuss was made. Only Rilla clung to him a bit longer, trying to keep tears at bay. Dog Monday even made an appearance, nudging his head under Walter's hand for a scratch behind the ears. Father and Shirley shook his hand, Nan and Di gave him quick hugs and a token peck on the cheek, and Mother presided serenely over them all, the only betrayal of her emotion a small fluttering in her right eyelid. Just as he was about to step onto the train, Susan, who had come along in her Sunday best (including the hat with the cabbage roses that had come rather loose and, as a result, wobbled frightfully with every tilt of the wearer's head) pressed a packet of sandwiches, as well as a tin of monkey-face cookies and a bottle of lemonade into his hands. He assured her that the provisions would keep him from starvation between there and New Brunswick.

Then he stepped aboard, but quickly moved to the end of the train, leaning over the railing to wave to his family as the train gathered speed, carrying him away from them and towards whatever adventure awaited him at the end of the line


When the train rounded the bend and he could no longer see the station, Walter found himself an empty seat, and retrieved one of the two books he had packed before stowing his bag and food packets. Sitting down in a corner, he reverently opened his book, feeling the soft pages and the indentations made by the print. Goethe. Walter's German allowed him to say little more than Am Anfang war das Wort, und das Wort war bei Gott, und Gott war das Wort,*** in a terrible accent. He could trot out the occasional Bible verse, but Goethe, Germany's national poet, was beyond him. While he longed to read it in the original language, Walter had settled for English - a fact he was now thankful for; after all, imagine being caught reading German during military training. Bringing the work of a German author was enough of a risk as it was.

A wonderful serenity has taken possession of my entire soul, like these sweet mornings of spring which I enjoy with my whole heart. I am alone, and feel the charm of existence in this spot, which was created for the bliss of souls like mine. I am so happy, my dear friend, so absorbed in the exquisite sense of mere tranquil existence, that I neglect my talents. I should be incapable of drawing a single stroke at the present moment; and yet I feel that I never was a greater artist than now.****

Werther's letters - at least at the start - always had a wonderfully calming effect upon him. Jem had grumbled about the nauseating language and purple prose and thrown it down about halfway through, muttering about people who couldn't make up their minds, but Walter found the story to have a wonderful sort of tragedy about it.

He slowly lost himself in the tale he knew by heart, barely looking up between Four Winds and Charlottetown. It was with a start that he realized that he had to get off - or miss his boat to the mainland. It was a trip he knew well enough, having made it several times the past year on his way to and from Redmond, but there was always a nagging fear that he would somehow arrive at the dock just in time to see the ferry steaming away without him.

Walter, however, arrived at the dock in plenty of time, bought his ticket, and went to the rails to wait. The chatter of people surrounded him, and he could make out snippets of conversation.

"...wouldn't dream of it! Can you even imagine that…"

"- it's true, I tell you! I read it in the paper yesterday!"

"Oh, come off it. That rag you call a paper wouldn't…"

"Henry, take care not to fall into the water…"

"Mother, when's the boat going to be here?"

"Here she comes, boys!"

"Here she comes…"

"...there it is.."

The S.S. Northumberland steamed into the harbor, slowly approaching the dock, the passengers at the rails slowly transforming from flesh-colored pinpricks to dolls to life-size people, shouting and waving at the gathering crowds. Then the ferry was tied up, and the doors opened, releasing the flood of passengers. Once the dust had settled a little, Walter skirted the crowd and made his way on board, finding a sunny corner of the passenger lounge to sit in. The lounge slowly filled, the seats being claimed and the floor filling with the usual detritus people who weren't headed to training camp brought on their travels.

"Excuse me, is this seat taken?"

Walter looked up to see a lanky young man roughly his own age, with sandy hair and a set of bright blue eyes. Unlike Walter, however, he was dressed in khaki, and carried a standard-issue canvas knapsack.

"Not at all." Walter moved his bag closer to him, freeing up more of the bench to his left.

Sandy hair let himself down on the seat, stretching his mile-long legs out in front of him before reeling them back in.

"Headed to Camp Sussex as well?" he asked.

"I am," Walter nodded, "64th Battalion. Is it that evident?"

"Only to someone who's looking," his companion's face creased with humor. "You've packed light, and you're about the right age. Well then, if we're to be fellow travelers and camp-mates, we might as well become acquainted now." He stuck out a bony hand, "Edgar Carrey."

Walter shook it. "Walter Blythe."

"What end of P.E. Island do you hail from, Blythe?"

"Glen St. Mary. You?"

"Summerside."

Walter grinned in recognition. "My mother taught there, not quite thirty years ago. You wouldn't happen to be a Pringle, would you?"

"I happen to be one of a very small group of non-Pringles, whole or half," Edgar removed his cap and ran a hand through his hair so that it stood on end. "It's a detail I pride myself on."

He proceeded to pull three sandwiches and a slice of cake wrapped in wax paper out of his bag.

"My mother sent me along with this, thinking I might waste away on the trip. In all fairness, she wasn't entirely wrong. I do have a rather terrific appetite."

"So did mine," aware of a slight growl in his stomach, Walter rummaged around his bag for the sandwiches and tin of cookies, pulling them out and proffering the tin. "May I interest you in some monkey-faces?"

"Don't mind if I do," Edgar helped himself to a cookie, "and in exchange I will offer you half of my cake. It's ginger. Now tell me, Blythe, what was it you had your nose buried in when I interrupted you?"


64th Battalion

Sussex Military Camp, NB

1 - 2 June 1915

Dear Mother and Dad,

Well, I'm here at Camp Sussex, which so far looks like a plain covered in white teepees. The tents in question are in fact not teepees, but are actually Bell tents. We sleep twelve to a tent, and there is a round stove with a chimney in the middle to keep us warm at night. I have yet to test the efficacity of this, but should be able to judge it tomorrow, after a night's sleep in the tent.

So far, the most glaring reminder that we are in the army is that we are all in khaki. Upon arrival, those of us who hadn't arrived in uniform (including yours truly) were marched off to the quartermaster's and kitted out. I was at the end of the line, so by the time I got there, uniforms were a bit scarce. I managed to find a pair of trousers in my size, but my shirt hangs to my knees and my boots are just the slightest bit tight in the toe. Haircuts were also implemented. With the change in hair and clothing, you won't recognize me when I come home in July.

I met another fellow on his way to Camp Sussex on the ferry from Charlottetown to Pictou. His name is Edgar Carrey, and he comes from Summerside. He says to tell you that he isn't a Pringle (not even a half-Pringle). We're in the same tent, too, and he seems to be a nice enough fellow. Likes to laugh.

That's it for tonight, I think. The bugle is playing, and we have to get up at 5:30 tomorrow, at which point the real work begins.

64th Battalion

Sussex Military Camp, NB

4 June 1915

For the next week or so, we've been told that our days will look very much like today. Up at 5:30, have a cup of brew, then off to the training grounds to parade for an hour and half an hour of exercise. Breakfast at 8:00, and then it's back to the parade square, to work on drills. Lunch is from 12:30 to 1:30, and then we return to our drills. The workday is over at 4:15, except for the unlucky few who are sent off to practice their latrine digging. Those are generally the ones who arrived on parade with their top button missing, or some mud on a boot. I have yet to be detailed to latrine and trench digging, but I'm sure that I'll get my turn sooner than I'd like.

64th Battalion

Camp Sussex, NB

8 June 1915

Dear Mother, Dad, Rilla - and Susan,

I was glad to find your package at mail call this morning. The spice cake and tin of cookies are a welcome supplement to camp food, which is a far cry from Susan's. Edgar says that Susan must be a goddess, as the food nearly made him weep with joy. He's a little more hard-hit by the food here than I am.

We've also been told that we start working with rifles next week. I'm not entirely sure how I feel about that - I've never fired a gun, and so I don't expect to be very good at it. But the other boys are over the moon, talking about how we'll be proper soldiers at last, instead of practicing drills with broomsticks.

Name and Address Here:

Miss Una Meredith

Presbyterian Manse

Glen St. Mary, PEI

Message Here:

Dear Una, I thought you might appreciate the extraordinary size of the bread ovens here. As you can see, each is almost the size of a man. It's most impressive - and very hot. But since it is these ovens that "give us this day our daily bread," it's difficult to be ungrateful.

Yours,

Walter

64th Battalion

Camp Sussex

14 June 1915

Dear Mother and Dad,

Received your package this morning. Edgar gratefully thanks Susan for the tin of cookies with his name on it (having unwittingly discovered that the way to Susan's heart is through praising her cooking) and will be enclosing a note of his own. The others in our tent are also happy when a package arrives, since it means that we have a break from canteen food.

We began working with the rifles today. This morning after breakfast, they took half of us down to the range while the other half did drills. I was part of the first group, and around 9:00 we all trooped down to the shooting range. Once there, with my rifle in hand and a target to shoot at, I discovered something I had not had opportunity to learn yet: I have terrible aim. I took me the better half of an hour to hit the target, and even longer to get anywhere near the center. To cap it all off, my rifle kept jamming. Well, practice, practice, practice...I can't get any worse.

I can't believe that it has been two weeks since I left you all. I feels so much longer than that, but also like the blinking of an eye. It's a bit like college - you think the semester will never be over, and then suddenly, it is. I'll be home before you know it.

Your loving son,

Walter


*Peter Pan, or the Boy Who Wouldn't Grow Up, first published as Peter and Wendy, around 1906

**Rilla of Ingleside

***1 John (or Johannes) 1:1 from the 1912 edition of the Lutherbibel. It was not uncommon to teach foreign language with Bible verses, and this was an edition I handily found online (being unable to find my German copy...it's got to be somewhere)

****The Sorrows of Young Werther, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, 1774. This translation is dated 1891, making it (to my great joy) period accurate.

This chapter's title is taken from the song "Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit-Bag, and Smile, Smile, Smile" (Lyrics by George Henry Powell, music by Felix Powell, 1915). It's probably one of the first songs that comes to mind whenever anyone mentions the Great War, along with "Keep The Home-Fires Burning," so I'm quite happy to be quoting it in a title for the first time.

I don't know if I have any trivia or terribly exciting tidbits for the Author's Notes this time. I can tell you that the oh-so-romantic bread oven postcard that Walter sends Una is real. Look up "Camp Sussex bread ovens postcard" (or something like that) and you will find it. A lot of what Walter writes home about is taken directly from soldiers' letters home, although I confess that I made Edgar Carrey, the non-Pringle, up.

I should also mention that I made up any and all appreciation Walter has for "The Sorrows of Young Werther." I happen to utterly despise the book, having been forced to read it for a German class taught by my mother. I lost my patience with Werther (and Goethe) a few pages in, much as Jem did.

Love,

Anne