To misquote Mark Twain: "The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated." It's been... how many months now? I shudder to think. In that time, I've moved across the country, gotten a job, begun university, and celebrated (I had to check) two years on this site. Huzzah! It's probably high time I produced an update for the "Teacher in the Glen" universe (such a long time ago!), but in the mean time, here's an addition to Walter's story.


22 June 1915

"I missed Mail Call?" Edgar sat up on his cot, looking positively miffed. "Well, was there anything for me?"

"No," Walter rifled through his letters, "but that's what you get for taking a nap all afternoon. My rifle," he pointed to the weapon in question, " could go off right next to you, and you would still sleep through it."

"It'll be a useful skill once I'm in the trenches. Well, you didn't bring in a package, so I assume Susan the goddess hasn't sent anything. Pity; we decimated the last of her wonderful apple cake yesterday."

Walter stretched out on his stomach, his rather pathetic cot squealing in protest. "You can't expect her to keep you in cakes and cookies constantly, you know. For one thing, there isn't enough food in the world to accomplish that. And secondly -"

"Yes, thank you, thank you. What did you get, then?" Edgar leaned over, trying to get a good look at the return addresses on his letters.

"One from Mother and Dad, as expected; one from Rilla; one rather grimy-looking one from Jem… and one from Una."

"Ah…" Edgar drew out that one syllable until he had given it enough meaning to fill a paragraph. "The famed Miss Meredith. The one you sent that postcard to. The one with the bread ovens."

"What about the bread ovens?"

"Nothing, I suppose," Edgar leaned back, crossing his arms underneath his head, "it's just not the sort of thing one generally sends to one's girl."

The letters slid to the floor, instantly forgotten. "My what?"

"Your girl, Blythe. I trust you're familiar with the term. After all, most fellows here have got one. More than one, in select cases."

"She's not my… my…" Walter spluttered in protest.

"Girl?" Edgar supplied helpfully. "Very well, then - she's not your girl. I suppose she's seeing someone else?"

Una, to the best of his knowledge, had never "seen" anyone in her life. "No."

"What does she look like, Blythe? I've been imagining her with shining gold hair, green eyes - a veritable angel of mercy."

"And you'd be quite wrong," Walter said with some degree of smugness. "She's got black hair, for one, and dark blue eyes, for another. Although they sometimes border on grey if she's had a particularly nasty day - and what are you laughing about, Edgar?"

"Nothing, nothing," Edgar gave a luxurious stretch on his cot, which creaked frightfully in protest, and dangled his feet over the end of the too-short frame. "It's just that after three weeks of hearing about the illustrious Miss Meredith's humor, cooking prowess, and now her excellent looks, I think I've fallen in rather in love with her. And of course, you don't need to tell me that she has a figure like -"

"That's enough out of you," Walter sat up with more force than absolutely necessary. "She's -" mine. But she wasn't. In fact, Una was entirely unspoken for. Anyone - well, anyone who was left - was perfectly welcome to make any attempts he wanted.

And sitting in the half-light of a Bell tent in Camp Sussex, Walter realized that the idea did not appeal to him. It didn't appeal at all.


Later, Walter picked up his unread letters, deciding to read them outside. Camp Sussex was bordered by trees on one side, and Walter decided to head for a particularly gnarly oak he was sure Mother would have become firm friends with, where he sat down and opened his letter from Mother and Dad.

The usual from home: Susan hated "that cat," Rilla was up to her elbows in Junior Red Cross work, Mother was still knitting socks with Rosemary Meredith, and Jims had a new tooth. Dad scrawled a few lines at the bottom in his barely intelligible doctor's handwriting - and apparently, either the flies were plaguing horse more than usual, or the tide had washed in a crop of fried eggs. It was always hard to tell with Dad's handwriting; misinterpretation had sometimes led to side-splitting consequences.

Jem's letter appeared to have been sealed with mud. The thin sheets of paper inside were covered in the familiar pencil scrawl.

Late May, I think. Or possibly early June...

France (?)

Dear Walter,

Congratulations on your conscription. We're all in the same boat again, now. You'll probably be at training camp by the time this reaches you (I'm sending this letter to Ingleside so that the folks at home can forward it to you, because I don't know which camp you'll be at). I remember how excited we were at Valcartier, so keen to be off and go kills Huns. As if we were at a school picnic or some such thing.

I feel like I've aged a thousand years since those weeks. Over here, we've just finished a big offensive - the biggest series of battles I'd ever been in. We gave as good as we could, but they still pushed us back a few miles. Ypres itself is no more. You've almost certainly heard of the gas the Germans are using (damned unsporting of them). Well, the only thing worse than the gas is the mud. You'll see for yourself when you get here. While the training you get at home and in England is good, the only way to properly train you for the mud and trenches over here is to quite literally dig up and demolish a decent-sized field, flood it to turn the dirt to a soup, and then have you lob grenades at each other across it. That would probably the most accurate representation of war over here. No orderly parades for us, thank you very much!

Looking over what I've written, I'm realizing that I may have just succeeded in scaring you off, brother mine. I'm not trying to scare you… but perhaps I am trying to spare you the shock I had when I came over. I expected it to be orderly, like the war-games at Valcartier or Salisbury, but it's a far cry from any of it. The most useful skills from training camp are most likely trench digging, target practice, and bayonet training. A good aim could be the difference between living and dying. That, and Lady Luck. If she decides that there's a bullet out there with your name on it, no amount of target practice will save you.

Lord, that's depressing talk. So I'll stop with that and tell you about a funny thing that you may also come across. We were still at Salisbury when this happened, in the shadow of Stonehenge (a fact you will probably appreciate more than I did). One of the others - a fellow by the name of Partridge - decided to take a grenade, put it under his helmet, and sit on the whole thing. The boy was blown a good fifteen feet into the air - and he came down without his helmet's chinstrap. We never did find it. Perhaps it's still floating around up there, gone to the same place as the bottle rockets we never found.

Well, that's it for me. Let me know how training's going, although by the time I get your letter, you'll probably be home on leave.

Love,

Your brother -

Jem

Jem's letter sounded different from the ones he usually sent home. Sadder, somehow, or perhaps more serious. He knew that Jem probably censored himself in his letters to Mother and Rilla, leaving out anything that wasn't plucky and cheerful. Walter, after all, did rather the same thing - failing to mention shared latrines and the strange texture of skewering a sandbag with a bayonet.

He still remembered his first day of bayonet training. About a week before, they had been given bayonets to attach to the fronts of their rifles. Then, they were ordered to run at a row of sandbags - loud screaming encouraged - and "kill" the sandbags as best they could. They were admonished to take "liver, lights and kidneys" out - a form of killing which struck Walter as grossly inhumane. Shooting was bad enough, but staring your enemy, another human being, in the eye and then stabbing him - hopefully before he stabbed you - somewhere in the organs just didn't sit right with him. But he had signed a piece of paper, swearing that he would do everything commanded of him to protect the King and Crown, and bayoneting Germans was part of that agreement.

Personally, Walter hoped never to have to use the bayonet. He couldn't face sticking it into anybody, especially not after having gotten a taste of it with the sandbags. If it ever came down to bayonet fighting, he honestly had to say that he would prefer getting killed by a bullet. Or shooting at a German from two or three yards - no personal contact. That appeared obvious.*

The omnipresent drone of the Piper's song rose up again.

"For heaven's sake - aren't I allowed to have my own thoughts anymore?" Walter grumbled. The music softened, only to be replaced by

Theirs not to make reply,

Theirs not to reason why,

Theirs but to do and die*

Wonderful. Now the Piper was quoting Tennyson. Well, thought Walter, if that didn't make it clear…

He looked at the stack of letters on the ground next to him. There was only one left - the one from Una. It wasn't that he'd avoided opening the letter, he told himself. He was just….

He was, actually. Edgar's words had hit him like a medium-sized freight train, and in the short time since, all his ideas and beliefs about himself and Una had become hopelessly muddled.

"His girl." Edgar had called Una his girl. Walter hadn't had a "girl" - not even when he was one of the last available males left at Redmond. White feathers tended to do that to a fellow. But even before that, he had been writing to Una every so often; she, along with the women in his family, had been his main female relationships. He had gone to the occasional dance if a classmate convinced him, but he never danced more than once with any of the co-eds. It was, he had to admit, quite probably a mutual decision. He wasn't tongue-tied while dancing, but he certainly didn't have the gift of effortless conversation.

Except with Una. Talking with her came as naturally as breathing. He had only been tongue-tied once in her presence - the Sunday he had asked to walk her home. He had not, as he recalled, walked her home, but instead joined her in Rainbow Valley for a picnic the next day. The consequences of that picnic were gossip all around and had caused Una pain. And frankly, Walter had to admit his reaction had been lacking. As one of the minister's children, Una was of course subject to more scrutiny than Walter was. As a woman, her reputation was at any given moment more fragile than his.

Well, let's see what Emzara has written…

Two sheets of paper, neatly decorated with Una's shopping-list handwriting, met him. He remembered all the times in the past year that the very same sight had greeted him. Sometimes long, sometimes short, sometimes funny or sad, or sometimes just a little piece of home. And welcome. Always welcome, her letters were.

"Lord, Blythe," he muttered. "Try to contain yourself."

Dear Walter,

I am writing this with a blister, having unwittingly rested my left index finger on a hot kettle. This is the inglorious end to an already long day of cleaning. I remember Faith telling me that she felt vaguely betrayed whenever she received an unexpected burn, for instance from some overly hot soup. I do know what she means - a little. I was just making myself a cup of tea, and suddenly, there I was with a throbbing finger. But I have only myself to blame, since I could have easily avoided this injury. I suppose I feel more betrayed by myself, rather than the kettle.

It's been a rainy week here, perfect for staying inside. I hope it hasn't reached Camp Sussex, because you'll be miserably drilling in it, day in and day out. Although it might qualify as superior training for when you're overseas.

I confess I'd rather not think about that, actually. You and I both know you're not a violent man, Walter. You never were. As you read this, you're probably sitting under a tree somewhere, away from everyone else. I hope they have trees at your camp - your postcard showed some in the background.

We're doing a batch of baking in the coming days, so look out for a package from us. I'm not entirely sure what will be in it yet, but it should be along the lines of biscuits and a cake. Maybe some preserves, as well. After seeing those bread ovens, it's quite clear that there's no need to send you any bread. Besides, it would probably be stale by the time it arrived.

I'll close now; it's late, and cleaning always tires me out. Be well, Walter, and remember to give yourself a little grace if you feel you aren't doing as well as you'd like. It's rare that it's as bad as you think.

Yours,

Una

Practical, steadfast, wonderful Una. For the not-quite-first time, Walter wondered what she would do while he was away. It wasn't as though he had any business complaining if some fellow or other stepped in and swept her off her feet. What might he be like, he wondered? Tall, dark, and handsome, probably. Heathcliff, Rochester, and Darcy rolled into one.

Realizing the direction of his thoughts, Walter gave himself a mental shake. This was Una, for heaven's sake, and she could court whomever she pleased. Without his permission. Even Edgar.

Feeling slightly muddled and not a little peevish, he returned his letters to their envelopes. Then, just as the bugle signaled the call to quarters, he stood, and slowly walked back to his tent.


64th Battalion

Camp Sussex, NB

23 June 1915

Dear Una,

I've just gotten through another day of training. Time flies when you're having fun, they say - which explains why each day feels about as long as three normal ones. I am indeed reading your letter from under a tree, as you predicted. You know me far too well, Miss Meredith.

While I am glad that you liked the postcard, it occurred to me recently (as recently as this afternoon, in fact) that there were probably better cards to send to a lady. I certainly haven't seen another fellow send bread ovens home to a young lady. So please accept the postcard accompanying this letter, with its view of the sea, not as a substitute, but as a sort of elaboration on the previous one.

It will be two weeks until I come home on leave, and with your permission, I would like to call on you a day or two after my arrival. Would that be acceptable, or even welcome, do you think?

Let me know.

Yours,

Walter


*Adapted from the words of British non-combative officer Frank Raine

** Rilla of Ingleside

This chapter's title is taken from the song, "It's A Long, Long Way to Tipperary" (Henry James Williams, co-credited to Jack Judge - and sometimes the other way around). This song has quite the Wikipedia page to go with it, as I discovered. And apparently, Tipperary now has signs declaring "You've come a long, long way."

I do love a town with a sense of humor.

Well, I'm off to catch up on several months' worth of FF reading. I've missed all of your latest work, and must rectify that.

Wyth wynne,

Anne