The waves dashing over the prow cast saltwater into Felix's face, but he welcomed its sting. It had been a week since the ship left France, and he couldn't get home fast enough. Although.... He put a hand on his left breast pocket, where he carried the last letter Elbert Werts had written to his parents. Not everything about this homecoming would be happy.
Everything about the battlefield in France was surreal, simultaneously appearing in his mind in stark relief and as a confusing blur. Elbert's plea for him to take word back to his parents, and Felix's reassurance that Elbert could bring word to his parents himself. The order to rush. The gunfire, the shells. Elbert's scream, and Felix's attempts to carry him on that were cut short by a bullet to his own arm and a glancing blow to the head a few moments later from a rock kicked up by one of the shells.
He had woken up in the base hospital tent, but Elbert hadn't been so lucky. A tear ran down Felix's cheek as he thought of his friend, who must have had a premonition that he wouldn't be coming home. But then, Felix had had that same premonition before, and here he was, face towards Canada.
The final attack played over and over again in Felix's mind, but he could never see a way he could have saved Elbert. In a way, he was glad. It would be hard enough delivering the news to Elbert's parents without the knowledge of his own guilt.
He wished he had had the opportunity to telephone King Farm before he left, but they had been rushed from the field hospital to the ship so quickly that he doubted anybody knew enough to know he had been there. Maybe it was better this way. Nobody at home would have known he had been injured, nobody would have been worrying about him. He was sure his mother would do plenty of worrying when he arrived, but he'd be there, then, to reassure her it wasn't as bad as she thought it was.
They would be docking in Halifax in another few days. He looked forward to dropping in on Izzy before heading off to Prince Edward Island. That was one good thing about having an injury bad enough he had to be sent home. He felt the pocket that held the letter again and remembered it could have been much worse.
He reached into another pocket and pulled out another letter, salt-stained and worn at the creases from many readings, some on this very deck. He unfolded it and read it once again, enjoying the casual stories of home and lingering over the closing line: "It would be selfish and unpatriotic of me to wish you could be here with me, so I won't. But I wish I could be with you. Ever, Izzy."
A small smile appeared on his face. "Ever, Izzy," she'd written. Not exactly "ever yours," but close enough. She had been less certain of her feelings than he of his when it came to their relationship, and ever since the fiasco when he let the whole town think he kissed her, he had respected that. Anyway, maybe he had been the one who didn't understand their relationship then. He understood it better now.
Over his years in the services, the letters from Janet had been solicitous, the letters from Alec full of fatherly clichés, the letters from his siblings and Great-Aunt Eliza newsy and amusing, but the letters from Izzy had felt the most like home.
He wasn't sure his arm would ever heal fully, but he was sure that no matter what, he wanted to offer it to her.