The flickering morning light illuminated unbelievably beautiful horizon, where a light mist still faintly floated before the intense heat of the day burned it away. The captain of Walter's forces declared loudly. " Well, we all know what's going on in the Somme, and a couple of days ago we also received the order to move. So, tomorrow this unit will start making its way towards Somme lines. First we'll travel by train as far as we can go, and then we'll walk or cycle until we reach our destination. And as a treat, we'll give you all an extra helping of breakfast, and latest overseas mail, which arrived yesterday, thankfully. At ease."
Very soon everywhere in the trench area one could see knots of soldiers who were reading the mail, and or resting, because for a few days already Flanders front block had been deserted, and now everyone got official confirmation as to why this was so. A few of them men grumbled and sat in the corner on the finally dry sandbars, or shivered, others polished their weapons, or examined equipment, almost manically. Several were smoking and sipping rum, or playing endless cardgames. There were men in his troop section from all social classes, as had also been the case at the training camp at Kingsport, and at Salisbyry, a cross-section of the whole society, in fact society in miniature.
As usual, as Walter retrieved his letters, there were light chuckles, most of them good-natured, but also a few sarcastic jabs and veiled hostile looks, and mutterings. Walter knew that despite his gained DC and all the poetry and quoting, and trench newspaper work, the other soldiers, other privates, around him looked down on him. The mockery and sneer was subtle, but constant, and it interwoven like a light mist, over everything, so nothing had really changed here either.
Walter spread his mail in a light fan-like formation, in front of him. Now in this stack, were letters from Ingelside, and one from Ken. Smiling lightly, and touching the already very dirty gray silk scarf around his neck, there it hung, along with Tadzio's scarf, Walter opened Ken´s letter. The stained and well traveled missive was not dated.
Walter,
I'm in the hospital tent right now, and my face is bandaged on one side. No need to worry as I now have a bayonet cut on my cheek, but it festered, so I came here. A very pretty darkhaired VAD volunteer just came to bring me her inkpen, and that is why this little missive of mine is written with irongalled, strong ink, and not, jagged and broken pencil. That said, I'm perfectly fine, except for extreme exhaustion, because I can't sleep, because I hear artillery attacks echoing in my dreams, if I doze off. I have been prescribed opium and carbodium derivatives, but they only make my head fuzzy and make me feel groggy, and dim all my reflexes. I am determined to get out of here in one piece for I have a dream as you know and I will achieve it, but a little prayer never hurts and as you have always been the more spiritual of us, so if you have turned towards sweet Alice's theology, so could you read me a few novenas? However, novenas seem to be more of a Catholic thing, but the point still stands. As I write this, victims of a gas attack have just been brought here, and the sight is grim, as I'm sure you know.
I got a letter from Persis, in it she complained that only sometimes she gets to drive one really antique car, so all those secret driving lessons were needed after all. She, works at the Red Cross, long hours, and only occasionally is she able to use her language skills. She had enclosed The Piper with the letter, as it was printed to some War Bond Circular-leaflet and I read it. It's marvelous, and captivating piece of verse, but I know you can do better. Write what you really feel, without inhibitions.
With all the love, from your old chum,
Ken.
Walter thoughtfully, stretched, as a small seed of an idea were slowly born, and he
folded Ken's letter between his notebooks, and calmly began to pack his so very tattered things, that if Susan could see them they would horrify her, into his worn backpack, like everyone else around him.
In a few hours, the entire underground bunker was completely empty, and only the smoke of stale cigarettes wafted there, a barely held trace of the men, that had been living there for months. A line that had been so fiercely defended, was abandoned, like a broken, tattered blade, left behind as Walter's division moved forward. The trenches of Flanders were now quiet, for now, and in the battle-stirred ground, the blood-red poppies were flourishing, rather like weeds only faint black shadows between the trenches.
And the troops traveled, and traveled.
A light gust of wind brought the bitter scent of smoke, it seemed to dance in the light, like a soft haze. Before Walter opened a now very familiar scene. Fields lying in fallow, abandoned villages, boxes of ammunition that had been used up, and wads of red clothing hanging on barbed wire fences, broken or destroyed railroad tracks.
The sky arched over Walter.
It was of a bewitching blue color, that particular shade, when crispness of autumn is already beginning to bite, and the leaves of a few nearby birches had already begun to turn golden, sometimes in the mornings, a light barely there mist rises steaming from the footpaths of the dew-braided ditches, where thistles and thorns and grasses bend, and when always, before, he had wandered in parks of Redmond-annals, on a days like this, and only watched the wonder of nature's diversity, and sometimes written light, so mistily naive, sincere verses, about golden-haired mermaids, or naiaids, daughters of the air, as described in that Danish fairy tale.
And Walter looked intently around, but everything seemed normal. Countless soldiers walked smoking cigarettes in the yard of the whitewashed farmhouse where Walter's troops were temporarily quartered. A gentle, weary-looking, mustachioed military chaplain called the troops to service, and Walter noted with amusement that several men went, for in Flanders there was no morning service or evening service, unless you counted the miracle of survival as the weeks rolled by. The military chaplain belonged to the Canadian III Corps, and had cycled a few kilometers from the place of his own troops to offer spiritual care, also to other Canadians, in the area, and this was already the third time he was here.
Walter stood in line with others, young men made too old before their time, and listened to the familiar comforting words. In the mid-service Walter suddenly found himself missing Reverend Meredith's sermons, the way that Revered always seemed to know, how to found right words, for every occasion, in the loom and thread of life in Glen.
And for a moment Walter thought about the letter he had written to Di, the hours during which Walter had carefully chosen his words as if he were panning for gold, for Di's letter had had a serious, soft, agitated tone that had demanded absolute precision, and almost surgical sensitivity, especially considering sensors, and the frevent and flamboyant missives of Dorian, and the warmth and reserve from Alices correspondance that were full of light concern of his well-ware and endurance, interspersed with musical narrative, as Alice had made several fascinating discoveries in the library of the Redmond Musical Society. A sentence in Alice's latest letter had stopped Walter momentarily. " Few weeks ago, I wrote to Una about your Mahler. May I show her those notes at some point? I think she will love them as much as we do, or perhaps even more deeply, for there is something indefinable, steely selflessness in her that is very Mahler-like, all those glinting strands of yearning, and half-notes, that are buried in his compostitions, but I'm sure you know that. If time comes that you have to write a lot of letters, outside of normal correspondence, please, do not forget her."
And smiling dreamily, Walter remembered Una and his years of musical encounters, with her, with a surprising eruption of feeling. Those memories had been reawakened by Alice's letter, dear, light and sharp Alice, who seemed in her own way to be saying something important to Walter, in her half-womanly style, but what that could be? Humming Elgars compostion of W. song, There are seven that pull the thread, in a low voice, and exhanging it to a Song of Autum, Walter shook his head, as the last hymns echoed, and Walter thought that Una, with her musical skill, and acumen would abhor this discordant mess that was the selection of hymns for wartime field worship, but she would be glad that there were possibility for it.
After the service, military chaplain, Father Rogers, talked, as he always did to a few soldiers. One brown-haired, slender youth, he had an excitedly agitated expression, and wearily Walter pondered that he must have been a newcomer, straight from England, or somewhere else, for to him everything was shiny, and new, and temporary premises, and the hearty French food, no trench rations, not for him, not yet, and the strict hierarchy of the army caused in him only excitement, no numbness or fatigue, or irritation. And glancing at the youth, Walter uttered in a low voice "They went with songs to the battle, they were young, Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow."
Father Rogers frowned, looked at Walter tiredly, and said in a dry voice, "Well, private Blythe, as it says in your nametag, do you have something to tell, some concern or sorrow. I implore you, don't disturb your young comrade's peace of mind, for the next few days will do that, but few remember the sacrifices of the BEF troops at Mons in 1914, and that Binyon poem you quoted, private, for new sacrifices have taken its place."
Walter looked around him as the golden light of the late fading day softly touched elusively, branches of a nearby aspen tree, and at the shadowy figure of the chaplain, and he said quietly, "Do you think that we, youths who have been here in the midst of hell and fire can ever again find pure simple happiness, like our mothers' smiles, as open, and bright, as the brightness of the stars, or just a small smile, or look from steadfast eyes, or a caress that has no purpose, that is just is? For we have fought against the wrongs, while the blood, sweat and tears of our comrades and foes flowed on the dark, churned ground. The sun cleanses our hands covered in blood as does Time. The wild stream of life sings its sweet songs, and the God show us a pleasure that surpasses humanity, or so you want us to believe?"
Father Rogers was silent for a moment, and then he said "Severe words, my son. Have you lost your faith, in this scourge. It is true that here we see things beyond comprehension, here. Blessings to you, to all of your future dawns, and may you find peace."
Walter nodded at him, saluted, and turned on his heel and walked behind the house. There was a small and slighty wild, and unkept, grassy garden, with fragrant apple trees. Walter leaned against gnarled trunk of an apple tree, and the scent of ripe, tangy apples floated in the air, light and rich. The apple tree was proof that, despite the blinding mechanical slaughter that was raging around, it was still possible to find beauty, in the world. Rumors circulated among the troops that some new machine, called a tank, would during the next few days be a useful, and certainly a victorious advantage.
With trembling hand Walter wiped his face, and felt the stubble of a couple of days rustle. He sighed lightly, and caressed the cover of his notebook with his other hand, his worn and stained backpack, and his rifle and bayonet within reach, as always.
Piper's flute echoed again in his ears, a demanding, seductively bright note, that had only grown in past few days. He flipped through his notebook, and glanced at some of his poems. With a decisive nod, Walter opened another blank page as he took out his stub of a pen, as he began to write. He brushed hair from his temple, slowly and almost painfully, half formed images came, almost undulatingly, they flooded to the paper, his own torn feelings, and tattered remains of his soul, settled into four verses that deeply described his own experience, with a hesitant nod he scribbled a heading, Aftermath.
Somewhere a bird sang, perhaps a blackbird, and softly Walter touched his red scarf.
There were footsteps, rustled in the grass and Walter was startled, his pulse rising staccato-like, in moments, as there was light sent of Marseille soap.
Camille took from a hanging branch a juicy reddish-green apple, which he gave to Walter and then he said. " I thought you might be here, because I´d remember that you love both apple trees and asters, to which you have given such a beautiful name, farewell to summer, that's what they really are. There are no asters here, but there are apples, and at least we can share this moment together. "
Walter looked gravely at Camille, those green eyes that glinted, with love, and little laughter, as ever. Walter nodded, and passed his fingers through Camille's in the long grass, caressing lightly, just because, he could do that, here in the shade.
Soon smoke of the soft tobacco swirled around them, in a small fragrant cloud, and everything was all right, for few moments, as they were both, still here, and that was enough.
And Somme, nearby glittering river Somme, glittered, with its windings, and wooded, torn hills, and crushed and conquered villages, different objectives on a map of command tents, of both sides, the villages, Albert, Bapaume, Martinpuich, Lesboeufs, Lonquenval, Ligny Thilloy, and Flers Courcelette.