One morning Walter inspected his features while shaving, a treat, that. His reflection was still the same as before, it was strange because sometimes it felt like he had lived a thousand lives while he was here. Black straight hair, pale, weathered features, and large gray eyes that were red-rimmed from vigilance, and almost constant cigarette smoke. His uniform was sagging, on him, as rations were poor. There was a small silky red flash around his neck, for rememberance.
In one of his early letters to Di, Walter had tried to describe his circumstances, but how to describe the routine that had by now struck him to the core, in curious way routines of the army brought security, and sometimes comfort, in the sameness. Several soldiers of Walter´s company spent their time, off duty, playing cards, reading, or writing letters to homefront, or gambling. In underground bunker, every man had his own little space. In his corner there were his helmet, and gun, knapsack, and bedroll, and in small wobbly shelf, just bare plank of wood, his notebooks, Tadzio´s red volume it was very grimy and tattered now, and Ken´s scarf, folded carefully, a slight pale shadow against general murkiness, and sheaf of letterpaper, Dorian´s colonge, and most resent letters from Ingelside, and Redmond, and a tin of Susans molasses-bisquits, half-full.
Walter sighed, and looked at his ink stained hands, he had been trying to handle his correspondence for the last hour, or so. Writing was happening all around him, pens scraping on paper, like mice, inside the walls, the sound was extremely comforting, to him. He thought of his friends, his family of slight, regal, golden Alice wandering in the splendor of Gardiner Hall, maybe russet haired Doss, in blue dress, with notebook in her hand, by her side, and Dorian by their side, pointing out the sights, of wide grounds, and curiosities. A cameo pin in his orange cravat, glowing, dreamy, rich young, landowner and his sweetheart, from novel, in style of Austen, or Hardy, but they were not, characters in literature, but his friends of his heart, more than kindred spirits, in a way. With a light smile, Walter sharpened his worn pen, and began to write with renewed vigor. The arrival of the mail was here even more important, than in training, as letters from families and loved ones boosted morale, and parcels of goodies of overseas brought variety to the army's rations, Susan´s baking were very popular, as Walter often shared it.
Walter´s time as a member of the Perennial brief as it had been, helped him greatly when he entered the cadres of trench newspaper business. It was also that working with trench newspaper gave him and Camille a valid reason to spend time together, as Camille was responsible most of the cartoons, as he had dab hand with satirical irony, and all kinds of drawing. Walter often thought of the peace of Momartre's attic, and the ruddy morning light that glimmered in Camille's hair, his heart ached when he saw Camille walk past him, doing his own chores, and duties so close, but still so, far away.
But as the weeks slowly went by, Walter found that he didn't want to remember the peace of Ingelside anymore, or even Rainbow Valley, it all seemed so far away, almost like a hazy dream that was completely different from his current circumstances.
The days were like a monotonous nightmare from which one could never woke up. As grenades rained down, and machine gun fire reaped death, or the orders were to run as a single front towards the enemy's line of fire, and rush back again, without rest.
Many mornings Walter saw exhausted, tottering, listless men smoking with trembling hands, his comrades. Nights in the trenches, were often dangerous, because there was always a chance of a trench raid, or a sniper's bullet, in No Man's Land, where death walked, in silent wings, along uncertain terrain, full of gaping craters, or barbed wire, and soil, that turned into sludge, of mud, when it rained.
It was once again, another evening. Walter sat on a damp sacks, and recited Emily Brontë's verses, in a whisper in the muggy-gloom of the trenches.
Leaves, upon Time's branch, were growing brightly,
Full of sap, and full of silver dew;
Birds beneath its shelter gathered nightly;
Daily round its flowers the wild bees flew.
Sorrow passed, and plucked the golden blossom;
Guilt stripped off the foliage in its pride
But, within its parent's kindly bosom,
Flowed for ever Life's restoring tide.
And then, spring had crept into trenches of Flanders.
There were reddish poppies, they glistened in the light of the rising dawn, trembling in the gentle breeze, the flowers seemed to be nodding and whispering to each other. The beauty of nature and the cycle of year was still to be found, amidst the chaos, blood and horror of the front.
There were coughs, all around him, as bronchitis was common in damp conditions, as was catarrh. Suddenly a large shadow, ran past Walter's feet, and the soldier beside him, killed it with his bayonet, it was a rat. Rats were almost a constant scourge, as well as lice and constant burst of explosions caused a headache that continued, like a low hum. Walter was waiting, he always was, he often flinched when the wind blew hard.
Then one day, it was a completely ordinary day, full of waiting, and reports of enemy activity. Some of the men in Walter's squad had volunteered to go to No Man's Land, on reconnaissance mission over night. The reddish pink morning light burned away haze and smoke. Walter watched through periscope and observed situation, suddenly everything went wrong, and Walter saw sniper's bullets hit, his comrades, they fell soundlessly, like leaves in the wind. All but one. And the silhouette of that soldier was more familiar to Walter than his own face, and then he, too crumbled into ground.
Walter silently motioned for another soldier to take his place, at the observation point, as he quickly crept towards No Man's Land.
A dim ray of light shone in pale curly hair, which was sticky with dirt and matted with blood. Walter quickly, crawled over to Camille. Flash of deep fear, touched his heart, with icy touch. There was blood, it was dark shadow, and coppery tang, amid the smoke and the noise all around him, as enemy fire had begun, as usual. Walter half carried, half dragged Camille into safety, to their own lines.
Vaque light from the flickering lamp shone on Camille's pale bloodless face, lined with exhaustion, one of his legs were tied tightly, vibrant blood seeped through the bandages. Walter saw a piece of paper peeking out of his uniform pocket, with careful fingers, Walter opened it. Camille's style was immediately obvious. Paper was full of sketches that could be used to execute new, more powerful strikes, a quickly sketched map of enemy positions, terrain of No Man´s Land, the blood price of the reconnaise mission.
The hours flew by like water as Walter waited by Camille's bed. Then suddenly, there were footsteps behind him. Walter turned to see who was behind him. It was officer Williams. He was dutiful young man who had often told anecdotes about lively amusements of Toronto and the beauty of the Rosendale area. The Williams family knew Fords, as they frequently were in the same circles. Williams glanced lightly at Camille's pale figure, and after a moment's silence he said in his sympathetic, tired voice. "Blythe, a most gallant act, in the midst of enemy fire, going back for a wounded comrade, in No Man's Land. Especially since private Dejardin is of the utmost importance to this unit, thank you for passing on his papers to us. As far as I can tell, you are working together, on our newspaper, to create insightful content that does not lack humor, cartoons, or verses. I'll see to it that you get DC, for this."
Exhausted, and utterly numb Walter looked blankly at Williams standing before him in his neat uniform, then slowly he nodded, but Williams words meant nothing, probably they would mean something to Ingelside. All Walter wanted was for Camille to wake up, and for that faintly mischievous smile to light up in those deep green eyes again.
Days passed.
The pale arch of the moon bridge arched over velvety dark sky. The charnelfields were silent.
Walter looked at the misty shimmering moonlight in front of him, and slowly he began to write passionately, in his small dug out in the trench, with a light of one slight candle. All the pent-up emotion of last few months stormed over him and settled into flawless varied verses.
Walter smiled with satisfaction, and opened his tattered and grimy notebook. There were poems there. They nestled in the pages, whispers of ink and pen, raw, cutting, and realistic. Camille's tired whisper, came softly from behind him,"Where were you thinking of sending it?"
Walter turned, and quickly with one finger swept a single blonde curl from Camille's forehead, and a small glimmer of a smile flickered in those eyes, it was quickly suppressed. The night breathed around them. Walter smiled and whispered "To the offices of Spectator Magazine. "
May, 1916, .Mary.
Glen glowed with the charm of early May. A pale green glow shone everywhere, and the birds flew and sang brightly, and early butterflies fluttered by. Rilla Blythe walked up from Glen's road towards Rainbow Valley, today she felt satisfied and almost happy, for no one could be completely happy, not in these days, not anymore. Hidden by the spruce trees, Rilla took out of the pocket of her pale dress, a letter, with a light smile she opened the thin strip, some clipping of newspaper, fell on her skirt, but Rilla did not notice, it.
Dear Rilla, my Rilla.
I was thinking about daffodils today, and a variegated glow of pure yellow and white gold, they are glowing in Rainbow Valley, or soon will be, as this old missive of mine, comes to you, dearest sister. Somehow I think all flowers should be blood colored, like our poppies here. Soon the bluebells and violets will emerge, and the spring moon will cast its silvery glow over Ingelside, and its verdant-fresh-green lawn, transformend into stomping-grounds of fae´s, in between the small hours, of the dawn and dusk.
I wrote a poem one night. It's small, only a few verses long. I had a strange feeling when I had it written, as if someone else, greater than me, had spoken through me.I feel strongly that I have reached one end of the rainbow, and glimpsed a golden treasure, as, now my hearts desires has come true, in a most sudden way. I have been published. I have enclosed the clipping of that poem with this letter.
with love, Walter
Rilla raked grass with her fingers, frantically looking for a small piece of newspaper, and when she found it, she jumped up and literally flew, towards Ingelside. After few moments red-cheeked and beaming, Rilla sat down in the living room out of breath, as she exlamed "Mother, Gertrude, and Susan, a letter has come from Walter, and it contains great news."
Susan, who was knitting stockings in front of the fireplace, nodded, and exclaimed, "Your mother said, he got a DC, I think he should have got a VC and it's General Haight's fault it didn't happen."
"But Susan, of course the VC medal is great news, he was so brave, was he not, but I meant Walter's poem, my brother has been published, isn't that lovely."
"Well, I think, Rilla dear, that I didn't give your brother enough cod liver oil, but if the war doesn't make him stop writing his poems, I guess there's nothing more that can be done. I don't like poems, but I have to admit that over the years, those that your dear mother has read to me in passing, some of them have been, not very bad." Gertrude Olivier, stepped next to Rilla, and glanced her young, and glowing countenance, as she handed over a newspaper clipping.
It´s ink were dry, and the stanzas were precise, as Gertrude looked it over. Then, in her clear, soft voice, she recited those inspired verses, that would very soon become famous, world over as one of the most memorable verses of the war.
One day the Piper came down the Glen …
Sweet and long and low played he!
The children followed from door to door,
No matter how those who loved might implore
So wiling the song of his melody
As the song of a woodland rill.
Some day the Piper will come again
To pipe to the sons of the maple tree!
You and I will follow from door to door,
Many of us will come back no more …
What matter that if Freedom still
Be the crown of each native hill?