Newspapers all over the world were reporting, with varying headlines, in the last days of October, as the situation was on a knife edge. Yet another Allied Offensive, on the Italian Front on Monte Grappa, on the 24th of October. British troops were reported on the Piave, taking in part of fierce struggle of an island called, Papadopoli. Unlike the muddy, bloody never ending trench war in France western-front, where wicked cannon fire pulsated, and the screams and cries of dying horses and men echoed in the confused, muddy, violated yards of hard gained land, as the duckboards were shattered, as used ammunition dropped to the ground, inch by inch.
The din were such that the men's temperament was flunctuating, broording. Here in Piave, the trees shimmered with blazing vivid grace of October, reddish-brown fire, Autumn's golden glory. The guns were all silent, there were element of adventure of passage of the river. Morale was high, despite the challenging weather conditions, as the attack continued, heavy rain whipped the surface of the river, as the island was conquered. The pressure of Piave was too much, as there were over 3,0000 Austrian prisoners by Italians and their allies.
On Turkish Front, Mustafa Kemal, made one last play, before it became obvious that Turkey, the third arm of Central Powers were also in disarray. The Mesopotamian Front were fractured, as the British cavalry had advanced eighty-three miles in two days. Talking of peace of probable armistance and fighting were in moving tandem on all the front blocks of the global war, as earlier loyalties were broken, as the wave, after wave of independence erupted. The troops were in mutiny, Austrians on Piave, Hungarians, too as they declined to do counter-attacks.
Then, the news came, on October 28 Austria asked Allies for an armistice, multinational Austrian-Hungary Habsburg Empire was collapsing. The Czech National Council declared independence on October 28, the next day headlines announced that " Slovakia wanted the right of free self-determination" for the Slovak region. Czechoslovakia had been born. The names of the cities changed language and spelling, almost overnight. Laibach, formerly Slovene city, was now Ljublijana, and in Bosina, Sarajevo where it all started in July 1914, there was a strong movement for the rise of a new South Slavic State of Yugoslavia. Hungary cut ties with Austria, which had been in force since 1867, and began independent peace negotiations with French forces in Serbia. On October 30, the Austro-Hungarian Empire ceased to exist. An era had ended.
On the western front, the fighting continued, even though the Austrian and German armies were retreating, the great wave was breaking up, but the bubbles, the bloody bubbles were still beating.
The war machine grinds on, non-stop.
The sound of machine guns echoed non-stop, tra, tra, tra, even as German-controlled areas were liberated. But the local villages in France and in Belgium, and the soldiers who were doing their duty there, they were suspicious.
One couldn't believe anything, the new raw recuits, supplementary troops, fresh soliders were cheering, but those who had been at the front longer doubted, as they did their usual tasks.
Over the Western Front Shirley Blythe flew, and observed as his usual coolly, competent way the landscape visible below, such as it were. It resembled a crater, all sepia muck that didn't seem to have anything alive in it not at this height.
The coordinates were clear, somewhere here enemy activity had been detected via radio messages.
An enemy plane suddenly arched out of the cloud, and Shirley leaned forward, feeling the vibration of his plane, and the Slpendid Susan slid and arched, and Shirley took aim at the enemy pilot, and fired.
A satisfied smile shone in Shirley's deep brown eyes, as he had aimed true. It was his fourth or maybe fifth kill, or it could be very well be more, he had lost count aeon ago. It was for others to determine, not him.
He was here to do his duty, nothing more or less.
The enemy plane rolled, dropped altitude, smoke billowed from it, it was like a wounded bird. Coolly, Shirley gained altitude and rose above the clouds, wary of the sun, which could be blinding.
The need, the burning need for nicotine, literally seemed to pulse through his veins as he took the course towards headquarters again. And the ravaged civilian areas and the slaughter of the Western Front were a trifle beneath him, as the sun sparkled on Splendid Susan's wings, as he as a pilot had once again fulfilled his duty, as he was oath bound to do.
Afterwards, as Splendid Susan was in her hangar, Shirley found his hands shaking a little as he raised a fragrant Belgian cigarette to his lips and took the first puffs. Hasty steps were heard behind him, as Shirley carelessly, with almost reckless grace, handed his supplies, to his batman, who sharply saluted him, and went on his way.
In the mess-hall, a few pilots looked up from their beer mugs, and nodded to Shirley. No one talked too much, and most importantly there were no fuss. Everyone did their part, effortlessly.
There were no hero-worship here.
Just an efficient and simple job that needed to be done.
Flying, was still one of the greatest pleasures he had experienced.
Another pilot handed Shirley a small glass of brandy, and he drank it in one gulp.
Ingelside's rules did not apply here. The fruity taste of the French brandy seemed to caress him softly, and slowly Shirley felt that his highly strung nerves settle as adrealine slowly ebbed away.
In the mess-hall, a few pilots looked up from their beer mugs, and nodded to Shirley. No one talked too much, and most importantly there were no fuss. Everyone did their part, effortlessly. There were no hero-worship here. Just an efficient and simple job that needed to be done. Flying, was still one of the greatest pleasures he had experienced.
Another pilot handed Shirley a small glass of brandy, and she drank it in one gulp. Ingelside's rules did not apply here. The fruity taste of the French brandy seemed to caress him, softly, and slowly Shirley felt his nerves settle.
An amused voice remarked nearby, "Well, Blythe, you've managed to shine again. How do you do it? Almost every time we take to the air, you get hits on the enemy, and the Splendid Susan hasn't been serviced but a few times. Remarkable. Is the plane named after your beloved, I want more information, if so. She must be quite a lovely lass if she has captured you oh, so aloof Blythe."
Shirley turned sharply at those words, and then a quiet, charming smile spread over his lips, as he stubbed out his cigarette and lit a new one, as he said with slight emphasis, "Oh, Derring. Susan is a brick, and that's the only thing I say, as you should already know."
Derring, a lanky lad, in a worn uniform, grinned and stretched and said emphatically, "Have you heard the news Blythe. They talk that peace will really come, it's the beginning of November, but I'll believe it when I see it, or when it's announced that it's absolutely certain, not a second earlier."
Fragrant cigarette smoke covered Shirley Blythe's gravely sculpted features as he thought of Ingelside, that home he had never quite fit in, as they all had Rainbow Valley. Susan was there, practical sensible unsentimental, but patriotic. Susan, his second mother, that seemed more real then the one who had given birth to him one day in April, at her own peril. Anne, with her deep grey-green eyes, and fancies of faerieland, but Shirley felt more practical, the Blythe traits had bred true in him.
Shirley swept his thick dark brown hair from his forehead and said in a tone that the late Marilla Cuthbert would have recognized as an echo of John Blythe´s "We're doing what we're doing here, and what comes after, too. There's no other choice."
Derring nodded gravely as he replied, "Why are you always so sensible Blythe? Tell me honestly, do you have someone waiting?"
That question froze the smile on Shirley's lips, almost imperceptibly, as he bent down and grabbed another cigarette from the tattered pack.
The silence hummed, as the mess-hall emptied as pilots scattered.
Shirley took a breath and remembered how Carl's occasional letters had been sudden bliss, as Carl seemed to understand many things that Shirley didn't dare to think about too closely.
Shirley turned his attention to Derring and remarked lightly, "There is a very good-looking girl in the Glen, Irene Howard, and it may be that when I return I will be lucky, but nothing is certain. "
Derring, chuckled gleefully and splashed foam from his beer pint onto the worn table, as he remarked, "I don't believe in God or any higher power, but I'd bet you'll succeed in whatever you put your mind to Blythe, you seem the type."
In dubious privacy, Shirley, meticulously went through all the correspondence he had received over the past two years, grasping one particular letter from Carl with greedy fingers, the letter coded in their shared shorthand. Once untangled it read simply.
S –
When we fished at dawn in the Glen and the Four Winds area I felt a great peace in my soul. I have known for years that I am different from my siblings. For when I watched how patiently you cast the line into the water, I felt that I would like to be the fish in your grasp. In that gentle sure grip of yours S.
Our friendship is the dearest thing to me, only friendship, nothing else.
And I think you are of the same mind.
Let our brothers spew their seed forth to another generation, for I think we are content this way.
You are in the clouds, flying in the gold of the sun, and I am here on the ground, among the blood torn earth with all Gods Creatures, like ants, making observations, of which I will make a fine treatise, if this bloody war spares me.
As our sisters dance at their future weddings and our homestead rejoices. I hope we will sit under the shade of glorious maple and enjoy the silence. Perhaps a wonderful butterfly flies past us, as Faith's or Nan's laugh is fresh and bright, and we look at each other and know.
In eternal friendship,
T.C.M
It was November and despite the varying and shocking headlines of newspapers everyday life in Ingelside went its own way.
It was Jim's last days there. Jims laughter seemed to pulse in every corner of that ivy shaded house.
With an aching heart, Rilla glanced thoughtfully at Mrs. Anderson, as she stood on the Ingelside verandah, and said gently, and perceptively, "Jims is quite a charming and lovable child, Miss Blythe, and that is entirely due to you. Jim and I will move only a few miles away, and of course I'll let Jims visit you, to do otherwise wouldn't be a shame."
Jims stroked Hermes intently, and the turtle took a cautious step forward. Inspired, Rilla inquired, " Would you like to take that turtle with you? Jims is so attached to it, and it would be nice if he could get something tangible here, other than just clothes and his late mother English soup bowl?" Mrs. Anderson burst into a bright laugh and said, "Dear Miss Blythe, of course, that turtle will come with us."
Jims, stood up and smiled as Rilla whispered in his ear with quivering lips, "Don't forget me dear little laddie."
Jims, pressed an impulsive kiss to Rilla's cheek as he declared, "I'll be visiting often, Wil, Wil."
James Anderson, nervously brushed his blond hair under his military cap as he straightened his posture and said sincerely, "Miss Blythe, thank you for everything you've done for my child, all these years, as it was you that has rearing of him. I won't forget it, and neither will he, I can promise that."
Jims blew Rilla kisses until the road turned, and Rilla, suddenly exhausted, sank into the withered grass, bitter tears streaming down her cheeks.
Jims was gone.
Her warbaby had left.
And right now the thought of even writing to Ken didn't cheer her up.
Where was Ken at the moment, what about all the other loved ones, her brothers, what about the other Canadian CEF troops?
There had been headlines in the newspapers about the attack of the thirty mile front along Guise and Valencienne, which was famous for its lace, there had been Canadians there, but also New Zealand troops had attacked along the ancient town of the Belgian border Les Quesnoy.
The branches of Ingelside's apple trees trembled in the wind and Rilla could hear the joyful ringing of bells ringing from Rainbow Valley, it mixed with the rising wind.
Captain Kenneth Ford listened as Will Parker's soft baritone hummed Schubert's Nacht und Träume under his breath, as the thunder of machine guns sounded like an ear-splitting noise, and suddenly it fell silent.
It was 11.11.1918 and peace had been declared.
In disbelief, Ken reached out to look and saw how the German soldiers' thin lines, one soldier bent down to wipe his machine gun, which was still smoking, and he saluted towards their lines.
Ken returned the gesture, gravely.
Smoke spread over the battlefield, a thin smoke, it seemed to spread everywhere. Slowly the silence deepened, and the men retreated, like waves.
The news about peace spread slowly, inexorably to the whole world, that peace was finally a reality, and not just a dream. It was the Armistice of Compiègne, after four bloody years and countless sacrifices.
The flags were flying, in jubilation, but the names that were written on the tombstones in glit they would not return.