Posted As Missing

Chapter Three

Freiburg, Germany — 26 April 1915

Maria left the hospital with her books clutched tightly to her bodice as she walked toward Bahnhof Platz, enjoying the sun on her cheek, deep in thought.

I must find out. So interesting. What would it be like?

Her mind wandered, and her body began tingling. She paused beside a low wall and turned to look over it into the park as she pressed her free hand to the front of her skirts to ease the growing sensations there. She shivered.

I truly must find out.

Smiling at her thoughts, she turned and continued to the gasthaus across from the train station. She sat at the large round table in the corner, reviewing her notes for nearly an hour before she rose and put on her serving apron as the first patrons arrived.

Passchendaele, Belgium — 26 April 1915

The truck full of wounded German soldiers creaked and groaned as it lurched and jarred through the deeply rutted field for a long while before it reached a road. Now aware he'd likely be shot as a spy if his identity were uncovered, David continued to run German phrases through his head, reliving climbing adventures with Conrad, remembering the corrections Conrad had made to his grammar and pronunciation. He recalled having to speak as if he needed to constantly clear his throat of phlegm.

He winced at the pain in his mouth as he smiled at remembering his first thoughts listening to the language spoken by the locals in Flanders. Their accent was very guttural, much like German, and he had joked that the Flemish speak Phlegm.

He wiggled his feet in the oversized boots to feel his identity disks and his gold. His father had insisted he carry the coins. "I hope you don't need these. Thirty dollars for emergency only," he remembered his father saying as he pressed them into his hand while they waited for the train.

I hope I don't need them either, he thought as he toed the two Fives and two Tens. All dated 1914, glistening fresh from the bank. I'd like to keep them.

Satisfied with his inventory, he turned to finding out who he is. He did a slow, systematic survey of the pockets in his still unfamiliar uniform, watching his neighbours in the truck to see if he was attracting any attention.

All seem immersed in their own world. Too concerned about their circumstance, pain, moaning and groaning to pay attention to me – to anything outside themselves.

He found a postcard in the left breast pocket of his tunic, took it out and looked at the picture, a meticulously rendered view up a mountain valley. Probably an enhanced aerial photograph. The names of the mountains and hills were labelled, as well as the towns, villages and settlements. There were roads drawn in red and trails drawn in white. It was a beautifully done image. At the mouth of the valley, in the centre of the foreground, was a small town labelled Müllheim. In the background stood a tall peak named Belchen.

David turned the card over and read the address.

So I'm Josef Krings. He read the long note. This has to be from his wife or girlfriend, the sentiments are too close and personal for anything else.

She, Freda was the name she signed, wrote of their wonderful hiking, climbing and lovemaking through the Schwarzwald last summer, before the war turned everything strange.

He paused to adjust himself. I'm getting lumpy from her writing. Glad to see that still works. So, I'm still a climber and still into futtering. Could adopt Müllheim as home. Need to find out where it is. He looked again at the drawing. Freiburg to the left, Basel to the right, and Müllheim in the centre. Should be easy to locate once I find a map.

To ease the pain of his wounds, David began running pleasant memories through his mind, joyous memories of exploring and climbing in the mountains up the valley, the Selkirks, the Purcells, the Bugaboos, and straddling the Alberta border, the Rockies.

Dad always griped about my wasting my weekends and summers in the mountains. Wasting good time, he used to say, rather than setting myself up for the realities and the hardships of life. What good would accounting and business administration do me here?

With another look at the image, he slid the postcard into his breast pocket and continued thinking of the mountains and his climbs with Conrad.

When did we meet? That was in the Purcells, the summer before Dad sent me off to University School in Victoria... That was 1911. So wonderful to escape back into the mountains the next spring. Didn't take me long to clear my head. What a glorious three months I had. Mostly alone. So many great climbs.

His mind clouded as he thought of heading to Vancouver to start university in the autumn.

Let me skip that; move to more pleasant thoughts. The Bugaboos with Conrad the following spring. Those were exhilarating climbs, such solid granite – so many wonderful discussions. I love his way of thinking, of seeing things.

Felt so honoured when he asked me to work with him, to assist him guiding the Alpine Club climbing camps. Lake O'Hara, Spectacular! No other word for it. Then Robson Pass made the ruggedness of O'Hara seem gentle. Conrad led the first ascent of Mount Robson, the highest in the Rockies. Wonder what he's doing. Surely they haven't incarcerated him as an enemy. 

David's thoughts pulled him back to reality, and he felt the pain in his face more intensely.

Back to more pleasant things. Last summer again in the Bugaboos. Sometimes solo, but often with Conrad when he was free. Climbing and philosophising, refining his English and polishing my German as we explored. Such carefree times. 

At the beginning of August, Canada went to war against Germany and the Austro-Hungarian Empire. David and Conrad missed the news; they were high in the mountains.

When they finally came down and heard about the war, Conrad wanted to do something, but he didn't know what he could. He had emigrated from Austria to escape the horrors of the Germanic aggression he had foreseen. David immediately volunteered and was issued a train ticket to travel across the country to become part of the Canadian Expeditionary Force, which was being assembled.

Within days of the declaration of war, a camp was begun at Valcartier, sixteen miles west of Quebec City. In the following weeks, the site was prepared by a huge team of engineers and workers. The recruits then poured in and were processed. In the first six weeks from the declaration, over forty thousand had volunteered from across Canada, far more than thought necessary, so the prime group of thirty thousand was assembled into a division and a half, equipped, trained and readied to head overseas. The remainder was put in reserve.

So quick. Down from the mountains in mid-August, enlisted as an infantryman the other side of the country the beginning of September. Didn't even have uniforms for us for the first three weeks.

David had been assigned to the 7th Battalion, formed with some eleven hundred other recruits from British Columbia. While this new army did its preliminary military training, many other works were underway. Mills in Montreal had been commissioned to manufacture khaki cloth, and tailors converted this into uniforms, greatcoats and cloaks. Weapons were hastily manufactured and issued to the new soldiers.

Battalions were juggled, shuffled and rearranged into regiments and brigades. Stores of all description were manufactured and accumulated. A fleet of transport ships was assembled. It was an immense undertaking in a very short time.

David looked around again at the other wounded soldiers in the truck.

Wonder what their stories are. Most of them are so young. That one over there with his arm off at the elbow – doesn't look old enough to shave. Seems so scared. Daren't do anything, but I wish someone would comfort him. What a horror this is, what a waste of young men.

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