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  Later in the week, Luc returned alone to the graveyard. A wooden cross made from two pieces of propeller was pushed into the earth over the new grave. Luc looked at the name printed by hand on the cross. He remembered the torn card that had been lying on the ground. So that’s where the soldiers had found the name.

  Luc memorized the spelling: Jack Green, R.F.C. He knew that R.F.C. stood for Royal Flying Corps. When he returned home, he dragged his bag of treasures out from under his bed and opened it. He printed Jack Green, R.F.C., on one of the canvas strips. He added the date of the pilot’s death, March 4, 1917. Then he placed the piece of canvas back in the bag and shoved the bag under his bed again. Luc didn’t know what he would do with the three souvenirs he had hidden. He knew only that he wanted to keep them, and that they were important.

  Luc was certain that he would always remember the Canadian pilot who had died after falling from an airplane. For him, the man was a hero. And there was something else Luc would never forget. He was the only person who had witnessed the death of this brave man.

  Later in the spring, Luc took white roses from his mother’s garden and laid them on the pilot’s grave. But this was forbidden. To the Germans, the man buried there was still their enemy. Every time the boy laid flowers on the grave, soldiers removed them and tossed them away.

  Chapter Four

  March 8, 1917

  Nova Scotia

  Four days after the plane crash in France, the sky over eastern Canada was heavy with cloud and sleet. Peggy Greenwood woke early, put on her robe, and went downstairs to light the fire. She stood beside the stove, trying to get warm, while she boiled water for her tea.

  The wood box beside the stove in the kitchen was almost empty. But Peggy knew that her husband, Will, would fill it later in the morning. He stacked and stored firewood in the barn every fall, enough to last the winter.

  Most days, even in winter, Will spent his time in the barn. He always had work to do on the apple farm. Tools had to be sharpened. Wood from dead trees had to be chopped. Branches pruned from trees in the orchard were cut into short lengths and tied together in bundles. These, too, were used for firewood.

  Peggy heard her husband’s footsteps upstairs. She had not slept well the past four nights. She had been dreaming about her son Jack, who was away in France, fighting in the war. All of her dreams were the same. Jack was flying a plane and he was in danger.

  The Greenwoods had not seen Jack since he’d left home a year and a half ago. Not that they had tried to stop him. Jack had always wanted to be a pilot, and the war had given him his chance. He took flying lessons in Canada. After that, he went to England to train with the Royal Naval Air Service. Now, he was attached to the R.F.C., the Royal Flying Corps.

  In January, Jack had been promoted. A framed picture of him in uniform stood on a shelf in the kitchen. He wore a leather coat, a soft leather helmet, and high boots. In the photo, he held his pilot’s goggles in one hand, and he was laughing.

  Peggy had Jack’s most recent letter in the pocket of her robe. She had read it many times, but now she pulled it out and read it again. Jack’s letters were always full of hope.

  Somewhere in France

  Dear Mother and Father,

  I love to fly. I love to soar higher than the birds and the clouds and the trees. Farms and roads and rivers are laid out in wonderful patterns on the earth below. I wish you could see what I see from so high in the sky.

  Two weeks ago I went up in a plane called a Sopwith Scout. I flew so high, I nearly froze. You must wonder why I was cold with all the clothes I have to wear. First, a layer of underwear. Then two sweaters and two layers of trousers. Over all, a fur-lined leather coat that comes almost to my knees, with a collar up to my chin. My leather helmet lined with wool and my high boots complete the picture. That cold day, I wore goggles over my eyes. On my hands, I wore fur-lined gloves.

  When I landed, I had frostbite under my eyes and along the top of my nose. My goggles protected my eyes, but not the skin on my face. My friends teased me for a week and told me I looked like a raccoon.

  I have been in active service for many months now, but I am safe and well. Please do not worry about me. I am trying to do my part to help end this terrible war.

  Your loving son,

  Jack

  Jack’s letters came only every few weeks. Peggy had read and folded this one so many times the paper had begun to tear. She thought about the words active service. She knew they meant that Jack was flying missions over German lines in the war zone.

  She was not sure where Jack was located because he was not allowed to tell her. Place names were kept secret in case letters fell into enemy hands. The Germans were not supposed to know about soldiers moving from place to place or where they were going next. That is why all of Jack’s letters started with the words Somewhere in France. Peggy understood the rule, but she still wished she knew exactly where her son was.

  Peggy gave a long sigh. She wondered when the fighting would end. The war had started three years ago, in 1914. At that time, everyone believed it would be over before Christmas. But millions of men from many countries were still fighting.

  Will came downstairs and sat at the table. Peggy poured his tea, and then she poured a second cup for herself. The kitchen warmed up while they ate their breakfast. There wasn’t much to say when they were both thinking about their only son. Peggy wondered if she should tell Will about the dreams she’d been having. She decided not to. He, too, might have had bad dreams about Jack.

  The wind suddenly rattled a window that looked out over the back garden. Past the garden, Peggy and Will could see rows of apple trees, the branches reaching to the sky. The trees were thin and bare on this cold morning, and snow covered the ground between the rows. Will reached across the table for Peggy’s hand.

  “You’ve been dreaming about Jack again, haven’t you,” he said. “I can tell.”

  She nodded, but she didn’t want to talk about the dreams. She tried to smile, and he tried to smile back. Peggy saw the lines in his face. Will had aged since Jack had left for the war. Peggy knew that she, too, had aged. She kept telling herself not to worry, that a letter would come soon.

  The wind stopped rattling the window at that moment, and the brass ringer twisted in the front door. The noise made Will stand up too quickly. He almost lost his balance as he walked towards the front of the house. He and Peggy both knew the mail did not arrive this early. They had always feared that someone would come to the door and hand them a cablegram with a message they did not want.

  The messenger on the doorstep did hand Will a cablegram, sent from the War Office in England. Will carried the piece of paper to the kitchen and laid it on the table. Peggy put down her cup, but her hand shook so badly she spilled a puddle of tea over the table. She stood, and she waited. Will read the message out loud.

  WE REGRET FLIGHT LIEUTENANT JACK GREENWOOD REPORTED MISSING MARCH 4. ANY FURTHER NEWS WILL BE SENT IMMEDIATELY.

  Missing. Peggy and Will tried to understand the word missing. They stared across the puddle of cold tea, and then they moved towards each other.

  “But not dead,” said Peggy.

  What did she say? Peggy’s voice sounded far away. Will looked at the cablegram again.

  Jack was missing. But missing did not mean dead. Surely not. The cablegram did not say that Jack was dead.

  Did this mean that there was still hope?

  A few weeks later, a letter arrived. The letter had been written by Jack’s Commanding Officer, a man named Frank Bolton. Like Jack’s letters, it came from Somewhere in France.

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. Greenwood,

  On March 4, 1917, your son Jack was involved in heavy fighting. While he was flying, he and two other pilots were attacked by German planes. They had a hard fight, but Jack shot down two enemy planes. After that, he became separated from the others. He might have been in another aerial fight. No one saw what happened to him. No one knows where his plane w
ent down or if he landed safely. He has been declared missing.

  If Jack had to land behind enemy lines, he might now be a prisoner. We hope that after this war is over, we will see him again. If we hear any news from the other side of the line, we will let you know right away. We miss Jack and his bright, happy ways. He never left his friends in trouble, and he was always one of the first to volunteer for duty.

  All of Jack’s personal things have been collected and sent to England. These items will be sent on by mail to your home in Canada. In the meantime, the other pilots and Jack’s many friends here join me in saying how sorry we are. We miss our true friend.

  Sincerely,

  Frank Bolton

  This letter gave hope to the Greenwoods. Maybe their son was a prisoner. Maybe he was alive, after all.

  Peggy looked over at Jack’s photo on the shelf. He was a handsome young man with dark hair and dark eyes. He was twenty-three years old and taller than his father. He was laughing, and ready for adventure.

  Chapter Five

  June, 1917

  Somewhere in France

  Three months had passed since Jack Greenwood had gone missing. On this sunny day, two pilots stood chatting outside at their base camp. One was Frank Bolton, Jack’s Commanding Officer. The other was one of Jack’s friends. The two men heard the buzzing of an airplane, and they looked up. A single plane flew above them, a German plane.

  The enemy pilot dropped a package from the plane and quickly flew back towards the German lines. Frank Bolton and the other R.F.C. pilot ran to see what was inside the package that had landed with a thump nearby. Frank tore it open. Inside, he found a message written on a sheet of paper.

  JACK GREEN CRASHED OVER MY LINE, MARCH 4, 1917. TOT

  Packages like this had been dropped at other times by enemy planes. The pilots on both sides of the war had a special code of honour. Sometimes, when a British or Canadian pilot died behind enemy lines, a German pilot would drop a package giving the news. The Royal Flying Corps did the same. Both sides received information about missing pilots in this way. The code of honour also helped the families of the pilots. Otherwise, years might pass before parents or wives knew if a loved one was alive or dead.

  Jack Green crashed over my line, March 4, 1917. Tot. Frank Bolton knew that the German word tot meant “dead.” No pilot named Jack Green had ever worked for him. But Frank knew that Jack Greenwood had gone missing on March 4, 1917. And, of course, the names were almost the same.

  The news had to be about the same man. The Germans might have made a mistake and left off the last part of the name.

  Frank handed the message to the other pilot.

  “The name is Green, not Greenwood,” he said. “But this must be about Jack Greenwood. What do you think?”

  “I agree,” said the other pilot. “The Germans wouldn’t lie about a pilot’s death. But this is bad news about Jack.”

  Frank looked through the package to see if it contained anything else. He wanted to know more of the story, because there was always more to know. Someone might have seen Jack’s plane go down. Someone might know other facts. But who was that person? And where was Jack’s body? Had he been buried by the Germans? Did he have a grave?

  Frank was both sad and angry. Many of his pilots had been killed, and now one more was dead. Here was the proof, on a piece of paper in his hand. The proof came from the enemy and had to be believed.

  The message about Jack’s death could not be treated as official news. Even so, Frank knew he would have to write another letter to Jack’s parents. He hated this part of his job, but the truth had to be told. Jack’s mother and father in Canada were waiting for news. And their son had been so young, only twenty-three years old.

  Somewhere in France

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. Greenwood,

  Three months have passed since I first wrote to you. I must now tell you that I have received news about Jack. I have learned that his plane crashed behind enemy lines on March 4. It is my sad duty to let you know that Jack was killed at the time of the crash. We had hoped that his plane had landed safely and that he was a prisoner, but that did not happen.

  I am so sorry to send such bad news. But Jack died the death of a hero. He served his King and country well. Every one of us is proud to have known such a fine man. You should be proud of him, too.

  If you want to write to me, I will be glad to hear from you. I wish I knew more about the details of Jack’s death. If I learn anything else, I will write to you immediately.

  Sincerely,

  Frank Bolton

  This was not the only letter received by the Greenwoods. Two official letters were also sent, both from England. The first was from the War Office.

  London, England

  June 10, 1917

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. Greenwood,

  I must inform you that word about your son, Flight Lieutenant Jack Greenwood, has been received from a German source. He was killed March 4, 1917, when his plane was brought down in the German lines.

  We send our deep regrets.

  The second letter, sent on behalf of the King and Queen, came from an office in Buckingham Palace. Their Majesties, said the letter, had learned with deep regret that the death of Jack Greenwood had now been confirmed. The King and Queen were very, very sorry.

  Chapter Six

  Summer, 1917

  Nova Scotia

  The Greenwoods read the three letters about Jack’s death many times. Now they knew there was nothing left to hope for. Frank Bolton, Jack’s Commanding Officer, had even said in his letter that they should be proud. But why should they be proud? How could they be proud when the son they lost was so dear to them?

  Peggy and Will could not bear to talk to each other about their son’s death. Not until much later. The thought of Jack’s plane crashing to earth caused them too much pain. During the day, they tried to carry on. In the night, each of them heard the other crying.

  Every morning, Will went out to the barn to begin the day’s work. Taking care of the orchard kept him busy from sunrise to sunset. He was glad to have something to do. The hard work helped him to stop thinking about Jack’s death.

  Indoors, Peggy kept the blinds closed. Most of the time, the house was dark and in shadow. She walked through the rooms and asked herself the same questions, over and over. Where did Jack’s plane go down? Where did it crash? Where is our son buried? His body has to be in a grave somewhere. But where?

  If only she could learn the answers to these questions. But the war continued, and she had no way of finding out.

  One day, when Will was outside in the orchard, Peggy went upstairs to Jack’s bedroom. She opened the dresser drawer and looked at the pile of letters Jack had sent home. Beside them lay his belongings, which had been sent from England after his plane had gone missing.

  Peggy lifted the items out of the drawer and set them on the bed. Jack’s shaving kit. His identity card. His log book.

  The log book was so small, it could fit in the palm of Peggy’s hand. She opened it slowly and turned the pages, knowing that Jack had held the same book in his own two hands. He had started the log while training in England. Every time he had flown an airplane, he’d recorded times and distances and the type of plane. He’d added detailed notes about fog and wind and weather.

  Jack had written about his first solo flight on page 4 of the log. That must have been a special day for him. At the bottom of each page, he had added up all the minutes and hours he spent flying through the skies. One of his instructors had written a special note after Jack had flown sixty hours. The note said that Jack was ready for active service, ready to carry out patrols and missions.

  After that, Jack made an entry in the log about the day he started “bomb dropping.” Peggy did not like to read about “bomb dropping.” When Jack’s plane had crashed, he had flown a total of one hundred hours.

  Peggy closed the small book, walked over to the window, and opened the blind. She looked up to a
blue sky, and she felt the sun warm her through the glass. She opened the window to let in some fresh air, went back to the bed, and sat down. She thought about the kind of child Jack had been when he was a small boy. He had always wanted to be a pilot.

  When Jack was four years old, he began to fold and cut paper into the shapes of airplanes. He stood on a chair and sailed his paper planes through the kitchen. He laughed and sang and made up stories about flying.

  As he grew older, he built toy airplanes out of wood and strips of cloth. He began to read books and magazines about “flying machines.” Many of these stories were about men and women who tested the new machines in the air.

  Peggy thought about all of these things, and more. She thought about how safe and happy the family had been when Jack was living at home. Then, in 1914, war broke out. Young men from all parts of Canada became soldiers and left home. Nurses and doctors, too. All had sailed across the Atlantic Ocean from Halifax to England. After that, they were sent to France or to other battlefields. Many of these young people had been killed. Like Peggy, millions of mothers were grieving.

  Peggy returned to the dresser and lifted Jack’s letters from the drawer. She put them on the bed beside his belongings. She and Will had read every letter many times. She pulled one out of the pile and read it again. Jack had sent this letter from England during his first year away from home.

  Dear Mother and Father,

  The training is not easy but I don’t mind hard work. You know how I love to learn new things. The men I am training with are good fellows, and I have many new friends.

  The apples you sent arrived in a parcel in the mail, along with the chocolate bars and gloves and stockings. Thank you for wrapping each apple in paper. Not one went bad. I was even able to share them with my friends. What a treat to get a great parcel like this from home!