We had come out of the lines just before Arras, for a spell of rest and refit. As I was walking along the street, suddenly a pretty girl stumbled and fell ahead of me. I rushed over (she was very pretty), and in my best French (my mother was French) I asked if she were alright. She was surprised to hear a Canadian soldier speaking in French, but she answered that she had hurt her ankle a little. It was more than a little, as when she tried to put her weight on it, she practically cried out in pain. I sat her down, and taking off one of my puttees, I bandaged her ankle and supported her to her home – a little farm nearby. I reassured her mother and father. She was named Marie, and she was eighteen.

Knowing we weren't moving back into the line, I asked if I could come visit later and see how she was doing. At the look on her face her parents agreed that I might. Monsieur le sergent canadien was welcome.

Marie must have been a fast healer, for within a few days we were going for walks together. My officer allowed me time off duties, being an old friend from Toronto who was under the mistaken impression that he owed me something for getting him out of a tight corner. My Corporal was competent to cover for whatever needed to be done.

I learned more about Marie and her family. Her elder brother Pierre had been killed at Verdun. Jean, her fiancé, had been killed at Fort Malmaison in 1917. Her father was an older man, an ancien of the 1870 war, and Marie was all he had left.

It was clear to everyone that we were falling in love with each other.

One day the Lieutenant warned me that we would be moving up the line the next morning. I rushed off to have a final walk with Marie. As we passed by a Calvaire, Marie knelt down and began to pray, and I knelt beside her. She rose, and we walked on towards a grove of trees. She stopped there, and taking my face in her hands, kissed me. I could feel her heart beating.

Then she started to unbutton her blouse. I knew what was going through her mind. Perhaps her last chance was about to leave her, and she wanted to give me everything she could, so that at least she would have that much to remember. She wanted me, and I wanted her – more than I could ever tell her.

I put my hands over hers, stopping them. "Peut-être après la guerre." I said. It was the line the French priests told the girls to use when "les soldats anglais" asked them out. "Maybe after the War." But there was no after the War for Jean or Pierre, and perhaps not for me. She smiled wanly, then burst into tears on my shoulder. "I'll come back", I reassured her. But in my mind I knew that Jean and Pierre had given her the same words.

We walked home in silence, and I went to talk to her father. I told him I wanted to marry her, but as a soldier I couldn't risk it. If I died, it would not be a problem, but what if I were crippled, or mutilated? One day there would be young men in the village again. He saw my point, and gave me his blessing. I had given Marie great joy, he said. And if I could do one favour for him? He gave me two memorial cards, one for Pierre and one for Jean. "I am too old even for the Territorials, and I have no sons left. Please pray for us, and avenge their deaths."

As we marched out, she stood by the side of the road, trying to smile, but the tears ran down her cheeks. I didn't look front until she was out of sight.