The attack had been a failure. John led what was left of his platoon back to reform. He passed the stretcherbearers moving back to find their wounded and recover their dead. John knew that at least five of his men were dead.

He heard a voice call from a stretcher being carried back. "Sarge! Come on over so I can say goodbye." It was Charlie Lickers, with a serious chest wound.

John tried to hide his concern. "You did a great job out there, Charlie. I'm going to see if the Captain will put you in for the Military Medal. You earned it."

"Well, " Charlie grimaced, "That would be nice, but right now I'd settle for not being wounded."

"You'll be okay," John said smiling, "They can't kill a Mohawk. Write to me when you get to hospital. Let me know how you're making out."

There was mail waiting for him. Among the others was the black-bordered envelope that he knew meant a death in the family - known in French as a faire-part. The handwriting was his mother's. He opened it and drew out the faire-part, along with a letter. Doubtless Maman was going to tell him that the War had claimed another cousin. Or perhaps one of his elderly great-uncles had died.

Instead, he read:

Mon cher fils,

I am sorry to have to tell you that your father has died, very suddenly. No, it was not la grippe, but a heart attack. He had been working very hard because of the shortage of lawyers, and then he felt very keenly that he was not doing anything for the War, so he joined the Militia. He was taking his weekly turn at guard duty when he collapsed.

His funeral was held yesterday, with military honours. The church was filled, and it was a beautiful service.

Do not worry about me. Everything is taken care of. Edward has made excellent plans for this eventuality.

My dear friend General Matthieu wrote me to tell me that he had seen you, and that you are well. He also says that your Marie is très charmante. I trust his judgment. If you ever need anything, do not hesitate to ask him.

May God keep you well, and may I see you soon.

John sat down, and tried to grasp what his mother had said. He thought of his father. Poor Father, who had always seemed to be in the background of John's life, put in the shade by his vivacious French wife. John felt that he had never really gotten to know his father, and now it was too late.

The next time he was able to get to a church, he would have a Mass said for him.

He thought of his men who had died that day, of his father, who died trying to be a soldier. He thought of Charlie Lickers, who might even now be dead, and who certainly never would be able to work the high steel.

John buried his face in his hands, and felt the hot tears begin to well up.