My motives were mixed. Part of my thinking was, I hate to say it, but it seemed the thing to do. There was an undeniable element of following the herd in my choice. But this was only a small factor. I suppose there was also a large measure of genuine altruism in my decision. I knew that I was needed and felt personally obliged to help out the country and the Empire. There was also an element of uncertainty in my thinking. I was not entirely clear about what we intended to get out of the war, but I was keenly aware we were living in dangerous times and I had to make an individual commitment. Doing something and going with my instincts seemed better than doing nothing. All of these notions seem a little quaint almost sixty years later. Now so many have begun to sneer at this kind of reasoning. I’m not saying they’re entirely wrong; but those who sneer at youthful magnanimity are foolish and cynical.
My mother was sitting in the drawing room reading one of Edith Wharton’s novels. She had her feet curled up under her. On the couch beside her were the devoured remains of three of the day’s English and French newspapers. She held her cheek forward for me to kiss her as I came in.
“Rory, you are back early, shouldn’t you still be at your classes?” She always pronounced my name with a soft Germanic purr. From the way she looked at me I could tell something weighed heavily on her mind. “What is it?” she said.
“Mother, we haven’t really talked about the war.” I began to stumble. “I mean really talked. We’ve said it’s a terrible shame and a great tragedy, and we’ve gone over the causes of the war until we’re blue in the face, but we have to talk about how it affects you and me, now.”
“Speak plainly, Rory. Are you joining the army?” she asked flatly.
“Yes, I’ve decided to join … I wanted to discuss it with you first.”
“Is there anything to discuss? It sounds like you have already made up your mind.”
“Yes, I have, but I wanted to discuss my reasons with you. That’s important.”
She nodded her head. “Thank you.” There was no sarcasm in her tone.
“I know you are unhappy about my decision for several reasons. You don’t want to see your only child go off to war. You especially don’t want to see me go to fight Germany and you don’t want to see your son fighting your nephews. I know it’s very difficult.”
“I suppose that sums my position fairly well. So what is there to discuss?”
“Despite being half-German myself, I believe we have to support our country. I don’t like it any more than you do when the newspapers refer to us as Huns, but Canada and the Empire are at war and the cause is a decent one.” I paused for a moment. “When you married Father and came to Montreal you chose to be a Canadian. I may be part-German and I’m proud of that, but I’m a Canadian first, just as you are now. I don’t think there’s an easy way around this. This isn’t a choice between your views and Father’s, and I am not turning my back on the half of me that’s German. I believe that stopping the Kaiser from conquering Belgium is the correct thing to do. German militarism as it’s developed in the last several years can’t be allowed to prevail in this war. We both know the true Germany, but what’s happening in Europe now is wrong and we can’t ignore that. That’s why our country is at war.”
I was standing above my mother and my voice was much louder and more emphatic than I had intended. I sat down on the chair opposite her. I drew a deep breath.
“Besides, I think it would be wrong for me to have benefited from everything this country has to offer and not pitch in when there’s a problem. Do you see what I’m trying to say?”
My mother had tears in her eyes and her voice was choked with emotion. “This isn’t the first time I have thought of this. Your father and I have virtually ignored this subject for many years, long before it ever came to war and long before you were old enough to become directly involved. I have for several months now thought this was a decision you were going to make. I’m not happy with it, but I have no choice and so I am forced to accept it.”
Mother was in many ways a German patrician to the roots. She was born into a well-to-do family of German industrialists with large land holdings not far from Hanover. She was entirely a product of her times. For her, our brief conversation was in itself an outpouring of emotion. I had known for almost a year now that the war and the threat of war between Germany and Britain was something that placed enormous strains on my parents’ relationship. It was something she would never admit to anyone; she would force herself to endure this problem on her own. For my father’s part, I was not so sure that he was enduring any kind of hardship on his own, although to be truthful, I had absolutely no proof that he had been unfaithful to my mother. I had sensed for several years that this chasm between them had grown enormously. Since the declaration of war last August it was very much in evidence.
My mother and I embraced in the formal way we had always done. She got up from her couch and swept me out of the room. “I am sure you have much to do now, but before you go off and join the army I want you to telephone and see about getting someone to fix the doors to the coal cellar. Mary tells me they’re leaking badly and unless they’re fixed they’ll be a problem all summer.”
It was her way of telling me the matter was at an end. We were on to discussing the more mundane things in life; whatever rift there may have been between us was now healed. I was relieved at this, but I didn’t believe things were fine. That would take a long time, but I didn’t choose to pursue the matter further.
With the confrontation with my mother over, I still had to deal with my father. That now appeared to be a larger difficulty than I would have admitted to ten minutes beforehand.
I did not speak to my father about my decision until late the next day. He was off overnight in Ottawa on business of some sort and wasn’t expected back until late the following afternoon. I decided that I would go to my classes, say my farewells to my close friends, and then go directly to his office to speak with him. Thinking about it at the time, I realized that the sequence in which I had decided to inform those closest to me about my decision to go into the army revealed much about my allegiances. I felt guilty about this, as I had no particular reason to place my affections for my father behind that of my friends. I also knew that out of a sense of filial duty, I owed him more than being the last to know. Perhaps I feared him more than I care to admit even now.
When I got to the university, before going into my first lecture, I announced my decision to Tom Moore, an old classmate of mine from my days at Loyola, Montreal’s Jesuit college. Tom was as good as a telegraph and no sooner had the professor made his entrance than Tom got to his feet and announced to one and all, “Please join with me in wishing our own Rory Ferrall the greatest good luck and a safe return, as he is soon going off to France to serve his country.”
I was taken aback by this sudden announcement. The professor grinned broadly, stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets, and flapped his academic gown as if he were a ruffled pheasant. He cleared his throat and asked in a loud voice, “Good for you, Ferrall, what regiment have you joined?”
“I haven’t actually signed on yet, sir,” I said in a quiet voice. “I intend to go down to one of the armouries later today. I’m not sure which unit I should join. I was hoping the recruiters would give me some advice on that one.”
“There’s no need to go down to the armouries, my boy,” quipped my professor, who was clearly enjoying himself. “Just over in the lobby of the Student Union building, the Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry have set up a recruiting desk.” He fixed me with a knowing stare. “I’m sure there’s no finer unit you could join. I’m told they’re re-building their ranks and they’re doing it entirely with university men. You’d do well to join them, be amongst fellow McGill men, friends.” He dropped