MY STUDENTS’ SECTION: WORLD WAR 1 DIARY ASSIGNMENT

Following is an English-History assignment as submitted by NT- a grade 10 Vietnamese Canadian student- whom I tutor in Mathematics and English. You might find it interesting and imaginative.

Just read on …

December 7th, 1917

Dear Diary,

Yesterday was probably one of the most horrific days in the Canadian history. The town of Halifax was drenched in the yellow, deadly fumes- fire- caused by a collision of two ships in the Harbour- a French cargo and a Norwegian vessel. The French cargo, named Mont Blanc was carrying highly explosive materials heading to Bordeaux and the Norwegian vessel, IMO, altered her route and unfortunately crashed into Mont Blanc. Twenty minutes later, the bad-lucked French ship exploded with an unimaginable force. I am so glad that I am living in Fredericton right now, because the force of the explosion was so strong, that waves of pressure was sent across Halifax, shattering glasses and hurt thousands of innocent citizens.

Today is exactly one month from the day that my mum came home, collapsing in tears, and told me the bad news. Last month, on November 7th exactly, we received a brown letter in our mail box. “It is a painful duty to inform you that a report has this day been received from the War Office notifying the death…” it said. My father’s name has been filled in the blank by a fancy cursive writing in black ink. “…Cause of death: killed in action. Location: Passchendaele village…” “…the Army Council sincerely expresses to you the sympathy and regret…” And here we are. Our family has now 3 people to try and live day by day, sustaining our lives without my father and longing for the war to end. The monthly report came in a week ago saying that in the month of November, over 30,000 Canadian men were killed in the deadly battle of Passchendaele. My father’s fate was among those lives whose blood flowed to serve their nation. I still have not had a night of sleep without my pillow soaked in tears, mourning for the man who shaped me into a young girl like I am today.

My father was forced to join the troops in Europe early in summer this year. He worked in a factory as a shoemaker before. The government was running low on volunteers to fight at the front line of the war.When the Conscription came around, he was forced to join the Canadian Expeditionary Force despite his father’s immigration from Germany. He was shortly trained in a couple of weeks, and we said goodbye to him at the end of July. We thought he would be home to celebrate Christmas with us, because our turkey would be big enough to be on the dinner table by then.

The battle of Passchendaele, where my father sacrificed his life, is so far the most brutal and terrifying one of them all. Because of the bad weather in France, it continuously rained for 15 days, making war more horrible than ever. Soldiers were stuck in the mud, and transportation became more difficult because of the continuous rainfall. Canadian were the storm troops- the first one to fight at the front line, as like previous battles, and the soldiers fought with no fear, like in the past battles when they eliminated their enemies one by one.

Ever since the war broke out, I have been treated differently, if not badly, at school. I went from being the girl with the braided hair and cute bangs that everyone admire to the girl who belongs to the group at school that everyone loathes- the German descendant. I told my best friend Ellie a few years ago that my grandfather came from Germany to Canada as an immigrant in the 19th century. It wasn’t a lot of a big deal then, since the war had not started yet. But three years ago, when I started grade 7, it was the most difficult year of my life. Every pair of eyes glued on me when I walked in the school on the first day, and later that day I knew that Ellie had told everyone at school that my grandfather was from Germany. No one wanted to have lunch with me anymore; I had to sit at the back of the class because my teacher thought that education was pointless for me if I am not going fight for Canada. The one thing that no one understands is that I am a Canadian born person, and both of my parents are Canadian citizens. Just because of my grandfather, I am being discriminated at school like an unwanted creature. Nobody at school trusts what I comment about the war; all of them think that I am supporting the Entente troops, not the Allied. Every day is a battle for me, ironically, because my both father and I have something to fight against. I collapse like a soggy piece of paper the moment I get home because I am so relieved to escape all the miseries that I have to deal with at school.

I joined the knitting club at my local church a month ago after my father’s dead. I’ve always liked to knit, but after the shocking news, I decided to take action to do something for the other soldiers out there. Maybe the pair of socks that I knit will be delivered to my father’s friends. I want to do something to care for the infantries out there who are in the same condition like what my father went through. We knit every Monday, Wednesday and Friday afternoon, thus I did visit the church today. It is one of my favourite places to be- so peaceful, no judgmental people, only me, other lovely elder women who spend the afternoon together doing something for a great cause. Our knitted socks will be gathered together after Sunday masses and there are others who will package them and send overseas to the front line soldiers. I should have started to do this earlier to support my father, if only I knew…

I got my 5th thrift stamp today! My mum gave me a dollar this morning to thank me for taking over things and being more independent ever since we heard that my father is not coming home. I spent a quarter of it on my stamp. 11 more stamps and I can get a thrift certificate! I have been buying thrift stamp ever since my father left for France, hoping that what I spend on can be spent on supplying and equipping him instead. And who knows, maybe after a couple of years I can be rich by all these stamps that I buy!

My sister Layla talked about applying as a nurse a few nights ago. She is 25, and her fiancée lost a limb because of the Vimy Ridge glory, so that twisted her mind around and she decided to become someone who can cure the sick, hoping that she can save soldiers from being like my future brother-in-law. Her application form is still pending, and every day her anxiety rises when she gets home, hoping that they would approve her registration request. She works in a cannery to help preserve fruits and vegetables, and sometimes she would come home from work, smuggle a tiny jar of jam in my palm that her boss gave to her. I love to eat jam with my bread in the morning, but ever since the government calls us to make small sacrifices to show our spirit during wartime, I only eat them during the weekends. I’m doing it for my father and for everyone out there as well.

My mum came back from work today with another Victory Bond. She is getting into the habit of buying VBs every Friday now to support the war. “And one day we will profit from this”, she said to me. Well, with 5.5% interest after 5 or 10 years we would benefit quite a lot if we keep buying. She used to stay at home before to cook, clean, grow vegetables in her little garden, and sew pretty clothes for me and my sister. Now, she is working at my father’s factory, doing the same thing that he used to do—making shoes. The Great War is changing everyone’s lives around the world, not only the loss that the troops experience but at the home front as well- like the loss of my father. We might lose my sister as well if the government approves her to be a nurse, and if she is lucky enough that nothing bad is going to happen to her.
Even the atmosphere on the streets feels different.

Propaganda posters were hung almost everywhere you go, so at any places, you are being hijacked by the belief that the government is forcing you to have faith in. Every step you take, you feel like there is someone watching you and there is a force that is pushing you towards being more supportive of the war. I understand that there are fighters out there who are working hard to protect what is right. We are supposed to support them with all our hearts, but that is up to our own wills. It should not be something that we are forced to do unwillingly. Like love, it cannot be forced; it can only come within our own hearts. The government can add oil to the burning passion, but it cannot create passion itself within us.

I hope this war can be over soon. I don’t want anything else to happen to my family, myself, my community, or my country. War frightens me a lot and I wish I could stay in a cocoon and bury myself underground, waiting for the time to pass, until someone discovers me trembling there, muttering my father’s name like a chant, over and over again breathlessly.

NT