In the letters the boys wrote, this past winter, they couldn’t reveal where they were, exactly, but from the newspaper John was able to gather that the Americans were massing to the south and west of the lines, waiting until they were substantial enough in number to get into the heart of the fray as an independent American force.

But, just as the first spring robin appeared in Pine Rapids, and patches of gray began to appear on the thawing river, the news was dramatically not good for the Allies. The Germans had launched a tremendous offensive and, according to the papers, had advanced thirty-seven miles in five days, driving back the Allies and nearly separating the British from the French. Reports indicated that some Parisians were fleeing to the south, and the French government was considering relocating to Bordeaux. The Americans were needed, desperately, and General Pershing finally ordered some of them to help the French reinforce areas of their lines.

It was unclear, back in Pine Rapids, just exactly how the boys were involved, just exactly where they were. “I’m sure they wouldn’t go into the fighting without telling us first!” Wilma exclaimed, knitting needles flying, one spring evening in the living room as John read aloud pieces of the newspaper and the latest, disappointingly vague letter that had arrived from Chase: “The worst thing,” John read, “is seeing the gray faces of the French people—women and children and some old men—who are walking one way down the road while we are walking the other way up it. All that’s left of their worldly goods is packed into wagons or carts, and they creak along like a long, broken-down train. In the really unfortunate cases, all they have is tied up in kerchiefs and clenched in their fists. It is terrible to think of all the people who have lost their homes, and I can’t imagine what it would be like if a war was fought right in Pine Rapids like it is being fought in the backyards of these folks”—

“But what about him?” Wilma broke in. “Does he say where he is? What he’s doing? Is he in danger? Is he getting enough to eat? Is he warm enough? Has he seen Jack?”

“He says he’s fine, that’s all,” John said, skimming over the rest of the letter. “More about the French people and the way the land looks. Some about the other boys in his company. Here’s a drawing of a peasant woman.”

“Let me see that,” she said, getting out of her chair to snatch the letter and the drawing from his hands, trailing yarn behind her.

The hardest thing was the not knowing. What they were doing. Where in the world they were. “Somewhere in France!” As though that phrase were enough to calm a parent’s worried mind.