Fall 1914

The opening months of the Great War reached the Pontiac not with the roar of guns, but through words on a page, whispered news, and quiet acts of resolve. Within weeks of Britain’s declaration, familiar rhythms of rural life were reshaped by a growing sense of duty. Across the region, both English- and French-speaking residents mobilized quickly. In Shawville, the Homemakers’ Club began turning out “immense stores” of supplies for the Red Cross and the Belgian Relief Fund, while in Fort Coulonge, a spirited town hall dance — attended by many from the surrounding Francophone parishes — raised over a hundred dollars for Belgian relief. Local lodges followed suit, with the Pontiac Lodge A.F. & A.M. pledging a dollar per member to the Canadian Patriotic Fund. What had once been social gatherings or routine meetings now became acts of solidarity, tying small villages along the upper Ottawa River into a collective response that bridged language and culture.

Even as the war’s shadow lengthened overseas, local life carried on, and the pages of The Equity reflected that rhythm — a mix of duty, anxiety, and perseverance. Advertisements warned that hay wire prices would soon rise as the war strained supply chains, while one merchant proudly noted that apple prices were so fair “everyone could afford the best.” Stories of everyday life still found their place: Mr. Jimmie Turcotte of Thorne was reported to have “bagged a fine moose,” the meat sold in Shawville — a small reminder of the region’s self-reliance and the normalcy people clung to amid uncertainty.

The paper’s editorials also helped readers visualize the human cost of the conflict. One warned that “a soldier’s usefulness depends largely upon his ability to march,” and that “his feet can only be kept in good condition if his boots are right.” Such details made the distant war deeply personal. Reports of local men, like Major E.H. Jones — first listed missing after Mons, later confirmed a prisoner in Germany — reminded families that the war’s reach extended from the fields of Europe to the farms of the Pontiac. Occasionally, there were glimpses of compassion amid the horror: one story told of a wounded Scottish soldier cared for by a German opponent in the trenches, their exchange of helmets a simple act of shared humanity.

Elsewhere, dispatches captured the brutality and courage of modern warfare. Accounts of the Royal Engineers at the Aisne told how eleven men were shot down trying to light a fuse before the twelfth succeeded, sacrificing his life to destroy a bridge and halt a German advance. Reports from Ypres described the Prussian Guard’s doomed charge into a gap in the British line, mowed down by machine guns at point-blank range. Between these stories of battle were glimpses of war’s wider toll — Belgian refugees arriving in London “too tired and heartsick even to weep,” and children of soldiers facing “no Santa Claus unless the American people filled the Christmas stockings.” In Paris, a German spy was discovered transmitting messages from a hotel rooftop. Through such fragments — both global and local — Pontiac residents began to understand that the war would touch every life in some way.

As autumn gave way to winter, the war that many had hoped would be over by Christmas showed no sign of ending. The first frost settled over the Pontiac, and the first letters home began to arrive from training camps and overseas posts. Communities that had rallied in the first months of the war now began to confront its lasting reality — a conflict that would test their endurance, compassion, and unity in the seasons to come.