The words “Resting Place Known Only To God” puzzled Peggy Mayfield Gouras who, as a child, accompanied her grandmother to the family plot in the Shreveport Cemetery.

The words are on a memorial stone for her uncle, and she would ask her grandmother what they meant, “and she would tell me that my uncle was in the tomb for the unknown soldier, which brought her great comfort.”

Peggy never knew her uncle. He gave the ultimate sacrifice for his country long before she was born, and her father never talked about his war experiences, perhaps because he made it back and his baby brother didn’t.

For Peggy, that changed in 2005 after her father died and left a typewriter case filled with letters, which told the story of a mother looking for her son.

His name was William Mabry Mayfield, known as Mabry to family and friends, but as Bill among fellow soldiers who served with him in the Timberwolves, infantrymen who were trained as night fighters and who claimed, “Nothing in hell can stop the Timberwolves.”

Mabry was in the Army Special Training Program, enrolled at Fordham University until Generals Dwight D. Eisenhower and George S. Patton needed more boots on the ground. So, in April 1944, Mabry went to Camp Carson in Colorado for training and from there to the war in Europe where Gen. Terry Allen led his men through France, Belgium and The Netherlands.

The letters saved by Peggy’s family start on a light-hearted note with Mabry saying he wants to do something for his country, “However, I don’t want to be a dead hero or a live one for that matter.” He wrote of KP duty and how a broom handle came to his rescue after he poured 4 pounds of coffee grounds down the sink. He wrote of friends, of good times and good food and of a visit by Gen. Allen.

He thanked his father for a lifetime-warranty Sheaffer pen, and he thanked his mother for wearing his Timberwolf pin.

The letter that altered the course of their lives was written by the Mayfields on Oct. 10, 1944. Should his mom clean house or go fishing? His dad said he was sending socks and said he hoped Mabry enjoyed his weekly bath. It was just a chatty letter, which Mabry never received. It was returned to his parents in the form of V-mail and written on it was the word “deceased.” A line was drawn through it, and the word “missing” written above.

“That was the first that my grandparents heard that their son was missing,” Peggy said, so as the campaigns raged in Europe, her grandmother, Josephine Mabry Mayfield, waged her own campaign with the only weapons she knew — writing letters.

Her first answer came from the White House when a secretary to the president wrote, “Please know that he served a grateful nation.” Then came a letter from Peggy’s father, who was serving in Italy, a gut-wrenching letter that he had just heard about his brother, that, “I wish it were me. All I can do is pray. I wish there was something I could do. I love you very much.”

Letters and cards poured in from Mabry’s buddies that Christmas, all trying to bolster her courage and theirs, feeling that he was in a POW camp somewhere, so joy was widespread when the War Department informed the Mayfields that their son was indeed a prisoner of war. One of his friends, Jimmy Adams, who was in the Navy, wrote that when he got the news, “I danced a jig, gave a war whoop and almost fell overboard. Another friend, Bill Meyers who had been at Fordham with Mabry, told her he had last seen him in Belgium, that, “I loved your son. In all sincerity I never met a man I respected more than your son.”

The lady didn’t give up hope. She was working with the Red Cross when she saw a soldier get off a bus, and on his sleeve was the Wolfpatch. “My heart stopped,” she wrote. “I asked him what battles he had been in. He was in the same conflicts as Mabry in Holland.” He encouraged her not to give up hope.

A letter dated April 30 simply said, “I am distressed to learn of your son. I am sending your letter to proper authorities.” It was signed by Dwight D. Eisenhower. On May 13, 1945, Gen. Allen wrote of his sorrow about Mabry and promised, “We’ll find out what happened to him.” Then the War Department sent a letter stating that Mabry was not a POW.

A breakthrough occurred when Bill Meyers, stationed somewhere in Germany, wrote a sad account on May 31, 1945. It was the most difficult letter he had ever tried to write as he searched for the right words. He had located some men of Co. E, 414th Infantry, to which Mabry belonged. They had been with Mabry in Holland.

“I found your boy,” he wrote. “He’s in Heaven. He was killed in action on Nov. 7, 1944. He suffered none as he didn’t know what happened. The men were certain. There’s no mistake … I’ll never forget Mabry and the ideals he represented. It is hard to realize the price we have paid and are paying … for our victory. I hope and pray it will not have been in vain.”

Brokenhearted but determined to find her son, Mrs. Mayfield contacted the mayor of Maastrict, Holland. Life magazine had published an article about the mayor’s wife who had started a grave adoption program where grateful Dutch families tended the graves of the dead soldiers. The letter was passed on to the Kieboon family, and they wrote that they felt they had found the grave, an unmarked spot in Zon Cemetery. They enclosed a small snapshot of the site.

Mrs. Mayfield then wrote to Gen. Edward F. Whitsell, telling him of the Kieboon family and what they had learned, of the location of the foxhole where her son and his companion, Charles Juday from Indiana, had been. She told him she had sent dental records to the cemetery officials, assured him of her appreciation for his help, and ended with a P.S. “There’s an unknown soldier at Zon Cemetery … have you any information on the finding … it might be my son.”

The letter-writing campaign continued, and in response to an inquiry published in the Timberwolf newsletter, she got a letter in January 1947 from Robert Spitler. He told of the night of Nov. 7, 1944, and the heavy fighting. He said Mabry (who was his friend), was about 40 yards away in his foxhole when an 88 mm shell made a direct hit on it. Spitler said the attack occurred about 10 p.m. and, “I’m sure he felt no pain.” At her request, Spitler drew a map with the foxhole location, and Mrs. Mayfield sent it to the Army, but they found no indication of a grave.

In 1977, Josephine Mabry Mayfield died, having never found her son’s grave, but never giving up hope. But the seeds had been planted, and on Labor Day last year her granddaughter Peggy “kept thinking about her perseverance,” so she went on line and looked up Timberwolf. The unit was having its reunion and members were granting interviews.

Peggy read an account of a man who had been stationed in Holland and who said he remembered the day when his best friend was killed. That friend was Mabry, and the writer was Bob Spitler, who had written Mrs. Mayfield many years ago about her son’s death.

Peggy got in touch with Spitler’s son, who said his father had shown him the site on a trip to Holland. Peggy also found that a military tour was being planned, and though the deadline for signing up had passed, she and a friend, Betsey Justice, managed to get on board.

Peggy was tracing her uncle’s steps, looking for evidence he had been there. She found the people still very grateful for the sacrifices made by Americans in World War II. They tend the graves, put flowers on them on special occasions, such as a birthday or Christmas, “and villagers just come up and say, ‘Thank you.’” Often they wept when they told of the horrors they went through.

Zon Cemetery had been moved and incorporated with a much larger American cemetery, and two young men in Belgium offered to drive Peggy to it.

It was a fall day with a beautiful setting sun, and Peggy said “as I was folding my legs into Vincent’s Mini Cooper the words of my mother were ringing in my ears, the words that say never get into a car with strangers. And here I was getting into a car with two strangers in a strange land and I didn’t speak the language.”

The two, Vincent DeSaadeleer and David Mylaart, took her to the cemetery only to find the gates were locked. One man had the combination, and he could open it only for a blood relative of one of the deceased. He just happened to be there, so he opened the gate and Peggy and her friends and others who had come along were taken to a wall where the names of 1,700 who were forever listed as missing are inscribed.

“I had brought a picture of my grandmother so that I could hold it up next to my uncle’s name,” Peggy said. “The only problem was that his name was at the top, 10 feet off the ground “One of the men stood on the other’s shoulders and held the photo of Josephine Mabry Mayfield next to the name of her son which Peggy called “sort of a symbolic reunion.”

One thing Peggy noticed was what appeared to be gold lettering on some markers, and it was explained that sand was brought from the beaches at Normandy by those who adopted the care of the graves and sprinkled over the names. Peggy took a handful of dirt from the Dutch soil and brought it home. It wasn’t golden, she said, but dark and rich like the blood of those who had sacrificed their lives.

Peggy’s brother lives in Oregon, but they had time for just a brief reunion. They visited the family plot in the Shreveport Cemetery, placing flowers on the graves of their grandparents and a wreath and flag on the marker for Mabry Mayfield. Then Peggy sprinkled on it the dirt she had brought from Holland.

They hadn’t thought about the day — it was the only time whey could visit the cemetery — but they realized it was their father’s birthday, Nov. 7 , and he would have been 90.

“Then we looked at each other. It was the anniversary of Mabry’s death — 57 years to the day.” Peggy said. “It was no accident. It was the only day we could have gone. It was a God incident. We felt like we had done the best we could to bring our grandmother’s boy home — on that day, to the day.”

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Gordon Cotton is an author and historian who lives in Vicksburg.