A war of one man

Everyone at the hospital was very kind, but the guard at my door was a constant reminder that I was still considered a criminal. In my condition, the military police weren’t expecting me to actually run away, but it was a matter of regulation to keep a close eye on someone charged of striking a superior officer. From what I could tell, this hospital was a nobleman’s house that had been requisitioned by the army. The wardroom that I had all to myself was brightly lit, and through the ornate leaded glass, I could see the well-kept lawn. Since I was two stories up, I had no thoughts of escaping that way. Mind you, I’ve heard some terrible stories about the conditions of these army hospitals, but as an officer I found the place clean enough, and it appeared to be professionally run. Again it was the case of the British and their damned class system. My soldiers would have been kept in abhorrent conditions, to the point where many refused medical care unless they no longer had a choice in the matter. My boys had their own home remedies for most of the common afflictions of the trenches. Before I had even a chance to settle in, the military police marched into my room and began asking all the obvious questions. There were two nondescript Red-Caps doing the questioning while a third hung back to watch. He was a tall major who had the look of an old copper – the blasé face that had seen it all. I’m not sure how such work marks a man, but it was there nonetheless – glassy eyes, a worn face and a sloppy uniform that would make any drill sergeant faint. But still the eyes would glitter with curiosity, and the head would minutely jerk up when I would say something he found interesting. When the questioners were done with their interview, they packed up and left without even giving me a proper goodbye. The Major then approached the bed and I gave him a salute out of common courtesy. A closer look of the gentleman revealed nicotine-stained fingers, a badly done shaving job and hair graying at the temples. He was a right mess. I wondered how he had received the rank of major. “Lieutenant Grant,”" he started off saying, “I’m glad to see you have made yourself comfortable here.” “It’s not too bad,” I admitted. “But I haven’t tasted the food yet.” He didn’t even crack a smile. Instead, he went on sternly and said, “My name is Major Edwin Radford and I have been given the very special job of looking after you.” I couldn’t do anything but shoot him a grin. He ignored my leer and continued on, “You see, we have quite the quandary with what to do with you. By all rights you shouldn’t even be here. It should have been a quick trial and then off to be executed by a firing squad. That's what we do for so-called gentlemen like you. But even the British Army has its humanitarian impulses and they want to see you stand unsupported before that firing squad. Whether you know it or not, you bought yourself some time with that wounded leg of yours. Now why don’t you tell me what really happened.” “What I told your men was the truth,” I protested, but not too strongly. I had no reason to think he would believe me. Anyways, I had my dignity. He then c****d an eyebrow in disbelief and said, “On the face of it, the story you told us seems rather implausible. If you had some real evidence, then I would be willing to pursue it further. Come now, tell me the truth. It may be the only chance you have of saving yourself.” I let out a chuckle and said, “Let me ask you a question, Major.” “Go ahead, Lieutenant." "How long have you been a copper?” The Major winced. He then took off his cap and rubbed his hand against his thinning hair. “Is it that obvious? I was on the police force for sixteen years until I was asked to join up.” “Major Radford, I’ve been around and you have that look of someone who has worked a thankless job. And a major no less? That means you must have been ranked rather high as a policeman.” “I can assure you, Lieutenant, that I am well qualified for my job. I was a Chief Inspector for the city of Brighton. I have seen many of an investigation in my time. I've also seen plenty of criminals and you don't seem to fit the mold, but they do come in all types.” “Well then, Major Chief Inspector,” I said sharply, “I hope you will take the time to dig a little deeper into this case since I can assure you that I am telling the truth. I hope it is not below your rank to give an American cousin a little help.” His face turned a bright shade of red and his eyebrows rose in surprise. I could see his hands shaking with anger. He spat out, “Any claims of being an American citizen were lost when you signed up with the British Army. Your citizenship with said country will certainly not buy you any sympathy with me.” I leaned lazily back on my pillows and said, “I wish to speak to the American consul. I want to be sure that my rights are being fully protected. One cannot give up their citizenship as easily as you say.” He replied sharply, “I can assure you, laddie, that you rights are being observed to the full extent of the military law. I’ll admit that the only reason I have been assigned to look into this was because you are an American. The Home Office,” he used the words with reverence, “wants to be assured that no questions will arise of your guilt. It is important that we keep the United States on our side in this war. There would be senseless cries of injustice from your press unless the case against you is iron tight from the get-go. That’s why I’m here, my laddie.” With those words he snapped his cap back on and strode angrily out of the room. “Thank you, Major,” I shouted at his retreating back. He pretended not to hear and went on his way without a further word. With a smile at my own rudeness, I thought I just had made yet another enemy, so I felt it was high time that I had a fag. Someone had thoughtfully left my cigarette case and trench lighter on the bedside table. I lit up a smoke and took a puff. It was a damned shame that I couldn't get any Lucky Strikes on this side of the pond, but still, the chaps at Dunhill didn't make a bad cigarette. I was about done smoking and thinking about this-and-that when a nurse burst into my room without even knocking. She was a petite, little thing, with auburn hair kept tight under her hat. Her face had that pale skin that only British girls seem to have, but any potential beauty was certainly marred by those tight, pursed lips. She was wearing the standard-issue nurse uniform, which looked like a nun's habit more than anything else. “I'm Nurse Pennington,” she said stiffly, “and I'm here to look after you.” Her accent was clipped and I could detect a hint of posh there. Mind you, I'm no expert on the labyrinth of dialects that make up the English caste system. But I've heard enough officers to recognize aristocracy. They spoke in certain tones of command that were unmistakable. “I don't need looking after,” I said gruffly. “And I certainly don't need a live-in jail￾keeper.” She ignored me and said, “I'm usually working the wards on this floor, but you're considered a special case. Major Radford specifically asked for someone to stay with you.” She sat down at the chair next to my bed and made herself comfortable. “I do have some other duties, but you are to be my main subject of interest.” I said, “Miss Pennington, right now I just wish to get some rest.” I turned my face away from her and tried to fall asleep. It was tougher than I thought with someone watching you, but it had been a long day and sleep soon carried me away. I hadn't had a good rest in weeks. Even considering the circumstances, I still managed to sleep for quite some time. I had the odd dream here and there – the usual remembrances of battles past, and the soldiers that had passed on. The grim type of dreams that I imagine all soldiers are haunted by. I awoke in a sweat. I opened my eyes, only to find that the blasted Pennington woman still there. She was hovering over me and feeling my forehead with a cool hand. She hadn't noticed yet that I was awake, and I saw at that moment that her face had lost that sour look. I realized she was quite beautiful with large dark eyes looking ever-so concerned for my well￾being. “Why, hello there,” I said in a friendly manner. She jumped back and the old look returned to her face once again. She said hastily, “You surprised me, Lieutenant. I'm afraid you are running a bad fever. I'll have to have the doctor in to make sure your leg hasn't taken a bad turn with an infection.” My leg did hurt badly, but I only shook my head. “Never mind that - tell me miss, what is your story?” She frowned. “My story?” she replied innocently. Those eyes really were beautiful or else I had been in the trenches for far too long. “That accent of yours. How did a girl like you end up working at a hospital out here in the middle of a war?” “I'm not sure what you mean,” she replied and quickly looked away to fiddle with the clipboard at the side table. “Are you the daughter of a duke or something?” “If you must know,” she breathed at last, “My father happens to be Lord Pennington.” I reached over to my cigarette case and fished one out. I offered one to her but she merely shook her head. I lit it and said, “Lord Pennington? I've never heard of him.” She waved my smoke irritably away and said, “That's hardly surprising. We just have a small bit of land near Hallam Fields. Any money or prestige we once had was lost to the ages.” “I see,” I said, even though I didn't. What did I know of the aristocracy? “Well still, a daughter of a Lord. How did you come to be here in France?” “These are rather personal questions,” she said. “I know,” I admitted, “but I'm afraid I have little to do at the moment and only a dozen bullets to look forward to. Let’s make a bargain - you answer my questions and I'll answer any that you have. We have to spend a day or two here until they decide my fate. We might as well make the best of it.” Doubt crossed her eyes, but in the end she relented and said, “Very well Lieutenant, I will help you pass the time. I left my home to help out in this war as best as I could.” “Before you continue, there is no reason for us to be so formal. My name is William Grant, but my friends call me Will.” She smiled and said, “My name is Ellen. I prefer to call you William, if you don't mind. Will seems too personal.” I shrugged. “Please continue with your story, Ellen,” I said graciously. Very well, William,” she said. “As I was saying, when the war broke out and every able-bodied man was mobilizing, I felt left out. I wanted to join in on the great adventure against the Germans. On a whim, I decided to take up nursing. I'm afraid my father is rather conservative and didn't think it was a proper profession for a young lady.” “Part of the older generation?” I offered. “Quite,” she agreed. A warm smile passed her lips and once again I was taken by her beauty. “Of course I wasn't about to listen to him, so I took what little money I had and went straight to London. I signed up for nursing school, and they took me on. I hate to admit that my father's name may have helped, but it was the only chance I had of getting in. There were plenty of other girls in line and having a titled father certainly opened a few doors.” “That is quite understandable,” I said. “I rented a small room, but I’m afraid I've spent my entire life without a clear understanding of money. I never had to work or make a budget. I never realized how expensive everyday life was, and before I knew it, I was flat broke. I didn’t have enough to pay the landlord and knew I would have to return home in shame. Instead, I ended up writing to my mother, and she sent me enough funds to see me through. It wasn't a lot, but it was enough to get by.” “I'm surprised she helped you out,” I commented. She made a face and replied, “Mother always had a bit of a rebellious streak in her. She worked in a flower shop before she met father, so she understands real life better than I ever could. I'm sure he gave her his blessing for sending the money, since he never tried to have me traced and returned home.” “Your life reads like a heroine in one of those dime-store adventure books. What happened after nursing school?” “I’m afraid it hasn't been all that exciting. Once my class of girls was graduated, we were divided up and most of us were sent overseas. Ever since, I've been stuck in this hospital looking after hundreds of officers. Cleaning out bedpans and nursing the sick is not quite the glamorous life I was expecting. It is miserable place to be at times, and I've seen more than enough men die.” “I can't imagine,” was all that I could say. She then said, “Anyways, the heroine of a book would have been involved with a dashing young lieutenant and broken up a spy ring. Those types of things don't happen in real life.” “Probably not,” I agreed. My hurt leg suddenly gave a painful twinge and I shifted my weight to be more comfortable. The movement caused my leg to flare up yet again with a burst of white-hot pain. I involuntarily grunted. “Does your leg hurt that badly?” she asked with sudden concern. “It's okay,” I lied. I didn't want to give her the satisfaction of giving me any help, but in the end I didn't have much choice. “Instead of spending all this time talking to you, I should have gotten the doctor to see to that leg of yours.” She stood up and rushed out of the room. As she left, I couldn't help but watch those retreating slim ankles. As I said before, she was quite the pretty girl. I normally don’t go for women in uniform, but in this case I was willing to make an exception. Before I knew it, she was back with an old doddering doctor trailing behind. I wondered where they dug up this specimen from - he looked ancient and I half-expected him to pull out some leeches from a jar to bleed me. But he seemed competent enough as he took my pulse and finally pulled back the blanket to examine my leg. He then removed the encrusted bandages to get to the wound. It was a mess with caked blood and enough gore to turn any man's stomach. But I noticed Ellen didn't shirk, but carefully followed the doctor's mumbling instructions. “I'm afraid this wound is rather serious,” the doctor finally said to me. “You're lucky that no major arteries were punctured. You would have bled to death in just a few minutes.” “Maybe that would have been for the better,” I commented dryly. “That is of no concern of mine, I just treat the wounded. Some infection is starting to take place. I'll have the nurse here clean the wound and change the bandage. The orderlies out on the field do such a messy job. With any luck, you may survive your wound. Perhaps you would like some opium pills to take the pain away, Lieutenant?” “Perhaps not,” I replied coldly. “If you say so,” the doctor replied absently. I didn't really want the effects of the opium since I was rather enjoying my time with Ellen. And I may not have much time left on this earth so why would I want to spend it in a drug-induced haze? Anyways, I've had to give opium pellets to the dying and I didn't want to think down those lines myself. The doctor left and Ellen began to cut away the rest of the bandages. She worked efficiently with the hands of long practice. Soon the old wrappings were cleared away, and she then placed a clean white towel underneath my wounded leg. A liberal amount of alcohol was then poured over the bloody mess. I gritted my teeth as the pain shot down the length of my body. It seemed like an eternity before it receded enough where I could unclench my jaw. “Are you alright?” she asked as she began gently probing the wound with some fiendish device. “Never better,” I lied as I watched her work. Soon she had my leg wrapped up again, and I would honestly say she did a competent job. After the debris had been cleared away, she sat back down on the chair next to my bed. She shook her head as I reached for my cigarette case again. “Do you always smoke so much, William? It's a filthy habit.” “I don't think I'll have the time to break the habit,” I said as I lit up. The smoke felt good as it traveled through my lungs. I leaned wearily against the pillows. “Now that I've told you everything about me, what is your story? There have been so many rumors about you that I don't know what to believe.” “The rumors are probably true enough. But it's a long story,” I said as I flicked a smattering of ashes onto the floor. “You said yourself that we have plenty of time. Anyways, I've never met an American before. Tell me everything from the beginning.” So I did. I will attempt to keep the stories of my childhood short, but the following facts may explain my future temperament and actions. My father, Paul Grant, was a pastor for a small church in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Though he was never a popular minister, he was certainly respected in the community. By all accounts he was a gentle man and was getting on in years when he was invited to England to be a visiting professor of theology at Cambridge. It was there that he met his wife-to-be. Upon his arrival in England, he rented a room at a nearby home where the landlord had an unmarried daughter named Edith. She was considered an old maid at the ripe old age of twenty-seven, and it was to some surprise that she started to show an interest in my father. One thing led to another, and they ended up getting married before his year at Cambridge was through. I never knew if their marriage was a loveless one or not, since to my young eyes they never seemed romantically inclined towards each other. But there must have been something initially there since after they returned to America, my mother was pregnant. It must have come to a surprise to the both of them. I imagine he wanted someone to look after him in his coming years of retirement. Instead, he was busy playing father. From her point of view, she was escaping a meaningless life in Cambridge. Her parents had kept her busy about the house, and this may have been her only way of escaping the drudgery. My childhood years seemed to be just like everyone else's – the usual fun and games with a few run-ins here and there. To tell the truth, my father was never that close to me, but more like the distant Victorian father. On the other hand, my mother kept close watch on me and filled my ears with stories of the old country. Those stories definitely had an effect on me. Growing up, I imagined England as my lost home. I had many fantasies of returning there to battle dragons and fight alongside King Arthur. As my father got older, his theological views became more radical. This certainly didn't suit the conservative church congregation that he preached at, so we were eventually forced to move from the city. My mother took it in stride, but as the years passed by, we ended up moving from town to town with a smaller congregation at each stop. My father could only stay in one place for a while before he would have to find yet another church. This was rarely by his own will, for as I said, his views were often out of step from the majority. This eventually caused some grief with my mother, but she pretended to take it well. She was the source of the family strength, and my father never had cause to abuse her trust. About the only time I remember my mother getting angry was when we were forced to leave a newly bought oven behind. She was a good cook and she hated to think of that wonderful contraption in the hands of another woman. When I was fourteen, we ended up in Olney, Illinois. It was a small town with one church, a schoolhouse, and only a handful of inhabitants. But still, it was paradise to a lad like me. The dilapidated farmhouse my father bought had a small stream in the back which provided countless hours of entertainment. Moving about as much as we did, made me somewhat of a recluse, and I really didn't need the company of others to be happy. But still, I managed to start a friendship with a local boy named Adam. We enjoyed hunting small game with our rifles, and we spent plenty of time exploring the countryside on our bicycles.Even with all our moving, school was easy. I found myself excelling at math. The other boys in school were farmer's sons, and most of them wanted nothing to do with the son of a pastor. But bullies are in every town and even though I was taller than the most, one of them tried to pick a fight with me after school. He was a bull-necked son-of-a-gun who was always causing trouble of some sort. His friends had gathered about, and he began to taunt me. By the time I struck out at him, my face was flushed with anger. I whipped him easy. No one there ever tried to start a fight with me again. I’ll admit now that I was a bit lonely with just my one friend, but I wasn't about to offer any of my friendship to those uncouth youths. I was quite happy at Olney until one school day a note arrived for the teacher. I was notified to go home at that instant. It seems that my father had gone down to the basement to retrieve some canned goods and when he did not answer my mother’s call, she went down to investigate. He was there, sprawled on the floor unable to speak. The doctor was sent for, and a stroke was the diagnosis. That stroke changed everything. We were given enough charity to get by, but the town still needed a new pastor until my father got better. He never did get better even though my mother spent months patiently nursing him. One evening, my dad eventually slipped away. It was only ten days after my fifteenth birthday. At the time I didn't feel that much grief, but was proud that I was now the man of the house. I expected to work to keep my mother looked after. In the end, things didn't work out that way. My mother wrote to my father's brother Samuel. I didn’t even know that my uncle even existed since my father had never even mentioned his name. In the end, we ended up moving to Chicago to be with him. I can tell you it was a shock to move to such a big city. And it was something else seeing those high buildings that seemingly touched the sky. My uncle's house was located on a little cul-de-sac in Garfield Park. It was a small place since my uncle was a frugal bachelor. But still, it was well appointed and had more than enough room for my mother and me. I really don’t know what prompted my uncle to help us, but perhaps it was because he was a good man at heart. He had never married and worked long hours as a supervisor at the Griffin Wheel Factory where they made parts for Pullman railroad cars. He was an important man there and had more than enough money to support us. At first my uncle seemed so stern and unapproachable, but then one day he took me with to his job. I never saw anything like it in my life. The casting of the metal was fascinating to watch as the iron forges poured out red-hot molten metal. Afterwards, the parts were cleaned and assembled. My uncle listened patiently to all of my questions and answered the best he could. He had a wealth of knowledge and seemed to know everything there was to know. My questions seemed to please him, and after that trip, he started to take an active interest in me. Not only did he see that I went to the best school in town, but I also had a private tutor to hone my math and science skills. I owe that man plenty, for he treated me like his own son and was kind to my mother too. By the time I graduated from high school, I had a small group of friends with similar interests in math and engineering. I felt at ease with myself and gladly took up the challenge of the University of Illinois. At nights I worked at the factory, checking wheel tolerances and learning the trade of mechanical engineering. I had little free time for myself. While my other friends were out dating, I was hitting the books and working all the hours I could. I didn't want to feel obligated to anyone, not even my uncle Samuel, so I decided then that I was going to be a self-made man. I graduated from the university in 1912 and was immediately given a promotion at the Griffin Wheel Factory. There I toiled at my drafting table with several other engineers. Not exciting work, but the pay was excellent. I continued to live with my uncle and mother until I could find more favorable living circumstances. Not that I minded living with them, but I felt it would be best to soon strike off on my own. I craved independence and admit I was looking for some type of adventure. I began missing the feeling of freedom I had had when I was a younger. The open fields and the hidden paths of the countryside called me like a siren. In late June of 1914, Archduke Ferdinand was assassinated by a Serbian nationalist named Gavrilo Princip. No one at the time would have guessed that his actions would lead to war. Little did we know that Europe was just a house of cards waiting for the slightest nudge to make it topple. Of course the Austrians protested and sent their impossible demands to the Serbs. Meanwhile, the Serbs had the support of Russia, while the Austrians were counting on the Germans to help them. The Germans had their own plans and by August declared war on France and Russia. As the Kaiser advanced his army towards Paris, they swept into neutral Belgium, forcing the British to join the side of the French. America mostly looked at these proceedings across the ocean with distaste. It didn’t make any sense to us, and the stories of German atrocities were scarcely believed. We wanted nothing to do with this war and anyways, the general feeling was it would be over soon enough. I read with interest the German march on Paris, and how they were stopped by the French and British brave man.