A war of one man

chapter 2.1

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 yearswhen 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 armies. With the brave actions of Sir John French, the British Expeditionary forces

stopped the German army cold and forced them to dig in for a protracted fight. My heart cried

out for the British losses since I never lost my love for my adopted homeland. My mother was in

tears when I read her the news stories from England, and she worried about the families she

knew. My own hatred for the Kaiser and his warmongering generals grew and grew with each

passing day. I began to obsess over the war and wanted to help to put an end to it all.

Fall turned into winter, and there was still no end in sight. America went on its own way,

and the people did their best to ignore the war over there. It made for good newspaper headlines

but really had little impact on their daily lives. Sure, there were some shortages of imported

goods, but in a country as rich as America this didn’t hurt anyone but the most affluent.

I still remember a conversation that I had with my uncle where he explained his feelings

on the war. We had been talking after supper and discussing the general European situation. I

was heady with the need to help the British people, but he only made me angrier by shaking his

head like he was lecturing a child.

“America is a nation of immigrants,” he said. “We left Europe to rid ourselves of the wars

that plagued that continent. Why should we intervene and help the British or the French? Or for

that matter the Russian Czar?”

“They’re fighting for freedom,” I said proudly. I could feel my temper rising even

though I never had much reason to argue with my uncle before.

“Freedom?” my uncle chuckled. “Britain and France have colonies all over the world,

and they keep them rich by exploiting the less fortunate. The Russians are even worse with an

economy built on slave labor. They are all fighting to keep themselves in power. The Germans

would like to get their hands on those resources. Now you have to admit that is a foolish thing to

be involved with.”

I admit that my uncle was a bit of a socialist in his kinder moods. “But look at the

atrocities the Germans have committed,” I replied testily.

“Propaganda is a tool both sides use,” my uncle said judiciously. “I’m sure the British

have their own number of incidents they won’t bother reporting to their press. That is, if there is

any freedom of the press left over there.”

I knew it was no use arguing with my uncle any further, so I gave up at that point. Even

the sinking of Lusitania did not budge him from his views on the war. But it certainly made up

my mind. For some months I had grown dissatisfied with my boring job and was thinking of

leaving Chicago to go and fight against the Germans. The drowning of those innocent victims

on the Lusitania was the final straw. If I could join the British Army, then I would have the

adventure I craved.

I went ahead and made my plans. The next day, after work, I went to the bank and

withdrew the several hundred dollars I had saved over the years. The bank teller gave me an odd

look, for I was well-known for depositing my substantial leftover earnings. After checking the

train schedules, I then spent the night packing a small leather suitcase and writing a rather

sentimental letter to my mother. I won’t go in the details of my message, except it really was

written with the true love a son has for his mother. I had never been parted from her before and I

feared she would be most upset by my leaving. But she was in good stead with my uncle, and

she had no fears of the future. I wondered how my uncle would handle the news and thought he

would probably wash his hands of me.

Early the next morning, I left before anyone else was up. It was my habit to leave early

for work, so I did not expect them to be suspicious of my absence. I knew I wouldn't be missed

until that evening and by that time, I would be far away.

As usual, the train station was busy with morning travellers. I bought a ticket for a

sleeper car to New York City. It was more expensive to travel this way, but I wanted the privacy

to fully appreciate my little adventure. I had plenty of money tucked away in my wallet, and I

wanted to thoroughly enjoy myself. The train pulled out in time and I felt a rush of excitement

as my journey started. At this point, I’ll admit I had some misgivings, but they were quickly

overcome as I watched the scenery blur by as the train picked up speed. We went past the

Indiana steel mills and were soon eating up the miles of Ohio. The May weather was beautiful,

and the smell of spring was in the air. The new leaves were green, and it only added to the

sensation of being free from all responsibility.

I took my lunch and dinner in the dining car, watching my fellow travelers with great

interest. It wasn't long before evening came, and I was lying in my bed listening to the rails

swaying underneath me. I fell asleep to the gentle movement of the passenger cars swaying back and forth.

I woke up to the sound of the porters calling out our upcoming destination and gathering

luggage. New York was only an hour away. After excitedly changing my clothes, I greedily

watched out the window as we drew into the city limits. I knew New York was a big place, but

even I was surprised by the large number of people and buildings. The train chuffed into the

station and stopped in a gush of steam. I gripped my leather suitcase and jumped down to the platform. Though I was used to city life, the amount of sheer humanity in Grand Central Station overwhelmed me at first.

A man suddenly went sprawling against me. As I helped to pick him up, he apologized

profusely. He was a rat-faced little man. He quickly tipped his dilapidated hat in thanks and

disappeared into the teeming crowd.

I shrugged it off, continued on and fought my way to the 42nd Street exit. It was teeming

with people of all walks of life, and I managed to catch a cab to the Waldorf hotel. I admit I was

living high on the hog, but the experience of spending money so wantonly was quite enjoyable. I never had the inclination to spend so frivolously, and it felt good to enjoy the best things in life. When we reached the hotel, I stepped down from the taxi and the cabbie handed my

suitcase over. I reached for my wallet to pay the fare and found it was missing. I had been

robbed.

At this point I didn’t show any panic, even though I could feel my heart beating hard

against my chest. I still had some change in my pocket. I had just enough to pay for my fare. I

handed over the money to the cabbie and felt bad that I couldn’t give the poor fellow a decent

tip. I knew right away that my wallet had been stolen at the Grand Central Station by that rat￾faced man. Now it was clear that it had been no accident. I had been the victim of a professional

pickpocket looking for easy pickings. I must have looked naïve enough for him to take the

chance. There was no reason to summon the police, since by now I couldn’t even clearly

remember the thief’s face. Even if the police investigated, it would be a long time before I

would see that money again. There I was, stranded in New York City, with not even enough

money for a flophouse.

I had been planning that afternoon to go down to the passenger ship offices in order to

book a second class cabin to England. I could have waited a few days for the ship to leave,

spending my time taking in the sights of New York City. Now I had to think fast and find

another way overseas. I was too proud to wire my uncle for help so instead, I started walking

towards the direction of the waterfront. Perhaps I could steal aboard a ship or find work on a

steamer.

After asking for directions, I took a long walk towards the offices of several shipping

lines. I found a city teeming with different languages and men of the sort I had never seen

before. Chicago was large, but I had to admit it did not approach the majesty of New York City.

I only wished I had more time for seeing it before I made my journey across the ocean.

I found the White Star Lines and checked the schedules posted outside. I found that a

ship called the HMS Adriatic was leaving that very night for a seven day trip to Liverpool. After

noting down the wharf it was berthed at, I started walking for the docks. It was some time and a

few wrong turns before I finally made it to the wharf. The sea had a distinctly fishy smell, not at

all what I expected from my readings as a boy. I wrinkled my nose as I looked down the line of

docked ships.

Still carrying my suitcase, which seemed heavier than when I left the train station, I

found the Adriatic. She was a big two funnel ship – much bigger than I expected. There was a

flurry of activity around it. Luggage was being loaded, and there was a line of passengers

moving up the gangplank where their tickets were being checked. A separate gangplank was

being used by the crew, and some sailor was guarding the entrance against possible stowaways. I

couldn’t see any way on the ship unless I could bluff my way through the lines of passengers.

Surely visitors would be on board to say their last goodbyes.

I wandered up and down the dock, looking for any other way to gain access into the ship.

I stopped and considered climbing up the mooring lines, but feared I had neither the strength nor

the courage to do so. Anyways, I could have been spotted and that would be the end of that. I decided then to walk straight on board and take a chance I wouldn't be questioned due to my fine clothes. It was an odd shot, but at this point I couldn’t think of any other way onboard.

Lost in my thoughts, I didn’t notice the man standing next to me until he tugged on my

sleeve. I took a step back in surprise and saw an older gentleman who had a stoop. He wore a

grimy coverall and a grease-stained flat cap popular with the working class. His hands were

well-worn with work and blackened with coal dust. He said something, but I couldn’t make out

it what it was. He saw my confusion and slowly repeated the words again, “She’s a fine ship,” was what

I finally heard. Mind you, I’ve only heard my mother’s cultured British accent, and back then I

couldn’t easily recognize the distortions of the Cockney.

“Yes, she is,” I commented amiably enough. I continued staring at the ship wistfully.

“Do you have friends on board or are you waiting for someone?” As he spoke, his words

slowly became more understandable and I didn't need to strain my ears as much. His accent had

a pleasant rolling lilt that I found enjoyable to listen to - little did I know the wide variety of

accents I was about to encounter in the future.

I said cautiously, “I’m looking for a way to get to England so I can join the army over

there, but I’m afraid my money was stolen when I got here to New York.”

“Stolen?” he said kindly. “Well, you are dressed like a gentleman if I do say so myself.

Why don't you head on over to the bank and get some more money?”

I shook my head. “I'm not that much of a gentleman. I'm a stranger here in New York

City and don't expect my uncle back in Chicago would like to know where I am going.”

“Ah, I see – you’re a runaway. I did the same thing myself when I was a boy. But I was

a wee younger than you are. Tell me, can you do some hard work?”

“What are you suggesting?”

“You see, I’m on the stoking crew of the Adriatic. I must admit that I'm getting on in

years. This is supposed to be my last trip across. I can’t do the work I once did, but if you help

me out, I’ll get you on board.”

This was definitely a stroke of luck. I asked cautiously, “If I could inquire, what exactly

are your duties?”

“I shovel coal,” he said proudly. “And then I shovel some more until they tell me to stop

shoveling. We have to keep boilers going to keep the steam up if the ship wants to go

anywhere.”

I was familiar with the operation of steam since we used various steam-powered

machines at our shop to lathe and turn the wheels as they were being manufactured. We used an

enormous amount of coal to keep the boilers going. I’ve watched the men laboring to keep the

furnaces going. It was grueling work, and only the most unskilled were put into that job. “It’s

hard work,” I said uneasily.

“Aye, it is at that. But at least it is honest work. Anyways, it will build you up for the

army.”

“I’ll take your offer. My name is William Grant,” I said and offered my hand.

He reached out a calloused hand and we shook. “My name is Isaac Mills,” he said with a

grin. “It is a pleasure to meet you. Now we must hurry and get on board before we are left

behind.”

With those words, Isaac hurried up the crew's gangplank with me in tow and nodded to

the man standing guard. The man was a big burly brute, but he merely stared at me before letting

us pass. Isaac then led me to an iron wrought stairway which we took down. We descended

further into the deeper levels of the ship, each step echoing against the metal walls. After an

interminable distance, we arrived at the bottom of the stairs.

We walked awhile longer on a suspended catwalk, my head ducking past a maze of pipes.

We were in the bowels of the ship, and the hum of the engines was growing louder with each

step. The great boilers that ran the propellers loomed ahead – they were massive. I could only

whistle in appreciation as I looked up at them through the dim carbon lights.“She's a good ship,” Isaac said proudly. “She can do up to eighteen knots if we put our

back into it.”

I didn't know enough about ships to comment intelligently so I merely nodded. “Is it safe

to be down here?” I asked. I was feeling claustrophobic with the iron weight of the ship above

me. If this ship was to sink, this was clearly the most dangerous place to be. How much time

did the stokers in the Lusitania have to get to the top? It wasn’t a pleasant thought.

Isaac laughed and said, “You’ll get used to the feeling soon enough.”

We went past the boilers and I could hear the scrape of the shovel against iron. A knot of

men were laboring in front of the open furnace door, shoveling in masses of coal. Coal was piled

up everywhere on the bottom of the deck. I watched them work until the mighty door of the

furnace shut with a clang. I wondered again what kind of situation I had gotten myself into.

“Hello gents,” Isaac called out to his fellow workers.

When they saw me, they came over. Their faces were streaked black with coal, and in the

gloom I could barely make out their features. They looked much like devils working over the

furnaces of hell.

“This here is William,” Isaac said, pointing at me. “He needs some help.”

“Hello everyone,” I mumbled. Toothy smiles flashed through their soot-stained faces. I

shook hands with everyone and cringed at the thought of the future of the fine clothes I was

wearing. This was going to be some dirty work.

“This Yank wants to go and fight the Hun,” Isaac added. This brought some further

words of encouragement from the assembled men. They now seemed quite keen to help me out.

“Now William,” one of the men warned, “Keep your head down and don’t pay attention

to anyone. The Lieutenant in charge here wouldn’t recognize any of us in broad daylight, so I’m

sure he will just ignore you if you stay quiet enough.”

“I can handle that,” I replied since at this point I had nothing to lose. A shovel was then

placed into my hands, and I took off my jacket to help with the shoveling. It was harder work

than I imagined. The men sang some songs to pass the time. At that time I couldn’t figure out

the unfamiliar words, so I just hummed along as I scooped coal into the open furnaces. Isaac

stood to the side without working and offered me words of encouragement. He soon told me the

ship was about to make steam and leave the confines of the harbor.

Suddenly, I could feel movement under my feet. Within a few minutes, the ship began to

sway and roll violently. Even living in Chicago near Lake Michigan, I admit I have had little

experience with boats. While I fought to keep my footing, I noticed the other workers glancing

towards me with a keen interest. Fighting the urge to sit down and rest, I kept on working even

though I felt sick to my stomach. As long as I kept concentrating at the task at hand, I could

keep the contents of my stomach down.

“How are you feeling?” Isaac asked as he slapped me hard on the back. My stomach

gurgled uncomfortably. My last meal seemed like a long time ago, but something was bound to come up if the rolling of the ship did not cease.

Fine,”I gulped. “Tell me, does the ship always move in such a fashion?He laughed and said, “I can tell you haven’t been to sea before. We’ve just left the safety of the harbor and entered into the sea proper. Honestly, this is nothing yet. I’ve been in some riots blows where all you can do is hold on to the deck and pray you will live to see the next day. “I see,” I said weakly and continued shoveling at the coal in front of me one careful scoop at a time. It’s about suppertime,