Service
War Correspondents
by TNL
for the waxjism.net Autumn Songfic Challenge
If I could just find a way . . . so that you were right here, right now.
“Gone” by Justin Timberlake and Wade J. Robson
1914
German Emperor Rejects British Note:
State of War Declared in Europe
Front page, The Boston Transcript, 5 August 1914
Postcard stamped Biarritz, France 27 July 1914 – stamped Gloucester, Massachusetts 5 August 1914:
Dear old Howie:
I haven’t had a minute to sit down with pen and paper, so this card will have to serve. We are stopping at the Hotel Imperatrice, where we stayed last summer. One of the fellows behind the desk reminds me of Mr. Richardson. Very stern he is. Please give my best regards to all the men, with a special greeting to Giuseppe.
C. Kirkpatrick
Stations Clogged as Foreign Visitors Leave France
Many Trains Diverted for Troop Use
Page 3, The Boston Transcript, 5 August 1914
Giuseppe Fatone set the newspaper down carefully on the servants’ hall table. “Dorough?” he asked, gently. “Have you heard from Kirkpatrick?”
Halfway down the table, Howie Dorough reached into his shirt pocket and retrieved a heavily creased postcard. Holding it up, he shook his head. “This came,” he said. “I don’t where he is now.”
German Army Crosses Franco-Belgian Border
Front page, The Boston Transcript, 6 August 1914
By an unspoken agreement, the footmen had hidden Mr. Deering’s copy of the Transcript. Normally, once Mr. Deering had finished breakfast, the paper came back to the kitchen to be read, in stages, by any one of the servants who had the leisure to scan the race results or the agony columns.
Brian Littrell had been the first of them to see the headline, handing the newspaper to AJ McLean with a small frown. “What—?” McLean said, inattentive, as he read the first few words of a story about the races off Eastern Point. “Oh,” he breathed. “Oh, God. Chasez.”
Littrell nodded. Even after almost a decade in America, JC Chasez – Mr. Deering’s chef – remained an ardent Frenchman, apt, when excited, to lapse into a torrent of French in preference to his usual halting English.
As a result, Brian had learned quite a few amorous French phrases.
“What do you think he’ll do?” Dorough whispered.
“Join up,” McLean replied.
“He won’t,” Littrell said, firmly.
Still, they hid the newspaper.
Heavy Fighting Continues near Strasbourg
Front page, The Boston Transcript, 11 August 1914
Postcard stamped Biarritz, France 5 August 1914 – stamped Gloucester, Massachusetts 17 August 1914:
Dear Howie:
I will try to post this card at the station. Mr. Sargent and I are returning to London before war is declared, as we expect, at midnight tonight. Everyone here is hurrying homeward, including two of the German princesses who were stopping at our hotel. Mr. S. has kept his head, altho’ all the world seems turned bottom up.
Your friend, C. Kirkpatrick
Chasez had surprised them all by calmly accepting each morning’s news. Day after day, the French Army fell back under the German onslaught: it began to seem that the war would end in a matter of days with the Kaiser in Paris and the British anchored off Calais.
In the third week of the war, Chasez looked up from the Transcript and caught Littrell’s eye. ‘Outside’ he mouthed, his chair scraping linoleum as they stood.
“I go back,” Chasez said, his voice steady, as they sheltered from the afternoon drizzle beside the kitchen door. Littrell was almost certain that the other men seated at the servants’ hall table – Bass and Fatone and Dorough – could hear the Frenchman’s words.
“I know,” he replied. “I’m going with you.”
“Non. Je ne serais – non, Bree-on. You stay here, and be safe. I go. I must go.”
“I’m goin’.” Brian gave his lover a broad smile. “One thing, though.”
JC wiped his cheek. “What?”
“Could we join an English regiment, so I can understand our orders?”
“Tu est si fou. Crazy.”
“I’m serious,” Brian chuckled, capturing JC in a valedictory embrace.
Envelope stamped London, England 11 August 1914 – stamped Gloucester, Massachusetts 29 August 1914:
10th August 1914
Dear Howie:
Mr. Sargent has given me leave to join Mr. Walter Disney, my old master’s brother, as his batman (servant). We leave for Calais in a day or so.
I know we had planned that I would be back with Mr. S. sometime next winter, but it does not look as if I will make the trip. Mr. S. will remain here until we defeat the Boche – by Christmas, if not sooner – but my plans are a little bit muddled for now. He will have to find another man to valet him. It would hardly be fair if I came back and took the new man’s place.
Perhaps I can find an American master. I should like to return to Vizcaya.
I want you to know, I miss you terrible. Ask Pepe (I hope you have). When I thought Mr. S. was going to go back to Miami, I was that overjoyed. I envy Pepe, that he is there with you.
Please remember me to Giuseppe and Mr. Richardson, and all the other men.
When I am settled in my new post, I will send you a card with my address. I think you can reach me through Mr. Sargent (11, Tite St., London, S.W.), at least at present.
Take care of yourself.
Your loving friend
Christopher Kirkpatrick
1915
Letter passed by British Army censor, Northern France 5 March 1915 – envelope stamped Miami, Florida 17 March 1915:
14th Army Mobile Hospital
March 2 ‘15
Dear Mr. Richardson and all the folks at home:
I think Chasez may have written that I had a bit of a scare last month. I am recovering from a bout of fever, but the doctors tell me that I’ll be right as rain. They plan to send me to a sanatorium somewhere outside London, when once I am fit to move.
Chasez is now Gen. Haig’s chef. As you can imagine, I tried to mess with the 1st Army whenever possible!
I saw C. Kirkpatrick just before I got sick. His master (Maj. Disney) is serving at H.Q., and I hope to see him (Kirkpatrick) before I am evacuated.
I would write more, but I am still a little weak – especially after lunch – so I will close for now.
As ever,
Yours truly,
B. T. Littrell
Private, for Mr. Richardson
The doctors fear some damage to my heart, though with care they think I will recover. If I should die, I want my savings to go to J. S. Chasez, and I rely on you to hold them for me. My best suit of clothes to H. Dorough. My watch to N. Carter (who needs to learn to tell time). My signed photograph of Eleanor Robson to A. J. McLean. My Bible to you, with thanks for your friendship.
I am not downhearted. Please don’t worry – it just seems prudent to put my last wishes in writing.
Sincerely, Brian Thomas Littrell
The letters, when they came, were full of foreboding. Richardson always knew when a new letter had arrived from London, for Fatone would brew a strong pot of tea and sit at the kitchen table, staring at the checked tablecloth for hours. He had been promoted to chef after Chasez’s two replacements failed to suit, and his increased salary went, week after week, to pay for his mamma’s hospitalization.
At night, Giuseppe crawled into his arms and told Kevin stories about his mother. “She’s too good for this world,” he always said, and Richardson would whisper: “Mamma’s goin’ to be fine, Babbo.”
“I hope so,” he replied. “Oh, Kevin, but what if she’s not?”
6:15 pm April 30 ‘15
To K. Richardson, 1220 Lakeshore Drive, Chicago, Ill. Sent by G. A. Fatone, Western Union, 501 West 44th St., New York, N.Y.
SAILING TOMORROW LUSITANIA STOP ARRIVE LONDON MAY 7 STOP YOUR GIUSEPPE
Lusitania Sinks Off Ireland with Great Loss of Life
2,000 May Have Perished
Special Edition, The Chicago Sun, 7 May 1915
4:27 p.m. May 7 ‘15
To J. S. Sargent, 11 Tite Street, London S.W., England Sent by Jas. Deering, Chicago, Ill.
GIUSEPPE FATONE PASSENGER LUSITANIA STOP DEEPLY CONCERNED STOP HAVE YOU ANY NEWS QUERY KINDLY CABLE TWELVEHUNDRED TWENTY LAKESHORE DRIVE CHICAGO YOURS JAS. DEERING
11:02 a.m. 8th May 1915
To James Deering, 1220, Lake Shore Drive, Chicago, Ill., U.S.A. Sent by J. S. Sargent, Athenaeum Club, London, W.
NO NEWS AS YET STOP THERE ARE MANY SURVIVORS WE HOPE FOR BEST STOP REGARDS SARGENT
1:36 p.m. 9th May 1915
To James Deering, 1220, Lake Shore Drive, Chicago, Ill., U.S.A. Sent by J. S. Sargent, 11, Tite Street, London, S.W.
HOPEFUL WORD FROM IRELAND RECEIVED STOP FATONE ON LIST OF SURVIVORS AWAITING CONFIRMATION REGARDS SARGENT
4:02 p.m. 9th May 1915
To K. Richardson, 1220, Lake Shore Dr., Chicago, Ill., U.S.A. Sent by G. A. Fatone, Queen’s Temperance Hotel, Cove, Ireland
CARO SAFE LETTER FOLLOWS YOUR GIUSEPPE
Envelope stamped Liverpool, England 10 May 1915 – stamped Chicago, Illinois 22 May 1915:
Queen’s Temperance Hotel
Cove
May 9, 1915
Dear Kevin (crossed out and replaced in a different hand: My Kev):
I have had no time to write since Friday.
We were within sight of the south coast of Ireland. I had just sat down on the port side to write you (my letter was already 11 pages long, as I had been writing every day) when a great shudder ran through the ship. We lurched heavily to starboard, and a minute later there was a second explosion. The ship started to sink at once. The deck sloped toward the bow, and I was hard pressed to stay upright. Fortunately, we had had boat drills, so we knew to find our life vests and to seek our lifeboats. Mine was toward the stern on the starboard side, so I followed the crowd – there was very little panic – to the port lifeboats. Someone handed me a vest, and I helped one or two ladies buckle their preservers.
In the end, I decided to try my luck by going over the side. I fell about 20 feet into the sea, then started swimming away from the ship. When I turned back, only the stern was visible.
I swam for ages, until I found a lifeboat to tow me to shore. It took more than an hour.
I must have sprained my shoulder, and a Nurse is kindly writing this letter for me.
I should be in London tomorrow afternoon. I have cabled Mama – she is no better. At least she won’t be grieving for me. When I am able, I will visit Brian Littrell in hospital.
I must close, but will write again soon.
Your friend,
Giuseppe
(In a different hand:) P.S. I mean to say, your Babbo
List of Missing
Maj. W. E. Disney, and servant
Page 4, The Times, London, 12 July 1915
“How are we today?” the nurse asked, stooping over Brian Littrell’s wheelchair and taking his temperature by touch. “Do we have any visitors? Oh – your Mr. Fatone comes today.”
“He does,” Brian replied, with a smile. “And he’s bringin’ me a surprise.”
“That’s nice,” Sister Wallace said, absently, “but I’ll not have you excited. I shall have a word with Mr. Fatone before he comes out to see you.”
Brian’s flush was livid against his pale cheeks. “Do you think,” he murmured, “that I’ll ever get any stronger?”
Sister straightened, brushing away the creases in her uniform. “You ask me every day. And the answer is always ‘yes.’”
“I know. Thank you, Sister.”
“That’s better,” she said, reaching above Brian’s head to fuss with the awning. “A smile is the thing. I shall bring Mr. Fatone and his surprise out to you directly.”
The sun was directly overhead, and Brian had begun to doze under his light cotton blanket when a strange sound disturbed his rest.
“Shh!”
“I’ll have to ask you—”
“Mon dieu.”
“JC” – a frantic hiss – “damn it.”
“Mr. Fatone.”
Brian opened his eyes. Giuseppe smiled down at him with a fixed grin. Sister Wallace hovered off to one side, but Littrell was staring at Chasez.
His lover had always been easy to read: JC’s face betrayed his every emotion. Brian struggled to sit up in his chair as Chasez knelt before him, squeezing both of his hands.
“Hello,” Brian said.
“‘ello, cheri,” JC whispered, his eyes glittering in the afternoon sunlight.
“I was hopin’ you’d come,” Brian continued. “Welcome, Pepe. And thanks, Sister, I think I’d like to spend some time with my friends.”
“No excitement,” Sister Wallace replied, waiting for Brian’s accepting nod. “I’m counting on you, Mr. Fatone.”
Giuseppe muttered ‘Of course,’ and the others waited until the nurse was halfway across the lawn.
“You could push me along the paths,” Brian observed. “There’s several spots where we could have a bit of privacy.”
JC stepped back, rubbing his arms, and let Giuseppe maneuver the wheelchair on to the gravel path. When they were out of sight of the house, he pushed the chair to a stop beside a garden bench.
Then he left Brian and JC alone.
“I’m really much better,” Brian noted, as JC tried to warm his palm between both hands. “Nurse says so.”
“I know,” JC replied, carefully tucking Brian’s hand back under his blanket. “It’s just a shock. I s’pose I ‘ad an idea you would be ‘ealthy again, and I. . .”
“Well,” Brian said, softly, “I know. But these things take time.” He shifted in his seat, pulling the blanket further up his chest. “I don’t have anything to tell you – it’s painfully slow here – but I was wonderin’ about the General, and all.”
As Chasez spoke, tripping over his words, Littrell watched his face relax, lit up by his adoration of General Haig and the other officers at Headquarters.
“But you know,” JC said, a few minutes later, his brow furrowing, “Kirkpatrick is missing. Mon pauvre petit Dorough.”
“I didn’t know if he’d turned up,” Brian sighed. “I’ll write to— I’m not even sure where they are any more.”
“Glo’ster,” JC replied, wistfully. “We always went to Glo’ster for August.”
“And we will again,” Brian said. “Stop worryin’. You worry too much.”
Envelope stamped Chicago, Illinois 2 January 1916 – stamped London, England 14 January 1916:
December 31, 1915
Dear Babbo:
It’s nearly midnight on the last night of the year. Today I counted up the days you’ve been gone – 244. I’m trying my best to be a man, and be strong, but I drive myself insane wishing I could touch your face.
I am looking at your photograph, the one from our day at West Beach the summer before last. You look like some sort of sea animal, walking out of the surf, shining and wet. When I go to bed at night, I set the frame on the pillow beside me. The rest of the time it sits on the dresser, so I can see it from wherever I am in my room.
I would find some things to do, to take my mind off missing you, but it is just on midnight. – There. Happy New Year, Babbo.
Good night, my dear love. Please send my love to all your family. All the men join me in wishing you a happy 1916, one that will, with God’s Grace, bring you back to me.
Yours, always,
Kevin
P.S. I think it almost certain that L. Bass will join the Lafayette Flying Corps.
1916
Envelope stamped London, England 2 January 1916 – stamped Chicago, Illinois 13 January 1916:
1st January 1916
Dear Kevin:
Happy New Year!
We are all well, here, despite the Zeppelins’ best efforts – we’ve had raids every night since Christmas Eve, and there has been quite a bit of damage around the city.
You must know by now that Chris. Kirkpatrick is a prisoner in Germany. Mrs. Disney says he is healthy, but the family is concerned about the Major, who was badly wounded in the leg. We have had no luck contacting C. K. through the Red Cross – maybe you could try, from the States?
B. Littrell had a set-back, but is right as rain now. He is going to join me in working for Mr. Sargent – I will have to tell him all of Kirkpatrick’s secrets on how to valet Mr. S. (He can not use too much starch.)
You are far away today, and tho’ I have my family around me, I feel alone. I think of you all the time – my own Kevin. If only I could find a way to make it so that you were right here, right now.
Good-bye for today.
With all my love,
Giuseppe (Babbo)
11, Tite Street, London S.W.
10:05 am 3rd February 1916
To A. J. McLean, 1220, Lake Shore Drive, Chicago, Ill., U.S.A. Sent by J. L. Bass, Hyde Park Hotel, Knightsbridge, London
CARTER AND I ARRIVED SAFELY WRITE CARE G FATONE TITE STREET AFFEC: LANCE
They had sat up late, catching up on all their American friends, and it was after midnight when Giuseppe ushered Nick Carter and Lance Bass into one of the basement bedrooms, in former days used by the footmen. Nowadays, Mr. Sargent limped by with two servants instead of six.
Fatone sat in a chair between the beds and chatted with his visitors for a few minutes longer. When he returned to the servants’ hall, he found Littrell asleep in the rocking chair, his face illuminated by the dying coal fire.
Giuseppe debated wrapping Brian in a blanket and leaving him downstairs: the thought of carrying him up to the top of the house, and their own rooms, was daunting.
“Huh,” Brian breathed, blinking his eyes. “‘Ready for bed?”
“I am,” Giuseppe replied. “D’you need a hand?”
“I don’t. If I were more awake, I’d race you.”
“Some other time,” Giuseppe said, following Brian towards the back stairs.
When they reached the top floor, Littrell paused. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, then shook his head.
“G’night, Pepe.”
“‘Night, Bri.”
Giuseppe brushed his teeth at the basin in his room, hunching his shoulders so he could fit under the eaves. As he turned away from the sink, he could see Brian standing in the doorway.
“‘Afraid of the dark?” he grinned.
“No,” Brian replied. “I want. . .”
Giuseppe stood before him, bare arms folded across his singlet, waiting.
“I want you,” Brian said, and leaned up to kiss him.
“Oh, God, no,” Giuseppe groaned, gingerly enfolding Brian in an embrace. “We can’t.”
“We can. It’s been so long, Pepe, please.” In spite of himself, Giuseppe responded to the other man’s proximity, his cock hardening against Brian’s groin. “No one has to know. Please.”
He eased Brian down on the bed, slowly tracing his unfamiliar body and growing accustomed to his friend’s whispered words of encouragement. When he eased Brian’s erection out of his trousers and rolled his tongue across the tip, Brian gasped: “Yes – that’s it! Oh, Christ!”
When he knelt, on hands and knees, and sucked harshly on Brian’s cock, his lover growled: “More, Pepe, more.”
And when he was thrusting into Brian’s lithe body, he shut his eyes tight and tried not to think of Kevin.
Postcard passed by German Army censor 20 April 1916 – stamped Miami, Florida 2 May 1916 – stamped Chicago, Illinois 5 May 1916:
[x] Healthy
[x] Well-treated
[ ] Received provisions
[ ] Received letter
[x] Received visit from Red Cross
Signed: C. A. Kirkpatrick 15th April 1916
Letter passed by Lafayette Escadrille censor, Northern France 8 August 1916 – envelope stamped Gloucester, Massachusetts 18 August 1916:
Lafayette Flying Corps
August 6, ‘16
Dear Justin:
We got our results today, and Lance Bass scored first out of 23. I was tenth, which was about what I expected. Now, Lance takes the officers’ test – knowing him, he will be first in that, too.
I have settled in well – the other men are swell fellows, and I’ve made some new friends. When I can, I talk to Lance about home. I miss you and all our friends back in the States.
You can have no idea what it is like here – it’s the biggest thing I’ve ever seen, and I’ve only seen a small part of it, from the air, far behind the lines for now.
Lance and I will try to see Chasez, if we can arrange our leave, but things change here from day to day.
I have to go, and so will close.
Your pal, Nick Carter
It was still humid at seven in the evening: for once, the Atlantic breezes did little to dissipate the heat. Timberlake parked Mr. Deering’s car under a spreading tree and made his way into the house, an oversized cottage after his master’s Chicago and Miami homes, passing the new chef on his way upstairs to change.
“Mr. Richardson asked to see you when you came in.”
“Thanks, Underwood,” Justin replied, wearily climbing the back stairs.
A few minutes later, he walked out on the terrace. He had changed into an open-necked shirt instead of his summer uniform, but was already sweating. At the far end of the terrace sat Richardson, staring out over the ocean.
“‘Evening, Mr. Richardson,” Justin said, and Kevin started, his elbows bumping the top of the café table. “Sorry,” he added, sinking into a chair beside the butler.
In silence, Richardson passed him a folded-up sheet of thin paper. A telegram. With a sinking heart, Timberlake plucked it from the table. He noted, dimly, that someone was ringing the back doorbell.
RECEIVED DRAUGHT NOTICE STOP LETTER FOLLOWS GIUSEPPE
“Oh, Lord,” Justin breathed, “I was afraid—” He looked into Richardson’s dull eyes and faltered: “I thought. . . You know, Nick. Or Lance.”
“Yes,” Kevin agreed. “I did, too. Not. Not Giuseppe.”
Justin’s eyes shone as he replied: “It’s for a good cause, Kevin. The greatest cause in the world.”
“I know. And I know that Babbo – Giuseppe – will come through it. Only. . .”
Justin pushed back his chair. In the distance, they could hear the telephone ringing. Standing behind the butler, Timberlake rested his hands lightly on his friend’s shoulders. For a few moments, both men watched a yawl make fleet progress along the horizon. Then, Justin leaned down and kissed the tip of Kevin’s ear. “He’ll come back,” he said, straightening up.
Behind them, Underwood cleared his throat. “Mr. Richardson, Mr. Deering is on the ‘phone for you.”
“Thank you, Underwood,” Kevin said, his shoulders slumping, walking quickly towards the side entrance.
The chef shot Timberlake a saturnine look and handed him a sheaf of letters, a telegram on top.
“Promotion,” Underwood murmured. “Mr. Bass.”
Dorough knocked on the door to the study.
Mr. Deering set his pipe in the ashtray as his manservant stepped into the room. “Yes?”
“It’s McLean, sir. He’d like a word.”
The valet ushered McLean into the room, shutting the door behind him.
“Yes, McLean?”
The footman watched his master fiddle with his pipe, shifting from foot to foot. “It’s— It’s Giuseppe, sir. Fatone.” He fluttered a sheet of writing paper in one fist.
“Ah, yes. He is well, I trust?”
“He is, sir. He’s been called up. Drafted, sir.”
“Ah. Well. I hardly think—”
“It’s his mother, sir.”
“Mother?”
“Yes,” McLean replied, inexorably, “and his daughter.”
The other man’s hand stilled. “Daughter?”
“Yes,” the footman gulped. “Yes, sir.”
“What are his mother and his daughter to me?” Deering asked, not unkindly.
“It’s like this, Mr. Deering, sir. Mrs. Fatone needs an operation, and Pepe – Fatone, sir – has saved up the money. His, ah, daughter. Her mother works in a munitions factory, sir, and she is anxious to send the little girl with her grandmother, if Mrs. Fatone comes to America. . .”
James Deering returned to fixing his pipe. After a moment, he looked up from his work and asked: “Why isn’t Richardson coming to see me about this? And you haven’t answered my question, McLean: what is all this to do with me?”
“Fatone wrote me,” McLean replied. “I’ve already spoken with Richardson, and he told me to see you. Sir. I think Fatone intends to come back to the States, sir, once the war is over, and in the meantime, he thinks his mother could get proper treatment here. And the little girl, sir, is really. . . It’s her mother, you see, sir. She’s worried, on account of the Zeppelins.”
“I should imagine,” Mr. Deering murmured, relighting the Meerschaum. “I take it that Fatone is not married to the child’s mother.”
“No, sir.”
Deering brushed some stray tobacco from the blotter. “And Richardson?”
“I don’t know, sir. I think he is waiting. . .”
“Well, in any case – that is none of my concern. What would you like me to do?”
“I have some holiday coming, and I thought I might meet the boat, sir, in New York.”
“And then what?”
“I don’t rightly know, Mr. Deering, sir.”
“For heaven’s sake, McLean – you must have thought out—”
“There’s Carter’s room, sir, at Vizcaya. It’s empty. Mrs. Fatone and the child could stay there. . .”
A cloud of smoke briefly enwreathed the other man’s head and shoulders. “What, and have them suffocate in summer? No, McLean, it won’t do.”
“Mr. Deering, sir—”
“I’m sure Richardson can find room here for Fatone’s mother and daughter. Send him along to see me, there’s a good man. And when do you leave for New York?”
“A week from Friday, sir,” McLean smiled.
“That will be all, McLean, and do send Richardson along to me.”
“I will, sir.”
Daring Escape from Hun Prison
Corporal Leads Group to Safety
Front page, The Morning Telegraph, London, 2 December 1916
Envelope stamped London, England 9 December 1916 – stamped Chicago, Illinois 20 December 1916:
11, Tite Street
S.W.
8th December 1916
Dear old Howie:
I no sooner arrived at Mr. Sargent’s but I was handed a stack of your letters. I read the first one, and it made me glad. I’ll read the rest later – for now, I want to write you instead.
For all the time I was in the camp, I wondered if you had forgotten me. While I was in Germany, I received only two letters, both from Mrs. Disney. Now I see that you had guessed that I was not getting your letters and wrote me here. I can’t tell you how it cheers me to see your handwriting again.
I suppose you know we were taken in a raid, and Mr. Disney was injured in the legs. The Hun were quite decent to him, tho’ I think he will always walk with a cane.
The camp was fairly grim. It was well-organized, which worked to our advantage at the last, as we were able to clock the guards in their rounds. We dug a tunnel, which the Boche guards found, of course, but they overlooked a second tunnel. It took us four months to build the second one, and another two weeks to perfect the plan. More than once I was sure we were discovered. The Major’s injury made for slow progress, once we took the tunnel out into the forest around the camp. There were eleven of us at the start, but we had to break up into smaller parties – I don’t know yet if everyone made it back to our lines.
I half-expect to wake up from this dream, back in the camp. Your letters remind me that I am a free man.
Littrell tells me he was in hospital for months, but he looks well now. Mr. Sargent is as ever, and says he wants to visit the U.S. this next year. With any luck, he will see you, old friend.
I hear Bass is now a lieutenant in the American Flying corps, and Carter is with him. Littrell has hardly heard from Fatone, but I suppose he writes to his Mother.
Mrs. Disney has invited me to tea, so I must put on my best suit (Littrell’s) and go call on her. Then I shall have my Victory pie and a pint, with Littrell, and read more of your letters.
I can hardly believe I am here, and that I might see you again.
Your loving friend
Christopher Kirkpatrick
1917
“We can’t,” Brian murmured, as they waited for Giuseppe to bring in the sweet. “Not tonight. I’m sorry, Chris.”
“That’s all right,” Chris replied. “I’ll still be here tomorrow.”
They had stumbled into it, a few days after Chris’ return from France, and after a long drought he was enjoying his love affair, however temporary the connection. Most nights, they slept together in Littrell’s room, but for the duration of Giuseppe’s visit – his last, before going to the Front – Chris was sleeping alone.
Giuseppe had to make an early start, so they turned in before ten o’clock. Chris was still awake an hour later, and with a smile he sat up in bed, reaching for his dressing gown.
He padded down the dark hall, careful to make no noise. At the door to Brian’s room, he paused, listening, and that was when he heard the steady squeal of the bedsprings, and ‘Yes, Pepe, oh, God, yes.’
Chris stuck his fists in his robe’s pockets. He had grown familiar with the thump! of the brass head rail against the wall, with Brian’s gasping encouragement, with the way they huddled together, afterwards. He waited until Giuseppe cried out his release, then turned away.
He didn’t want to know whether Fatone spent the night.
In the morning, Giuseppe was subdued: so far as Chris could tell, he was unembarrassed. There was a flurry, getting Giuseppe’s kit together, and then – because they were late – the three men shared a cab to the station. Brian betrayed only friendly feelings, clasping Giuseppe briefly as they said their adieux.
Walking back to Tite Street, Chris couldn’t help himself: “How was it, last night?”
Brian looked composed. “You mean, with Giuseppe? He’s an old friend – I wanted him to have a good evening.”
A furious whisper: “So you let him fuck you?”
Brian’s steps faltered. “I let him do what I let you do, Chris.” He stopped in the middle of the Fulham Road. “You have no reason to be jealous.”
“I don’t?”
“You don’t,” Brian said, one hand slipping under Chris’ elbow and guiding him to the curb. “What we do is in fun. When this is all over, I’ll go back to JC, and you’ll go to Howie, maybe, or someone else. What you and I have – and what I have with Pepe – it’s just for now.”
Chris’ hand went to the muffler around his throat. “Is that all this is?”
Brian laughed. “Yeah, and I think that’s plenty. We could all die tomorrow, don’t you see? Any one of us – even us sickly ones, here in London. So don’t turn up your nose at it – ‘just a bit of fun.”
“I’m jealous.”
“Don’t be. It’s Pepe: if you could show him a good time, his last night in London in who knows how long, wouldn’t you do it?”
“That isn’t fair,” Chris muttered; “not when you put it that way.”
“Well, it’s true,” Brian smiled.
And when, that night, Littrell beckoned Kirkpatrick down the hall to his room, he went.
Nick Carter was early, so he took a turn in the Rue Cambon. Just as he was passing the side entrance to M. Ritz’s hotel, he heard a voice call: “Carter! Nick Carter!”
Turning, he could see JC Chasez, his great coat flapping in the unseasonable warmth, hurrying down the street. “I ‘oped it was you,” Chasez said, shaking his friend’s hand. His gaze traveled over Carter’s uniform. “The Escadrille, yes?”
“Yes,” Carter replied, a note of pride in his voice. “And you’re still cooking for General Haig?”
“I am,” JC acknowledged. “Come,” he said, already crossing the narrow street. “Let’s have a drink.”
“Oh, no,” Nick said, catching Chasez at the door. “Not the Ritz, JC. Only officers take tea at the Ritz.”
“D’accord. We won’t sit in the Palm Court: we go to the kitchens.”
“All right, then,” Nick said.
The two men made their way through the hotel’s back hallways. After greeting the sous-chef, Chasez and Carter sat off in one corner. As if by magic, wine glasses and a tray of small sandwiches appeared on their table, after which they were left alone.
“‘You know them all,” Carter observed. He hadn’t known how hungry he was, reaching for a fourth sandwich, and then a fifth.
“I do,” Chasez replied. “The General, you see. And, of course, I come ‘ere when I can, to see what they do in the kitchen.”
“I can imagine,” Nick said, his mouth full.
A second bottle came, courtesy of the maitre d’hotel, and when they had finished, Chasez made a sign at one of the busboys. The man disappeared, returning a moment later with a key.
“Come on,” JC said, standing. “Let’s have a rest, before dinner.”
Twenty minutes later, as Nick guided JC’s thick cock between his thighs, he remembered with a start that he was supposed to be meeting Lance.
“Ah,” JC breathed, starting to move above him, and at that Nick forgot everything else.
Envelope stamped Miami, Florida 2 March 1917 – stamped Calais, France 13 March 1917:
March 1, ‘17
Dear Lance:
Well, we are busy working on a Victory garden – I think it is just a matter of time before America comes in to fight the Kaiser.
We follow your exploits in the “Herald.” I never was so proud as when I read that Lt. J. L. Bass had shot down a second plane. Just three to go, and you’ll be an air ace. I knew you had it in you.
I guess Timberlake will enlist as soon as war is declared – I know I will. Mr. Richardson dotes on Fatone’s daughter (and, did you know, Signora Fatone is now cooking for Mr. Deering?), so I don’t expect that he will join up right away. I suppose America will strike the final blow in Europe – maybe the other men won’t be needed.
Mr. Sargent comes the week after next, assuming he finishes his work in Washington, painting the President, and Littrell comes with him. I will be glad to see B. L. – it’s been more than 2½ years, can you imagine?
I hope you are looking after little Carter – not so little anymore, I guess.
Well, that’s all. Remember you have a friend in the States, one
A. J. McLean
President Wilson to Address Congress
Declaration of War Expected
Front page, The Miami Herald, 5 April 1917
“Let me,” Justin whispered, his knees straddling Kevin’s waist.
“No, J,” Kevin replied, struggling against the other man’s light hold, “I can’t.”
Timberlake sat back, frowning. “Why not? Kevin – it’s been two years. For God’s sake, it’s been more than a year for me.” He smiled craftily. “I know you like my looks, and it’s not as if Giuseppe isn’t—”
“Shut up! You don’t know anything about it,” Kevin hissed, rolling off the bed.
“I don’t?” Justin murmured, examining his nails. “I think Giuseppe is the best fellow in the world, but you can’t believe that he isn’t taking his pleasure, somewhere. He’s a lusty man, Kevin, and I know you are, too, so. . .” He hazarded a slithering move closer to Richardson. “You’ve been so good,” he crooned, “so faithful.”
“His daughter is sleeping down the hall,” Kevin muttered, helplessly.
“I can be quiet,” Justin breathed, taking Richardson’ hand in his own. “God, I’ve waited so long for this.”
Kevin had had his suspicions about what Justin and AJ did on their afternoons off: for his part, he had remained faithful to Giuseppe, and it was with a heady mix of lust and guilt that, moments later, he pressed between Justin’s thighs. In silence they moved together, Justin’s face predatory, Kevin’s eyes shut, his spirit turbulent.
When he sank against Justin’s chest, breathing heavily, the younger man rolled them over, waiting impatiently for Kevin to arrange himself before plunging into his lover’s body and a quick climax. Timberlake ran a teasing finger around the side of Kevin’s face, bestowing a quick kiss on the butler’s cheek, then swung off the bed.
“Good night, Kevin,” he said, stepping into his boxer shorts. Holding the rest of his clothing to his chest, he let himself out of Richardson’s room.
In the morning, he was gone.
The newspaper headline read America Joins the Fight! Two notes, both addressed to “Mr. Richardson,” lay beside the paper on the servants’ hall table.
Brian and Howie watched carefully as Kevin read the first note. “McLean,” the butler murmured.
“Justin,” he sighed, setting the second note aside.
“What about the Ritz?” Nick asked, watching his friend unfold the paper and read the headlines. “It’s right around the corner. ‘Closer than the Bourgogne, anyway.”
Lance read the first two sentences in one article – “President Wilson today declared that ‘The United States will stand firm against German aggression. I have this day informed Ambassador von Schweinitz that a State of War now exists between our countries’” – before turning to his friend with a smile. “The Ritz? ‘Your pay burning a hole through your pocket?”
Nick waited, careful to keep some distance between himself and an officer. Lance refolded the paper, passing a coin to the old woman in the kiosk. “I’m sure there’s some place cheaper,” Lance continued, already striding along the sidewalk towards the Rue de Castiglione. Halfway down the block, he turned into a hotel doorway. Nick slouched along behind him, and when he stepped into the small lobby, he found Lieutenant Bass having a quiet discussion with the concierge.
Money changed hands, and Lance was holding a bottle. The man behind the desk handed Nick two glasses and a room key.
“L’ascenseur est cassé,” the concierge noted.
“We’ll walk,” Lance said, leading the way.
In between times, Nick forgot how different it was with Lance. Bass was not Chasez – then again, neither man was his Justin. Lance was unexpectedly strong, and undeniably virile: it was late, past dinner, when he awoke, still bathed in the afterglow of their tryst.
“Oh, fuck,” he groaned, waking Lance from a light doze.
Lance blinked slowly. “What is it?”
“I have to report back,” Nick whispered. “I’m just off report, and I can’t be late.” He was already dressing, with panicked movements, as Lance slid off the bed and stood beside him.
“It’s all right,” he said.
“It isn’t,” Nick replied, tearfully. “You don’t understand – you’re an officer. Officers don’t get put on report.”
“We do,” Lance said, handing Nick his belt. “And fraternizing is frowned on.”
“Fine,” Nick grunted, seizing his great coat.
“Nick,” Lance murmured, half-dressed, “we’ll take a taxi – ‘get you back in plenty of time.”
“Really?” Nick’s voice broke. “Really, you would?”
“Of course. Just give me a minute, and we’ll go.”
“Oh, Lance. God, I just. . .”
“I know. It’ll all be okay.”
Envelope stamped Miami, Florida 20 April 1917 – stamped Calais, France 6 May 1917:
April 19, 1917
Dear Giuseppe:
It seems strange, to call you by your real name – I’ve grown so used to your nickname, when I think of you, as I do all the time.
Vizcaya must seem a million miles away from where you are now. Dorough, Littrell, and I – did I tell you Mr. Sargent is visiting until Wednesday? – have maps in the servants’ hall, and we follow the B.E.F.’s progress with pride.
You will see from the above that Timberlake and McLean have joined up. They are both training in Pensacola, for now, anyway, and Dorough and I plan to visit them when next we have two free days. Mr. Deering is hardly entertaining this year, so he has not yet replaced the men who’ve left – Dorough thinks he will rehire all the men who are serving in the forces. I hope he does. Generally, it is just Mr. Sargent and Mr. Deering at the table – you would not recognize the house. (The gardens have probably doubled in size since you left, if you can imagine it.)
You are my dearest chum, Babbo, and I would understand it if you spend your leaves having a good time. Just bring yourself home to us in one piece – to Mamma, and Baby, and yours truly – and I will be content.
Yours, always,
Kevin
H. M. Birthday Honours
Order of the British Empire
Sgt. C. A. Kirkpatrick, D.S.O.
Page 8, The Times, London, 10 June 1917
Giuseppe threw down his pack, accepting a lukewarm cup of coffee from Mark Barry, a fellow cockney, and leaned against the trench’s mud walls. A few hundred yards away, the German guns shelled desultorily, but neither man noticed, so familiar was the sound.
“Mail’s come,” Barry said, glumly. He reached into a coat pocket. “‘Got yours.”
Giuseppe ripped open the letter with the Chicago postmark. A snapshot fell from the envelope, and Barry stooped for it. “Here,” he said. “‘That your kid?”
Giuseppe nodded, shuffling the letter’s pages. “She got a good report in school,” he muttered. “And Mamma—”
Barry was bored – his letter bag was empty – so he asked: “And him? ‘That your brother?”
Giuseppe looked up, accepting the small snapshot and squinting. “No, that’s Kevin.”
“Kevin, eh? He’s your. . .? What exactly?”
“I live with him,” Giuseppe scowled. “I live with a whole—”
The shelling had stopped. Now, a high, piercing whistle filled the air, and both men scrambled for their gas masks, thrown casually aside moments before. “Gas!” screamed someone in the next trench, and Barry and Fatone found their packs, scurrying further into the warren of trenches.
In the rush, the letter from Chicago and the snapshot were dropped, forgotten, into a muddy pool.
1918
Lafayette Flyer Crashes
Capt. L. Bass, of 1220 Lakeshore Drive, crashed near Amiens, France, shortly after noon on Thursday, Jan. 24. The extent of his injuries are unknown at this time, but the plane is considered destroyed.
Page 10, The Chicago Tribune, 25 January 1918
Capt. Bass’ Injuries Severe
Capt. J. Bass, of Lakeshore Drive, credited with four German kills, is fighting for his life in an Army Hospital in Amiens, France. His injuries include a punctured lung and two broken ribs, and complications are feared. He briefly regained consciousness on Saturday, Jan. 26.
Page 2, The Chicago Tribune, 28 January 1918
Justin knew a lot of the men in the motor pool, so it was simple work to find a truck leaving for Amiens. While AJ talked their way into 36 hours leave, Justin arranged for transportation, and by Friday night they were on the road.
The convoy drove through the night, and at dawn they were unloading supplies at the depot. At eleven, the sergeant dismissed them, pointing out the American hospital in the distance.
“He’ll be fine,” Justin told AJ as they strode along the avenue. “He’s probably up and walking by now.”
“He punctured a lung, Justin,” McLean growled. “You don’t just get up and dance with a collapsed lung.”
“Well, you won’t help him with a red face and tears in your eyes,” Justin replied.
AJ shrugged his hand away and snapped: “‘Can’t help that.” He glanced at his friend. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m just. . .”
“Worried,” Justin supplied. “Of course.”
They showed their credentials at the hospital, and for an endless moment it seemed that they would not be admitted to Lance’s sickroom. “He’s unconscious,” the nurse’s aide repeated, finally relenting and leading AJ into the officer’s ward. “He’s in here.”
AJ waited for the aide to push the curtain aside. “Thank you, miss,” he said, softly, and then he was alone with his lover.
Lance’s face was grey against the bright white of the bandages around his head. “Cuts,” AJ whispered, to reassure himself: Lance’s real injuries were hidden beneath the taut hospital blanket.
AJ sat down in the visitor’s chair beside Lance’s bed and took his hand. It was cold, the veins visible through pale skin. “Lance,” he said. “Lance, it’s AJ. It’s McLean.”
He sat there, stroking Lance’s long fingers, until he felt tears coming. One fell on Lance’s palm, and he brushed it away.
“AJ.”
Startled eyes met half-opened ones, and Lance grinned: “I’m so glad you’re here.” With a sigh, he settled back on his pillow. “What day is it?”
“Saturday,” AJ replied. “Oh, Lance— We were – I was – so worried.”
“Mmm,” Lance agreed. “I’m tired. Tired. . .” His voice trailed away.
When he was sure that Lance was asleep, AJ stole out of the cubicle and out to the nurse’s station. “He woke up.” The matron looked at him blankly. “Lance – Captain Bass – he woke up.”
Her eyebrows rose. “And you are? Mitchell! Look in on Captain Bass.” Halfway down the corridor, a nurse walked briskly toward Lance’s bed.
“I’m a friend of his,” AJ said, wilting under the matron’s unwavering gaze. “From back home.”
“Indeed,” she sniffed, narrowed eyes inventorying his untidy uniform.
AJ’s lip curled. “Yes, ma’am, from back home. And I suggest you not try to patronize me. ‘Last time I checked, Americans were allowed to be friends with anyone they chose, even the dregs of humanity.”
“Mrs. Bell?” The younger nurse was back. “He’s still unconscious.”
“He was awake for a minute,” AJ insisted, following the women back to Lance’s bedside.
“Are you AJ McLean?” Nurse Mitchell murmured, watching the matron check Lance’s pulse.
“Yeah.”
“He asked for you – Nurse Edwards told me, the first night. They were trying to keep him awake, because of his head injury, and— She said he was very . . . fond of you.”
AJ kept his eyes on the coconut mat beside Lance’s bed. “He’s a good friend.”
The nurse touched his hand, and AJ met her gaze. “We’ll take good care of him,” she said. “We’ll get him home to you.”
“Ah, yes. Do come in,” the colonel said, and Kirkpatrick saluted smartly. “I have an assignment for you, Sergeant: something a trifle out of the ordinary.”
“Yes, sir,” Chris prompted, ramrod straight.
“I believe that, in peacetime, you knew Mr. John Sargent, the painter.”
“Yes, sir. I was in Mr. Sargent’s service.”
“Well, Sargent has asked that you be his guide during his visit to the Front.” The colonel leaned forward, planting his elbows on the desk. “He is coming under the auspices of the War Office, with orders to be shown as much of the front lines as practicable. He will have the usual clearances, but I depend on you, Sergeant, to return Mr. Sargent to H.Q. in one piece.”
“Yes, sir,” Chris parroted.
The colonel’s eyes returned to a stack of papers on the desk. “Excellent, Kirkpatrick. Thank you – that will be all.”
In the interval before Mr. Sargent’s arrival, Chris’ company came under heavy shelling, and the machine gun batteries were unusually active, signaling some sort of movement behind the enemy’s lines. When, a week after he had received the assignment, Chris took leave of his men, it was with a sense of foreboding. He felt vaguely ashamed, leaving the Front for the safety of bear-leading the famous artist behind the lines.
H.Q. was only a few miles from the Front, and Chris felt the weight of his responsibilities dropping away as he rode the transport down a rutted country lane. It was sunny, he realized, and the sky was cloudless. The sound of the guns was muted here: he could almost bring himself to believe it was a late spring day in Somerset, and that he was going to meet Mr. Sargent with a picnic lunch for the artist and his guests.
Sargent greeted him gravely, but with a twinkle in his eye. The artist had spent the first few days with another brigade, and he had already picked up some Army phrases. Chris grinned inwardly: his master was a game old duffer.
“‘You remember Littrell,” Mr. Sargent said, and Chris laughed out loud.
“Hello, Chris,” Brian murmured. “I mean, Sergeant Kirkpatrick.”
“You’re out of the fight, Bri,” he replied, shaking his hand. “You can call me Chris, if you like.”
They arranged to bunk together, and in the morning Chris awoke – in his own bed, just to be safe – with a broad smile on his face.
Two days later, drawn by a well-known bathing spot on the river, they visited another section of the Front. Kirkpatrick was waiting outside the General’s hut when a grimy Tommy approached him.
“Sergeant? Sergeant Kirkpatrick?”
Chris looked up into Giuseppe’s tired chocolate eyes. “Pepe? Private Fatone?”
Giuseppe saluted, and then the men shook hands.
“How’ve you been?” Chris asked.
“Well enough,” Giuseppe said; “we’ve been in the thick of it.”
“I can see,” Kirkpatrick smiled. “Any chance of joining us for a bathing party? Mr. Sargent’s here – I’m with him – and so’s Littrell – and we were just about to head out.”
Giuseppe’s broad shoulders sagged. “I was just going to find a spot and curl up for an hour,” he sighed.
“I won’t make it an order,” Chris said, “but I expect a nice bathe would be worth more to you than a nap. And you could pose for Mr. S. – he’d like that. Any way,” he continued, “you have to stay and see Mr. S.: he’d never forgive you if you didn’t.”
Fatone set down his rifle, allowing himself to lean against it. “If you insist,” he grimaced, but the corners of his mouth were upturned.
As always, it took some time to arrange their transportation, and it was well after noon before they reached the bathing pool. Chris took off his shoes and rolled up his pants legs, but Giuseppe stripped at once and waded into the gently flowing river above the pool. Chris had collected a number of other Tommies for Mr. Sargent to paint, and the afternoon passed quickly, with the artist producing a number of watercolors of soldiers lounging beside the water.
At one point, Fatone and Kirkpatrick were sitting together, apart from the others, and Giuseppe asked about Littrell.
“He’s here with Mr. S.,” Chris said, plucking a long piece of grass and rolling it between his fingers. “Maybe we can find a way to have supper together.”
“I’d like that,” Giuseppe replied. “And— I’m sorry. About the time we were all in London together, I mean. I— You know,” his voice dropped to a whisper, “I truly love Kev, and Brian— It just happened.”
“I didn’t know you knew,” Chris muttered, squinting against the sun.
“It was something he said, in the morning.” Hidden by the tall grass, Giuseppe took Chris’ hand. “I didn’t do it to come between you. And, ah, I hope you won’t tell Kev. . .”
“I’d never do that,” Chris replied, squeezing Giuseppe’s damp hand. “And you don’t tell Howie.”
“I won’t.”
“Fine. Thanks. Now, I want to take another dip.”
Envelope stamped Neuilly, France 15 July 1918 – stamped Lake Forest, Illinois 30 July 1918:
American Hospital
Neuilly
Bastille Day, ‘18
Dear Kevin and Howie:
I’ve been a rotten correspondent, but I have an excuse: no sooner was I out of bed, and walking, but the hospital was hit with a terrible strain of influenza. It was so bad, in fact, that a number of the weaker fellows – and one or two of the nurses – actually died of it, and I was lucky to escape with no more than a mild case.
Before the ‘flu came, I had a number of visitors. Nick C. made the trip up (he was a staunch visitor when I was still in Amiens), and JC brought Brian L., one day, and Chris. Kirkpatrick another. (By the way, he was again decorated for bravery, this time by the French, and there’s talk of an officer’s commission for him.)
AJ is good about letters, but I haven’t set eyes on him since March. Chris saw Giuseppe F. during Mr. Sargent’s tour of the front lines. Of course, AJ runs into J. Timberlake all the time. So far as I know, they are all O.K., but here things change from day to day, and hour to hour.
How are you all? I sat at the window, this morning, and watched the parade pass the hospital – I suppose you had a celebration on Independence Day. I used to enjoy those parades, and watching all the old Confederates march through the streets of Jackson. In a few years, no doubt, we will be those moth-eaten old warriors, marking the “old days” with our antique uniforms and outmoded firearms.
How glad I shall be to get home again. The sides were evenly matched, before, but with the Americans coming in in waves, we will prevail, I am certain.
Write soon, with all your news.
Sincerely yours,
J. L. Bass
“Up! Up!”
Amid the scream of the machine guns, the troops poured over the top of the trenches, running steadily into the heavy fire. Chris unpinned a grenade and lobbed it, not pausing to watch it detonate in the gunners’ nest. When the smoke had cleared, that quadrant was still, but he had already pushed on, the thick mud deadening his footfalls, crying over his shoulder for his men to follow.
The ground rocked under a muffled explosion, and Chris sensed – without being able to see – that a number of his men had fallen. “Up!” he shouted, running blindly toward the next gun emplacement. At that moment, he felt a kind of serenity: his body moved without thought, his gun whipping round to take out a sniper, his brain weighing the odds and rejecting the sure knowledge that they were now cut off behind the German lines.
With half a dozen men, Chris huddled behind a stalled tank. He quickly assigned Robbie Williams, a brash youth just off sick leave, to cover the tank’s sides, holding off the foot soldiers prowling nearby. Then he shimmied up and over the tank’s cockpit. “Gimme a hand,” he yelled up, and a moment later someone had jumped in behind him. With an effort, they turned the gunner’s turret to face the Germans, and as the boy – Chris didn’t know his name until afterwards – opened fire, he popped up, a fresh Luger in one hand, and started shooting.
Again, time crawled, bullets whizzing past him, the mighty shock of the tank’s own shelling jarring Chris’ spine. When the Luger was spent, he tossed it away, and as he was sliding behind the open hatch a lucky machine gun burst hit the tank’s fuel tank.
He was thrown fifteen or twenty feet, landing heavily on his shoulder, his arm folding under his body as he fell. The pain exploded around him, not touching him, and with an effort he rolled to his feet and started sprinting for the tank. It was on fire, but the turret looked more or less intact. He absently tucked his useless hand into his shirt, yelling: “Get out!” to the boy, now visible lying still in a pool of blood.
Behind them, he could hear Williams calling a retreat – “We’ve got cover, Serge!” – but patiently Chris hoisted himself up and started pulling on the kid’s collar until he opened his eyes, dazed. “Come on, boy,” he said.
Chris had to drag him out of the turret, and the youth’s legs were too badly burned for him to walk. “Come on,” Chris repeated, and the private linked his hands around the sergeant’s neck. “Thanks,” the boy said, as Chris started trotting back toward the British lines.
“Any time,” Kirkpatrick replied.
When he had reached their trenches, and slid over to safety, he fainted from the pain.
Envelope stamped London, England 12 September 1918 – stamped Gloucester, Massachusetts 29 September 1918:
11, Tite Street
S.W.
12th September / 18
My dear Deering:
You will no doubt have heard by now that Christopher Kirkpatrick has been awarded the Victoria Cross, for valour. He was caught under heavy fire, with several of his men, but when the others were able to retreat he stayed behind to rescue a man belonging to another unit.
As my household is essentially an extension of yours, I thought you – and your men – would be glad to know that Kirkpatrick has been having a truly extraordinary war. (There is no higher military honour than the V.C.)
Very truly yours,
J. S. Sargent
They had woken to pealing bells on Thursday, but that celebration had turned out to be premature. On Saturday, Howie had complained of a headache and a sore throat, and by Sunday he was delirious.
The Armistice was signed at eleven o’clock, Paris time, on Monday morning, the eleventh day of the eleventh month, A.D. 1918.
For Richardson and Signora Fatone, the next weeks were long ones. Dr. Wright paid short visits, and nurses came and went – cautioning against contagion – but the bulk of Howie’s care fell to his friends. More than once, Kevin ordered Mamma Fatone out of Howie’s sickroom, and every night he came to her with a dose of chloraphyl, just in case, and stayed to watch her gargle it.
The week before Christmas, a cable came from London:
PROMISE VISIT IN 1919 BUT WE PLAN REMAIN LONDON STOP B T LITTRELL J S CHASEZ
“‘Thought as much,” Howie muttered, sipping his beef tea.
Kevin looked up from his account book. “What? Oh, them. Well, we’ll still get to see them, next year.”
“That’s fine, but who will do the cooking?”
Kevin checked to see whether his friend was joking. “Giuseppe,” he replied. “As soon as he’s demobbed, he’s comin’ here.” He could see Howie worrying his lower lip, a nervous habit he had picked up since his illness. “And he’ll bring Chris with him.”
“‘Hope so,” Howie sighed.
1919
4:16 p.m. 5th January 1919
To K. Richardson, 1220, Lake Shore Drive, Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A. Sent by Capt. J. L. Bass, 11, Tite St., London S.W.
MCLEAN SELF ARRIVE TUESDAY 14 ON BERENGARIA TAKE TRAIN TO CHICAGO QUERY PLEASE ADVISE SINCERELY J L BASS
9:28 a.m. 17th January 1919
To K. S. Richardson, 1220, Lakeshore Drive, Chicago, Ill. U.S.A. Sent by J. Timberlake, 11, Tite Street, London, S.W.
SAIL WITH CARTER MAURETANIA 20 ARRIVE 28 PROCEED CHICAGO BEST TIMBERLAKE
3:16 p.m. 10th February 1919
To K. Richardson, 1220, Lake Shore Drive, Chicago, U.S.A. Sent by G. A. Fatone, 11, Tite Street, London S.W.
CARO SAILING WEEK TUESDAY CARPATHIA ARRIVE 25 WILL WIRE FROM NEW YORK BABBO
Each arrival was marked with a party: even Mr. Deering looked in on the festivities, holding his sherry glass with a self-conscious air.
There was a new staff hierarchy in the household. As Deering had said: “I can hardly have an air ace as my valet, to say nothing of a V.C. Bass, you will be the superintendent of my households. Richardson and Dorough will continue in their posts, and Fatone will assist his mother as chef until the Signora decides to retire. I’m not sure what to do with Kirkpatrick – or if he will even work for me, after he has been to see the King and Queen – so we shall just wait and see. You all have a substantial arrears of salary, so we needn’t worry about who does what for the time being.”
“He’s not coming back,” Dorough would say to Richardson, watching the others splashing around in the swimming hole at Vizcaya, and the butler always responded: “He will, Howie. He’ll get tired of the parades and the parties and he’ll come back.”
These days, Howie wore a resigned expression, once again left out as the other couples acclimated to peacetime life. Sometimes, when the men grew giddy at their unparalleled luck – they had survived when so many others had not – Howie quietly got up and left the room.
One afternoon in late March, Howie sat in the window in the morning room and watched the waves break against the yacht mooring. McLean had been especially boisterous at lunch, and Dorough could tell that the butler was annoyed on his behalf. ‘I’m an object of pity,’ Howie told himself, his eyelids growing heavy as he rested his head against the window glass. ‘I’m a fool.’
In his dream, the doorbell rang, and after a moment Richardson answered it. ‘You’re early,’ Kevin said. ‘I thought you’d give us time to—’
‘I didn’t want to wait,’ Chris interjected. ‘I took an earlier train. Where is he?’
‘I’m not sure. He was in the morning room, before – with any luck he’s not— Damn.’
‘I don’t care if it’s not a surprise. . .’
Quick footsteps crossed the stone floor, and Howie could almost feel the rush of air, as of a man standing before him, breathing in short bursts and waiting for him to open his eyes.
So he did.
© 2001 TNL
“Gone”
There’s a thousand words that I could say to make you come home, yeah
Seems so long ago you walked away and left me alone
And I remember what you said to me, you were acting so strange
And maybe I was too blind to see that you needed a change
Was it something I said to make you turn away
To make you walk out and leave me cold
If I could just find a way to make it so that you were right here, right now
Chorus
I’ve been sitting here
Can’t get you off my mind
I'm tryin’ my best to be a man and be strong
I drove myself insane wishing I could touch your face
But the truth remains, you’re
Gone
Now I don’t wanna make excuses, baby
Won’t change the fact that you’re gone
But if there’s something that I could do, won’t you please let me know
The time is passing so slowly now, guess that’s my life without you
And maybe I could change my everyday, but baby I don’t want to
So I’ll just hang around and find some things to do
To take my mind off missing you
And I know in my heart, you can’t say that you don’t love me too
Please say you do, yeah
Chorus
What will I do if I can’t be with you
Tell me where will I turn to, baby who will I be
Now that we are apart, am I still in your heart?
Baby why can’t you see that I need you here with me?
Chorus
by Justin Timberlake and Wade J. Robson
(TennMann Tunes, admin. by Zomba Enterprises, Inc. [ASCAP]/WaJeRo Sound, admin. by South Hudson Music [BMI])
Performed by *NSYNC